Rated R for language and violence.

INTRODUCTION
with Disclaimers and That Sort of Thing

     This story, my first public attempt at fanfiction, is 
a four-way crossover involving The X-Files, Due South, ER, 
and Chicago Hope (in order of appearance). It's just for 
fun (mostly mine, hopefully yours too) and contains few
allusions to occurrences on any of the shows, no sex to
speak of, and absolutely ZERO serious character development
or thoughtful explorations of characters' relationships and
psyches. (Also no extensive government conspiracies. I have
a hard time believing such things can be pulled off
effectively; after all, these ARE the people who run the GAO
and the Department of Education.) It does, however, contain
absurd premises, lurid villainy and gratuitous bloodshed, 
so I hope you like that sort of thing.
     Comments are welcome at snsa@ix.netcom.com.
     Any time I was unaware of relevant real-world law
enforcement and/or medical procedures, I made them up. So
there.
     The title comes from H.G. Wells' description of
Chicago, as quoted by native son George F. Will. (So it's
not perfect, but you have to admit it beats the working
title, "Health Care Personnel in Chains.")
    
     Without further ado, the DISCLAIMERS:
     All sympathetic characters (the bad guys are mine,
which tells you something about me) are variously the
property of Chris Carter, Paul Haggis, Michael Crichton, or
David E. Kelley and their assorted production companies,
studios, secret conspiracies, and what have you. Used
without permission. No copyright infringement intended.
Don't try to stop me - I sleep with a cougar, suckled two
wolf cubs, and bear a commission from the Creator of the
universe.
     Lyrics quoted in Part 6 are by Ira Gershwin. Used 
without permission (which he probably wouldn't have given 
in this context). No copyright infringement intended.
     May be disseminated (assuming anyone wants to) if
unchanged and full credit/blame given to author (me).

So much for that. Cue theme music of your choice ...
I hope you enjoy my story.

A DARK SMEAR UNDER THE SKY

(The X-Files / Due South / ER / Chicago Hope)
by Nina Smith

     The towers glittered ahead in the waning light like
heaps of treasure, with the approaching weather line like a
black dragon moving in on its hoard. The flight from
National to O'Hare had been routine - dull, actually - and
Special Agent Dana Scully of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation was feeling even more dubious than she had
when first assigned to the case. She looked towards her
partner and said, "Would you mind telling me why here, of
all places?"
     Behind the wheel, Special Agent Fox Mulder didn't take
his eyes off Interstate 90. "Christopher Ashton Locke and
Alec Bragg are in Chicago."
     "And how do you know?"
     "Because if they've gone anywhere else, they made a big
mistake."
     Scully shook her head. "Mulder, that doesn't make any
sense! The first body, two days dead, was found in Buffalo
the day after Locke and Bragg disappeared. The next two
turned up in Geneseo, New York a week later, and the last
four in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania after another eight
days."
     "So what's your point?"
     Her lips tightened; the man could be infuriating. "All
signs are that the killer is targeting smaller cities and
moving southeast!"
     Mulder shrugged and shifted his hands on the steering
wheel. "So let's go over the signs. A tenured professor of
humanities at SUNY Buffalo - Locke - and a drifter with a
long police record - Bragg - are seen together on several
occasions before both vanishing. A day later, the body of
one of Locke's students is found, burned almost beyond
recognition and the heart cut out. Of the two burned bodies
found in Geneseo, one, another student, is missing the
heart; the other, a local auto mechanic, is exsanguinated.
In Wilkes-Barre there are four burned bodies: a plumber's
apprentice, heart cut out; a real estate agent,
exsanguinated; and a local cardiologist and his office
nurse, both apparently beaten to death with a heavy blunt
instrument." He paused for a moment, the atrocities hanging
in the air between them, and turned to look at his partner.
"What's your theory?"
     She met his eyes a moment before replying. "The
killings meet the classic serial pattern in a lot of
respects."
     "And in others, they don't. Too many in too short a
time; mutilations inconsistent; no evidence of sexual
assault - "
     "Mulder, what evidence of sexual assault survives
burning?"
     He didn't respond to that. "And serial murderers don't
work in pairs."
     "Spree killers do, though. And the number and timing of
the killings fit that pattern."
     "But then there are the mutilations. Not only that, but
most sprees involve robbery - we have none here - and guns -
again, none here."
     Scully considered. "Behavioral Sciences recommended
going with the serial-killer assumption for now, focusing on
Bragg. Assuming that Professor Locke is either dead and his
body simply hasn't been found, or that he's still alive and
going along with Bragg out of fear for his life - "
     Mulder cut her off. "Forgive me, Scully, but Behavioral
Sciences, as much as we both love them, are floundering like
shot ducks on this one. If Locke was kidnapped, how come he
sold his entire stock portfolio and cleaned out all his bank
accounts before disappearing?"
     "Nobody said he was kidnapped _per se_. He could have
gone along willingly at first before recognizing what he'd
gotten himself into. Or they could have formed a delusive
symbiosis, a _folie a deux_ ... "
     "Ooh, I love it when you talk French to me." He smiled
before she could get too annoyed, and went on, "Notice that
no one is considering the possibility that Locke is in
control, and Bragg is the one along for the ride."
     "No one except you, Mulder. So maybe Locke wasn't so
popular among his colleagues ... "
     "I believe the description was, 'Never had an original
thought in his life, but boy, could that bastard spot
trends, kiss ass, manipulate students and spread the odd
nasty rumor'."
     Scully cracked a smile in spite of herself. "The Dean
really didn't like him, did she? And this book of his seems
to bear her out." She withdrew from her briefcase a copy of
Locke's opus THE GRAMMAR OF THE STAKE: GENDER POLITICS AND
SEXUAL ORIENTATION IN THE 'MALLEUS MALEFICARUM.' "This thing
was unreadable," she declared. "Makes me wonder if there's
some sort of academic prize given for the most times you can
use the word 'hermeneutics' in a single paragraph." Then she
paused. "But that doesn't make him a murderer."
     "No," Mulder concurred. "I'm more interested in that
paper we found on his desk at home."
     As if to refresh her memory, Scully went back down into
the briefcase to replace the book and bring out the
photocopy of the note Mulder had mentioned. Studying the
angular scrawl, she began, "This line's from Crowley, I
know: 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law'."
She noted her partner's nod, and read on. "The rest of this
is new to me ... 'Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than
nurse unacted desires.' Charming."
     "William Blake," said Mulder. "One of the 'Proverbs of
Hell'."
     "Appropriate. And this: 'God appears and God is Light /
To those poor souls who dwell in night / But does a human
form display / To those who dwell in realms of day'."
     "Blake again. From 'Auguries of Innocence'."
     "You really DO know your English literature. Test
yourself on this one: 'I wad ta'en out thy heart o' flesh /
And put in a heart o' stane'." She stumbled a little on the
unfamiliar Scots dialect.
     "I had to look that one up," Mulder admitted. "It's
from the ballad 'Tam Lin.' Traditional; author unknown."
     "Good, because I wouldn't want to meet him." Sliding
the paper away, Scully again looked to him. "All right, so
Locke scribbled a few weird quotes before going missing. It
doesn't necessarily mean anything! Maybe he was just taking
notes for another book with lots of uses of 'hermeneutics'."
     "Maybe he was," said Mulder, with that smoothness of
tone that suggested he had other ideas. "That's what we're
here to find out." The city was swiftly rising toward them;
he checked the clock on the dashboard. "Meanwhile, we've got
just about enough time to check in at the field office. Our
appointment at the hospital is at nine tomorrow morning."
     "So what do we do until then?"
     A half-smile played on his lips. "We listen for a
heartbeat."

     Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago Police Department,
sucked in a deep breath and tried again. "Listen, Doc, we
were referred to you as the source of the first complaints
about the missing supplies. So if you want us to find out
who's taking them - "
     "You're damn right I want you to find out," snarled Dr.
Peter Benton. "The first thing you're going to find out is
that it wasn't me or, to my knowledge, anyone I know! Is
that clear?" God, it was hard to control his temper when
this sort of thing happened. Just look at this obnoxious
cop, with his rat face and oily hair - maybe this one didn't
wear a uniform, but his type had been pulling Benton over
since the surgical resident had learned to drive, had been
telling him to move along almost since he'd learned to walk!
Look for the nearest black face, and then they had their
goddamned suspect ...
     "No one is accusing you of anything, Dr. Benton." It
was the other guy, the good-looking one in the maroon
uniform with the stupid Smokey-the-Bear hat. A Mountie, for
crying out loud. What was a Canadian Mountie doing
partnering a cop in Chicago? Still, Benton said nothing,
listened to the measured and reasonable voice.
"Coincidentally, my name's Benton too, only it's my first
name. Benton Fraser." He presented his hand; not quite
grudgingly, Peter Benton took it.
     "Pleased to meet you," the doctor replied, not as
coldly as he'd planned. "Now what do you want?"
     The local cop took over again. "Dr. Swift told us you
were the first to report the shortages."
     "Maybe I was the first to bring them to his attention,
but when I first checked with Pharmacy, they told me that
they'd had the problem for a few weeks now. Maybe they were
keeping quiet about it so they wouldn't have the
administration coming down on them. But then when the
syringes and instruments started disappearing too ... well,
Officers, if you'd bother to look around, you'd see an
emergency room! And do I have to tell you what could happen
if an emergency room lacked a vital drug or piece of
equipment at the wrong moment?"
     "No, you don't," Vecchio replied. The guy was right:
They were indeed in an emergency room, the one at Cook
County General Hospital, and talking to a resident with a
chip on his shoulder the size of a Cadillac. Probably was a
pretty good doctor, though - not that that mattered to
Vecchio, not being here as a patient, thank God. Pity he had
to deal with this Benton instead of, say, that cute brunette
nurse over there in the peach scrubs. Maybe he'd find an
excuse to talk to her later. Meanwhile - "You know where we
can get a list of what's missing?"
     "No, I don't!" What did they take him for, a clerk?!
     "Can I help you?" A new voice, female. Both policemen
turned, and Vecchio felt like skipping; it was the nurse in
the peach scrubs, on her way over to him. Maybe today didn't
belong in the toilet after all ... "I'm Nurse Hathaway."
     Now Fraser stepped forward and addressed her first.
Damn him. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Are you the charge
nurse?"
     "Yes, I am. This is about the missing supplies?"
     "Yes, it is!" Hastily Vecchio maneuvered himself in
front of his friend. "We want to catch these - these thieves
before any more innocent lives are endangered ... "
     Her indulgent smile plainly stated that she wasn't
buying it. "I'm sure, Detective. No doubt you'll want to
speak to our pharmacy director and our purchasing manager,
for a start. If you'll come with me ... " Hathaway led the
two from the ER, and Benton didn't bother watching them go.
     "Hey, Peter, what was that all about?"
     Benton turned to see Dr. Susan Lewis. As usual, with
her shining white coat and even brighter golden hair, she
single-handedly made the ER into an almost pleasant place.
"Hello, Susan. Looks like we have an international law
enforcement task force looking into what happened to our
antibiotics, all those syringes, and half our Demerol
supply, among other things."
     Lewis watched them as they vanished around a corner.
"Let's hope they find out fast; if this keeps up, we could
be seriously compromised sooner than we think."
     "Tell me about it," Benton grunted.  "And let's hope
the cops don't compromise us any further themselves."

     Spring storms had passed in the night, leaving the city
washed and refreshed in time for a rosy sunrise. Dana
Scully, feeling confident, paused before the gleaming doors
of Chicago Hope Hospital to cast a glance at her partner,
but his expression was as cool and enigmatic as ever. In
some previous life, Mulder must have been a cat ... or a
catamount. "You know, Mulder," she began, "these guys will
be an even harder sell than me."
     "Are you planning not to back me up out of professional
courtesy, Dr. Scully?" he teased back.
     "Maybe. You shouldn't take me for granted."
     They entered unobtrusively, just two more bees in the
swarm humming through the hospital lobby, their coats
flapping loosely like the wings of idle angels. Mulder
didn't show his badge and ID until they were at the main
desk, and was quiet about it; no reason to upset any
overwrought patients or visitors. "Agents Mulder and Scully,
FBI; we have an appointment with Dr. Watters." The
receptionist, already bored at nine in the morning, quickly
rattled off the room number and directions to the elevator.
     Two men were awaiting them among black-and-chrome
furniture in a quiet administrative office. The one behind
the desk had to be Watters. No white lab coat over his suit;
Scully liked that. Early fifties, she guessed from the bald
head and softly graying beard. He rose smoothly, presented
his hand and himself: "Good morning, I'm Dr. Phillip
Watters. It's Special Agents Scully and Mulder, right?" They
affirmed, showing ID; Scully accepted his hand first. Good
solid shake, not like a lot of surgeons who made a big show
of protecting their precious hands. A sort of spare,
understated elegance about the man, and an air of command.
Panther eyes. *Wonder what kind of a Bureau AD he'd make,*
Scully found herself thinking.
     Now he clasped her partner's hand. "Good morning,
Doctor," Mulder said. "You're the chief of staff?"
     "Yes. And this is Alan Birch, our legal counsel. I hope
you don't mind that I asked him to join us."
     "Not at all. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Birch." As the
man rose to shake her hand, Scully was mildly surprised to
see how small he was. He stood no more than five feet six,
maybe less, and was slender as a deer besides. But
energetic, eyes lively, quick to smile. There were a lot of
lawyers in the Bureau, and the good ones had the same spark;
best not to write this man off.
     Everyone got more or less comfortable in the black
leather chairs. "To what do we owe the honor of another
visit from the FBI?" Watters began.
     "Chicago Hope is said to have the best department of
cardiothoracic surgery in the country for an institution of
its size," Mulder began. "Particularly in the field of
transplantation."
     Watters smiled proudly. "We and Stanford," he replied
without false modesty, or any other kind. "Vanderbilt was up
with us for a while, too, but their program hasn't been the
same since Dr. Frist left for the Senate."
     "Yes," said Mulder noncommitally. "You might have heard
about the recent series of murders in western New York and
Pennsylvania - "
     Both Watters and Birch jerked up as if scorched. "With
the MUTILATIONS? The bodies burned black?" The attorney's
face was tinged green, and suddenly he wasn't so affable.
"If you are implying some link to Chicago Hope - "
     Mulder raised a reassuring hand. "No implication
intended, Mr. Birch. Obviously you are familiar with the
case."
     "It's been in all the papers." Watters' voice was grim.
"Informally dubbed the Butcher Burnings."
     Scully nodded wearily. "Yes." How often she - and
hundreds of colleagues - had wished the media would stop
doing that sort of thing. The catchy titles did nothing but
scare people, inspire copycats, and make the hunt more
difficult ... oh, and sell papers and boost TV news ratings.
It would never end.
     "You'll recall," Mulder was saying, "that three of the
victims had had their hearts cut out, and one of the
remaining victims was a cardiologist."
     "Yes," said Watters. "I knew Dr. Kalman briefly when we
were both students." He lowered his eyes.
     The agents respected the brief pause before Mulder got
to his point. "We suspect that the perpetrator, in his shall
we say unique way, may have an interest in heart
transplantation. In that case, he might be drawn to your
program."
     "But to what end?" Watters asked, voice almost too
soft.
     "That we don't know," Scully answered. "But we're sure
that, whatever his reason, if not stopped he WILL kill
again."
     Birch's head shook slowly, as if the joint were rusty.
"This is not what I want to hear ... "
     But the chief of staff leaned back in his seat, lips a
thin line within his beard, the cool light of doubt in his
eyes. "Agent Mulder, we may have the finest transplant
program in the nation, but it's hardly the only one. How can
you be sure that your killer hasn't stayed on the East
Coast, targeting, say, Mass. General?"
     "We can't." It was only honesty. Mulder knew better
than even to attempt explaining the frequent, delicate
accuracy of his hunches to this man. "But if he IS here,
we'll see his tracks. Can you tell us, Doctor, if your
cardiothoracic surgery department has been missing any
supplies or equipment lately?"
     Birch and Watters traded a wide-eyed glance. "Not
precisely," the latter answered, returning attention to
Mulder, "but our pharmacy has reported some unexplained
shortages within the last three or four days. I do suspect
theft - as a matter of fact, I was on the phone with the
police just before you arrived."
     The agent couldn't resist shooting a knowing look at
his partner. "We'd appreciate it if you'd tell us when the
police show up. In the meantime, we'd like to take a look at
your transplantation facilities, and if you could introduce
us to the doctor in charge ... "
     "That would be Dr. Geiger. If we hurry we can catch him
before he goes into surgery." Watters rose.
     So did Birch. "And I have to depose an expert witness.
It's been a pleasure, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully." They
returned the sentiment as the office emptied out.
     The four headed down the corridor, overtaking a tall,
quiet man in doctor's white, with mild dark eyes and raven
hair dusted with silver. Watters and the agents passed on,
while Birch detached from the group to walk beside him. "Hi,
Aaron. Just wanted you to know that Eldridge's deposition is
in fifteen minutes. This one isn't even going to get to
court; you can count on that."
     "Thank you, Alan." Dr. Aaron Shutt, Chicago Hope's
chief of neurosurgery, was only half listening as he watched
the three receding figures. "Those two with Phillip aren't
patients," he said with a kind of wary certainty.
     "They're not," Birch replied. "FBI agents. They're
looking for Jeffrey. They want to talk to him about that
string of awful ritual killings back East. " He gave a tiny
shudder. "I can't imagine what Jeffrey could have to do with
that ... "
     Suddenly the attorney winced as the much taller man
patted him on the head. "Don't worry, Alan," Shutt said too
sweetly, "if Jeffrey had slaughtered and burned seven
people, I'm sure he'd have told me about it." With that, he
ambled away through the double doors.
     Birch shook his head, smoothed his violated brown hair.
"This is not respect," he muttered, and stalked off.

