Date: Fri, 13 Jun 1997 23:36:45 -0400 (EDT) From: Ecksphile@aol.com Summary: While working on a case involving the firebombing of black churches, Mulder and Scully share their innermost thoughts when locked in a life-and-death situation. Rating: Probably R for language Category: S, MA, SA, Skinnerangst. Some UST but generally non-shipper safe. Spoilers: Oh, yeah. Lots. Set post Memento Mori (US4) with some references to both my own previous work as well as the episodes "Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose" and "Kaddish". Archives: Yes, please, with my thanks FAITH 1/9 By Suzanne Bickerstaffe Ecksphile@aol.com May 30, 1997 Usually I try to keep the intros short, but this one needs a little explanation. This story deals with several weighty issues - racial and religious prejudice, friendship, relationships, and the religious beliefs of Mulder and Scully. I've tried to keep my own spiritual beliefs (leaning strongly toward Zen-Druid) out of the story. Please note that any racial or religious slurs ARE uttered by characters who are bigots; these opinions bear no resemblance whatsoever to the author's views. Also, I have reprised Mike Thomas (first seen in my story "Flights"). Several people were kind enough to write that they really liked this character, so I thought I'd feature him in this story. I am the first to admit I know nothing about being black and male, but I hope I have done justice to his characterization. Having now stated that this story involves 1) religion and 2) the author writing things she knows nothing about (my apologies to Atlanta, BTW), I hope you will read it anyway. The plot is pretty exciting, and the story sheds some light on what Mulder and Scully might say to each other if they thought there would be no tomorrow. The XFiles and the characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox Television. I merely borrow them, respectfully, happily and reverently. All other characters and the plot are mine. This story may be posted, archived and copied freely as long as no one profits by it, the story remains unchanged and my name is attached as author. My thanks to the fanfic authors who are my inspiration; to Miki, who helped keep my secret; and to my soulmate. FAITH 1/9 Chapter One, Part A Federal Building Atlanta, Georgia Friday, March 14, 1997 9 P.M. His broad shoulders brushed impatiently by the agents scurrying around him, his dark eyes glittering as they scanned the chaotic office. Spotting his quarry - a tall, balding black man - he strode purposefully up to him. "Just what the hell is going on here?" Mike Thomas's head snapped up. "And who the hell would you be?" he demanded. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner." He flashed his ID, then slipped it back into his breast pocket, glaring at the man coldly. "Oh, shit," Mike breathed. At his glance, the two agents he had been speaking with melted into the woodwork, sensing an imminent explosion. "I'm sorry, sir. As you can see, things around here are a little.... Did you just get in?" "We can dispense with the pleasantries, Thomas - we haven't the time for it. When's the last time you heard from them?" "Sir, come on in the conference room where we can hear ourselves think. I'll bring you up to speed with everything that's happened so far." At Skinner's curt nod, the Atlanta agent led the way. No small man himself, the AD noted that Thomas was two inches taller and some fifty pounds heavier than himself - an imposing man. When the two had seated themselves with steaming cups of potent coffee, the AD looked piercingly at his companion, expectant. "Well?" Thomas sighed. "The last time I heard from them was when Mulder called in at about noon. He said he had a suspect that he and Scully were checkin' out, but that he didn't want to call in the troops yet. He didn't say where he was. He just said he'd call back by two. He didn't call back." "Jesus Christ, Thomas! You're in charge of this fucking investigation!" Skinner fumed. "You're supposed to know where your people are and they're supposed to keep you informed. This bullshit is strictly against protocol." "You think I don't know that?" Thomas thundered back, rising from his seat, looming over the AD. "Did you ever try to get Mulder to do anything by the damn book?" He sank down in his chair and closed his eyes in fatigue and frustration. Nice work, Mike, he thought. The Assistant Director of the whole fuckin' FBI, and you smartmouth him twice in five minutes. Wonder what the Anchorage office is like, because that's probably where I'm headed. He opened his eyes and was amazed to see a small smile playing at the corners of Skinner's mouth. "I have frequently tried to get Agent Mulder to do things by the book - and with just as little success." Skinner sighed. "We seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Let's try this again. What's been going on up to this point?" - - - - - Tuesday afternoon, March 11, 1997 Atlanta Hartsfield International Airport "Hey Spaceman! Over here!" Mulder glanced to his left as he and Scully made their way from the jetway and spotted Mike immediately, his face creasing into a rare grin. Scully looked on, smiling herself. Anyone who could break through Mulder's formidable defences, who could help him to throw off the mantle of sadness he wore so often, was a friend in her book. Mike enveloped Mulder in a huge hug, then threw his arms around her, effortlessly lifting her feet from the floor and nearly suffocating her in his overcoat in the process. "Hey, Scully! Great to see you again. Still hangin' with the Spaceman, I see." "Nice to see you, too, Mike," she said when she could breathe again. He picked up her garment bag over her vehement protests and led the way into the sea of humanity that was a given at Hartsfield, regardless of the hour. "It's not too far from where I'm parked. Hey, only thirty minutes late - that's not too damn bad." "Considering it's only an hour and twenty minute flight, it's not too damn good, either," Mulder replied dryly. "What the hell, what do you care? You're flyin' on government time. Um, just through here." They darted across the flow of human traffic to the automatic doors leading out of the terminal. Mike walked up to a white Taurus parked at the curb in the loading zone. "You must rate," Mulder observed, as he helped Mike put the bags in the trunk. "Me? Hell, no. They heard *you* were comin' to town, Spaceman." "Yeah, right. Oh, Scully, I may not have mentioned it to you, but you might find Mike's driving a little...unsettling. You want the front seat or the back?" "I'll live dangerously and take the front." "No truer words were ever spoken," he muttered, climbing gratefully into the back. "What kind of trash you talkin', Mulder? You'll be as safe as if you were in your Momma's arms." In the back, Mulder rolled his eyes expressively. "Don't you worry, Dr. Scully." "Call me Dana - please," she said warmly. With a squeal of tires and other cars' brakes, they set off. Forty terrifying minutes later, they pulled into the garage of the Federal Building. Any attempts to talk about the case had been so punctuated with gasps and squeaks of alarm that they had given up the effort. Shakily, they climbed from the car. "See, now that wasn't so bad, was it?" Mike beamed. "Mulder, you owe me - bigtime," she murmured, and was answered by his chuckle. Mike waited until they were comfortably ensconced in the conference room with mugs of coffee clutched in unsteady hands before opening the case file. "Okay. What we have here is some joker who likes to firebomb black churches. It's obvious it's a hate crime, which is why the Bureau's involved. We thought originally it was just more of the same shit that's been goin' on throughout the South. But then we found out about the notes." "Notes?" the partners asked in unison. "Yeah. The first firebombin' was just after Thanksgivin' - took out a small church on the outskirts of the city during a meetin' of the council of elders. Killed two of 'em outright, two others after all this time are still in the Burn Unit at Emory, a real mess. Then, just before Christmas, a fair-sized church downtown went up - during practice for the children's Christmas pageant, no less. Five kids and one adult were killed, thirteen others injured." Scully frowned. "I remember reading about that. It was awful. But where do the notes come in?" "It wasn't until we got this" - he pushed a piece of cheap lined notepaper in a clear plastic evidence bag toward her - "that we even knew about the letters. This was mailed to the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. When it landed on the editor's desk, he called us immediately. We did a little askin' around, and found out that this was not the first note - that there had been at least two others. The first one went to Classifieds, and they pitched it. No one remembers when it was exactly, just that it was around Thanksgivin'. The second one went to the Society column, of all places, and not seeing any Society connections in it, they too put it in the circular file. That was shortly before Christmas." "Didn't anyone tie them in to the bombings?" Mulder asked incredulously. "Even after the fact?" Mike sighed. "According to the people I spoke with in Classifieds and Society, no. The notes were vague, not outright threatenin'. Of course they might be sayin' that now to cover their asses, but I don't think so. According to the editor, they get a lot of mail at the paper from crazies. It takes something special to stand out, as it were. It was precisely because this note was more threatenin' that it ended up on the editor's desk. That was - let's see - the fourth week in January." Mulder lowered his eyes from Mike's grim face and read the note, then pushed it over to his partner. I HAVE BEEN GIVEN MY ORDERS FROM GOD. THE SOLJERS OF SATAN MUST DIE BEFORE ITS TOO LATE. I HAVE BEEN HIS INSTRIMENT, AND THIS WEEK I WILL DO HIS WILL AGAIN. Mulder frowned reflectively. "Oh, great - a religious lunatic. One who flunked spelling." "Unless he's misspelling deliberately, to throw us off track," suggested Scully. "Possible, but in