A DARK SMEAR UNDER THE SKY  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	 Return to
the Due South Fiction Archive