     "Jeffrey!" The white-coated figure striding towards the
surgeons' locker room suddenly halted in his tracks and
turned to Watters' voice. "Jeffrey, the FBI would like a
moment of your time. Agents Mulder and Scully, this is Dr.
Jeffrey Geiger, our chief of cardiothoracic surgery."
     Geiger's dark eyes narrowed as the federal officers
approached. "Phillip, if this is about another triple bypass
on another three-hundred-pound killer, you can tell our tax-
funded friends to take their canaries and stool pigeons to a
veterinarian where they belong."
     Scully's jaw dropped and dangled like a broken branch.
"Don't take it personally," Watters assured her quietly,
"he's like that to everyone. Except his patients. Some of
them." Then louder, to the surgeon, "It's not that. This is
a homicide investigation, and I have promised Chicago Hope's
full cooperation." This last said with an iron look directly
into Geiger's eyes. The soft voice returned as he said to
Mulder and Scully, "I'll notify you directly once the police
get here. In the meantime, I and my staff are at your
disposal if there's anything we can do. If you'll please
excuse me ... "
     "Thank you, Dr. Watters." Now Mulder met Geiger's gaze.
The heart surgeon was of only average height, but Mulder
sensed his own stature wouldn't give him the customary
psychological advantage here. Behind that proud aquiline
face was probably an imperial ego - and an intellect to
match. Mulder took out his badge, Scully following the lead.
"Agent Mulder, FBI. This is Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully."
That credential might help.
     Geiger got a good look at the ID before the fed snapped
it shut, reading the full name: Fox Mulder. A good name for
this one. Lean build; angular, keen face; hooded eyes that
missed nothing. Definitely in the right line of work. And
with that partner, damn lucky; she was gorgeous. Lips fuller
than rainclouds, sunset hair, eyes like the earth from
space. Petite, but didn't seem so. Geiger smiled at her with
only his lips. "Doctor of what?"
     "Medicine," she replied. The ambient temperature could
have dropped about five degrees.
     "Specialty?"
     "Forensic pathology." Instantly Scully kicked herself
inwardly for not answering "We'll ask the questions,
asshole."
     "Then you're in the wrong place," Geiger said in a
tiger's purr. "MY patients live. And one is waiting for me
now."
     "We won't keep you long, Dr. Geiger," Mulder replied,
voice carefully neutral. "Just a few questions." Out of his
pocket came likenesses of the vanished Christopher Ashton
Locke and Alec Bragg. "Have you seen either of these men,
here in the hospital or anywhere else?"
     Geiger took a look. "No. Are you done?"
     "Almost. Have you ever been approached to perform any
surgical procedure outside the auspices of this hospital?"
     "No. Are you done?"
     "Not yet. Have you noticed any of your equipment
missing - "
     "No. And you ARE done. Mrs. Jenkins needs her collapsed
lung repaired twenty minutes from now, and I refuse to rush
my scrub for this." He turned and strode off, plunging
through the locker-room door.
     Mulder looked after the vanishing white-clad back, and
quietly observed, "That man may be in danger."
     "Really," muttered Scully. "I just might shoot him."
     "Scully ... "
     There was a chuckle behind them, and the words, "Can't
blame you, miss." The young man they saw as they turned was
as tall as Mulder and even leaner, white coat and blue
scrubs flapping on his frame like the flag of some ex-Soviet
Bloc nation. Tousled brown hair drifted almost into his
tired but cheerful eyes, above a smile that any malice would
have turned into a smirk.
     Smiling a little herself, Scully showed him her badge.
"Agent Dana Scully, FBI." She noticed with satisfaction how
his eyes widened. "What can you tell us about your
colleague, Dr. - ?"
     "Kronk," he answered, "Billy Kronk. You want to know
about Geiger?" He inflected the name like that of a disease.
"He didn't do anything like ... " He looked doubtfully
toward the door where Geiger had vanished.
     "No, this is routine," Mulder assured him.
     "Oh, okay. Well, Jeffrey Geiger is a surgical genius;
he's done more for heart transplantation than any doctor
since Norman Shumway. Outside of that, the man belongs in a
cage." He yawned. "Can I help you with anything else?"
     The two federal agents exchanged a glance, Mulder's
eyebrows rising and Scully suppressing a grin, before Scully
looked back to the doctor and replied, "Thank you, Dr.
Kronk; you've been very helpful."
     "Always glad to be." He tossed off another sardonic
smile as they went their way. "So, the feds are dogging
Geiger," he murmured to himself. "Life is sweet ... "

 Vincent Persico stood before his new, unofficial bosses
and tried not to squirm. He didn't want to look weak, he
didn't want to look scared ... but most of all, he didn't
want to look in the bowl. It seemed as if the old man (to be
fair, he probably wasn't a day over fifty, but the dead-
white hair made him seem old) never put the damn thing down.
Now he sat square in front of Vinnie in the big, out-of-
place black velvet armchair, the steel basin in his lap.
Running his skinny hands over the sides constantly,
lovingly; always glancing in as if making sure of the
contents. He didn't even mind the pervasive, iron-tinged
smell - Vinnie sure did.
     And the other guy, the one with the shaved head and the
biceps like bridge cables - hell, he even seemed to LIKE the
smell. No surprise to Vinnie; he'd seen the bastard's nasty,
tooth-edged Spyderco folding knife, and his blued 9-mm Smith
and Wesson. Definitely not playing with a full deck ...
probably missing the suit of hearts.
     For about the seventeenth time that week, Persico
wondered how he'd gotten himself in so deep. The old guy
(there he went again) hadn't been carrying the bowl when
he'd approached outside the hospital exit at quitting time
last Thursday and whispered, "I know all about the drugs,
Vincent Persico."
     Again Persico winced at the memory. He should've had
the brains to ignore the creep and go his way. Instead, he
just HAD to stop dead in his tracks and gasp, "What the -
how did you know my name?"
     The weirdo'd gotten right up in his face then. "HE told
me your name, Vincent Persico. And HE told me all about the
drugs you've been stealing from the hospital pharmacy ...
and all about your little ring of accomplices."
     That sure had let out the rest of Vinnie's air. "You
gonna turn me in?"
     The other had laughed. Nasty sound, like something
breaking. "Not at all. I can help you, Mr. Persico ... or
Vincent, my friend Vincent. Help you expand your operation,
diversify your merchandise, find new customers. Of course,
if you're not interested ... "
     THAT was when Vinnie'd done the stupidest thing of all.
"I'm listening."
     "Then come with me." And like the asshole he was, he
had.
     The memories nibbled at Persico, shredding his
composure. The big bald bastard knew it and liked it. There
he was, standing behind the big chair, tossing that awful
knife from hand to hand, giggling - Christ, what a sound.
Almost as bad as the other guy's laugh, but at least the
other guy didn't laugh often.
     He wasn't laughing now, just going on in that low,
insinuating voice. "Initial preparations are complete,
Vincent. This building is now ours, and has been modified
and equipped as best as I could arrange."
     *You did some job,* Persico thought queasily. When
they'd first showed him their place last week, it had been
just another old long-closed manufacturing concern, one of
dozens exactly like it north of the Loop. Lots had been
converted into art galleries. Not this one. Persico pictured
the half-dozen little rooms, bare, windows boarded over,
ring bolts set in the floors and deadbolts on the doors ...
the big central chamber that the weirdo had had covered in
tile, huge lights hanging from the ceiling above that big
table with the black padding ... refrigeration units and
portable generators brought in, deep steel sinks installed
... and off in the corner of this room here, left of the
huge thronelike chair, the big wooden crate full of chains.
Whatever these two were planning, it wasn't locking up a
bicycle. Hell, Vinnie didn't WANT to know what they had in
mind. Just so long as it didn't involve him.
     But the old guy wouldn't stop, voice sliding on leaving
words like a snail trail. "We have barely begun, my friend,
barely begun. And now it is your turn ... time to repay your
debt."
     "What the - !" That snapped Vinnie out of his reverie
fast. "Debt? What the hell are you blithering about - ?"
     In a blur of speed, the bald one pounced around the
black chair, fist swinging; the floor leaped up and smacked
Vinnie hard in his thin, acne-scarred face. Choking down the
urge to cry, rubbing his nose with one hand and his aching
left temple with the other, he slowly sat up. His blurry
gaze rose from the Doc Martens up the faded jeans and the
Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, but stopped before meeting the
barracuda grin and watery, gleeful blue eyes below the
shaven skull. "Master doesn't like it when you dis him." The
words were punctuated with sick giggles.
     "Patience, Alec. I understand Vincent's confusion." The
son of a bitch was smiling. Could've called off his dog
before Vinnie got bit, if he was so goddamned understanding
... "Have I not fulfilled my promise, Vincent? Your
operation is now generating twice as much money as before,
you obtain merchandise from two hospitals instead of one,
and you have six new collaborators."
     "Yeah, those poor bastards." Persico painfully regained
his feet; most, but not all, of the defiance had leached
from his voice. "What'd you do to them - ALL of them, Madge,
Jackie, Brian, and Rashid as well as the new bunch? Suck out
their brains?" Ever since his pals from the hospital had
seen, and been talked into touching, that - that THING ...
he himself wouldn't touch it if it turned into Cindy
Crawford!
     "Don't trouble yourself with things you could not even
begin to comprehend." Again that damn high-handed tone. "Now
you are to fulfill your part of our bargain. I need - HE
needs certain things. Obtain them." He drew a sheet of
notebook paper from the pocket of his black jacket. "Here is
the list. Alec will help you."
     Swell. "And then we'll be quits?"
     "When you are finished, I will need no more of you."
     Hand quivering only slightly, Persico took the paper.
"Okay, Mr. Locke." He ran his eyes over it, then felt them
almost bug out of his head. "You want all THIS?! What the
hell are you planning to do?"
     The other smiled slowly, black eyes glittering in a
dead-white face. "Seize the world."

     It hadn't taken long to suture the scalp of that
thirteen-year-old boy who'd wiped out on his new
Rollerblades, and he was going to be fine. Now there seemed
to be a gap in the tot parade that was always passing
through the Cook County General ER, and Dr. Doug Ross saw
his chance to take a break. Maybe Mark would join him for an
early lunch, and be interested in hearing his theory.
     There he was over by the desk, apparently trying to
fill out two patient charts at once. Poor guy needed a
little time off - a little time off from his whole life, for
that matter. "Hey, Mark!"
     The tall, stoop-shouldered young man in faded green
scrubs turned up from his paperwork, regarding Ross through
big round eyes that his glasses made bigger and rounder. He
rubbed his thinning brownish hair with a large, gentle hand,
half-smiled, and said, "Hi, Doug. You need me?"
     "As a matter of fact, you look like YOU need ME. To
take you away from all this." Ross leaned in close and
affected a conspiratorial whisper. "Plus I can tell you
who's been stealing the supplies."
     "Oh, it's you?"
     "Very funny, Mr. Chief Resident. Are you interested or
aren't you?"
     For a moment Dr. Mark Greene scrutinized his bearishly
handsome colleague, then said, "Okay, I'm interested. What
do you think?"
     "Not here." Ross led the other away from the desk
toward a vacant examination room before he began. "You know
Vinnie Persico? He's a clerk in the pharmacy.
Twentysomething, black hair, kind of skinny, spotty face?"
     "I sort of know him. Nice kid."
     "Not too nice anymore. I've seen him a couple of times
in the last week, and he's gotten really jumpy, as if he's
afraid of something." Ross thrust his hands into the pockets
of his white coat. "Like getting caught."
     Greene crossed his arms, leaned back against the
examination table, and fixed a skeptical look on the
pediatric resident. "Pretty slim evidence, Doug."
     "I have more. He doesn't take the El anymore. Been seen
driving up on a brand-new Harley."
     "So maybe he's been saving his lunch money." Greene
hadn't moved.
     "Mark, will you let me finish? Someone else down in
Pharmacy has been acting strange too: Jackie Hodges on the
night shift. Used to be - well, not exactly bright, but
perfectly normal. Last week she pretty much stopped talking
except for answering questions in monosyllables - and
monotone. And she moves around like she's sleepwalking."
     Now the other's posture began to loosen. "I didn't know
her name, but yes, I noticed how she's changed last time I
went to Pharmacy. It's disturbing, but why's it relevant to
the thefts - and your suspect?"
     "Because I mentioned it to Persico last time I saw him.
You know, just 'Hey Vinnie, what do you think's got into
Jackie?' He went pale, and kind of stammered out, 'I don't
know what you're talking about, Dr. Ross.' I thought that
was weird, so I pressed him a bit, and then I said, 'You
don't think Jackie knows anything about the stuff we've been
missing, do you?' And wouldn't you know it: Vinnie turns
even paler, says he's got to go, and scuttles out of the
area like a bug."
     Greene considered, hands on hips. "I still think
there's not much to it; it wouldn't be fair to report him.
Still, maybe I should talk to him."
     "Maybe WE should talk to him." Ross checked his watch.
"We've got a lunch break coming to us. Want to take a little
stroll over to Pharmacy?"

     Ray Vecchio entered the main doors of Chicago Hope
Hospital - then suddenly stopped dead. Behind him, Fraser
barely stopped himself in time to avoid running into his
companion. "Ray? Is something wrong?"
     "What the hell are THEY doing here?"
     The RCMP constable followed the other's gaze, picking
out an approaching couple. They wore long overcoats over
conservative suits. The dark-haired man was tall, but seemed 
to be shortening his stride for the benefit of the petite 
redhead with him. A very attractive petite redhead ... but 
with an expression that was all business. "Do you know them, 
Ray?"
     "Don't have to." Vecchio's lips twisted. "Feds."
     Fraser glanced from the detective to the couple and
back. "How do you know?"
     "You learn to smell 'em. Say, you should be good at it
yourself."
     Accompanying the two Federal agents were a couple of
men that Vecchio made as hospital administrators, or
something like that. Now THAT was what he'd come to see.
Taking out his shield, he moved to intercept the older one,
the bald guy with the beard. "Vecchio, Chicago Police."
     The other presented himself as Dr. Phillip Watters,
chief of staff, and went on to introduce the hospital's
lawyer - and the two damn feds. Scully and Mulder, Special
Agents of the FBI. Well, whoop-de-doo. "We got a call about
drug thefts," Vecchio began to Watters, pointedly not
looking at the feds. "That been made a big bells-and-
whistles federal crime yet?"
     The guy fed, Mulder, didn't blink. "The drug thefts in
question might be connected to a series of murders back
East."
     "You mind telling me how?" The fed only sort of smiled
condescendingly; that REALLY pulled the detective's chain.
"Well, let me inform you, Special Agent Mulder, that we are
currently also  investigating a series of drug and equipment
thefts at Cook County General Hospital across town, which if
you ask me indicates a pretty local origin for this
particular crime ... so why don't you just shuffle off and
look for some weird religious cult to persecute?"
     The condescending smile stayed. "Been there, done
that."
     Off to the side Alan Birch sighed his exasperation,
then stepped between the two. "Excuse me, but I was under
the impression that we're all supposed to be on the same
side. So if we could possibly coordinate this effort, maybe
it can be wrapped up before anyone else gets hurt." Scully
nodded, and caught Birch's eye to smile her gratitude. He
pinked a little and stepped back to the safety of his boss'
shadow.
     Behind Vecchio, Fraser also nodded his agreement. "It
really shouldn't be too hard figuring out who has
jurisdiction in various aspects of the case."
     All eyes were suddenly on him. "Speaking of which,"
Scully began, "aren't you a bit out of YOUR jurisdiction?"
     "I certainly am, ma'am." Politely he touched his hat to
her. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted
Police."
     Scully and Mulder exchanged looks. Best to let it go;
there were enough weird questions to answer on the most cut-
and-dried X-Files investigation. Why worry about a Mountie
with obvious time on his hands?
     Vecchio looked around him, reminding an amused Watters
of a park pigeon, and announced, "If nobody minds, I've got
a crime to solve ... Dr. Watters, can you tell me what was
taken?"
     "Pharmacy's drawn up a list," Birch answered for the
chief, producing and presenting a copy. "And one for you
too." Another sheet was passed to Mulder.
     Vecchio perused the list, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I
know there's a street market in Valium, Demerol, other
tranks," he said,  "but why the hell would anyone steal
antibiotics?"
     "Overseas market," Scully replied unexpectedly.
Vecchio's eyes shot up; she answered the question in them.
"There's a substantial illegal trade with certain
interdicted foreign nations. A good share of this missing
medicine is probably making its way to North Korea, Libya,
and Cuba." Her voice hardened a little. "FBI jurisdiction."
     Vecchio didn't answer, just gave her a glare, then said
to his unofficial partner, "C'mon, Fraser, let's go talk to
the pharmacy people, and then I'd like to head back to Cook
County General and see if they've got anything new for us."
     "We'd like to come along," said Mulder innocently.
     Watters had trouble suppressing a grin. "Good luck on
both your investigations. Please let us know if you come up
with something."