this case, I don't think so," Mike replied. "Usually the smartasses who try that just screw themselves up - misspell the easy words, get the tough one right, and misspell inconsistently. As you'll see in the other notes, 'soldiers' and 'instrument' are consistently spelled wrong - and always the same way, like it's habitual. It's just my opinion, but I'd say these are genuine." She nodded. "What happened after this note was received?" "Three days later a black church twenty miles southeast of the city went up like a torch. Two women, in the church to do the flowers for Sunday, were killed. The same kind of explosive device as in the first two firebombings started the fire. It was definitely our guy. Two weeks after that, this one came...." THEY MUST ALL DIE. THE SOLJERS OF SATAN WILL BE KILLED AND THERE SINFUL CHURCHES WILL BE DISTROYED. MY ORDERS ARE CLEAR. I AM HIS INSTRIMENT. I WILL DO GOD'S WORK AGAIN SOON. "And?" "And we caught a break - a big one. There was a church supper planned at the Emanuel AME Church just east of here for the Saturday after we got this note - supposed to start at six P.M. But at four that afternoon, the pastor's wife was rushed to the hospital with a suspected coronary. The church supper was cancelled at the last minute and most of the membership turned up at the hospital and held a prayer vigil in the chapel there. At six fifteen, their church exploded and went up in flames." Mike looked thoughtful. "The pastor's wife died in the Coronary Care Unit at seven. You know, it's funny - call it the hand of God, or fate, or karma or whatever, dependin' on what you believe in. But if the pastor's wife hadn't had that heart attack, the body count would have been way over a hundred." He passed them the next note. "This came the following Wednesday." DAMN THEM ALL TO HELLS FIRE! SATAN IS STRONG, BUT OUR LORD GOD IS STRONGER. I WILL PROVE IT THIS WEEK. THE SOLJERS OF SATAN MUST ALL DIE. BLACK FLESH MUST BURN! "Our guy was pissed," Mulder observed mildly. Mike grunted. "He didn't wait long, that's for sure. The night after this was received, a big old church in one of the bedroom suburbs was firebombed. The blast went off about an hour before a religious education class was to start - a rescheduled class. Originally it had been scheduled for seven o'clock, which not so coincidentally is when the bomb went off. The caretaker was found in the rubble. Dr. Scully - Dana - I'd like you to take a look at the autopsy reports and photos." "He wasn't killed by the blast or the fire?" He hesitated. "I just got a feelin' about this one. I don't have a lot of faith in the guy who did the autopsy at the best of times. I was there when they found the body and it looked to me... well.... I dunno. Decide for yourself after you've seen the file." "You think he was killed by our guy - up close and personal?" asked Mulder. "Maybe." Mike waved noncommitally, shaking his head. "Or maybe it's my imagination. Anyway, the body count obviously wasn't enough and our guy felt like a slacker, because a week and a half later, this came." DEATH TO THE SOLJERS OF SATAN! GOD WILL NOT STOP UNTIL THERE ALL DEAD. HE HAS ORDERED ME TO STRIKE DOWN THERE SINFUL CHURCHES AND TO SLAY THEM. I MUST WORK HARDER TO PLEASE THE LORD MY GOD. THIS WEEK THERE WILL BE MORE DEAD NIGGERS AS I DO HIS WORK. "Last Sunday morning - the Calvary Baptist Church in my neighborhood. I was there, with my wife and youngest son. Reverend Johnson was in high gear - a real powerful preacher if there ever was one. But he does go on." Mike grinned. "And on and on and on. Calvin Johnson - a ten year old kid and no relation to the Reverend - got restless and decided to go downstairs to use the facilities. Turns out a couple of friends of his - including William, my boy - heard the call of nature at exactly the same time." Mulder smiled. "I think I can recall skipping out on a couple of long services that way myself. Don't suppose you ever did that, huh, Scully?" "Certainly not," she said with a severity contradicted by the twinkle in her eye. "Anyway, the kids decided that it would be more fun to play a game of hide and seek rather than return to the sermon. So they started playin'. Calvin was about to hide in a storeroom, full of old hymnals, prayer books, altar cloths and what have you, when he noticed a pile of oily rags in the corner of the room. Now, Calvin's been around that church enough to know what belongs there and what doesn't, and that pile of rags didn't. He got a bit closer, and spotted the timin' device and three sticks of dynamite. Bein' a smart kid, he took it for what it was, found William and the other kid and the three of them went tearassin' upstairs, screamin' about a bomb in the basement. Knowin' Calvin, and knowin' William wouldn't dare kid about a thing like that, I took them at their word and started gettin' the people out of there. I was the last one out, callin' the fire department and the bomb squad on my cellular as I went down the front stairs. My feet never hit the last step - the blast knocked me on my ass about fifteen feet away." "Were you hurt?" asked Mulder, concerned. "Took 'em an hour to get all the splinters out of my butt," Mike smiled, "but beyond that, no." His expression became grim. "Mulder, there were close to five hundred people in that church. If Calvin hadn't spotted that bomb, at least half of those people would be dead now." "Thank God he did," murmured Scully. "Amen to that." Mulder frowned. "So our guy is going to be even more frustrated this week, cheated out of all that carnage. He's going to be planning something big." "Exactly what I was thinkin', Spaceman. That's why I wanted you down here. We've been chasin' our tails on this one. I know you don't do much profilin' anymore, but I was hopin'...." "We're happy to do everything we can, Mike. You know that." "I suppose the notes have been analyzed," said Scully. "Nine ways from Sunday, sugar. The notes, the stamps, the envelopes, and the writin'. The writin' - well, you can see for yourself. The lines on the paper helped to make sure that he stayed uniform. Block capitals, nearly featureless, certainly not enough to ID anybody." "What about the ink?" "Deadend. From a Bic ballpoint, sold in packages of ten everywhere in the world. There's billions of 'em out there. The notepaper and envelopes are also cheap and available anywhere." "What about the glue on the envelope or the stamp?" suggested Mulder. "Our guy might be a secreter, and we could do some DNA testing...." "No dice. The stamps are the self-stickin' kind, and the glue on the envelope flap has been moistened with plain ol' tap water on a cellulose sponge - a not very clean cellulose sponge. There's nothin' there." Mulder sighed. "Well, he's not well educated, but he's certainly cagey. Or paranoid." "Or maybe he's just seen enough TV and movies to avoid the more obvious traps," suggested his partner. "Yeah, could be. Anything else about the notes, Mike?" "A little. They're always postmarked on a Monday - in the early afternoon - and arrive at the Journal-Constitution on a Wednesday." "Different post offices, I assume," said Scully, peering through the evidence bags at the envelopes. "What else would you expect - nothin's been goin' our way on this. Okay, today's Tuesday, so the next note may show up at the newspaper tomorrow. I say 'may' because he does skip a week or two from time to time." "Not this week," replied Mulder with grim certainty. "He's angry, he's frustrated and he thinks he's pissed off God. He'll do it this week." His companions' heads bobbed in agreement. "So, that doesn't give us a lot of time. It's - what," Mike looked at his watch - "nearly five now. How about I take you to dinner before droppin' you at your hotel? We can make it an early night to give you time to work up the profile and give Dana time to check over the autopsy findin's. How does Jackson's sound to you?" Mulder's eyes gleamed. "I think I'm still carrying around the five pounds I gained on my last visit there," groaned Scully. "We can go somewhere else if you like. I was just thinkin' of my man Mulder, here. Sizzlin' fried catfish...butter beans and fresh hot cornbread...sweet potato pie...." "All right, all right," she laughed. "I know when the deck's being stacked. Jackson's it is." End of Chapter One, Part A - - - - - FAITH 1B/9 by Suzanne Bickerstaffe Ecksphile@aol.com May, 1997 Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One A Chapter One, Part B Radisson Atlanta Hotel Tuesday, 11:00 PM She sat at the table in her hotel room, barefoot and in sweatpants and a tee-shirt, her favorite 'comfortable' outfit. Her glasses were on and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. On the table before her in neat piles was the evidence from the autopsy folder - photographs in one pile, lab results in another and the postmortem exam report in a third. The communicating door between their rooms stood open, as usual. Mulder, also barefoot and in sweats and glasses, sat tailor-style on her bed. She glanced over. The photocopies of the case documents were scattered around him, seemingly haphazardly. Viewing the mess, she smiled, knowing that for all the apparent chaos, there was an order, a system known only to him, and that he could put his hand to any document he wanted in a heartbeat. She watched him appreciatively, lost in thought. Sensing her gaze, Mulder glanced up for a moment, then dropped his eyes back to his papers, a gentle smile on his lips. "Am I disturbing you, Scully?" She colored slightly. "Uh, no. I'm uh... I'm just thinking." "How are you coming on that autopsy file?" She frowned. "I can see Mike's point. The pathologist's description of the postmortem exam is sketchy, to say the least. It's hard to know if he didn't notice something, or he just didn't bother to comment on it. His heart's not in his work, that's for sure. Maybe not his brain. The lab reports don't tell us much. But I did find a couple of interesting things. For a start, Dr. Morton didn't note any burns to the throat, trachea or lungs. If he had died in the fire, or even had been killed by the explosion, I would have expected