     Tracking down Vinnie Persico took a few minutes. The
pharmacist first answered Ross and Greene's query by
offering her own help; then she called over another of the
clerks. Finally she got the idea that it was Persico, and
only Persico, the two residents wanted to see, and she
referred them to the refrigerated storage unit, where she'd
sent him to do the morning inventory check. "If our pal
Vinnie is doing the inventories," Ross observed quietly to
his friend as they headed over, "he's got the perfect
cover."
     Greene didn't comment until they arrived at the storage
unit. The door stood about a foot ajar; inside they could
see a skinny, pale figure in a loose-fitting service
uniform, hands gripping clipboard and pen. "There's your
boy, Doug. Maybe I should talk to him first; he deserves the
benefit of the doubt."
     "Yeah, of course. But don't go TOO easy on him."
     In single file they stepped into the high, chilly
space. Carefully labeled shelves of carefully labeled
bottles and IV bags rose to three sides, stark in the
fiercely bright flourescent light. Persico himself, his back
to the young doctors, could have been just another piece of
hospital equipment, except for his trembling. Rubbing his
own arms, Greene couldn't blame the guy; it was COLD in
here. Well, maybe they could go someplace else to talk.
"Hey, Vinnie - "
     The thin clerk whirled as if stung; his eyes were wide
with fear. "Jesus! Dr. Greene, Dr. Ross, what're you doing
here?!"
     Ross folded his arms and couldn't resist smirking a
little in triumph; the astonished Greene fell back a step.
"Lighten up, Vinnie! We just heard something's been
bothering you lately, and thought you might welcome a chance
to talk about it."
     "No, no, everything's fine, guys ... shouldn't you be
back in the ER? They'll miss you. I'm doing just fine down
here ... "
     Something was very, very wrong with him. Persico was
backing up like he'd been threatened, and - this was really
weird - Greene noticed that the scared eyes weren't looking
at him, or at Ross. The rabbit-in-headlights gaze was
fastened on something behind them, hidden from the outside
by the door. Greene turned around.
     His heart stopped. "Doug," he pleaded softly, "whatever
you do, don't turn around. Back up out the door, slowly.
Please."
     Ross froze too, unsure of his next step: turn and look
at whatever spellbound Mark, or do as he said ... but then
the voice made up his mind for him. "Sorry, Doug, it's too
late for that."
     Now Ross turned too, turned to the voice that was
breaking up into giggles behind them. The man shook with his
giggles, his pale eyes burning like white phosphorus, his
shaven head and the gun in his hand gleaming under the
pitiless light. Behind him on the floor was a sack, half-
filled, no doubt with more stolen drugs. Forcing a gap in
the giggling, he hissed, "You guys doctors? Doctors' orders:
Raise your hands real slow and don't make a sound." The
residents exchanged a single glance, then obeyed.
     Persico dropped his pen and board, softly moaning, "For
God's sake, Alec, don't shoot - they didn't mean any harm -
I know them, they're good guys - please!"
     "Quit your whining," the other commanded. He came
forward, his leather jacket creaking. "I'm not gonna kill
them." The giggling started again, around the words, "Master
needs some fresh lubricant ... for HIM."
     "Oh Christ!" Persico covered his eyes with his hands.
"I can get him as many bags as he wants!"
     "Fresh is better. Come on, guys. Oh, you can put the
hands down now. The gun's going in my pocket, but it's still
gonna blow away the first one who makes a move." Pocketing
the gun with his finger still caressing the trigger, he
pointed to the floor with the free hand. "Drop the beepers."
Again Ross and Greene silently obeyed. "Good boys. Okay,
Vinnie, grab the bag."
     "Alec, it's broad daylight! This hospital's crawling
with people - there's no way to get them to the van without
being seen! We'll never get away - " Pleading, Persico wrung
his hands, seeming about to fall to his knees.
     "Shut up and lead the way." Gun hidden, he circled the
captives, positioning himself to bring up the rear. "It'll
be no problem. Don't you remember what Master said? We're
under HIS protection."

     "Susan?"
     "Mmm?" Dr. Susan Lewis raised her eyes to those of
Nurse Hathaway. "What is it, Carole?"
     "Have you seen Doug or Mark?"
     Lewis' brow furrowed. "Come to think of it, I haven't.
Not since about eleven. Have you paged them?"
     "I tried, but no response. Last I heard, they had gone
down to Pharmacy. I'm going down there myself to check ... "
     The resident glanced around the emergency room,
observing, "It's pretty quiet; I guess we can spare you for
a few minutes. Especially if you bring two doctors back. Go
ahead." Hathaway hurried off toward the stairs, leaving
Lewis to greet a new arrival, a solidly built man, white
coat sweeping behind him like a cape. "Good afternoon, Dr.
Swift."
     Dr. William Swift smiled at her through his beard and
said, "Did I just see you dismiss the charge nurse? If she's
gone five minutes, the place will fall apart!"
     "She won't be gone five minutes. She's just gone to
fetch Dr. Greene and Dr. Ross; looks like they've gotten
themselves lost in Pharmacy."
     Swift looked dubious. "Greene's got a habit of sneaking
off shift, as I recall."
     "One incident does not a habit make, Dr. Swift."
     Now the staff physician smiled inwardly. Lewis' refusal
to be intimidated, by him or anyone else, would stand her
well in her career. "That's good. Always stick up for a
colleague, Susan. So, it seems slow today; can you update
me?"
     "Let's see." Lewis began going over the log. "GI
bleeder admitted at twelve-twenty, stabilized and sent up to
surgery - "
     Suddenly the stairwell door banged open; Hathaway raced
through, something clutched in each fist, her large dark
eyes brimming with tears. "Carole?" Swift was at her side at
once.
     "I think we'd better call the police." The nurse's
voice sounded calm, but her hastily gloved hands trembled as
she opened them. On each palm rested the crushed remains of
a paging device.

     "Wish the damn feds would stop tailing us," Detective
Vecchio muttered to no one in particular.
     Constable Fraser was having trouble keeping up as his
companion stormed into Cook County General. "Remember," the
handsome Canadian advised, "the FBI does have some
jurisdiction in this. They seem perfectly willing to
cooperate - "
     "Yeah, yeah, cooperate. DC's the murder capital of the
USA; can't they find enough to keep them busy there?"
     "Murder's usually not a federal crime, Ray."
     "Too damn bad."
     Right ahead of them at the emergency room desk was the
cute charge nurse from their last visit, with an equally
cute blonde doctor, and three men of varying ages - one of
which, Vecchio wasn't happy to note, was the black guy he'd
managed to tick off yesterday. They were talking among
themselves very loudly and seemingly all at once ... but as
the two police officers (and the Federal agents right behind
them) approached and were noticed, the arguing suddenly
stopped. The nurse broke off and came straight at them, dark
curls flying, exclaiming, "We were just about to call you -
I hope you've come in time!"
     "Huh? In time for what?" Vecchio and Fraser looked at
each other, puzzled; meanwhile the FBI agents noticed the
commotion and hurried in behind them.
     Now it seemed as if the whole ER staff swarmed around
the four officers. Hathaway went on breathlessly, "Detective
Vecchio, Constable Fraser, you must remember Dr. Swift, our
chief of emergency medicine."
     Fraser took the doctor's hand, while Vecchio tried to
avoid making a face. *Jeez, another bald guy with a beard,*
he observed; *when you get a big title in a hospital, they
must send you for a makeover.*
     Swift was confronting the other pair now. "Who are
you?"
     Out came the credentials. "Agent Scully, FBI, and this
is Agent Mulder. What happened here, Dr. Swift?"
     "FBI? We got lucky!" Lewis whispered to Peter Benton
beside her.
     "According to Nurse Hathaway here, two of my residents,
Mark Greene and Douglas Ross, went down to our pharmacy
department about an hour and a half ago. They haven't been
seen since ... and she found these." Swift presented the
ruined pagers.
     Scully looked closely - then suddenly turned to the
low, grim sound of her partner's voice, too soft for any
ears but hers. "It's begun."

     Mark Greene and Doug Ross knew better than to speak.
The bony, white-haired man in the black suit leaned forward
from the depths of his velvet armchair, peering at them,
saying, "What have you brought for me, Alec? Or perhaps
these are for HIM?"
     "For both of you, Master," answered the bald thug. He
had the gun out again; he seemed to enjoy showing it at
every chance. It had been hidden in his pocket as he'd
herded the two residents out of the hospital and into an
unmarked commercial van - no one had even looked at the
group twice along the way. But as soon as they were sealed
up inside the vehicle, with Persico at the wheel, out came
the gun. Once they'd arrived at this nondescript SuHu
address and had to be conveyed from the van into the
building, the weapon went out of sight again, only to
reemerge once inside.
     In all that time, neither doctor had spoken. Why risk
setting off an obviously unstable, armed captor? They went
upstairs quietly, the miserable Persico trailing behind, and
were brought here: an old factory-loft room, bare except for
a crate in one corner and the other man's overstuffed black
throne.
     Greene could tell that the man wasn't as old as he
looked. His white hair and almost ghostly complexion made a
stark contrast to his dark clothes and the soft, inky mass
of the chair. On his lap he held a steel basin draped with a
white cloth, stroking it as if it were a cat. The young
doctor felt cold motion up his spine; Alec looming behind
them just might be the picture of mental health compared to
his "Master" ...
     He rose slowly, placing the basin carefully in the
chair exactly where he'd been sitting, and approached his
prisoners. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he began,
"Professor Christopher Ashton Locke, at your service." He
made a mocking bow, then nodded at their guard. "I believe
you already know my associate, Mr. Bragg."
     But Ross couldn't hold it in anymore. "What do you want
with us?" Pent-up defiance spilled out of his voice. "Don't
expect ransom; neither of us has a pot to piss in or a
window to throw it out of."
     Locke smiled; his teeth were small, even, and very
white. "Rather small-minded of you, Dr. Ross. Money means
nothing to me now."
     "How do you know my name?"
     "HE told me, Doctor. HE tells me all. HE is mine, and I
am HIS." Ross swallowed hard and remained silent, and Locke
switched his attention to the other. "Welcome, Dr. Greene. I
see you don't share your colleague's audacity."
     Greene's response was quiet, even resigned. "Whatever
you plan to do with us, just get it over with quickly,
okay?"
     "That won't be possible. Look at me, Dr. Greene. Into
my eyes. Look at me!" Greene obeyed, meeting the black orbs,
and something deep within him trembled.
     Locke broke his gaze from the silent, pale man and
addressed Bragg. "He'll do." Next he turned his attention to
Ross, who suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation of being
stripped, layer by layer: lab coat, shirt, pants, underwear,
skin, flesh.
     Suddenly Locke's eyes narrowed; he released Ross' gaze
and turned a smoldering look at Bragg. "What have you
brought?"
     "Something wrong, Master?" The big goon suddenly
sounded terribly small and helpless; his gun wavered in his
hand.
     "Something definitely IS wrong, you dolt!" Locke waved
a hand at the pediatrician. "HE needs innocent blood, and
you bring me this - this drunken reprobate! The other one's
acceptable, but THIS man ... " Again hot eyes pinned Ross,
then turned away. "Useless. Kill him."
     The pediatrician froze in astonishment and terror;
Greene gasped and did the only thing he could think of -
grabbing for the gun. Bragg easily flung him aside with one
sweep of a muscular arm, and leveled the barrel at Ross'
face ...
     "NO!" It was Persico, scurrying over from the doorway
he'd been hovering in. "Don't do it! He's NOT useless, Mr.
Locke; you need him!"
     Locke restrained his gunman with a lifted finger,
switching his attention to the hospital clerk. "Really,
Vincent?" he said mockingly. "And what use do I have for
this handsome but utterly dissolute young satyr?"
     "He's a doctor, sir."
     "I know that. So is the other."
     "You want the other to - to last, don't you? If Alec
cuts him, he'll probably bleed to death inside of an hour.
But if Dr. Ross here does it, he can make a slit in just the
right place, no risk, and even sew it up afterwards! Much
safer. You'll get a lot more ... blood out of him." As he
ended his speech, Persico seemed about to vomit - or cry.
     But Locke smiled. "You know, my young friend, I do
believe you may be right! Very impressive; I didn't think
you capable of such creative thinking. Hold your fire, Alec;
he lives for now. Vincent, the chains."
     Persico forced himself towards the crate in the corner,
and came away from it dragging two sets of standard prison
leg irons, two loose lengths of chain with small padlocks
attached, and a couple of pairs of handcuffs. Locke
carefully watched as he secured the prisoners, Bragg's gun
assuring that no resistance was offered. "No cuffs for our
Dr. Ross; he'll need his hands free to work. Very good. Now,
gentlemen, your quarters await." Locke permitted himself a
chuckle. "Take them away."
     The captive doctors were led down a bare wooden
corridor towards one of six plain painted-steel doors
studded with heavy deadbolt locks. With Bragg, once again
trembling with giggles, covering them, Persico pulled the
bolt and swung open the door to what was obviously a
makeshift prison cell. The only window was firmly boarded
up; a bare ceiling fixture held a single forty-watt bulb;
three ring bolts jutted up from the floor.
     "Get in," giggled Bragg, poking Greene in the ribs with
his gun by way of illustration. Once they did, Persico
padlocked the two loose chains through the rings, then
fastened one to each man's leg irons.
     As he secured their fetters, Persico leaned over to
Ross and whispered softly, "I did save your life, Doc."
     "Yeah, I guess you did," Ross admitted coolly. "Vinnie,
why are you doing this?"
     The young clerk sniffled. "Mr. Locke knew I was ripping
off the pharmacy ... told me he could build me a big
operation if I helped him with a few things." Another
sniffle. "I didn't know ... hell, anyone would have gone for
it, not knowing!"
     But Ross shook his head. "I'm not sure, Vin. Not
everyone sells himself as cheaply as that."
     "Are you finished, Vincent?" It was Locke, casually
striding in to view his henchmen's work.
     "Yessir." Persico came almost upright as he scuttled
from the cell.
     "Thank you; you may go. Hurry back before they miss you
at the hospital; under present conditions HE can only cover
your tracks for a limited time."
     "But what if they question me?" Persico whimpered.
     "Don't worry. HE will give you strength - enough to
satisfy their hounds, at least." The triumphant black eyes
swept the cell like searchlights. "And what have we here?
Two of HIS slaves - among the first of billions."

     "Slip 'em in here," said Vecchio, holding a plastic
evidence bag open to Hathaway to receive the crushed pagers.
"It was smart of you to glove up before you took them; now
they can be dusted for prints."
     "You won't find any but the owners'." It was Mulder,
voice casual and utterly sure.
     "Yeah? How do you know, Mr. Big Shot Special Agent?"
     "Because we were meant to find those pagers. Whoever
abducted your residents, Dr. Swift, wants us to know it."
     "But why?" asked Swift, eyes troubled. "That's
incredibly reckless!"
     Mulder crossed over to Vecchio, took the evidence bag,
gazed into it as if seeing a vision of the crime. "We're not
dealing here with the typical garden-variety mudpuddle of
the criminal mind. Our perpetrators obviously feel
invulnerable; they're daring us to find them, and absolutely
sure that we can't."
     Now Benton uttered the question that had occurred to
all: "What if they're right?"
     There was a moment's uneasy silence before Vecchio
shattered it, his voice perhaps a little shrill. "Enough of
that FBI psychological-profile crap! What we got here is a
drug-theft ring getting caught in the act and making off
with the witnesses."
     "Which means," Fraser observed, "that we'd better find
them before they do away with the witnesses. Where did you
find the pagers, Nurse Hathaway?"
     "On the floor of the pharmacy's refrigerated storage
unit."
     "I see. Any more drugs or supplies missing?"
     The question took her aback. "You know, I have no
idea!"
     "That's perfectly understandable, Nurse, given what you
DID find missing. Thank you kindly ... Okay, Ray, we'd
better get down to the pharmacy and find out if anyone saw
anything." But first, the Mountie turned to the two federal
agents and said politely, "I assume you will be joining us."
     Scully nodded. "Of course, Constable."
     Vecchio scowled at his companion all the way there.

     Only minutes before, the cell door had slammed and
locked; but now Greene and Ross heard the bolt drawn back,
and the door yawned open again. Standing there were Bragg,
with his handgun; Professor Locke, holding the discreetly
draped metal bowl; and a third figure, only vaguely familiar
- it took Greene a moment to place him as one of the
hospital environmental service workers. He was holding a
large glass beaker, a suture pack, some gauze and tape, and
a wrapped sterile scalpel, and on his face there seemed to
be no expression at all.
     Ross looked at him with a sour smile. "Hey, Rashid,
how'd you get roped into this? Nice carrot dangled in front
of you, too?"
     Not only was there no answer, but in the man's eyes was
not even the faintest flicker of recognition. For all the
reaction he'd given, he might as well have been carved of
wood ... both prisoners heard a faint cold whisper of fear.
     Locke seemed gratified. "I'm afraid you'll get no
satisfaction from him, gentlemen. You see, that specimen is
in thrall to HIM, and as such responds only according to my
orders."
     Suddenly Greene went ashen with a terrible thought. "My
God, you called us slaves ... " he gasped.
     "Do not be afraid, Dr. Greene - at least, not of THAT.
Such a fate is reserved for others who lack a certain level
of mental acuity. You and your friend are poor candidates
for thralldom; I have other purposes for you." With that, he
snapped his fingers. The "thrall" turned his head slowly;
Locke pointed hard at Ross. Just as slowly the head turned
back and the body moved robotically forward to place the
medical tools at Ross' shackled feet. "Impressive,
gentlemen, no?" Locke smirked. "Not ideal in terms of speed
or versatility, but delivers perfect obedience. Now, Dr.
Ross, time to prove I didn't make a mistake in sparing your
life. Fill that vessel."
     "With what?" Ross growled truculently.
     "You don't pick up very quickly, do you? Perhaps I
SHOULD make a thrall of you. With Dr. Greene's blood, you
ass!"
     Now it was Ross' turn to go gray. "What kind of a
monster are you?"
     "One whose patience is being tried sorely, Doctor!" The
fierce black eyes were narrow. "I can always have Mr. Bragg
dispose of you and draw the fluid himself, if you prefer."
Hearing that, Bragg went into another fit of giggles, and
fondled the barrel of his gun.
     Greene closed his eyes for a moment, then held out his
manacled hands. "It's all right, Doug. I'd rather you did it
than he." There was silence as Ross looked at him,
considering the bowed head and resigned face. Then, without
a word, the pediatrician picked up the blade and brought it
against the arm of his friend. Greene winced as the other
carefully cut a vein, and made no sound as a crimson stream
slowly filled the beaker. Their eyes did not meet, or he
would have seen Ross' tears.
     An aeon seemed to pass, the silent victim pale and
growing paler, before Ross finally looked up at their
captor. "This thing's just about full and I don't know how 
much more he can spare; I'm closing this wound!"
     "Very well, Dr. Ross. I trust HE will be satisfied with
this for now." Locke himself took the beaker as Ross turned
away to clean, suture, and dress the wound he'd made. He did
not watch, though Greene did, as the professor drew back the
cloth on his ever-present basin and reverently decanted the
blood into it. The physicians could only wonder *What in
God's name does he have in there?* ... and realize that they
didn't really want to know.
     Locke nodded to his gunman. "Thanks, guys!" Bragg
grunted, slamming and sealing the door of their cell.
     Without enemy eyes upon them, Ross slumped forward,
hiding his face for shame. "Dear God, Mark, I'm sorry!"
     "You don't have to be," Greene whispered weakly. "I
know it hurt you more than it did me. Let's listen to them."
     Indeed, Locke was going on. " ... the major equipment
we need. We'll be able to pick up the team there, too."
     "So I don't have to go back to Cook County General
anymore?" Bragg asked hopefully.
     "I'm afraid you will," came the reply. "One more time
... to claim the subject."
     "You found a good one, Master?"
     The prisoners couldn't see Locke's icy smile, but heard
it in his voice. "A perfect one. A boy, one of the medical
students from the university, serving in their emergency
room."
     The fear puddled in Greene's guts; he glanced at his
friend. Ross was listening intently now, head up, dread in
his eyes as he heard Bragg ask, "What's he look like?"
     "Like a pleasant dream, Alec. Slender and handsome,
dark hair and eyes, open face, sunny disposition. Best of
all ... " Locke paused, savoring the thought, "daisy-fresh,
tender as a lamb and just as innocent - exactly what HE
wants!"
     "Oh, God." Greene again turned to Ross. "You know who
he means, don't you, Doug?"
     The reply came in a horrified whisper. "Carter."

     "What on earth is the matter with these people?" Dana
Scully muttered to her partner. "The whole shift seems to be
walking in fog! No one remembers seeing the missing men down
here, no one is sure whether or not they talked to them, no
one knows if anyone was in the cold storage unit!"
     "Yeah, really," Vecchio grunted in reluctant agreement.
"No one except the spotty guy, what's his name - "
     "Persico," Mulder said, ignoring the detective's glare.
"And he claims that he just took the cold storage inventory
and left for his break without seeing anyone."
     The Mountie looked like he'd rather be pacing the
hallway than standing in it, but was too disciplined to do
so. "Even the head pharmacist herself seems completely
confused about it. How can they do their jobs in such a
state? What are the chances of the wrong drug or
concentration getting to a patient?"
     Mulder scanned all their faces before speaking in his
usual calm tone. "Extremely high - IF this kind of confusion
is the rule. Which is very unlikely."
     "And how do YOU know?" Vecchio grumbled.
     The federal agent forced the other to meet his eyes.
"Do you really think a major hospital would put up with this
sort of thing for more than about fifteen minutes? The whole
pharmacy department would be sacked the moment any
administrator suspected something was wrong."
     "The drug thefts weren't reported for a couple of
weeks!"
     "That's easier to cover up than a whole shift acting
like they're sampling the wares themselves."
     "Which raises another question!" Fraser broke in
suddenly. "What's causing it? Is mass intoxication even
possible?"
     "Theoretically it is," replied Scully. "Through a
containment breach on a psychoactive substance that can be
absorbed osmotically through the skin, that is then touched
by the victims."
     "Okay," said Mulder evenly. "Name such a drug, Dr.
Scully. One with a powerful effect when absorbed in minute
quantities - and that only on memory and awareness of a
single event." They all stared at him; unruffled, he
explained himself. "I quizzed the pharmacist and two clerks
on a couple of questions unrelated to the disappearances."
     Vecchio leaned heavily against the wall and rolled his
eyes. "Yeah? Like what?"
     "The anesthetics most frequently requested for
gallbladder surgery and the Cubs' prospects for the pennant.
Answers were focused, tight and aware."
     "Yeah, well ANYONE could be on target about the Cubs'
chances: exactly zip!"
     "Fine. Got anything to say about gallbladder surgery
anesthesia, Detective Vecchio?" No answer, and Mulder
continued. "I'd like to question some of the other staff,
especially the nurses, as to whether they've seen this
behavior in the pharmacy staff at other times. The answer is
likely to be 'No'."
     "And if it is," said Scully skeptically, "then what's
causing their confusion now?"
     "I don't know, Scully."
     "Yeah, go ahead, pester the nurses," Vecchio grunted.
"Benny, how about you and me talking to that kid Persico
again? He's the only one who seems to know anything; he
could know more than he's letting on."
     Fraser considered for a moment before replying. "If you
don't mind, Ray, I'd like to try getting permission to bring
Diefenbaker in here. Maybe he can pick up a scent."

     Billy Kronk stretched his lean denim-clad limbs and
shook dampened hair as he stepped from the men's locker room
in Chicago Hope's surgical wing. The night shift had been
hell on a plate, especially when the chopper dropped that
accident victim at three AM. It had taken until after nine
to save her ... time well spent. Kronk hadn't bothered to go
home, and simply crashed in the on-call room for a few
hours. Then he'd assisted Geiger with that triple bypass,
and there had been complications adding yet more time to the
surgery. At least he could leave now ... hockey practice
this afternoon was out of the question. Better just to pick
up his equipment and head out.
     The scrubs and the white coat were away for now; the
hockey uniform awaited ... Kronk sauntered down the hall to
its hiding place. At first he'd left his equipment in the
locker room on those days he expected to go straight from
the hospital to the rink, but a few of the other surgeons
had complained. (Bunch of damn overpaid prima donnas.) So
today he'd tucked the stuff into the equipment storage space
between ORs One and Two. No damage done, no one had bitched
yet ... but give them time.
     A couple of figures were visible in the darkened room
as Kronk swung the door open. Techs, probably. Funny that
they hadn't turned the lights on. Kronk did it for them.
     Funnier that the two men didn't even look up as the
lights flashed into life. One just kept moving along the
shelves, tossing instruments into a bag; the other slowly,
carefully wheeled a bypass unit towards the door, seemingly
oblivious of the doctor. Mystified as he was by them, it
took Kronk a moment to notice that they weren't technicians,
but wore the uniform of Environmental Services. Janitors?
"Hey, where are you going with the pump?" Kronk demanded.
     No answer. Again, neither even looked at him. Weird.
Kronk swung into the room and placed himself firmly in the
path of the man pushing the heart-lung machine. "Hey, I'm
talking to you! Where the hell do you think you're going
with the pump?"
     Something hard - human muscle - slammed across Kronk's
throat. His cry choked off, the surgeon fell back against a
rock-solid body. His hands rose, locked on the throttling
arm across his windpipe, pushed with all he had; the arm
gave a millimeter's way, and Kronk sucked air - suddenly
something wet and cold pressed onto his face, and he sucked
a familiar, terrifying stench: ether. Fear pulsed through
him, fueled a massive, panicked thrust that broke the unseen
enemy's grip ... Kronk stumbled forward, collapsed to one
knee, his cry aborted to a groan. The sound was answered by
a crackle of psychotic giggling, and then the ether-soaked
cloth clutched his mouth and nose again to turn the world
black.

 Ray Vecchio walked swiftly through the alley towards an
unmarked gray door set low in the shadowed side of the
hospital. Used mostly for deliveries and the like, he'd been
told. Opening to the lowest level. Easy to miss. Rarely
guarded. Probably used by the supply thieves and the
abductors - no doubt the same people.
     There were Fraser and his pet, waiting for him as
promised. The Mountie looked up as his friend approached,
tried to smile and said, "Hi, Ray. Did you learn anything
else from Mr. Persico?"
     Vecchio grunted. "I learned that the little weasel's
hiding something. Matter of fact, I'm sure he knows the
whole story upwards, downwards and sideways ... but I've got
no grounds for holding him!" Fraser nodded for him to go on.
"I start with a few general questions about himself, just
getting going, you know - and the kid is squirming like
there's a big lizard stuck in his pants. Then I move on to
specifics, start talking about the kidnapping. Wouldn't you
know it, suddenly butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Not
nervous at all. Get off the subject, and he gets hit with
another attack of stuttering copophobia!"
     Fraser considered. "Just about the exact opposite of
what you might expect. That's very strange."
     "What it is, is creepy. I just wish I had an excuse to
bring him in and give him a once-over down at the station
house ... So, how's your furry friend doing?" Vecchio looked
down at the animal. "Won't they let you bring him in?"
     "Well, I DID get permission. But ... " the handsome
face twitched with embarrassment, "he's got a problem of his
own."
     Now both officers regarded Diefenbaker, mystified. The
great white wolf of the North, fearless by nature and
devoted to Fraser by choice, was now crouched at their feet,
tail tucked firmly between legs, trembling as if lying on
ice. "What's with him?"
     "I don't know, Ray. But he won't go in. I've never seen
him so scared!"
     "Did you try a different door?"
     "We did, but as soon as we started getting close to the
pharmacy area, he panicked and tore back out the way we
came." Fraser shook his head. "Whatever he's afraid of, and
I can't imagine what it is, he won't be tracking those men
for us." He bent down to give his pet a comforting stroke,
and was answered with a soft-eyed, apologetic look and a
puppylike whine of fear.
     "Back to square one," said the detective with a shrug.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up. "Oh, jeez."
     Fraser looked in the direction of Vecchio's glance to
see Agents Mulder and Scully approaching. "Good afternoon,"
he said. "Were the nurses any help?"
     "I'm not sure," said Scully, with a side look at her
partner.
     He took up the thread. "As I expected, they report no
previous instances of confusion or memory lapse in the
pharmacy staff," Mulder stated. "However, the head nurse
volunteered the information that two pharmacy clerks and two
members of the custodial staff seem to have undergone
profound personality changes very recently - within the last
week."
     "What kind of changes?" the Mountie pressed.
     Scully's turn. "Becoming unusually silent and
uncommunicative, simultaneously oddly docile. And
interestingly, all four of the people in question didn't
show up for work today." She looked up at Mulder. "It's the
best we can get. We have names and addresses - "
     She cut herself off as Mulder's cellular phone squealed
for attention. He pulled it out, snapped it open; "Agent
Mulder." Silence as he listened. "We'll be right there, Dr.
Watters!"
     "Mulder? What is it?"
     His face was grim. "Another abduction, same MO: smashed
pager found on the floor of a storage area where the victim
was going. Equipment also missing. At Chicago Hope. Let's
go."
     "Hey, not without us!" snapped Vecchio, and four law
officers - and a much-relieved wolf - were on their way.

     Upstairs to surgery again ... Peter Benton hustled
through the ER, but suddenly stopped when he caught a
glimpse of the charge nurse. Carole Hathaway was slumped on
one of the chairs near the wall, head in hands, covering her
soft dark eyes, tired. No, not tired - drained. And not by
fatigue, either; some other strain had brought her close to
breaking.
     As if feeling his gaze, Hathaway looked up to engage
it. He was taken aback; averting his eyes, he tried to say
concernedly, "What's the problem?"
     Her face was drawn and tense, her voice a hoarse
whisper. "Peter ... it's Mark and - and Doug ... do you
think they're in any danger?"
     The resident twitched his shoulders, glanced around.
"I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption." An unsuppressable
sob shook her. Again Benton shifted as if itchy; Hathaway,
bar none the finest emergency nurse in the city, who had
been to hell and returned twice as strong - she shouldn't be
like this. It made him nervous, and summoned up uneasy
thoughts of his missing colleagues. Better they should be in
danger ... if the alternative was being beyond danger
forever. "I'm needed in surgery," he apologized, and
continued on his way.

     The fog was clearing in Billy Kronk's head, letting the
pain of the headache shine through all the brighter. "Are
you okay?" came a man's gentle voice.
     Kronk opened his eyes, wincing at the light, dim as it
was. "Sort of." He tried to raise a hand to his forehead and
was astonished to pull the other up with it. He stared at
the handcuffs, then at the leg irons. "What the hell is
this? Where am I?"
     "Welcome," said the voice beside him. "You're the guest
of Professor Christopher Ashton Locke and his pet psycho
Alec. As are we."
     Now Kronk turned to see his companions, one in a lab
coat and the other in green scrubs, both fettered around the
ankles and chained to the floor like himself. "Are you
DOCTORS?"
     "Sure are. Dr. Doug Ross, pediatrics, Cook County
General Hospital. And this is Dr. Mark Greene."
     That one smiled ruefully. "Emergency medicine, Cook
County General. You're a doctor too?"
     "Yeah. Billy Kronk, general surgery, Chicago Hope. What
the hell are we doing here ... " he noticed a swath of
bloodstained gauze taped to his left arm and felt an ache
under it, and his voice tensed a little; "and what are they
going to do with us?"
     "As soon as we know, we'll tell you," answered Greene.
"How did they capture you?"
     "I caught someone ripping off a bypass unit in OR
Storage; his buddy jumped me from behind with an ether gag."
Kronk snorted. "Stinking coward was smart. If we'd been face
to face, I'd've kicked his ass but good!" Again he raised
his arms to consider the wound on the left one. "But how'd I
get this?"
     In response, Greene held up his own manacled wrists to
show the same kind of injury. "Locke is bleeding us."
     "What for?"
     "Not sure. He pours the blood into a basin he carries
around with him. We don't know what else is in it. Although
when you were bled - you were still out cold at the time -
the other one, that mad dog Alec Bragg, said to save some of
your blood for their disguises." He shrugged. "Your guess is
as good as any."
     Kronk didn't offer one. He observed his fellow
prisoners, noting their shared air of resignation. Suddenly
he also noted that Ross wore no handcuffs and bore no
wounds. "Hey, Ross," he said, "why haven't they cut you?"
     Shame reddened the other's handsome face; it took him a
moment or two to respond. "Because they're forcing me to do
the cutting." Kronk's incredulous stare told him to
continue. "While holding us at gunpoint, Bragg gives me a
scalpel and a vessel for the blood - "
     "Wait just a minute!" Kronk exclaimed. "You're telling
me that this guy Bragg - this gutless kidnapping THUG - puts
a knife in YOUR HAND ... and you use it against your
colleagues like some kind of slave instead of going straight
for the bastard's throat?!" Kronk's eyes flashed fire.
"Haven't you got a pair - or is there something in it for
YOU, Dr. Quisling?!"
     Now Ross' face went redder, but with outrage. "You want
to know what's in it for me, Dr. Shit-for-brains? Not
getting killed! Not seeing my friend killed! Hell, I don't
even want YOU getting killed, although it's one way to get
you to shut your big mouth!"
     "So you want to shut my mouth? Give it a try!" Kronk
raised his fists. "Cuffs or not, I'll take you on anytime!"
     "PLEASE!" The cry came from Greene. "Doug! Dr. Kronk!
The enemy is out there, not here in this cell! If we stick
together, we might have at least a chance ... and even if
not, why amuse those psychopaths any more than we have to?"
     His words seemed to bring the other two slowly back to
their senses. "Good point, Mark." Ross extended a hand to
the surgeon. "No hard feelings ... Billy?"
     "We ARE all in this together," Kronk agreed, accepting
the grip. "Truce, Doug. Although the next time they bring
that knife around, I'd like to be the one to do the cutting
... Dr. Wimp."
     Ross' eyes narrowed. "Can it, Dr. Asshole."