those to be mentioned. Also, it's hard to tell from the photos - the body is burned and the victim's skin is quite dark - but I think there's some bruising on the neck." "You think our guy strangled him?" "No. There's no mention of a crushed trachea or hyoid - not that that means much with this pathologist," she added dryly. She passed him a photograph and pushed aside some papers to join him on the bed. She crawled closer on her hands and knees, leaning over his shoulder and pointing. "See - right here...and here? I think the carotids were occluded by external pressure from our guy's hands. If they were blocked for long enough, the victim could have lost consciousness. Also, it could have caused or exacerbated a cardiac arrhythmia. And certain cardiac arrhythmias can be fatal, especially for someone who has a heart condition anyway." "The caretaker had a bad heart, I assume?" She sat back on her heels. "Evidently. Even Dr. Morton saw fit to mention the myocardial scarring, consistent with a previous severe infarction." Mulder's brows knot in a frown. "In your opinion, does this mean our guy had to have medical knowledge? Because I have to tell you, if so, I'm going to have to go back to square one on this guy's profile. That's not the way I've pictured him at all." "No, you're safe. He wouldn't necessarily need to have had medical knowledge - he might just have gotten lucky. If the caretaker interrupted him in the act of setting the bomb, he might just have reached out instinctively and grabbed him by the neck. He may have actually been surprised when the caretaker went down. Have you made any progress?" He tossed the legal pad and pen onto the bed. "There's something there that I'm not quite seeing," he said. His glasses joined the mess on the bedspread and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Maybe I'll go out for a run, shake some of the cobwebs loose in my brain." "More like work off two or three helpings of sweet potato pie." "That too... Anything wrong, Scully?" he asked, seeing the worry in her eyes. She forced herself to keep her response nonchallant. "No, it's nothing, really. It's just a thought, Mulder, but why don't you use the exercise room downstairs?" It was after eleven on a chill and foggy night, and for some unaccountable reason, she always felt uneasy when he went out running late in a strange city. "After all, we don't usually get to stay in a place with all the amenities." He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded and slid off the bed. "Good idea. And after all, not even I can get lost on a treadmill." "Mulder, I didn't mean to imply - " "I know," he replied gently. He had recently become aware of her concern about his nightly runs, knowing that she'd never come out and voice them. But she had enough to worry about - she didn't need to be worried about him as well. Not now. He crossed to his room and emerged a few minutes later in soccer shorts and his beat-up running shoes. "I'll be back in an hour. If your light's out - " "It won't be. I still have some more work to do on the file. Have a nice run." He waved and the door clicked behind him. She stood and stretched. Pulling a nightie from the bureau drawer, she headed for the bathroom. This is more like it, she thought, spying the basket of small ornate bottles on the wide marble counter. She scanned the shampoos, conditioners, lotions and bath gels, and made her selection. Then she turned the taps of the spotless tub full on and dribbled some of the gel into the torrent. Minutes later, she was in bubbles up to her chin. She opened the drain and adjusted the taps so that fresh warm water would replace what was draining out. Yes, this was definitely more like it...no scraping mildew off of cheap, cracked plastic shower curtains in some scuzzy motel...no checking cruddy tubs for giant bugs... a real bidet, for God's sake.... She drifted for a while, completely relaxed in the floral-scented tub, on the edge of sleep. The slam of her door jolted her out of her reverie. She sat up sharply, the air cold on her exposed, wet skin. "Mulder?" "Scully? Where are - oops! Sorry." His head disappeared from where it had peeked around the door. She sighed, then stood and quickly lathered her hair, rinsing it in the spray from the shower. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she pulled on the thick terry robe thoughtfully supplied by the hotel and joined her partner in the bedroom. He glanced up and then returned to the case documents. "Sorry about that." He sat on the bed, panting, his cut-off sweatshirt soaked with perspiration. "No problem. Although I didn't know seeing me in the nude would provoke such a reaction from you." Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could swear he blushed. Recovering quickly, he smiled and shook his head. "I got a brainstorm while I was on the treadmill. I wanted to run up here and check it out." "*Run* up? Mulder, the exercise room is on the second floor - we're on twelve!" "Well, I wanted to finish my run anyway." He handed her a zipcode map, the photocopies of the envelopes, and a list of the addresses of the bombed churches. "Scully, take a look at this and tell me if you think I'm crazy." "Mulder, it's no fun when you make it that easy," she murmured, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Just what am I supposed to be looking at here?" "Take your time...it took me a couple of hours to see it." She studied the documents for several minutes. "I don't ...wait! I think I see what you're getting at. The zipcodes on the envelopes, right?" He nodded. "That's it. In each case, the zipcode in which the note was mailed is geographically close to the church that ends up getting bombed. In fact, I would guess that he mails them on his way home, after checking out his next little job for God. Wish we had those other two notes. It's harder to see in the downtown churches, of course, but I'll bet if we had enough of these notes, we could even figure out where Billy Bob lives." "Billy Bob?" He shrugged. "It's easier to picture him as a person if he has a name." "Well, we're here to see that there are no more bombings, Mulder. And we have damn little time to pull off that particular miracle." She yawned. "Look, why don't you get some sleep now - you look like you could use it." He began gathering the case documents and his belongings from the bed. She opened her mouth to protest, but ruined the effect by yawning again. "Go ahead, hit the sack, Dana. It's been a long day and you look beat. I'll wake you if you want to get up early to finish going over that file." "Mm, maybe I will get some sleep. I didn't realize how tired I was. Okay, Mulder, wake me at five thirty. I have at least a couple more hours of work to do on that autopsy report...and thanks." Thanks for making it easy for me, she thought. Thanks for being here, for being you. He nodded, a slight, almost shy smile curling his lips. Then he headed for his room, pulling the communicating door behind him. She watched the door closing and suddenly felt a profound sense of loss. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, "No, don't! I mean.... You can leave that open, Mulder." He looked into her eyes. "I don't want to disturb you. I may be up late." "It's already late. And you won't disturb me. It's okay, leave it open." She met and held his gaze, hoping the need, the unease in hers was not discernible. He nodded again, his eyes never leaving hers, an intelligence and an empathy in them that almost took her breath away. "Okay. Sweet dreams, Scully." End of Chapter One FAITH 2/9 by Suzanne Bickerstaffe Ecksphile@aol.com May 30, 1997 Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One Chapter Two FBI Office, Atlanta Wednesday, March 12 10 AM " '...all of which leads me to conclude that the suspect in the Atlanta area firebombings is a white male, aged twenty two to thirty eight, and more probably in the twenty eight to thirty five range. He was brought up in a rural area of the South, quite probably locally. Racial hatred as irrational and violent as that displayed by the suspect is not the result of recent experience; rather it has been in his family for generations, possibly since the War between the States or before. His family perpetuated these prejudices, with it being likely that his father and possibly mother as well were active in the Ku Klux Klan or some other white supremacist group. " 'His family was lower class' - " "Wait a minute," interrupted Scully. "Mulder, that seems uncomfortably stereotypical." He looked up from his profile and shrugged. "White collar bigots usually find other outlets for their prejudices - by not hiring qualified blacks, unfair treatment in the workplace, excluding them from memberships in clubs, or just by having what they perceive as financial and social advantages over them. There isn't the need among middle and upper class whites to turn to violence. But violence is usually the only weapon accessible to poor whites." She nodded. "Okay. Go on." "Umm, let's see here... 