     "I'm Dr. Lewis; come right this way, sir." She led the
man quickly across the ER to the nearest empty examination
room. The thin towel he held wrapped around his right hand
was sodden with blood; possibly an artery was cut. Not a
moment to waste.
     Odd, though, that the patient didn't seem to be in
pain, or even concerned. He'd just walked in smiling as if
he was happy to be there, and the smile wasn't a nice one;
kind of sharklike, Lewis thought, especially when he'd
looked at her. Neither did the young doctor like the look of
his shaven head or thuggish demeanor ... but as a physician,
she couldn't let herself be bothered by that sort of thing.
"What happened to your hand?"
     The man stared at her with an unpleasant glint in his
watery, bluish eyes. "I want a man doctor, honey."
     Lewis gave him a tight little smile. "I assure you,
sir, I'm fully qualified to assess - "
     "You're a girl. I want a man." He jerked his head
towards the doorway. "Maybe that tall guy in the white coat
over by the desk?"
     He meant Carter. Well, she WAS insulted ... but one had
to keep up a patient's confidence, and the student would
benefit from a chance to help with this case. "Very well,
sir." Lewis crossed to the door. "Dr. Carter? A
consultation?"
     John Carter looked up like a startled hawk. He still
wasn't used to being addressed as 'Doctor,' knowing he
didn't deserve it yet ... even if it DID feel good.
"Coming!"
     He strode into the exam room, trying to look
authoritative. "What have we got, Dr. Lewis?"
     Suddenly there was a rattling, and their attention shot
to their patient. With his left hand he'd seized the
curtains and pulled them around, blocking the three from
view. Then he quickly and easily unwound the bloody towel
from his other hand.
     Lewis lunged forward to intervene. "No, sir! You'd
better let me do - " The rest of her words were swallowed in
a gulp of fear; the scarlet-soaked fabric had concealed a
handgun.
     "Hi," said the false patient, a sinister giggling sound
soft in his throat, "meet my little friend. You two are
coming with us." He slid the weapon, still cocked and
pointed, into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Step out
slow and normal now and walk out; don't say a word to
anyone. There's a black van out front, unlocked; get in.
Front seats. I don't care which of you drives ... 'cause
I'll be behind you both with my little friend here."

     Fox Mulder looked over the people he had summoned
together, here in the committee room of Chicago Hope.
Hospital counsel and chief of staff, of course, plus the
head surgical nurse and the chief of cardiothoracic surgery.
Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser, again unable to use
Diefenbaker to track the abductors, were by default present.
And beside the agent - thank God - was his indispensable
partner Dana Scully. Time to begin.
     "So far our perpetrators have kidnapped three doctors,
one a surgeon," he noted Dr. Watters' nod, "and the
associated thefts involve a heart-lung machine, a monitor
unit, a defibrillator and assorted surgical instruments.
Additionally, large quantities of Isuprel, dopamine,
cardiplegia, epinephrine, heparin and other drugs associated
with open-heart surgery."
     "So?" grunted Dr. Jeffrey Geiger, slouched at the table
across from Mulder.
     "If you don't mind, Doctor, I'd like to review the
earlier homicides in this series." He brought out a thick
envelope of crime-scene photographs and forensic reports.
"If you'd pass these around." The agent watched as the
others shared the pictures and papers, everyone more or less
getting a look. "As you can see, the first victim's chest
was clumsily hacked open with a butcher's knife, part of the
heart cut out but the rest left in. Of the next two victims,
the mutilated one was opened much more cleanly, the entire
heart extracted. And at the third crime scene, not only was
the chest opened similarly, but the murder took place in a
physician's office - a heart specialist's."
     "And that heart specialist and his poor nurse beaten to
a pulp with a baseball bat for good measure," Vecchio
rumbled.
     Mulder nodded and went on. "We see a rising curve of
precision, as if the perpetrators aspire to the performance
of actual heart surgery."
     Geiger made a harsh chuckle. "Kids, don't try this at
home."
     "They aspire to something else, too." It was Alan
Birch, looking a little green, eyes averted from the photos.
"A level of pseudomedical cruelty not seen since Mengele at
Auschwitz."
     Nodding in agreement, Dana Scully continued their
presentation. "This time the perpetrators have taken pains
to acquire the actual equipment and drugs required. We're
concerned that, seeing as they lack the necessary skills,
they may also be trying to acquire people who have them. Put
bluntly, Dr. Geiger, Nurse Shutt, that may mean you."
     Camille Shutt's eyes widened; Phillip Watters' eyes
narrowed. "What kind of surgery are these - these madmen
trying to perform?" the chief of staff probed.
     "We believe some kind of heart transplant," Mulder
replied.
     "No, they're not." All eyes were on Geiger. "Your
wackos may have had themselves a little spree at two
hospitals, but they didn't help themselves to the _sine qua
non_ of transplant surgery. I understand that neither we nor
Cook County General are missing any cyclosporine. No
immunosuppressants, no transplant. Easy as ABC." He stood up
abruptly and addressed Vecchio. "Detective, tell us as soon
as our stolen equipment turns up on the black market, as it
will. Phillip, when I see Billy stumbling back into the OR,
I'll let you know. I've got patients." With that, he swept
from the room.
     Mulder looked after him. "Not much!"
     Camille and Watters both smiled. "I'll see to extra
security," Watters promised. "What else should we be doing?"
     "Anyone who could be of use to these men may be in
peril," Mulder declared. "Alert your staff in general,
particularly in the relevant surgical and cardiological
departments."
     "Right away. Have you anything else to tell us?"
     "I wish we had more," Scully confessed. "In the
meantime, we'll continue our investigation."
     Camille smiled. "Thank you," she said with all the
sincerity of her apprehension.
     "Beautiful." Vecchio rose. "C'mon, Fraser, let's see if
we can find a witness who can remember being a witness."
     Mulder watched the others go, his back to his partner.
Wordlessly she watched him in his turn, seeming to feel
instinctively the disquiet he did not reveal. "Mulder?"
     He turned to her. In his eyes was a pale hint of
something Scully rarely if ever saw on that handsome face;
she almost gasped, and reflected it back to him more
brightly.
     Fear.
     Now he read her eyes, and spoke. "This case ... I'll be
honest, Scully. Locke and Bragg were four steps ahead of us
right from the start, and they've been moving incredibly
fast. And here we are, swimming in circles like goldfish
bred to feed carp! If we can't find some kind of lead, we
won't stop them, and if we don't stop them ... "
     His voice faded; hers picked up the thread. "Their
captives are going to die." To her astonishment, he shook
his head slowly, subtly. "WORSE than that?"
     "There's something I haven't really told you yet,
Scully," he confessed. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."
     "And when has that ever stopped you telling me before?"
     He managed a smile. "Good point. So I'll tell you."
They remained in the otherwise empty committee room. "The
phenomena impeding this investigation - the confusion and
memory impairment of possible witnesses; Fraser's wolf's
refusal to approach the crime scenes; the personality
changes in people who might be involved - I'm considering
the hypothesis that our perpetrators are advancing other
purposes than their own."
     Scully cocked her head, giving  him that dubious look
she had to give him so often. "Who could they be working
for?"
     "Not so much 'who' as 'what'."
     " 'WHAT'? Could I trouble you to be a bit more
specific, Mulder?" She groaned inwardly. *Here we go again
... *
     He turned to her long enough to mark her incredulous
expression. "Not yet. But whatever it is that wants this
deeply sick operation carried out, it's intelligent, it's
powerful ... " he paused, "and it's absolutely malevolent."
     She pursed her lips, not sure whether or not to be
irritated. "Okay, I'll play along. Intelligent, powerful and
malevolent. Any idea what it IS and what it's doing here?"
     "I don't know, Scully. But like you said, I do know my
English literature. You read Yeats?"
     "Excuse me?"
     But he was looking away, and had already begun:
     " 'The darkness drops again; but now I know
     That twenty centuries of stony sleep
     Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
     And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
     Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?' "

     Susan Lewis tried not to tremble, and failed. She
looked at her fellow prisoner partly so as not to see the
fetters on her own hands and feet. "Well, Carter," she tried
to keep her voice light, but it trembled too, "at least now
we have a pretty good idea of where Mark and Doug are."
     "Really," he agreed in a quiet voice. He ran his eyes
around their cell, featureless but for the steel door with
its deadbolts and the rings in the floor where their chains
were fastened. "Right next door, I'd guess."
     They sat in silence for a little while. Lewis leaned
against the wall and closed her eyes, only to open them
again when she felt her companion's manacled hands gently,
diffidently taking hold of hers. "Carter?"
     He reddened and looked away, but did not let go.
"Please, Dr. Lewis ... " It was little more than a whisper.
     "Oh, no, I don't mind! I'm sorry I gave you the wrong
idea. It ... it makes me feel a little better, too." She
returned his clasp; the silence settled on them again as
they sat hand in hand in Locke's prison, awaiting an unknown
fate.
     A year seemed to go by before the student spoke again.
"Did - did you see the way he looked at us?"
     "Yes!" A shudder ran through her as she pictured their
captor and his hot, hungry eyes. "Like we were a couple of
roast chickens or something ... "
     Carter suddenly echoed her shudder, more violently;
Lewis clutched his hands a little tighter. Suddenly it
occurred to her - how a woman's deepest fear could, under
these strange and terrible circumstances, become a man's as
well ...

     As they stepped from the operating room side by side,
another craniotomy successfully concluded, Dr. Aaron Shutt
studied his wife's expression. The nurse's eyes seemed
troubled, and as she took off her mask, the rest of her
lovely face confirmed it. "Something wrong, Camille?"
     "Not really ... " She cast away her gown and gloves.
"I'm just a little worried about what happened to Billy. You
know I was at that meeting with the FBI agents; they told us
to be careful. I don't think Jeffrey's taking the warning
seriously, for one thing."
     Shutt chuckled. "He probably has the right idea. I
don't see why they're so sure Billy was kidnapped, anyway.
He's probably home asleep - and after the night he had, I'd
smash my pager to get a little peace too, if I were as
impulsive as he!"
     "I hope you're right." Plainly she wasn't convinced.
Not looking at him, she mused, "Agent Mulder was really
emphatic about the danger."
     "He's a federal agent; it's his job to be paranoid.
Don't worry so much, Camille." Bloody surgical gloves
discarded, he stroked her luminous blonde hair. "I don't
want that man making you afraid of your own shadow."
     "Really, Aaron? I don't think that was his intention. "
Now she gazed up at him. Her voice went distant:
     " 'And I will show you something different from either
     Your shadow at morning striding behind you
     Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
     I will show you fear in a handful of dust.' "
Shutt looked into her uneasy sapphire eyes and said nothing.

     "Over here, sir." Dr. Daniel Nyland led the man across
Chicago Hope's trauma center, eyes on the scarlet-soaked
cloth wrapped around his hand. The patient - Nyland put his
age at about fifty or so - was certainly pale and drawn, as
if he'd already lost quite a bit of blood. Still, it didn't
seem quite right: his step was strong and lively, and the
outer layers of the improvised bandage looked, to Nyland's
eye, bloodier than those within. The falsest note was struck
in the man's face; it showed none of the pain or anxiety of
the wounded. His eyes even seemed amused, in a cold sort of
way. Something about the whole situation felt a little
creepy to the chief resident - and considering the strange
disappearance of Billy Kronk, that wasn't a pleasant feeling
now.
     Creepy or not, a physician had his duty. "Please sit
down," he urged the patient, indicating the padded table in
the center of the exam room. Snapping on fresh latex gloves,
he approached to begin his examination.
     Unexpectedly the patient spoke. "If you would be so
kind as to draw the curtain, Doctor ... it pains me to be
seen this way."
     "Oh, of course." Quickly Nyland moved to obey, then
focused on the bloody hand, carefully unwinding the wrapper.
"How did you get this wound, sir?"
     Suddenly he halted, frozen, the crimsoned cloth falling
from nerveless fingers ... the man's hand was revealed,
sound and intact, clutched on the grip and trigger of a gun.
A gun pointed at Nyland's heart. "How did I get it?" said
the patient with a malevolent chuckle. "By soaking a rag in
the blood of your friend. Now, Dr. Nyland, we must go."
     The panic speeding the doctor's heart couldn't be heard
in his voice or seen in his eyes - yet. "What do you want?"
     "I want the world, young man ... and you and yours to
place it within my grasp." He produced a clean bandage from
his pocket. "Wrap this around my hand and weapon - and
remember, one false move seals your doom. Then we leave
together."

     Shutt looked out the glass wall of the hospital lobby
and up towards the sky. The blue hour was rapidly turning
black as dark clouds mustered like troops and the thunder
gathered. "Too bad you didn't bring your coat today."
     He turned to the welcome voice. "It didn't look like
rain this morning," he said with a smile that had nothing to
do with the weather. He leaned down just enough to touch his
lips to his wife's forehead. She seemed to him to have
recovered quite nicely from the scare that FBI agent had
given her earlier ...
     Camille Shutt smiled and returned the kiss. "I'm pretty
sure I did leave an umbrella in the car." She drew her own
coat close around her white uniform and led the way to the
garage.
     "Getting home will feel good," the neurosurgeon
commented as he slid behind the wheel of their vehicle. "Can
we rent a video tonight? Something that has absolutely
nothing to do with the human brain."
     "Oh, dear, and here I was looking forward to
'Scanners'!" Camille teased. Her husband laughed, and kissed
her again.
     Suddenly they heard a click and a cold, guttural voice
behind them. "Real sweet, folks." Camille gasped as
something hard and icy jammed against the back of her head.
"Now start the car, Doc. Start the car, pull out nice and
easy, and drive exactly where I tell you ... or you'll be
wearing the pretty lady's brains." The words segued into a
wild giggle.
     Panic rising, Shutt cast a desperate glance over his
shoulder to see a bald head gleaming over black leather and
pale eyes bright with sick pleasure. "Who are you?" he
demanded.
     "I'm the guy who's gonna blow your wife away if you
don't start the goddamn car!"
     Shutt swallowed hard, licked his lips, and brought the
engine to life.

     Christopher Ashton Locke moved about the shadowy room
as quietly and subtly as the breath of a dying man.
Everything was falling into place as he'd planned - better
than he'd planned. The errors and failures of the previous
attempts had been learned from and forgiven. Now he had an
appropriate place, all the necessary equipment, almost all
the essential people. That young surgeon, Daniel Nyland -
safely hidden below in the van, securely chained and silent
in the dreamless darkness of ether, with a thrall keeping
guard just in case. Alec was seeing to the couple. He had
them all in his power ... all but one man, the _sine qua
non_.
     Locke's dark-adapted eyes picked out shapes, put names
to them. Interesting office. If not for the shelves of
medical texts, perhaps it could belong to a theatrical
producer or such. He noted the top-quality stereo system,
the tall storage tower of compact disks, even the small
piano in the corner. So the great doctor loved music. Locke
chuckled ... once HE was complete, free to realize HIS
ancient dream, there would be a swift end to all music. All
resistance. All hope.
     He found his mind wandering back, as it so often did
these days, to that enchanted time when he'd first
encountered HIM. Again, the brilliant but utterly
unappreciated Professor Locke had canceled his office hours
on the spur of the moment and gone off to the woods. Of late
he'd been feeling the need to spend more and more time away
from the campus, away from those lumpish students with their
stupid questions and sluglike intellects (if you could even
dignify them with the word); away from those brainless
conservative drones who had the temerity to call themselves
his colleagues, who lacked even the minimal vision necessary
to recognize his genius, who had denied him the deanship
that was rightfully his. None of them were able to recognize
the clear heir of Foucault and Saussure, and they dared call
themselves scholars! Not one of them was fit to tie Locke's
shoes - or, probably, able to tie his own.
     So Locke had once again taken his rage and
disappointment out into nature and the cool green darkness
of the trees, like Thoreau before him (if he MUST compare
himself with that provincial dabbler). By some unseen agency
of Fate, this time he chose to wander off the path, breaking
trail alone through the new growth of spring, until he found
himself passing near the burned-out ruins of the old Quaker
meeting-house ... and the call came to him.
     Not a voice. An awareness, a presence right there in
his mind, below all his senses. Touching, speaking, calling
to him.
     *Help ME.*
     *Help ME ... and I will help you.*
     *Give ME power ... and I will give you power.*
     *Be MINE ... and I will be yours.*
Swiftly he sought and found it, bone-dry and helpless in the
ashes: HIS only embodiment. Though open to the
communication, Locke was afraid to actually touch. Such a
tiny, frail vessel; it could never channel and apply such
awesome power as HE had. To become complete, to realize HIS
full terrifying potential, HE did need help, Locke's help
... and in return ...
     A thrill ran through the professor every time he
remembered the astonishing vision HE had revealed directly
into HIS discoverer's mind. Such power, such stupefying
glory - it was inconceivable; he'd been won over on the
spot. In that moment he killed in himself all restraint and
hypocrisy. His genius would no longer be wasted on the
stupid young dregs of a barbaric society, but dedicated to
HIM, HIS completion, HIS conquest.
     Humiliatingly, the first attempt proved that Locke's
help alone would not be enough. So HE led Locke to Alec
Bragg, another man with dreams and no risk-free way to
fulfill them. But they could be fulfilled safely in HIS
service, and after the job was done, no limit on Bragg and
his dreams would remain. Once Locke had made the
presentation to the young drifter, signing him on was easy;
the fellow hadn't even objected to calling Locke "Master" as
he deserved.
     And any other help required was easy enough to get.
Poor hapless Vincent, for example; Locke snickered at the
thought. Once HE had directed Locke to the young fool, said
young fool's own greed was enough to snare him, his own fear
and weakness enough to keep him in line. As for brute labor,
no seduction was necessary for that, just a way to trick
enough troglodytes into touching HIS vessel that HE might
apply HIS power against them. Of course, after HE was
complete, HE would be able to do HIS own touching.
     HE had made clear what HE needed; although the process
details were spotty, trial and error had paying off ever
since, and tonight they would get it right at last. Then all
humanity would kneel to HIM ... and kiss the feet of HIS
paraclete, Christopher Ashton Locke.
     Outside the wide window, lightning suddenly lashed the
night, which groaned and began to weep wildly. Locke exulted
in the storm; the rain would further deter pursuit and help
HIM conceal HIS helpers' movements. As if any such help was
needed! Even in HIS present state, HIS power was such as to
render their pathetic security precautions a mockery, and
their own foolish confidence weakened them further. Even now
someone was swiftly approaching the dark office, unarmed,
unsuspecting and utterly alone ...

     A muscular figure clad in blue scrubs hurried down a
wide corridor through the Chicago Hope office annex. Jeffrey
Geiger was mystified; stat-paged to his own office, with no
explanation? This was a new one. Probably some frightened
patient had taken a sharp turn for the worse and the
relatives were anxiously awaiting him, something like that;
best to hurry.
     If someone was waiting, why was it dark in there? He
pushed open the door, snapped on the light ... "So at last
we meet, Dr. Geiger."
     The heart surgeon stared incredulously at the black-
clad, bone-thin, unnaturally pallid man who sat casually on
the edge of the desk, hands in pockets. One thing was
certain: he was no patient - this was one of the faces shown
to Geiger by the FBI agents that morning. "Who are you, and
what are you doing in my office?"
     "I am Professor Christopher Ashton Locke. Perhaps you
have heard the name." His slow smile was like the drawing of
a blade. "Soon the entire world will tremble at it." Now one
hand slid from its sheltering pocket and rose, gripping a
small, bright pistol. "Come with me."

     Jeffrey Geiger did look up as the door of his prison
opened - but slowly, casually. Why give the bastard the
satisfaction of seeing hope? And there he stood in the
doorway, black and white like gamblers' dice, with shining
grin and gloating eyes. "May I assume you are ready, Dr.
Geiger?"
     "To die? Always." He answered with his own thin smile.
     "Oh, not yet, Doctor. Perhaps not at all. Are you ready
to prepare for surgery?"
     Geiger's cool smile vanished. "Surgery? What the hell
are you talking about?"
     Locke chuckled. "Do you think I brought you here for
the pleasure of your company? Surgery is a paradox -
inflicting wounds in order to bring healing - and you are
the master of the deepest level of that paradox. It is your
hands I need, the miraculous hands of the famous Jeffrey
Geiger."
     "My hands." Geiger raised them, the chain whispering
between his wrists. "Come a little closer, and I'll show you
what miracles I can do with them."
     "I would not advise that." Locke swung the door a
little wider to reveal one of his thralls leveling a pistol.
"Their aim is poor, but at point blank range, no matter.
Rise and come with me." Another thrall entered with a key,
clumsily unlocking Geiger's fetters from the ring bolt,
removing his handcuffs and leading him out.
     Locke brought his prisoner to a scrub sink beside a
steel door. Silent for once - but for curiosity and not fear
- Geiger donned the waiting mask and cap, then slowly,
carefully washed and disinfected his hands, casting a
sidelong glance at his captor, who was himself donning mask
and latex gloves. *What DOES this wacko have in mind?* he
wondered warily.
     The surgeon held up his dripping hands. "Well?"
     A nod to the unarmed thrall, and the steel door was
unlocked and opened. "Enter, Dr. Geiger. Your surgical team
awaits."
     Geiger stepped through - and halted in his tracks. He
stood in a bizarre parody of an operating room. Tile walls
and masses of sophisticated equipment gleamed under the
blazing lights; a laden instrument tray sparkled beside the
table, which bore a fully draped, unmistakably human form.
Beside it stood a man and a woman, masked, gowned and
gloved. By their eyes alone Geiger knew them: Daniel Nyland
and Camille Shutt. Fear rose in his throat as he noticed the
shackles on their ankles, chained to rings set around the
base of the operating table.
     There were others. They were bound in leg irons and
handcuffs, fettered to bolts in the floor near the bare
north wall of the room. All wore surgical masks and sat on
the floor in various states of rage or resignation; Geiger
recognized a seething Billy Kronk instantly, but not the two
other men nor the woman. Keeping watch over the prisoners
was a masked, gloved, armed Alec Bragg, his pale eyes
glittering with sick delight. Several more armed thralls
scattered about the room backed him up.
     As Geiger stood spellbound by incredulity and horror,
Camille stepped forward to meet him with towel, gown and
gloves as she had countless previous times - but never
before with steps made tiny by fetters, dragging a chain
behind her, her blue eyes moist with fear. Automatically the
surgeon dried his hands, stepped into the gown, felt the
gloves snap tightly on ... "Camille," he whispered, "what
the hell is this?"
     "Dear God, Jeffrey, I wish I knew!" she whispered back,
almost sobbing. "Please, do you know what's become of
Aaron?"
     A steel hand gripped Geiger's heart and squeezed. "They
got him, too? Oh God ... I had no idea!"
     A prod from the gun at his back sent Geiger to his post
on the right side of the draped body. Nyland stood directly
across; their tense brown eyes met above the masks, but no
words were spoken. The room was silent but for the rattle
and click of Geiger's chain being locked into place; then
Locke stepped forward to announce, "You may begin."
     Geiger turned, eyes fierce on the enemy. "BEGIN!?" he
snarled. "Begin what?"
     Locke's own eyes narrowed. "I was sure you would get it
by now; the intelligence of doctors is grossly overrated!
You are here to perform a heart transplant, Doctor; I
strongly suggest that you get to it. I have hostages." He
nodded toward the group of captives at the north wall.
     "A heart transplant? Are you SERIOUS?"
     A gloved finger tapped against the sheeted form before
Geiger. "Here is your patient. Begin."
     The surgeon flashed a desperate glance about the room.
Six fellow captives, eyes either sullen or frightened but
all looking to him; some mindless human robots, under God
only knew what sinister influence; a giggling madman; and
Locke. No hope anywhere. Maybe he could stall for time ...
"Has this patient been prepped for surgery?"
     "Why don't you look at him yourself?" said Locke
mockingly.
     Geiger looked at him silently for a moment, then
reached over to draw back the sheets. Locke stepped back to
give him room. The sky-blue drapes came away ... "God in
Heaven!" Geiger cried.
     Before him lay a man, a very young man, wide awake,
naked under the lights. Wide straps crisscrossed his body
everywhere except his chest; his lower torso, neck and all
four limbs were bound fast to the table. He couldn't move a
muscle. A strip of duct tape sealed his mouth. Brown eyes
wide with helpless terror looked straight up at the heart
surgeon, pleading silently, desperately, for mercy ... "Who
is this?!" Geiger demanded, panic touching his voice.
     The woman at the north wall answered. "His name is John
Carter. He's a med student at the Cook County General ER ...
and our friend." The two other strangers beside her nodded.
     "God," Geiger repeated softly. He looked down at the
man - little more than a boy, really. So utterly powerless,
so frightened ... Geiger looked away to the members of his
"team." Camille was looking at Carter, tears forming in her
eyes. Nyland returned his chief's gaze with a silent
question: *What now?*
     Stall some more, perhaps. "This man hasn't been
prepped," he informed their captor.
     Locke's eyes gleamed maliciously. "Prep him."
     "I can't perform surgery under these conditions! We
don't even have a monitor tech or a perfusionist - "
     "Very well. Alec!"
     "I got it, Master!" The bald beast signaled a thrall,
who released the woman and one of the men from the bolts and
handcuffs, brought them forward and chained them near the
operating table.
     "Nurse Shutt," came Locke's oily voice, "gowns and
gloves for your colleagues, if you please. May I present Dr.
Susan Lewis, your monitor technician. You already know Dr.
William Kronk, your perfusionist."
     Silently Camille obeyed; Geiger took advantage of the
diversion to lean across the table and whisper to Nyland,
"This isn't some kind of sick joke, is it?"
     "I don't think so," the younger surgeon replied evenly.
     "I hate it when you're right." Now Geiger turned back
to Locke. "Let me commend you on a nice bit of
improvisation, but what's the point of having people here to
watch the monitor and run the pump when neither is hooked up
to the patient?"
     "As I thought I'd already made crystal-clear, Dr.
Geiger, that is your problem to solve. Hook him up."
     "Now wait just a minute!" The heart surgeon raised both
hands placatingly, trying to sound reasonable. "If you don't
mind my asking, what's missing from this picture? Among
other things, where's the donor heart?"
     "I have the donor heart," Locke replied in his silkiest
voice. "It has been in my keeping for weeks, undergone three
failed attempts to implant it in a proper body ..." The voice 
hardened like sword-steel in fire. "This attempt will not fail 
- now that I have all of you." He crossed to a steel shelf, 
picked up a basin and brought it over to his captives at the 
operating table.
     Kronk gave a start as he recognized the metal bowl. He
leaned over to Nyland and whispered, "Danny ... that psycho
poured some of MY blood in there!"
     "But why?" the resident whispered back.
     "We're probably about to find out."
     The enemy held the bowl out to Geiger. "Behold, Doctor:
HIS heart. HIS heart, needing only the proper body -
healthy, strong, unspoiled in flesh and spirit - that HE may
live. Live ... and rule!"
     Geiger looked - and instantly recoiled in sick
revulsion. It was a heart - it HAD to be a heart - but it
lay not on a cool preserving bed of ice, but in a pool of
warm blood ... human blood. The size and shape were right,
the chambers and valves intact - but not red; instead a
glistening moist black. Most dreadful of all, it did not lie
quiescent and cold, waiting for the electric kiss of the
defibrillator to rouse it again; it BEAT, throbbed, sent
ripples through its grisly bath ... alive.
     Behind Geiger, Nyland went white as a winding-sheet;
Kronk almost retched behind his mask; Camille let out a sob
of terror; Lewis felt her knees give way, and grabbed the
table for support. Carter's eyes misted with fearful
questioning as he looked up at his friend; she gasped her
answer, "Carter - John, it's horrible ... oh, God!" Lewis
covered her eyes with her gloved hands and could say no
more.
     "Good Lord, Dr. Geiger," Nyland murmured, "what's the
ischemic time on that thing, about a thousand years?"
     Geiger pulled his gaze from the hideous object and
rumbled in a dangerously low voice, "I don't know what
you're up to, Locke, but you're not telling us to transplant
a heart into a patient - this is implanting a parasite into
a host!"
     "Call it what you will," Locke said smoothly, "but it
will work."
     "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!
You're telling me to murder this boy - all the
immunosuppressants in the world won't keep his body from
rejecting THAT!"
     "Really, Doctor." A chuckle that sounded like snapping
bones. "Do you think HE would permit HIS new body to cast
HIM out? Not even a drop of your precious immunosuppressants
will be necessary. Now do it!"
     "I can't. I couldn't do this ... procedure even if I
wanted to," the prisoner declared. "This patient - or more
correctly, victim - is wide awake. We don't have a
ventilator, volume or gas monitors, an infusion pump or -
without which none of the above would make any difference at
all - a competent anesthesiologist."
     "Because none is needed," was the cold reply. "As long
as the subject is unable to move enough to disrupt the
procedure, it WILL succeed."
     Horror flashed around the room like live electric
current. At the wall, Mark Greene leaped to his shackled
feet with a cry of protest, only to be struck back to the
floor by a gleeful Bragg; Doug Ross came to his aid, but the
pediatrician could not avert his shocked gaze from the
doomed man bound to the operating table. Below the monitor,
Lewis gasped; she met Carter's panicked eyes and felt tears
form in her own.
     For a moment Geiger was speechless; then he said,
almost too calmly, "Let me see if I've got this straight:
You want me to crack the chest of this obviously perfectly
healthy man, cut out and discard his perfectly healthy
heart, and in its place sew that - that THING ... without
anesthesia?"
     "Precisely, Doctor."
     "You are nuts, stone evil or both." Dark eyes blazed
above Geiger's mask; he folded his arms. "I won't do it."
     "I have hostages," Locke reminded him, nodding his head
toward Ross and Greene. "You will obey ... or they will
die." Hearing that, Bragg erupted in giggles as he lovingly
stroked his gun, now aimed at the exposed nape of Greene's
neck.
     "Really." Coolly the surgeon turned to regard the two
prisoners. "Gentlemen?"
     Greene slowly, resignedly raised his head. "Let him
shoot. It'd be a mercy."
     "Yeah," Ross agreed bitterly. "None of us is going to
leave this place alive anyway."
     Geiger's mask hid his smile and the pride shining in
it. He turned back to the enemy. "There's your answer,
Locke; looks like your hostages are perfectly willing to
sacrifice their lives. And so am I." He pulled down the
mask. "Do as you like to me, but I will NOT be a party to
this unspeakable butchery!" Calling it butchery was easy; he
dared not voice his own mysterious but absolute certainty
that the wretched young man WOULD survive with the black
heart within him ... and Geiger somehow knew that compared
to that doom, the unimaginable cruelty of radical surgery on
feeling flesh would seem as nothing, absolutely nothing at
all.
     In response, Locke drew down his own mask. A smile of
pure evil gleamed across his face. "I was almost hoping you
would say that, Dr. Geiger." He stepped away to address one
of his impassive armed thralls. "Inform Vincent that it is
time to bring in our secret weapon."
     The fear went crackling around the room again. Greene
and Ross traded an uneasy glance; they were reprieved for
now, but at what cost? Camille's eyes went to the face of
the pinioned Carter, trying to offer comfort as her gloved
hand stroked his cheek. Lewis looked at the nurse, feeling
tears rise. Kronk was muttering with all the pent rage of
utter impotence, "What secret weapon?"; Nyland quietly
shushed him, desperate not to know the answer.
     The human robot departed and too quickly returned. With
it came a skinny, lank-haired young man recognized as Vinnie
Persico by three of the prisoners. He was looking at the
tops of his sneakers and twitching with nervous shame,
leading another figure ... suddenly, the nature of Locke's
'secret weapon' was terribly apparent.
     It was Dr. Aaron Shutt.
     The neurosurgeon stood before them unmasked, in his
shirtsleeves, even more elaborately chained than they: steel
links ran from his leg irons to a shackle encircling his
waist, to which his handcuffs were also fastened. But he
held himself erect as if he didn't notice the bonds. His
gaze flashed across all their faces, coming to rest upon
Camille's; his expression mingled relief at seeing her
unharmed with dread of sinister, unspoken possibilities. She
returned the gaze, a tear dampening her cheek.
     Next, still silent, he looked to Geiger, his eyes alone
conveying the message to his dearest friend: *Don't worry
about me, Jeffrey. Be strong.*
     "Thanks, Vinnie," said Bragg with wet-lipped relish.
"I'll take it from here!" He pocketed his gun, stepped over
to a nearby equipment shelf, reached into a narrow box, and
withdrew something. A whip. Thick handle of carved wood,
heavy braided leather lash, with small sharp bits of wire
glinting through the braid. Shutt licked his lips and said
nothing.
     As the wretched Persico stepped back, Bragg strode over
to the hostage. With a single expert blow of his fist, he
struck Shutt down to his knees and stood hovering above him,
slowly swinging the lash, looking towards his "Master."
     Locke's gaze first pinned Persico. "Do stay with us,
Vincent; I want you to see this. You might find it
instructive." Then he raked the room with his eyes, savoring
the fear and revulsion on his captives' faces. He stopped
for a longer look at Camille, enjoying her misery and the
tears spilling down her face, before finally facing the
heart surgeon. "Time to make your decision, Dr. Geiger," he
said hungrily, his tongue-tip oiling his lips. "Choose
between your precious Hippocratic Oath and the torture -
until death - of one you love."
     All the color had drained from Geiger's face.  "Not
even you would do this, you bastard," he breathed.
     "I know you're a gambler, Doctor, but I advise you not
to gamble with me," Locke rumbled back. "I've not come this
far to let you or anyone else stop me - HE will live! Now
choose!"
     Geiger turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. Leaning
heavily on the operating table with both hands, he let the
room fester in silence ... Shutt's voice broke through.
"Don't harm that man, Jeffrey."
     "Well, Doctor?" Locke received his answer: a slow,
pained shake of Geiger's head. "I see. Alec! You may begin."
     "Right, Master!" The whip rose slowly and fell hard,
metal barbs gleaming silver one moment and glistening red
the next. The moans and gasps of the other prisoners sounded
around him, but Shutt himself made no sound, not at the
first blow, nor the second, nor as the lash rose and fell
and rose and fell, tearing his clothes and the flesh beneath
them to scarlet ribbons.
     Geiger couldn't look; he trembled at the sound of every
blow against his friend, as if the whip struck him as well.
Camille couldn't look away, weeping, gaze gripped by a
vision out of her own private hell. "Please, Mr. Locke," she
cried, "take me, not Aaron!"
     "Very noble of you, my dear," he sneered, "but I
understand that Dr. Geiger's fondness for you is rather
paltry compared to that for his closest friend. And amusing
as this can be, my intentions are entirely practical."
     The operating room, the other prisoners, all had faded;
nothing was real except Aaron and his pain, and the man
beside her who could end it ... "Dear God, Jeffrey!" she
sobbed. "How can you bear to let him suffer like this?!"
     The surgeon raised his head to look at her. Camille
trembled when she saw his face, anguish deep in every line,
his eyes streaming tears like hers. "I can't, Camille," he
whispered, and let his head fall again.
     Alec Bragg felt his pulse beating harder and hotter
with every stroke. He'd never gotten off like this before:
not while cutting those assholes' arteries back East, not
when slicing the hearts out of those kids, not even when
pounding that ugly old doctor and his nigger nurse into mush
(although that DID come close), not while torching the
corpses. And CERTAINLY not while setting those stray cats on
fire, the best he could do before Master had come along with
his wild story and the weird, living black heart to prove
it. The man had kept his promises for sure; he'd promised
too that once HE was complete (whatever that really meant),
Alec would have whole cities to burn, whole populations at
his mercy, to play with as he pleased ... Alec wasn't too
sure about that part, but he was willing to wait and see. In
the meantime, maybe he could get this stiff-necked asshole
of a doctor to let out just one good scream ... shit, the
son of a Jew bitch wasn't as soft as his puppy-dog eyes made
him look. Time to give the arm a little rest.
     The cadence of tear and slash across his back suddenly
slacked for one merciful moment; Shutt heaved a deep,
shuddering sigh out of the depths of his torment ... then
Bragg pushed up close and leaned over, panting his foul
breath in the prisoner's anguished face, his priapic bulge
jabbing hard against the wounded back. "Don't like it, do
you, jewboy? Soft rich kike doctor can't take a little pain?
Well, where's your God now, kike? He can't save you! Maybe
if you beg your friend the other Jew bastard to shut up and
cut like a man, I can stop hurting you - you'd love me
forever for that, wouldn't you, Jew scum?"
     Slowly Shutt raised his head. The suffering in his eyes
had been burned away by fury; he cast a deadly look at his
tormentor and calmly answered, "Lay on, you algolagnic
monorchid Nazi son of a bitch."
     Bragg was happy to oblige, again beating out the
excruciating rhythm. Shutt felt himself weakening; to his
shame, he finally could not hold back a soft gasp of agony,
then another.
     "For the love of God, Dr. Geiger," cried Nyland, "do
something!"
     *I must.* Geiger slowly raised his head again. His eyes
met those of the miserable Carter.  *Poor boy. I can't do
this to him ... * Suddenly he gave a start; was his tear-
blurred vision misleading him, or had the victim nodded? No,
he'd seen it, and saw it again; using the little slack his
bonds left him, Carter was nodding, silently saying 'yes'
the only way he could, giving his permission ... and his
life. With all eyes on him, Geiger suddenly knew what he had
to do.
     He choked back his final sob, and the old air of
command returned to his voice. "Camille," he ordered, "shave
the patient's chest." Locke heard, and raised a hand to
Bragg; the whip went slack and still.
     The nurse heard, and froze. "Jeffrey? You mean you're
... " She couldn't finish. Now that the possibility was
turning into reality, Camille felt herself whipsawed between
the anguish of the man she loved, and that of the innocent
lying before her.
     "Shave him, Camille," Geiger ordered gently yet firmly.
She'd heard that tone before. The nurse wiped her eyes on
the sleeve of her gown and picked up a razor from the
instrument tray.
     "Oh, God, no ... " Shutt's voice couldn't rise much
above a whisper, but he tried. "Don't hurt him, Jeffrey -
our oath ... I'm done for anyway!"
     "Aaron, please." The same tone, velvet on steel.
"Professor Locke, I assume you want to watch?"
     "But of course." The enemy pulled his mask back up,
hiding his diabolical smile, and walked around the table to
take up a clear viewing post a little behind and to the left
of Nyland. The bowl was cradled in his arms. "Will I see
everything from here?"
     "That's perfect," Geiger declared, pulling up his own
mask.
     "Very good. Just ask me for the heart when it's
needed."
     Geiger didn't answer. Impassively he watched Camille
shave and cleanse Carter's chest, then spread it with a
brown wash of povidone-iodine solution. For the first time,
her hand trembled.
     All eyes were on the surgeon and on the man pinioned
before him. Lewis sobbed quietly; Nyland and Kronk exchanged
an uneasy glance. Excluded from the ghastly mockery of
surgery, Ross and Greene huddled closely together. "My God,"
Greene whispered to his friend, "I can't believe they're
really going to do it - they CAN'T do it ... is there
nothing we can do to save him, Doug?"
     Ross brought up his shackled hands to give the other's
shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I can't believe they're
going to do it either, Mark, but there IS nothing we can
do."
     The nurse finished her task and stepped back beside the
instrument tray. Now Geiger approached. He gazed down into
the young man's eyes; they were no longer frightened.
Carter's face showed the peace of hope abandoned. As he
returned Geiger's gaze, a single tear flowed free; then he
closed his eyes.
     Geiger closed his eyes too, for a moment, then opened
them again. He held out his right hand to the nurse.
"Knife." But Camille hesitated. He repeated the command.
"Knife." She inhaled sharply, picked up the long, bright
blade, placed it into the waiting hand. It moved slowly
over, as if the instrument were guiding the surgeon, and
hung poised over John Carter's naked bosom.
     The only sound in the operating room was the soft,
steadily increasing pulsing of the disembodied heart.
     Geiger drew a deep breath. Suddenly steel flashed as
his arm whipped back, snapped forward - a shriek and a blast
of red erupted from Locke's face. The scalpel had hit dead
on exactly where Geiger had thrown it: the deep black center
of Locke's left eye.
     Locke stumbled back, the instrument handle protruding
from the grisly scarlet hole where his eye had been, blood
spurting from it and splashing from the basin gripped in his
unsteady hands. Stunned, nobody else moved or made a sound
until a wide grin split Kronk's face behind his mask. "Well
all right, Geiger!"
     The exultant voice seemed to snap Bragg out of his
shock and energize the thralls. A second later the bald goon
was pressing his gun under Geiger's chin; the mind-chained
slaves were bringing their own to bear on the other
prisoners ...
     "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" The thralls lowered their weapons at
once; all other eyes went to the source of the voice. Locke
was standing erect with legs firmly apart, the basin safe in
the crook of one arm, the other hand resting in a fist on
his hip. As he tore away his blood-sodden mask, a sneer
twisted his lips; he seemed utterly oblivious of the gore
pouring down to his chin and the steel protruding from his
spurting eye-socket. As Bragg and the prisoners watched in
utter astonishment, he raised his free hand to the scalpel
grip, with a single hard pull wrenched it out and cast it to
the floor. Uncaring of the black-and-red hole mutilating his
face, he flung back his head and laughed. Only a few of the
captives were not too amazed to gag and retch at the sight.
     After an eternity of a few seconds, Locke glared back
to them with intact eye and ruined socket, the red cascade
down half his face slowed to a rivulet. "You fools!" he
gloated. "You poor helpless imbeciles! Did you think HE
would let HIS favorite die? Did you think HE would let
anything stop us? And did you think HE or I would let you go
unpunished for this?"
     "Dear God in Heaven," Geiger whispered.