'lower class, undereducated and underemployed. His father was probably either an unsuccessful small-time farmer or a marginally skilled worker in a small factory or mill. Neither parent graduated from high school and their rural surroundings further limited their employment opportunities. His mother was probably not employed on a full time basis outside the home, but may have done cleaning or sewing to help make ends meet, expecially during his father's periods of unemployment. " 'The family attended religious services on at least a semi-regular basis, undoubtedly one of the fire and brimstone Christian' - and I use this term in the loosest possible sense," added Mulder dryly - " 'sects which emphasize an omniscient, angry and vengeful Supreme Being. Love and forgiveness was not a feature of their belief system. In fact, love was probably in short supply in his life, with his parents too weighed down by drudgery and financial worries to show much love either to each other or the children in the family.' Nature hates a vacuum," he explained. "Where there is neither love nor hope, hatred moves in to fill the void." Receiving no argument from the others, he went on. " 'The suspect completed at least some high school, but had an undistinguished academic career. He tended to be a loner, did not join any clubs, nor did he try out for any athletic teams' - " "Hold it! How the hell can you know that?" "Mike, think about it. He's of the right age to have attended high school after the fall of segregation. His parents sure as shit didn't have the money to send him to a private school where he could avoid mixing with blacks. So if he tried out for a team, he would have been competing against black kids who were also trying out. Our guy wouldn't do that - he couldn't put himself in the position of possibly being found inferior to blacks in a head to head competition." "You're right. I went to school with some guys like that. Okay, sorry for the interruption." "No problem," he smiled. "This is only my take on the guy. Feel free to yell if you disagree with something. Okay...'He may have had some association with the Klan in his late teens or very early twenties, but has not been an active member for some time. This conclusion stems from the suspect's increasing isloation from his peers as well as the fact that his predeliction for violence puts him at odds with the modern Klan's desire to be viewed as 'acceptable'.' " Scully watched her partner as he read from his profile. Only the redness that rimmed his eyes and a slight pallor to his complexion hinted at the exhaustion he must feel. Her own sleep had been restless, but every time she had awoken, his light was on and she could hear the scratching of his fountain pen and the rustle of papers above the hum of her fan. Yet here he sat, looking fresh and immaculate in one of his impeccably tailored suits. How did he do it, she wondered. She had probably had at least three or four hours of sleep and felt like crap. She sighed. Must be his long experience with sleep deprivation. One day she expected him to do away with sleep altogether. " ...' that the devices and materials he uses in his bombs are not sophisticated, but do point to someone with some experience in handling explosives as well as someone with access to them. The occupations in which these two elements are usually found are mining, the military and construction. I believe our suspect is either currently employed in the construction industry or has been in the past and still maintains some links with it.' " Scully frowned. "Whoa. Why not military?" "A lot of reasons. Admittedly, there are some facets of this guy's personality that would gain satisfaction from his being in the military - being given responsibility, maybe even some recognition, having weapons entrusted to him and learning to use them effectively." "That's what I was thinking." Mulder nodded. "But I think the reasons against his being in the military are stronger. There's no draft, so he would have to enlist, and I don't think our guy would do that. He's not a joiner - he's a loner, and the military is not known for its opportunities for solitude. Also, he'd have to mix with black recruits - live with them, work as a team with them. Again, extremely unlikely. He couldn't risk either being found inferior to them, or worse yet, discovering that there was reason to actually like and respect them, causing the whole belief system he grew up with to crumble. Finally, Billy Bob has been very regular in his habits - when he checks out his next site, when he mails the notes, assuming our theory is correct. The nearest military base is Dobbins Air Force Base. I don't think he'd have such a regular schedule, nor the freedom to scout for sites, mail the notes from various locations, and then go back and set the bomb, if he were in the military. As we all have reason to know, when Uncle Sam's your boss, he calls the shots about where and when you'll work." "That's for damn sure," Mike said mournfully. Mulder smiled. "The fact that our guy doesn't hit every week makes it just barely possible that he is from Dobbins and he skips the weeks that his schedule would not permit his extracurricular activities. But I think more damning evidence against the military theory is what they've found by studying the explosive devices so far. There's been no mention of the use of anything in those devices that is used by the military. Frankly, the military has better, more effective and more sophisticated materials than what Billy Bob's using. Put it all together, and that's why I think he's not military." His partner nodded. "Besides, if our theory about mailing the notes somewhere between the bombing site and his home is true, it looks like he lives in Atlanta proper, not on a base some miles northwest of the city. And the mining angle is out because this area is not exactly replete with mines. Okay, so we're looking for a white male between 28 and 35 who lives in Atlanta, is a Georgia native and who works in the construction trade." "Or has worked in it," Mulder amended. "I don't think our guy sets any records for steady employment. He probably hires onto a construction crew for a particular project, and sticks around only until that project is finished, he gets pissed off and walks, or he gets into trouble and gets fired. We are not looking for the guy most likely to be presented with a gold watch for faithful service on retirement. Okay, that's it. What you heard is what I got." "Makes sense," Mike nodded. "Okay, we'll feed it into the computer and see what comes out. What about you, Dana? What did your examination of the autopsy results turn up?" "I agree with you, Mike. I think that Billy Bob killed the caretaker, probably while in the act of setting the device, or while getting into position to do so. The fact that he killed him with his bare hands is a departure from his usual method, but I think it was a reaction to being surprised in the act. In any case, that old man would be no less dead if he had been killed by the bomb." She passed Mike her report. "There are a number of points of evidence that contradict Morton's conclusions in his autopsy. The caretaker wasn't breathing when the bomb went off and the church caught fire. Also, there's no indication of trauma sufficient to have killed him - severe blunt abdominal or chest trauma, head injury, and so on. The only thing I can see" - she passed the closeup photo of the victim's neck to Mike - "are these apparent bruises on the victim's throat. I believe he died of a massive myocardial infarction secondary to carotid occlusion." "We gotta get rid of that jackass Morton. It makes me sick to think that killers might have walked due to his incompetance." "If you need documentation, just let me know. Normally I would give another pathologist the benefit of the doubt - even the best can miss something on occasion. But Dr. Morton missed not one but several critical pieces of evidence, and generally did such a slapdash job that it makes me think he had reached his conclusion and started dictating his report before the body even arrived at the morgue." Mike nodded glumly. "Wouldn't surprise me. I got to the church before the fire was out. Even suited up with the fire department so I could get to the evidence before they messed with it. The caretaker was lyin' in the middle of the hallway at the furthest point from the blast. His clothes were smouldering, but there wasn't much around him - no fallen beams, not much in the way of debris. He could have been overcome by smoke, but if you say he wasn't breathin'...." "There was no evidence from Morton's autopsy records to indicate smoke in the lungs or burns in the nose, mouth, throat or trachea. I'm sure of that. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean that it wasn't there, but just that there's no record of it. But from the photos I saw, it would support my opinion." "That's good enough for me. And I have a little news. I went down to talk to Crowley, our explosives expert. He says that the kind of timer our guy is usin' means that he can set it only eleven hours and fifty nine minutes ahead of boom-time. That means he has a twelve hour window to set the bomb in place. And he probably wouldn't set it that far ahead, just in case it was discovered and the bomb squad was called. So, it supports the idea that our guy might have been at the church and been surprised by the caretaker. Okay, it's nearly ten thirty. The mail gets to the Journal-Constitution by eleven and then gets sorted. The guys in the mailroom know what we're lookin' for and will run it up to the editor when they find it. We might as well go over there now. It's not too much of a drive - " "Speaking of which," Mulder said hurriedly. "Where do I go to sign out a car?" "Chicken shit!" He did his best to look innocent of ulterior motives. "No! Nothing against your driving, Mike. It's just that we'll need one eventually when we split up to cover more ground, and now's as good a time as any. Really." "Yeah, right. Chicken shit!" - - - - - "Agents Scully and Mulder, this is Matthew Johansen, editor in chief of the Journal-Constitution. He's been extremely cooperative in workin' with us." The short, silver-haired man reminded Mulder of Senator Matheson. He rose from his seat and shook their hands with a firm grip. "It's a pleasure. Have a seat." Scully crossed her legs and smoothed the skirt of her green suit. "Agent Thomas tells us that you frequently receive hate mail and irrational letters." "At least twenty or so every week, that I'm aware of," he agreed. "And I'm sure I'm not aware of all of them. Our policy is that anything overtly threatening be sent up here so we can notify the authorities, just in case. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing, just some hotheads or lunatics blowing off steam. But these are strange times we live in. After one incident in which a mail clerk had his hand blown off by a letterbomb, we even installed an xray device down there to screen - " They were interrupted by a knock on the door. At Johansen's summons to enter, a young man came in, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "It's here," he announced, brandishing the envelope. He crossed the room and handed it to the editor. "Thanks, Larry. Nice work." The kid nodded and left, though Mulder noted with sympathetic amusement that the expression on his face made it clear he would have preferred to stay where the action was rather than return to the mailroom. Johansen gave the envelope to Mike, who brought it over to the conference table and sat down. Carefully he used his pocket knife to slit open the envelope. Sliding out the note, he slipped the envelope into the clear plastic evidence bag Mulder held open. "Sorry, maybe I should have had my people wear gloves," murmured Johansen. "No need," replied Scully "We'll check it of course, but if it's like the others, the only prints will belong to the US Postal Service and to your people. It appears that the suspect is the one wearing gloves. What's the zipcode, Mulder?" "Um - 30341." He closed his eyes, trying to recall the image of the zipcode map to his mind. "I think that's a place called Chamblee, a town northeast of here. Can you find out?" he asked Johansen. "I'll call Circulation. Hang on." As the editor spoke quietly into the phone, Scully and Mulder peered over Mike's shoulder, reading the note. "Yeah, it's Chamblee all right," said Johansen, crossing the distance to join them at the conference table. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure that tells us much, in this instance," Mulder replied, frowning. The editor scanned the note. THE LORD GOD HAS SPOKEN. HE IS VERY ANGRY. MY WORK HAS BEEN TOO SLOW, SO I MUST WORK DOUBLE HARD. MORE SOLJERS OF SATAN WILL DIE THIS WEEK - MANY, MANY MORE. GOD'S INSTRIMENT WILL BE BUSY. THE ALMIGHTY WILL GIVE ME THE POWER TO STRIKE TWICE AS HARD. HE WILL BE WITH ME WHEN I DISTROY THE TEMPLE OF SATAN HIMSELF, SENDING THE SOLJERS TO HELLS FIRE. "I don't think I understand," said Johansen. "He's goin' for two churches this week," replied Mike grimly. He rose, slipping the note into a plastic bag. "Mr. Johansen, thank you. If by any chance anything else comes in from our friend...." "I'll be sure to let you know immediately, of course." Mike nodded. "We've got to get back to headquarters. It appears we have a lot of work to do." - - - - - "We're agreed then? There's goin' to be two this week?" Scully returned Mike's gaze. "That's what I get out of it." "Which means that our zipcode theory may be of little use," added Mulder, frustrated. "We may be able to guess the general location of one of the bombings, but as to the other.... I doubt he'd do two in the same area. Maybe we'll get another note from him, but I really don't see this guy making it that easy for us." "Me neither." Mike examined the text of the note from the photocopy on the table in front of him. The original had been passed on to the lab for testing. He glanced up to see a man striding purposefully up to them, then turned back to his companions and whispered, "Oh, shit, this is all we need." "Agent Thomas, I'm sure not introducing me to these people was merely an oversight." "Uh, yes sir. Special Agents Scully and Mulder, this is Howard Fildster, chief of the Bureau here in Atlanta." They shook hands. Scully appraised the man. Short, paunchy, and balding, he exuded a sense of importance clearly not shared by Mike. She hoped that Mulder would behave - Fildster was just the kind that brought out the beast in her partner. "Is that the latest note?" "Yes, sir." Fildster read it quickly. "Well, you know my feeling on this. It's time we started dealing with this man, ask him what he wants." "Apparently, he wants to kill a lot of black people," Mulder observed reasonably. "I see you subscribe to Agent Thomas's premise of a Mad Bomber," Fildster said with distaste. "No. No, I think he'll deal - we just have to dangle the right carrot in front of his face. And I've never known money to fail to be a great motivator. We'll offer to buy him off, and when he goes for the cash, we'll nail him. I'm notifying Johansen now. I'll draft an open letter to the son of a bitch, and Johansen can print it in the paper. Our guy will see it, and it will get him talking, take his mind off the bombings." "You don't mind if we continue with our own avenues of pursuing this case," Mike said stiffly, trying to keep his temper in check. "Spin your wheels if you like. But I'm telling you, this guy is no psycho. He's just waiting for us to give him an offer he can't refuse. I'm telling you, he's gonna jump like a mullet to my bait. Money talks. And after this case is finished, Agent Thomas, you and I are gonna have a little come to Jesus meeting. You've mishandled this case from the start, and your highly placed friends from Washington don't seem to be doing any better." He glared at the trio, then turned on his heel and strutted away, bellowing for his secretary to get Johansen on the phone. Mulder watched the Bureau chief's performance with a bemused smile. "Incredible. They must breed guys like that on a big farm in Montana, just to become Civil Service hacks and Motor Vehicle Department employees." "The man is such a prick. Oh - sorry, Dana." "No problem," she smiled. "I happen to agree with you." He grinnned back, then turned to Mulder. "Okay, Spaceman. Now, if your theory is right, where do you think our guy's gonna hit? We may not be able to get any clues about one of the bombings, but we can sure as shit try to do some damage control on the other one." "He hasn't mailed his notes from the zipcode where the bombing will take place - at least so far - but from somewhere between the target site and downtown Atlanta. Based on that, I would guess that the target is in a town east of Chamblee." "Okay, let's get some people on the phones to the pastors of the black churches in that area, give ourselves two or three towns' leeway. Include Chamblee - just in case - Doraville, and Norcross. See if we can get them to cancel some of their activities until we catch this guy. It's gonna be a hard sell, I can tell you.... Hey, Dana - you alright?" She looked at the men, puzzled. "Scully - nosebleed," Mulder said softly. She grabbed some tissues from the box on the desk. "Sorry - I'll just clean up in the ladies room." Mike noted Mulder's concern as his eyes followed his partner. "Anything wrong, Mulder?" Suddenly, the exhaustion and stress seemed to catch up with him. He sat heavily at the table next to Mike. "No. It's nothing." "Don't lie to me, son. This is your buddy Mike. I've never seen you look so down in the mouth." Mulder hesitated, torn. "I - I can't, Mike. It's not mine to share. We're playing this by Scully's rules. No offence, right?" "No offence taken, my man. But I'm a good listener and I know how to keep a secret if you need to talk, okay? Either of you." "You're a good friend, too. Thanks, Mike," he said with a halfhearted smile. "I'll remember that." "Look, y'all didn't get much - if any - sleep last night. Why don't you and Scully knock off early? We got plenty of people to make the phone calls, and the computer's still cogitatin' on the profile we entered. If there's any developments, I can give you a call." "You sure?" "Yeah, sure I'm sure. Can't have you fallin' asleep at the wheel when somethin' important's goin' down, can I?" "In that case, I'll take you up on your offer." "What offer?" Scully strolled up to them, interested. "Mike just said that I look like shit and I should go and put my tired ass to bed." She caught Mulder's eyes. "Do you really think that's necessary?" she asked with an edge to her voice. He shrugged. "You stay if you want. Of course, it'll make me look bad to our buddy Howard. But yeah, I've hit a wall. I gotta crash for a while." "Why don't you go too, Dana? I've told Spaceman that I'd give you a call if anything happens. But until the computer spits out somethin' more to go on, it's just a matter of notifyin' the pastors of the churches in the area, and we have plenty of people to do that." "If you're sure," she said doubtfully. "Yeah, go on. Go tuck Spaceman in." "All right. Bye, Mike." On their way to the car, Mulder could feel the tension in her body through the light contact of his hand on the small of her back. "Everything all right, G-woman?" Suddenly she stopped and whirled to face her partner, searching his eyes. "You didn't tell him, did you?" she demanded. "Of course not. You should know you don't even have to ask that question." His tone was mild, his face guileless. "I - I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I am pretty tired. It's just that you're much closer to Mike than you are to most other people, and I know...I know all this is hard for you. It's probably selfish of me to ask you to keep this strictly confidential. But I don't...." "But you don't want anyone treating you differently. I know." He held open the car door and she slid inside. She was quiet as he eased the car from the parking space and out of the garage. "Mike was a Marine in Vietnam, did I ever tell you that?" Mulder said conversationally. "He was really disturbed by some of the things he saw over there. But rather than letting himself be destroyed by the experience, he used it. With the GI Bill, he got his degree in Theology. A couple years later he became an ordained minister." "You're kidding! It's hard to believe that you and he ever became such good friends. You don't seem to have a whole lot in common." "We've had some stimulating discussions," Mulder admitted with a smile. "And we've kind of agreed to disagree on a couple of subjects." He became serious once more. "But I think why I'm telling you this.... He's a good person to talk to, Dana. He is compassionate and wise and practical, and has a bedrock faith which - like yours - I envy, as hard as that may be for you to believe. If you needed someone to talk to, I can't think of anyone better." She nodded, her throat tight. "Thanks, Mulder. I'll remember that." - - - - - Radisson Atlanta Hotel Wednesday, 10:17 PM The telephone shrilled insistently. He was sitting up with the receiver in his hand before his eyes had even opened. "Mulder." "Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Our guy didn't waste any time. Gospel Baptist Church in Doraville. Be there or be square." "Thanks, Mike. We'll be there as soon as possible." End Chapter Two FAITH 3/9 by Suzanne Bickerstaffe Ecksphile@aol.com May 30, 1997 Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One Chapter Three Doraville, Georgia Wednesday, March 12 11:07 PM "Y'all made good time." Mulder closed the car door. "Thank Scully - she was navigating. What's going on?" The two joined Mike and began walking toward the church, pulling their collars up against the cold drizzle. Mulder had parked on the edge of the gravel surrounding the church, well away from the emergency vehicles that dotted the parking lot. The pitch dark of the raw, damp night made the blaze in the wreckage of the church appear ironically cheerful in comparison. The church was located on the outskirts of town - only Scully's map-reading skills and dumb luck had let them find the dirt road which turned off the main highway leading into town. They had followed the glare in the sky and the sounds of sirens the rest of the way. At one time, the church must have been pretty. A small, white steepled structure, it stood set back from the road, surrounded by a gravel parking lot. Beyond the parking area was tall, old-growth pine forest. A serene setting for a house of God - that serenity now replaced by a scene of frenzied activity. Silhouettes of firefighters moved in a kind of choreography, pumping water onto the flames leaping in a demonic dance of their own. "This is - was - the Gospel Baptist Church, Doraville. I spoke to Pastor Jackson myself this afternoon, tryin' to get him to cancel choir practice and Bible study for the rest of the week. Like so many of the others we contacted, he refused. Said the Lord would protect his church." "The Lord helps those who help themselves," Mulder murmured. "Oh, Spaceman - you of little faith," Mike said, shaking his head. "Actually, the Lord didn't do too badly. Choir practice was scheduled for eight-thirty - forty people plus the choir director. But she came down with the flu this afternoon, and practice was cancelled at six. Bomb went off at nine-fifteen." "Then who's in the body bags?" asked Scully, pointing. Mike sighed. "A bunch of homeless people had taken shelter from the cold and rain in the basement. It's pretty well known around here that Pastor Jackson never locks up. The homeless could always find some cots and blankets and even food the members brought by." He watched while the firefighters brought out more remains and paramedics packed them into body bags. "We think there were five or six of them. Kinda hard to tell - they must have been real close to the blast. 'Bout all we're gettin' is bits and pieces. A real damn mess down there, from what the chief tells me." A shout rang out and the emergency workers ran from their posts near the church, diving for cover behind the firetrucks. Seconds later, there was a sharp crack, and the once- proud steeple of the church collapsed into the structure in a shower of sparks and blazing debris. The trio watched the spectacle as the firefighters once more took up their hoses and edged closer to the flames. "This is a real damn shame," Mike commented, his voice husky. "This is the fourth time these people have been burned out of their church. First time in the twenties, then again in the thirties. Pastor Jackson was newly ordained when he came here in the early sixties. By 'sixty-six, his church was in ashes. And now he's goin' through it all again. He's over there." He pointed to an older black man standing with hunched and shaking shoulders near the ambulances. "If y'all don't mind, I think I'm just gonna go over and have a word with him." They nodded and looked on as Mike approached the old clergyman, enveloping him in a hug and drawing him aside to talk. But they were not the only ones watching. Not a hundred yards away, in the cover of the forest, a lone figure observed the scene before him. Frustration, terror and a small sense of satisfaction warred for pre-eminence within him. He had noticed the three that seemed so out of place here, in their suits and their late-model cars with the government licence plates. A big nigger - that figgered. And another tall drink of water, with Jew-boy written all over him. Lookin' like he'd be more at home at Harvard, or some other damn snooty rich-boy school. Real pretty woman, though - what the hell was she doin', hangin' around with the likes of them? Shakily he wiped the drizzle from his face with the back of his hand. Tonight was a disappointment in the eyes of the Lord - again. Oh, yeah, he got some of the Soljers - but not as many as he had planned, not as many as the Almighty had demanded. Well, next time would be different. He would prove to the Lord that He had chosen well. His hands shook as he folded them in prayer. I promise, Lord, he prayed, tears running down his cheeks. Just a little more time, just give me a little more time. I promise I'll do better, he pleaded, hoping that his God would have just a little more patience. I'm your man, I'll do your work. Just stick by me, and I'll do you proud. I promise - I'll do much better, real soon. Wiping the tears away furtively, he withdrew further back into the woods. "Where'd Spaceman go?" Mike's shoes crunched on the gravel as he walked up to Scully, the sound all but lost in the shouts of the firefighters and the pop and crackle of the blaze they were battling. "He went back to the car for the camera. I think he's hoping that our guy may have stuck around to witness his handiwork." He peered around at the sea of faces surrounding the dramatic scene. "He won't be easy to pick out - the whole damn town's here." "How's Pastor Jackson doing?" Mike shrugged. "About what you'd expect. He's with the church elders now - they're takin' care of him. It's just a damn shame. He's a good man, been better to the poor of this town than a lot of well-heeled folk. Now his church is in ruins - again - and I heard from one of the elders that his daughter's dyin' of a brain tumor.... You all right, Scully?" She averted her gaze to watch the fire intently. "Yes.... Yes, I'm fine. Here's Mulder. You'd better take the pictures. It's not his forte, or mine either, I'm afraid." "Hand it over to the pro, Spaceman." He met Mulder's eyes and dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod in Scully's direction. Then he strolled off to the periphery of the parking area to take photos of everyone who might meet Mulder's profile. "You okay, Scully?" "I wish to hell everyone would stop asking me that question," she replied ascerbicly. "I'm fine." He shrugged. "Sorry. You just looked a little pale." "It's the blue lights from the police cars - it makes everyone look washed out. It's nothing." "Okay," he said mildly. Time for a change of subject. "You think our guy's here?" "Hope so." She jammed her numbing hands deep into her pockets. "It would make identifying and then catching him a whole lot easier." He was just about to suggest she sit in the car where it was warmer and drier, but bit it back in time. Bad move, Mulder, he thought. She wouldn't appreciate it right now. Something had happened to rattle her. He would have to ask Mike when he got the chance. "Hey - you Dr. Scully?" She turned toward the paramedic sprinting toward them. "Yes, I'm Scully. Can I help you?" "Evidently." The young man grinned, his even, white teeth gleaming against his soot-streaked face. "Agent Thomas said y'all'ud be doin' the autopsies on the bodies. We got orders to take 'em right to the morgue in Atlanta so you can get to work. Don't have to worry about pronouncin' 'em - not when they're in pieces like this." "Yes, fine. I'll be right along." "Y'all can ride with us," he called over his shoulder, trotting back to the ambulance. "Thanks. Be right there." She looked up at Mulder. "Seems like it's going to be a long night. Where will you be?" "With Mike. Back at headquarters, I expect, by the time you're finished." "Okay. I'll meet you there when I'm done." His eyes searched hers, speaking the words he refused to allow his lips to utter. Her cool, reassuring gaze in return prompted his nod. "Go get 'em, G-woman." She smiled and strode over to one of the waiting ambulances. As soon as the door closed, they crunched over the gravel and wound their way down the dirt road. - - - - - It was over three hours later that the weary agents found themselves back at the Bureau conference room. One or two others worked bleary-eyed at their desks. "You always have a night shift working, or is this just to impress me?" asked Mulder. He poured his third cup of coffee in twenty minutes and sprawled in his seat at the table. "Oh, you know how it is - there's always some butt- kissers tryin' to score points with the brass from Washington," Mike grinned. Mulder returned his friend's smile. "I've been called many things, but 'the brass' has never been one of them. One word of praise from me and these guys will spend the rest of their careers in North Dakota." "Nice to have friends in high places. Nah, I called some of the guys in when I got word of the bombing. Someone from the photo lab, a couple of guys on the firebomb team, an explosives expert...and someone to get the damn computer system to do its thing. We still don't have the results on your profile." They sat in silence for several moments, Mulder's mind busily turning over the details of the case, Mike's on something else entirely. In view of his friend's retiscence earlier to discuss it, he was hesitant to bring it up again. Finally he felt he owed it to Mulder - and to Dana - to try. "She's sick, isn't she." It wasn't a question. Mulder brought his head up slowly. "Did Scully say something?" he asked guardedly. "She didn't need to. I can see she's lookin' tired. And there was that nosebleed, with both of you handlin' it like you expected it, like it's happened before. And the way you've been lookin' at her, like you're scared shitless she's gonna disappear any second. I thought myself she was gonna pass out when I mentioned that the Pastor's daughter is dyin' of cancer." The younger agent lowered his gaze, sitting numbly, staring at the fake wood grain of the table. "Mulder.... Mulder?" Frustrated, Mike leaned over and placed his massive hand on his friend's. "Mulder, let me in. Let me help." He met Thomas's eyes finally, but didn't speak. He didn't have to. "Oh, man. Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Mulder. I'm really sorry. Is it cancer?" Nodding, Mulder's face was granite-hard. "A little leftover from when she was abducted. The bastards.... there were tests, and... other things... done to her. One of the 'side effects' was... this. A lot of women who were taken - had similar abduction experiences to Scully's - have already died of it." The stony facade began to crumble. "Christ, Mike, I don't know what to do," he whispered brokenly. "Knowin' you, you're doin' everything you can - and tryin' a few things you can't. Knowin' her..." - he chuckled wryly - "Knowing her, I'm bettin' she lets you do a hell of a lot less than you'd like." Mulder nodded miserably. Mike sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, surveying his friend. "You know, you two have something special goin' on, somethin' I've never seen before. I mean, I've seen close partnerships, but what you two have is spooky. It goes way beyond bein' partners, it's almost like sometimes you're livin' in each other's skins, in each other's brains. It's weird, but it's beautiful." He sighed. "Well, I'll be prayin'. And somethin' will happen, Mulder. Somethin' good, somethin' unexpected. A miracle, I guess, is what I'm talkin' about." "Mike - " "I know, I know - you don't believe in that stuff. But listen to me, man. You gotta have some faith." "I've never had a lot of luck with faith," he replied quietly, but with no trace of the bitter irony Thomas had been expecting. Mike nodded. Firmly, he said, "But this time - somethin' good's gonna happen." "How can you be so sure?" Mulder asked wonderingly. "How can you believe so strongly, in something so... so...." "Irrational?" Mike finished for him, chuckling. "You're no stranger to that yourself, Spaceman." He smiled slightly. "I suppose not." The black agent leaned over, his head within inches of Mulder's, his voice low and as comforting as cocoa. "I'm not sayin' there won't be hard times. What I am sayin' is... I just have a feelin' about this. That it's gonna come out all right in the end. You gotta believe that. But Mulder, I've seen the cross she wears. Her faith's obviously important to her. Do me a favor - do Scully a favor... support her in that, okay? She's gonna need it. So are you, but I've given up the hope of savin' your heathen ass." A glance ensured that he was smiling as he said it, but the eyes were deadly serious. "Just try to be openminded about it. It's hard enough for her to hang on to her faith right now, without you takin' potshots." "No matter what I believe or don't believe, I wouldn't do that, Mike." Then he frowned, remembering the Crider case when he and Scully had been at such odds over the subject of faith. "Well, maybe I haven't been particularly supportive in the past on that front, but I'll work on it, I promise." "Somethin' good's gonna happen. Hold on to that." "I'd like to believe that, Mike." "Then just do it, my man." He let out a long breath and looked at his friend. "I'll try." "Can't ask for better'n that." For some time, the men were alone with their thoughts once more, then Mike scowled. "Damn idiot Fildster. He was the one who screwed up the computer system. Decided that somethin' else had a higher priority than your profile. Probably his damn kid's term paper, or that assinine letter to the bomber. So he feeds in somethin' that doesn't agree with it, and now the computer's too busy bein' sick with its virus to help us out here." Much more accustomed to being thwarted by his superiors than Mike was, Mulder only shrugged. "We'll get it eventually. If the system's still down later, we can fax my profile back to Washington and they can tap into the system from there." "I just hope 'eventually' is soon enough. We caught another break tonight, Mulder. The body count could have been a lot higher. We can't expect too many more breaks like this one." Mulder stretched in his chair, then sat up straighter. "No. Not to mention the fact that our guy is going to be more pissed off than ever - and scared." "Scared... of being caught?" He shook his head. "That's the least of his worries at the moment. This guy is twisted, Mike. He actually believes he's following God's orders. And right now his track record with the Almighty stinks. He's got to be absolutely terrified of Divine Retribution - almost every attempt he's made has gotten fucked up. He's got to be under a lot of pressure to make the next one something that will please his God, something that will make up for all the screw-ups." "So he's gonna be that much more determined to slaughter as many people as possible." Mulder nodded, distracted. He thought for a few more seconds, then asked, "Hey, Mike. Have you got a Religion section in your newspaper here?" "Glad to see you takin' my advice to heart, Spaceman." His lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. "Well, I did, but that's not why I'm asking." "Yeah, there's a Religion Page, but it doesn't come out until Saturday's paper. There's just a few articles... it's mostly just advertisements, really." He had worked with his friend often enough to know when he had an idea on a case - his voice held a finely balanced tension and his eyes became alert, his body movements precise. "Yes, that's what I want to see. Can you call Johansen to see what ads have been placed?" "I can - but I doubt he would know off the top of his head," Mike replied dryly. "Especially when I call him up at four in the mornin' to ask him." "Oh. Yeah, right. Okay, let's go down to Photos and see if they have anything yet." Mike stood with a groan and slipped his suit jacket back on. "You're a real pain in the ass when you're on a caffeine high, you know that?" "I've been told. Let's go. And...uh, Mike...." "I won't let on to her, Mulder." He nodded slightly and followed his friend downstairs. - - - - - It was ten thirty and Mulder was feeding the last page of his profile into the fax machine when he heard the cadence of Scully's steps. She had stopped by the hotel for a quick shower and change of clothing. Except for the dark smudges under her eyes, she didn't look like she had been up all night piecing bodies back together. "What are you doing, Mulder?" His face creased into a brief smile of greeting. "The system's still down. I called Skinner's office and Kim said she'd enter my profile from there. Have you eaten?" "Not yet." "Mike?" "There's a great place around the corner." Mulder nodded. He was hungry, but more importantly, he had taken her welfare as his special charge, and she needed to eat, whether she realized it or not. "Okay. We'll bring you up to speed there, Scully, and you can tell us what you found. There's nothing to do but wait at the moment, and I'm starving." - - - When they were comfortably settled into the rear booth of the diner, Mulder turned to his partner, sitting next to him. "You first." "There were six victims in all. I did autopsies on five." His brow rose questioningly. "I did what I could, Mulder, but I'm not a miracle worker. I had five heads, five torsos, eleven arms and twelve legs. It took me two hours just matching the extremities with the heads and trunks, and - " She broke off at Mike's chuckle. She looked up to see the elderly waitress staring at her, aghast. "Good morning," Scully said pleasantly. "Do you by any chance have granola?" "G-granola? I- I'm afraid not, miss. Jus' what y'all see there on the menu." Scully scanned the slightly greasy laminated sheet, her arteries hardening just reading the selections. Mulder would be in pig heaven. "Just some grits, please, and an order of fresh strawberries on the side. And ice tea - no sweetener, extra lemon." "And you, sir?" "I'd like ice tea, the same as the lady's, and the Lumberjack Big Breakfast with extra home fries," said Mulder, as his partner made a show of shuddering and rolling her eyes. "Hey Scully, I'm just a growing boy." "I'll have the same, with sweet tea," added Mike. "Some example you are," she grumbled. "All right, don't blame me when you two stroke out." Mike watched the waitress move away, scribbling on her pad, and favoring the trio with very suspicious glances. "So, what did the autopsies show?" "All the victims were killed by the blast. They had to be close, almost on top of the bomb when it went off. There were metal fragments from the timing device embedded in the flesh of two of the victims. No surprises, really. Four men and two women, from the appearance of the extra extremities. We're still missing the rest of one woman. All in average to poor health, which is unfortunately not unexpected for the homeless." "Not that being in better health would have done them much good, under the circumstances," Mulder added reasonably. "I suppose not. Looks like they hadn't been there long - the evidence suggests they had just started eating, probably some of the food left there by the congregation. What about you two? Anything new?" "We're still waiting on the matches to Mulder's profile, thanks to Fildster. The Photo guys got some good prints of the crowd last night, but again, until the computer's up and we have somethin' to compare them with, we're stuck. There's not much in life that's perfect, but Fildster comes close to bein' a perfect asshole." "I didn't notice him around this morning," Scully remarked. "And you won't - not when there's trouble," replied Mike sourly. "But, on the bright side, your partner has a theory." She turned to Mulder and raised her eyebrows. "Dare I ask?" He smiled. "No cause for palpitations this time, Scully." He broke off as the waitress set the men's platters down, and laid his partner's comparatively Spartan breakfast in front of her. "The cholesterol count on that plate has to be 200 grams, Mulder." "That's another one of my theories - that cholesterol is actually good for you. But the one that pertains to this case is more germane. Our guy is going to want a big hit next time. In fact, I think that he believes his life may depends on it. His record so far has fallen well short of the body count that he believes is being demanded of him. Bad luck for him, and sure to get him in the doghouse with his Boss. But good luck for those of us in the sane world." "Since when did you join the rest of us, Spaceman?" "Thanks, Mike. I'm glad you said it," grinned Scully. "I wanted to, but my mouth was full." "Any time you two are finished...." Mulder said goodnaturedly. "Anyway, I've gathered some information together - some from Johansen, some from Mike and some from the city records - about the largest and most active black congregations in the area. I think our guy is going to target one of those churches. Unfortunately, the list is a lot longer than I thought it would be." 