  Locke ran his remaining eye across nine appalled faces.
He obviously felt not the least twinge of pain from the
bleeding crack of the other. "Oh God," Nyland breathed to
Kronk beside him, "we are in it now."
     "Just a little secret between HIM and me," their captor
chuckled. "I didn't even share it with you, Alec, and
certainly not with anyone else. So what do you think of your
Master now?"
     Bragg still held his gun level at Geiger, but his jaw
had dropped all the way. "I - I think he's got a pretty good
deal."
     "Indeed I do, Alec. And what have you to say, Vincent?
Vincent? VINCENT?" Locke began glancing around at all
compass points. Suddenly his half-gaze lit on the steel door
of his operating room - and saw how it stood unlocked and no
more than an inch ajar. Under the gore smearing it, his face
lost whatever grace-notes of human color it still had. "Hell
and damnation," he roared, "the brat's gone to betray me!"
     Alec looked to the door too. "Not little chickenshit
Vinnie," he assured Locke. "He'd never go to the cops - too
scared they'd bust him too."
     "We can't take that chance, Alec. Not now, not this
close."
     "But won't HE protect us? HE's kept everyone from
finding us so far - hell, HE's kept you alive! How could
Vinnie make any difference?"
     Locke shook his head grimly. "Vincent knows too much. I
fear that in HIS incomplete state, HE might not be able to
silence the brat, or throw off a pursuit guided by one who
has been here before. No gambling now; we must go!"
     "Go where, Master?"
     Worried as he was, Locke permitted himself a knife-edge
smile, made more hideous by the gore smearing his mouth. "To
Stanford ... and the other of the great transplant centers."
The prisoners listened rapt, glimmers of hope waking. Locke
conceding defeat, the police possibly alerted ... "We'll
bring as much of the equipment as we can fit in the van;
that will make the next - the final attempt easier. By the
time the police get here, they'll find nothing but ashes."
     Bragg showed his yellowed teeth. "Cool. And the
prisoners?"
     Locke grinned to match. "I just told you, Alec."

     The committee room of Chicago Hope Hospital was dark
and quiet as the four officers, watched by Phillip Watters
and Alan Birch, interrogated the terrified man who'd
stumbled in out of the heart of the storm. "You say
Christopher Ashton Locke IS trying to transplant a heart?"
     Vinnie Persico wiped his streaming brow again and did
not meet Mulder's eyes. "Yeah, that's right. He's got your
four missing surgeons, Doc, and that nurse," he looked
shamefacedly up at Watters, "plus three doctors and some
scared kid of a med student from Cook County General. And
he's got a heart." He gulped. "Only it's not a human heart."
     "What IS it?" inquired Scully.
     "Don't know. Don't want to know. But it's ALIVE, it
beats and everything! And some of my friends and your
hospital's support people ... Locke got them to touch it."
Persico trailed off.
     "Mr. Persico? Please go on," Fraser urged gently. "What
happened when they touched it?"
     "I'm not sure ... like their minds got sucked out, or
taken over, or something! They got turned into these
zombies! And they obey Locke like robots ... because he's
got this heart." Panting, he picked up a cup of water from
the table before him and took a long pull. "Locke and Bragg
feed it blood and talk about it like it's some kind of god
or something ... and they're trying to get your big heart
surgeon to put it in - into the kid." Another swallow of
water. "I snuck out and came here."
     "You did the right thing," Fraser assured him.
     "Yeah, you did," Vecchio concurred. "But when are they
going to do this - this transplant?"
     Persico stared at him in shock, his bloodshot brown
eyes like bruised peaches. "Jesus Christ, didn't I tell you?
They're doing it NOW!"

     "Move, you mindless, useless drones! HURRY! FASTER!"
Locke stood at the center of his OR, waving his arms,
barking orders at the thralls. Seven of them were engaged in
gathering the medical equipment, starting with the larger
pieces, and slowly - too slowly for their controller -
moving it out of the building into the waiting vehicle. Two
others had lifted the operating table, victim still pinioned
upon it, and moved it out of the way so the last one could
move freely, snapping manacles around the captives' wrists,
subduing any resistance with fist and chokehold. In the
strange trance, he and the others seemed to feel no pain,
shrugging off returned blows like breaths. But even that was
not so dreadful as the thought of where Alec Bragg was: on
the ground floor, preparing to fire the building.
     Now the shaven goon reappeared; a dim sound of flames
crackled up the stairs behind him. "I've got it going
downstairs. Should roast the meat in about twenty minutes."
He looked around with satisfaction to see two women and six
men in chains, another man still bound immobile to the
table. "By the way, Master, what're we gonna do with the
zombies?"
     Distracted, Locke took a moment to answer. "The
thralls? I'd been planning to burn them here too ... but we
couldn't have gotten this far without them. Perhaps when
they've finished the load-out, I'll just tell them to walk
away. They won't remember a thing once they regain
consciousness out of range of HIS heart."
     "What IS the range?" Bragg wanted to know.
     "I don't know; I haven't tested it. Still, it's
immaterial." The diabolical smile bloomed again. "Once
complete, HIS range of power should encompass the entire
earth."
     Bragg nodded. "Yeah."
     Behind them, another voice was heard. "Hey, do we get
our last requests?"
     "Well, if it isn't the audacious Dr. Ross!" Locke
sneered, but his voice was not without affection. "An
intriguing thought. How about this: I permit a single last
request for the lot of you. Keep in mind that I've
automatically ruled out two things: sparing any of your
lives, and a swifter or gentler death."
     "How about kissing my ass?" suggested Kronk.
     "Quiet, Billy," Geiger commanded. More gently, "Go on,
Dr. Ross."
     The pediatric resident acknowledged the heart surgeon
with a respectful nod, and again engaged the enemy. "Cut
Carter down from that table. Give him his clothes. If he has
to die this young, let it be with some measure of dignity."
     "Chained beside the rest of you like the veal calf he
is, with the fire shriveling his pretty face," Locke
sneered. "Dignity! Still, it's harmless. Alec, see to it."
Checking for one last time to see if any supplies had been
missed, Locke found himself satisfied. "By the way, is the
fire blocking the front stairway?"
     Bragg looked up from where he was sawing through the
medical student's bonds with his serrated knife. "Not yet.
Should be in about another five minutes, though." He then
looked down and grinned into Carter's face. "Another fifteen
after that, this wooden floor up here should burn through
... and bye-bye, fancy doctors." A burst of giggling ended
the line.
     "Very good. I shall wait for you in the van. Don't be
long." Locke departed, herding the ten thralls ahead of him.
     "Hell no. I don't wanna fry." Bragg pocketed the knife
and brought out his gun again. The prisoners heard him
mutter, much lower, "With one eye, I hope to hell he lets ME
drive ... " A single quick pull yanked the duct-tape gag
from Carter's mouth; the student's first sound was a yelp of
pain. "Wouldn't make a big deal about that if I was you,"
Bragg needled. "Wait'll the fire gets here!" With his free
hand he grabbed a bundle of clothing from a now empty shelf
and flung it at the young man, who barely had time to don
his pants before Bragg snapped shackles on his feet and
dragged him from the tabletop.
     "Here, share a ring with your lady friend." The chain
went through the same bolt to which Lewis' was fastened.
"After all, you ARE gonna burn together." As he drew his
shirt on, Carter proudly ignored the giggling thug, but
before he could button it, his wrists were seized and
manacles slapped around them.
     Locke's man took a moment to sweep a wild, gratified
look across them all as he turned in a circle. "Too bad I
can't stay to hear you scream - "
     Suddenly Bragg's gloating cut off in a grunt as a
handcuff chain flashed before his face, then slammed against
his chin. He was jerked from his feet by the pile-driver
pressure of a pair of elbows ramming into his back; his
pistol spun from his grasp as both hands scrabbled madly at
the chain a split second before the sound of a ghastly
crack.
     Standing erect at his full six-foot-plus height, Kronk
slacked the circle of his arms and handcuffs to let the body
fall. "Man, it sure took that bastard long enough to turn
his back on me," he observed.
     Nyland checked pulse and pupils on the body. "He's
gone. You must not know your own strength, Billy." He closed
the blank, nearly colorless eyes; in spite of himself, he
smiled. "Is it a breach of professional ethics to say 'Good
job'?"
     "Not here," was Geiger's ruling.
     But amid the general relief, Lewis was swiftly
searching the body, hands checking every pocket. On her face
elation slowly mutated into concern ... then wide-eyed
panic. She raised her head, spoke in a stunned voice as if
not believing her own words. "Guys ... there's no key."
     "WHAT?" Kronk instantly crouched down for his own
search. "It's got to be on him somewhere!" Desperately he
pawed the corpse. "The son of a bitch has GOT to have the
key ... "
     Greene meanwhile picked through the small pile of
personal effects his friend HAD found in Bragg's pockets.
Wallet, folded knife, unmarked pill bottle, something that
looked like a human knucklebone ... He looked through
everything. "She's right," he concluded, tone affectless.
"No key."
     "God," gasped Ross. Then he noticed the fallen gun.
"Maybe we can shoot through the chains!"
     Kronk ceased his scrabbling through the dead man's
clothes and sat like stone. Next to him, Nyland's voice
seemed weighted with the same stone. "Lead won't cut steel."
     A few sighs rose, then all voices died; the place was
silent except for the increasing rumble of the flames below.
Tentacles of smoke had already begun coiling through cracks
in the floor, which grew steadily hotter. Carter squeezed
shut his eyes in an attempt to be brave; Ross patted the
student's back to remind him he wasn't alone. Lewis sidled a
little closer to Greene, who clasped her hands while
thinking of his daughter, hoping the child wouldn't be told
how her father perished.
     Camille Shutt looked down at her husband as he lay
within the circle of her arms, his head pillowed on her
breast, her gown stained with the blood of his tattered
back. His manacled hands enclosed hers tenderly. Sorrow
overflowed her eyes; as a tear fell and touched his cheek,
his own eyes opened to meet hers. *Sometimes,* he mused,
*hope itself can be the cruelest torture of all ... *
     "Aaron," she whispered almost too softly, "if we both
must die now ... at least we'll be together." Unable to
answer, he managed the smallest trace of a smile.
     Geiger surveyed his companions with an eagle's gaze,
pride in his eyes where fear should have been. "Ladies and
gentlemen, at this time I suggest we be proud of the way we
acquitted ourselves. We can die without regrets." With one
hand he took and snapped open the dead Bragg's knife; the
other curled around the grip of the fallen gun. "Meanwhile,
for those unwilling to wait for the fire, the late Alec
Bragg has left a couple of quicker ways out."

     The little rented Ford slid along strange rain-rivered
streets on the track of Ray Vecchio's grand old green Buick.
Every so often a flash would rip the sky and pour a split-
second's light down the buildings, and the thunder cursed.
So did Mulder behind the wheel. " 'Hog Butcher for the
World,' " he growled, " 'Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,'
Impossible Place for Out-of-Towners to Navigate in the Rain
- damn, Scully, I'm glad Vecchio knows where we're going!"
He pulled the car out of a sudden skid and gunned the engine
after the 1971 Riviera.
     "Just watch the road, Mulder," his partner advised. Her
mind was back at Chicago Hope with their informer Vinnie
Persico. Hard not to pity the pathetic little man. They'd
left him in the custody of Dr. Watters and his hospital
security, local uniforms on the way, with Vecchio's
reassurance that the District Attorney would probably go
easy on him on account of his help, and theirs that the US
Attorney would do likewise. Good thing that Persico was
already in a hospital; he looked like a candidate for either
a heart attack or a suicide attempt, whichever came first
... but thank God he'd given them the address.
     In the back seat of Vecchio's Riviera, Constable
Fraser's arms were full of trembling fur-covered muscle. The
closer they came to the address Persico had given, the more
frightened the white wolf grew; now the poor beast was on
the verge of walleyed panic. Even a constant stream of soft
words and stroking barely kept him from a terrified leap at
the car window. The noise of whimpering was making Vecchio
even more nervous than he already had to be. "What the
hell's got into Dief, Fraser?"
     "I don't know. I just don't know." Fraser felt himself
in an unaccustomed shudder; the wolf had never been wrong
yet, and the officer had to wonder just what kind of horror
awaited them ahead.
     "That's the place!" Vecchio declared; then, "Jesus Mary
Joseph!" Quickly he yanked out his cellular phone, threw it
at Fraser. "Call the fire department!" He rammed the Buick
hard across a rain-swollen gutter and halfway up the
sidewalk before slamming to a halt before the blazing
building.
     Fraser had his door open and was plunging into the
storm even as he reported the fire. Passing Vecchio fumbling
with car door and gun, he tossed the telephone back with a
terse command: "Cover the front door, Ray." Behind him he
left Diefenbaker, huddled on the floor of the car and stiff
with terror.
     "Hey, you can't go in there, Benny," shouted Vecchio,
"you haven't got a gun!"
     "They do." The toss of Fraser's head indicated the FBI
agents even now tumbling out of their car at the curb.
     Scully flung back flame-red hair in the rain and stared
at the flame that mirrored it. "My God," she gasped.
"Persico said the second floor - we might not be too late!"
     Mulder stood stunned for a moment, as if meeting the
gaze of a mortal enemy. Then his gun emerged. "Scully, go
around and check for a back door."
     "No, Mulder, you can't go in there - !" But he was
already running to Fraser's side. Lightning flashed,
freezing like a camera the image of their charge.
     Canadian Mountie and federal agent assaulted the door
together - and recoiled together from the blast of heat that
tore a steaming gap in the storm. The entire ground floor
was a mass of flames, eating floor and walls, swarming up
support pillars, licking at the wooden ceiling. The
stairwell looked like a cataract of the Phlegethon. "No way
in here," Mulder concluded, squinting in the light of
destruction.
     Fraser remembered what he'd seen on approach. "Fire
escape around the corner." He was already in motion, Mulder
at his heels. Each man gained the end of the iron ladder in
a single jump, kept his grip on the wet rungs, and rose up
the slippery way.

     Vecchio felt like a fool, covering the front door as
his unofficial partner climbed the fire escape. He'd seen
into that inferno - nothing but NOTHING would come through
that door alive.
     The detective didn't turn as Scully came up beside him.
With her eyes she followed their companions' progress up the
wet steel steps and through the second-story window into the
smoke. "We'd be redundant up there," she observed to the
local cop. "I'm checking the back. Stay here." With that,
her gun was out and she was gone into a night full of rain;
alone again, Vecchio felt even dumber. His own jurisdiction,
and why the hell was he always taking orders from out-of-
towners?
     Around the opposite side from the fire escape and to
the back of the building ... Scully saw a back door slightly
ajar, fire glowing from it. Parked a few feet away was a big
black commercial van, its back doors also open. Weapon at
the ready, silent, step stealthy, she approached.
     A peek into the vehicle ... inside, large dark shapes
bright here and there with steely glints, and the rattle of
rain on the metal roof. The van was packed to the limit of
its suspension with medical equipment. The ruby of Scully's
lips gleamed in a quiet smile.
     Now around to the front. A careful look through the
driver's window showed empty seats. That meant Locke and
Bragg had either fled on foot, were trapped or dead in the
burning building, or still lurked around here somewhere -
     A hard ring of metal suddenly touched the nape of her
neck through her dripping hair. "So sorry to have brought
you out on a dreadful wet night like this, Agent Scully. But
if you would be so kind as to drop that pistol before I am
forced to use my own ... "
     She obeyed.

     The second-floor window above the fire escape was
locked; that deterred Fraser only for the second it took to
smash through. Mulder tumbled in after him, the sleeve of
his rain-sodden coat held up to protect him from the acrid
smoke rolling through the broken glass. His ears filled with
the sound of the fire roaring below ... and coughing.
     There they were: two women, eight men - no, seven men -
and a corpse. They sat in a tight little group waiting for
the end, like cattle penned in stockyards, haloed by smoke
and the murderous heat. It took a moment to discern their
chains through the gray pall. The coughing was now studded
with cries: "Thank God!" "They made it!" "Over here!"
Upraised hands rattled manacles toward the rescuers.
     Mulder pawed for his handcuff key. "You have your cuff
key, Constable?" he shot at Fraser.
     "Right here. We'd best hurry before this floor gives
way!"
     As they covered the few yards of hell-hot floorboard,
Mulder was close to prayer: *Please, let those be standard
cuffs and leg irons, or ... * He slammed to a halt beside
the first prisoner he reached, a slim handsome boy, and
thrust the key into the fetters on his bare feet. Click.
Click. They fell open, releasing Carter.
     "Don't bother with the cuffs," Mulder advised the
Mountie through his own first spasm of choking, "we'll
handle those outside!" Fraser didn't need to be told. Chains
steadily dropped from feet; rescued captives helped their
colleagues up and toward the shattered window, the storm 
and freedom.
     "Not me!" commanded Geiger as Fraser approached with
his key. "That man's wounded; get him first!" But even as
Geiger steered rescue toward them, Mulder appeared beside
Camille and Aaron Shutt. As the agent opened their chains,
Fraser freed the heart surgeon, who leaped across the
blistering, trembling floor toward his friend. "Other side,
Camille." Geiger got his shoulders under the taller man's,
and with the nurse steadying her husband's body at the left,
the three struggled toward the window as one.
     One victim remained to be released; Mulder left that to
Fraser and went to the dead body that now lay alone, face
down. He tried to draw a deep breath not too clogged with
smoke, and turned it over to make an identification. The
face was one he'd hoped to see. "Alec Bragg. Anyone know how
he died?"
     "Yeah," grunted the last prisoner with a distinct note
of pride, "I broke his goddamn neck." Kronk rose to his
unchained feet.
     Fraser gave him a gentle shove. "You'd better get to
the window; this floor's about to collapse. You too, Agent
Mulder!"
     Mulder stood and brought up the rear. Ahead of him,
people steadily climbed out, crowding onto the fire escape
and beginning the slippery, hazardous way down as Fraser
unlocked their handcuffs in turn. Just as the FBI man
reached the sill, a dragon's roar sounded behind ... Mulder
turned to see the corpse of Alec Bragg vanish in a crash and
a blast of sparks into the inferno below as the floor gave
way at last. He pulled himself onto the rain-slicked iron
ladderway with the others and tried not to think about how
that could've been all of them.
     Kronk helped him up. "Hey, I remember you; you're that
FBI agent came by this morning!" He smiled. "Thanks for
saving us. Pull off a few more like this, and you guys might
be forgiven for Ruby Ridge and Waco."
     "Shut up, Billy," Nyland advised.

     Scully shuddered and Locke chuckled at the sound of the
fiery crash from within. "Pity about all those poor
innocents, eh, Agent Scully - or may I call you Dana? Yes, I
believe I will. After all, with dear faithful Alec gone,
your help will come in handy."
     She held her voice even. "And just what kind of help do
you expect from me?"
     "Now, now, lovely lady, I hope you'll spare me any
tiresome expressions of defiance; I had quite enough of
those from that wolfpack of doctors." Scully felt a steel
loop close around her right wrist; efficiently Locke pulled
both hands behind her back and shackled her left wrist too.
"You're in my power now ... and with just a touch, you'll be
in HIS ... " One hand held the gun to her back, the other
stroked the dark mass of a plastic bag that hung tied to his
belt. Scully heard a sloshing noise - and below it, almost
inaudible, a quiet, steady pulse. She did not speak.
     Locke shoved the nose of the gun under her left ear.
"Time to go, Dana. A shame to lose the van and all that fine
equipment, but I must carry on by myself - with the help of
one beautiful, mindless thrall." Scully inhaled deeply,
slowly; sighed and moved forward into the night.
     Around the corner, across the cracked rain-washed
street they went and into the deeper darkness of another
building's shadow. Scully looked back and felt her heart
float at the sight of the figures massed on the fire escape
of the burning structure. They were coming down, one by one,
safe, free; was Mulder among them? He had to be - yes, there
he was, in sodden coat and dripping hair, made mysterious by
firelight. If only she could cry out to him, but the gun in
the hand of her unseen captor -
     Lightning blazed across the sky; from his perch on the
fire escape Mulder saw two figures suddenly thrown into
relief against the building across the street. One was tall,
skeletal, pale skin and ink-black clothes soaked in blood, a
grisly cavity in his face in the place of a left eye. He
held a gun to the head of - "SCULLY!"
     "I'm all right, Mulder!" she cried back as her captor
grabbed her, turned and shoved her down a black alley; they
vanished, applauded by the thunder.
     "Can you take it from here, Constable?" Not waiting for
an answer, Mulder darted off down the iron steps, Locke's
freed prisoners making way for him. As he swung to the
street, Ray Vecchio came tearing around the corner on an
intercept course. "Stay here, Detective!" Mulder commanded.
     But the other grinned, with a glint in his eye and a
gun in his hand. "Not a chance, out-of-towner!"
     Mulder wasn't going to argue and simply plunged ahead
in pursuit as the local cop caught up and joined him. "He's
heading for the river," Vecchio said with certainty.
     Mulder didn't answer as he strained to keep their
quarry in sight through the rain and the darkness. How the
hell were Locke and his hostage able to move so fast? Scully
must be close to collapse - suddenly the agent felt
something stab through him, and he forced more speed ... but
again the enemy disappeared into shadows, Scully driven
ahead of him.

     Panting, stiches ripping grooves of pain down her
sides, Scully stumbled out onto the bridge. Below her the
Chicago River's great North Branch rose with the rain,
behind her the mutilated, maddened Locke drove her onward.
"You'll never escape," she declared.
     "Yes, I will, thanks to you," her tormentor hissed.
"And once HE is complete, no one will escape HIM - "
     "Freeze, psycho!"
     Locke whirled and whirled Scully with him to Vecchio's
voice. Mulder and the detective were poised in a wash of
streetlight shine at the western end of the bridge, guns
ready. "Let her go, Locke," Mulder advised. "Give it up and
let her go. It's over."
     But Locke backed up, slowly but steadily, toward the
east along the edge of the bridge, one arm locked across his
captive's throat and the other leveling his gun. "It's not
over! It will never be over until I have all of you
groveling like dogs at my feet!"
     Mexican standoff. Scully strained for air against her
captor's imprisoning arm. *It's up to me ... * The black bag
was slapping on Locke's thigh, still making its thick wet
sound and soft, sinister pulsation ... Ignoring her
protesting shoulders, Scully quickly stretched her manacled
hands back as far as they'd go and snatched blind - her
fingers closed around a thick knot of plastic and she
yanked, at once flinging herself forward against Locke's
grip with full strength. The bag came away in her hands, she
lurched free ... Scully slammed hard against the parapet,
bones jarred with the impact; her hands flew open. The bag
spun off the bridge and down, down to splash and vanish in
black water.
     "NOOO!" Locke's shriek scarred the night. He snatched
empty air with his free hand as Scully stumbled away, then
shrieked again. "NOW YOU DIE, BITCH!" The agent looked down
the barrel of his gun, steeled herself for the bullet -
     Four shots boomed through the storm, louder than
thunder. Locke jerked with the first impact, then spun, then
fell; a darker stain spread across the dark asphalt. In
spite of her bound hands, Scully crouched beside him to hear
a helpless whimper: "Save me, help me - YOU said YOU'd
always help me ... I'm YOURS and YOU're mine ... " Death
bubbled in his throat, and it was over.

     " 'The way you wear your hat,
     The way you sip your tea,
     The mem'ry of all that,
     No, no, they can't take that away from me ... ' "
     "If he cuts half as well as he sings," said Dana
Scully, eyes bright on Jeffrey Geiger at the piano, "he's a
great surgeon."
     "He cuts better than he sings," Aaron Shutt informed
her. "Trust me, it's possible." He cast a glance around the
half-lit, inviting interior. Over at the bar, young John
Carter was shyly extending a hand to Dr. Lewis, asking her
to dance ... Susan was accepting, letting him lead her to
the floor, entering his arms. Shutt smiled. At the next
table, Ross and Kronk were starting a spirited exchange
about something or other, Danny Nyland leaning back and
listening with a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face.
Now Ray Vecchio was jumping into it too, and suddenly Doug
and Billy were both dogging him at once. At the same table
but definitely not of it was the dignified Constable Benton
Fraser, RCMP, looking both very polite and as if he'd rather
be somewhere else. And above it all flowed the sweet
currents of the piano and Geiger's voice, pure and seductive
at once, tenderly caressing the song and all present.
     *It doesn't get any better than this,* Shutt thought,
reaching out and touching his wife's golden hair. She smiled
and sidled her chair closer so he could put his arm around
her shoulders; at the touch of her, the last of the pain in
his back seemed to subside.
     Watching the couple, Dr. Mark Greene and Special Agent
Fox Mulder had the same bittersweet look in their eyes. Then
Mulder looked away, towards the man at the piano, asking,
"Does Dr. Geiger do this often?"
     "Every time he needs to," replied Shutt. "And after
what we've all just survived, he needs to! I expect him to
hit a full-tilt Stephen Sondheim bender before the hour."
     "That'd be nice," Mulder commented. He turned back to
the neurosurgeon. "You realize this is the first time we've
ever closed a case and then gone out drinking with the
victims."
     "I think we should do it more often." Scully picked up
her beer. "You like to tell me one can't always go by the
book, Mulder." She looked at the singing surgeon. "Does he
take requests?"
     "You can try," Camille answered. "After what you and
your partner did for us, not even Jeffrey's rude enough to
refuse you!"
     "I still can't believe it happened," Greene said with
an amazed shake of his head. "Thank God everyone's okay -
even those poor souls Locke had enslaved seem to have
recovered - but it all seems like some grisly nightmare. I
don't think I'll ever be afraid of anything that comes into
the ER again!"
     The comment left Camille reflective. "In a strange way,
it's almost good to have gone through it. We all got to see
what we're capable of - under pressure that makes the OR
look like a theme park!"
     But Greene looked down at the tabletop, as if ashamed.
"I got to see some of what I'M capable of ... and it's not
pretty."
     "What do you mean, Dr. Greene?" asked Scully,
concerned.
     He met her eyes. "I never knew that - that I could hate
so passionately." Now he looked to Shutt. "Dr. Shutt, when
you were being tortured ... well ... I heard what Bragg said
to you ... oh, God ... I never wanted to kill anyone
before."
     The other doctor grinned disarmingly. "Why feel guilty
about it? It's perfectly understandable - and I'm
flattered."
     "Besides," added Camille, "can you imagine what I
wanted to do to him?" She glanced toward the next table.
"Envying Billy Kronk is a new experience for me!"
     Greene managed his own smile. "It still scares me." He
shrugged. "I found myself wishing I could channel all the
hatred I felt for him, all my anger and frustration, and
just send it against him in one blast of energy ... " He
drifted off, then recovered. "But that's impossible."
     Mulder sat up, eyes flashing. "Actually, there are
cases - "
     Scully suddenly clapped a hand across her partner's
mouth. "MULDER!"

     Far below the sheltering surface of the Chicago River,
HIS heart waited, and throbbed, and dreamed ...

THE END