'How long is long?" "At least thirty churches in the area fall into the category I would call "most endangered". "Well, it narrows things down a little, anyway." She pushed back from her half-finished food as if she had given up on eating. Mulder reached for one of the strawberries - not that he really wanted it, but recent experience had taught him it was the surest way to get her to eat. The expected rap on the knuckles was delivered. "Hey, you have your own food!" she exclaimed, and popped another strawberry in her mouth. Mike watched the partners' interplay without comment, well aware of Mulder's motives. "I got the whole crew in today, workin' on goin' through the old records manually, tryin' to see if they can find someone who fits the profile. We can't wait for the computer forever. Some of the guys remembered a few names. At least it's a start." "And we can get on the phone to the pastors on the most endangered list," added Mulder. "We may not have any better luck than we did yesterday, but it's worth a shot." Scully crushed the last berry between her teeth, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Then if you gentlemen are finshed occluding your arteries, we'd better go back. Sounds like we're in for a long day." End of Chapter Three FAITH 4/9 by Suzanne Bickerstaffe Ecksphile@aol.com May 30, 1997 Chapter Four, Part A Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One Forest Park, Georgia Friday, March 14 11 AM "...we're sorry for the inconvenience, sir." "It's no problem. I can see where y'all would think I mighta been involved. But that was the old me. I'm a new man now, since I've found the Lord - or should I say, since He found me." The short, stocky man beamed at them. "Thank you for your time, sir." "Y'all be careful now. Praise Jesus, and I hope you find your man." "Thank you." The door closed behind them as they walked down the short flight of steps from the small brick home. "Well, what do you think, Scully?" "Unless this guy is capable of Oscar-caliber acting, I'd say it's a washout. What about you?" Mulder sighed. "I'd have to agree, he seems genuine enough. He's done a hell of a turnaround in three years, but I guess it's possible. You want to drive?" "No, go ahead." They got into the car. Scully crossed the name of their last interview off the list. "Two down, three to go." "What's the name of the next lucky contestant, and where do we find him?" "James Robert Gatling. No permanent address. Looks like he's had several in the past couple of years, all of them in Atlanta proper. Jeremy, the agent who prepared our list, said that he's working for A-One Construction at the moment, and they have a big job in downtown Atlanta. I have that address." "Just tell me where to go." She shook her head and smiled. "I keep telling you, Mulder, you make it too easy sometimes. I'll pass up the cheap, easy shot - just take 285 to 20." He took the onramp for the interstate as his partner rested her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. She was exhausted - they both were. He was glad for the chance for her to get a catnap. Thursday had passed in a blur.... Thursday, March 13 After being up all night as a result of the Doraville bombing, they had worked without a break the entire day. Part of the time they spent helping the agents who were contacting the pastors of the churches most at risk, having no more success than they had had the previous day. All of the ministers had steadfastly refused to let the bomber's activities curtail theirs. While Scully had sympathized with them in principle, Mulder had railed against the blind faith that was putting their congregations at risk. "If you asked the congregations, they'd say the same thing as their pastors, Mulder. Why should they let some lunatic bigot shut them down? In a way, it would be allowing him to win, letting him realize the power he can exert over them." Mulder rolled his eyes and countered heatedly, "Yeah, but all the high principles and blind faith in the world won't help them if they're dead because of him." He stopped, remembering what Mike had said about supporting Scully in her faith, and wondered if this qualified. He sighed, and in a milder tone, he continued, "Sorry. I'd just hate to see a lot more flying body parts generated by this guy." "I know." She smiled. "Any word on the computer yet?" Mike strolled up and had heard her question. "Nope. Got a lot of computer geeks down there scratchin' their heads, wonderin' what the hell's wrong with it. Have we gotten the profiles from your boss's secretary yet?" It was nearly four in the afternoon. "One of your guys has gone out to Hartsfield," Mulder replied. "Evidently there were a lot of matches to my profile, too many to fax. Besides, Kim was sure the fax transmission would make the photos unusable, and she probably has a point there. So she bundled everything up and put it on a flight from National to Hartsfield. Should be here anytime now." "Lots of matches, huh? I was afraid of that. Sounds like we're working overtime again," commented Mike. "Buddy, as if you couldn't tell by the way our asses are dragging, we're already on OT." "And now you'll have somethin' to do to keep you awake. I pulled in a few markers with the Atlanta PD. I have some of their files on guys that fit the profile and have arrest records for racial incidents. We can get started with those. Chances are, several of these guys will make both lists." Mulder grinned. "After the last time we were here, I wouldn't have thought you'd have that many markers to pull in. You were whining that you were a marked man, after showing up the APD on that serial killing. All right, I guess we get to work, then." He shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. By ten that night, they finally stopped. By that time, they had taken two lists with over one hundred and sixty possible matches to the profile Mulder had drawn and whittled the possible suspects down to forty. Eight teams of agents, including Mulder and Scully, and Mike and his partner Alvin, divided the forty names. The agents coming on duty at eleven would work all night to get the current addresses and places of work of those suspects, so the teams could hit the ground running the following day. Mulder stood with a groan, feeling the insistent protest of muscles that had spent too long hunched over a desk. "See you in the morning, Mike. Is seven early enough?" "Yeah, I don't see why not. You and Scully have a good night, now." "Speaking of my partner, where is she?" Mulder frowned as he scanned the office. Mike looked around and shrugged. "Try the conference room. Last time I remember seein' her she was going for coffee, about half an hour ago." Mulder pulled on his jacket and walked into the conference room. She had fallen asleep at the table, her head pillowed on her arms, an untasted mug of coffee nearby. Hunching down next to her, he stroked her cheek and called softly, "Scully?" She woke with a start and an expression of acute embarrassment crept over her face. "Oh shit," she groaned. "Sorry, Mulder, I didn't mean to fall asleep. I was just taking a break - the words on the profiles were starting to blur - and I must have drifted off." He brushed back an errant lock of flame-colored hair. "No need to apologize. It's way past both our bedtimes, which I estimate were" - he looked at his watch - "a long time ago. Ready to go back to the hotel?" "More than ready. Lead on, partner." They drove the short distance back to the hotel. In the lobby, Mulder urged Scully to go on up to the room, that he'd be up shortly. She had changed into her nightshirt when he arrived through the communicating door, bearing a bag from the coffee shop. "Midnight snack time." "It's not midnight." "Well, it's not far off. Besides, we never stopped to have dinner. I'm not counting those packages of peanut butter and cheese crackers from the vending machine. Sit down and eat." He distributed the food - a burger with all the trimmings for himself, and a tuna salad sandwich and an apple for her. Two containers of iced tea completed the repast. "I'm so tired, Mulder. I don't think I can eat." "Try. It's a long time since you've had anything." Reluctantly, she nibbled at the sandwich. "So what did I miss due to my impromptu nap?" "Nothing much. We narrowed the list down to forty, and split them up. You and I have five names to check out. The guys on night shift will get us the current addresses and anything else we need to know. Some of these suspects may even be in jail, so that might eliminate some footwork. With a little luck, we'll nail the S.O.B. tomorow and you'll be sleeping in your own bed this time tomorrow night." "That would be nice. No bombs tonight, I take it?" "No news is good news." "I really don't think he'll try until Sunday, Mulder. If he does want a high body count, Sunday would be his best shot at getting it." "That's what Mike seems to think." She picked up something in his tone. "You don't?" Mulder shook his head, his brows drawn together in a frown. "It makes sense, and you're both undoubtedly right. There's something that's bothering me, though.... I spent about an hour going over the notes again. He's telling us something, I just haven't figured out what it is yet." She pushed back from the table, only one of her sandwich quarters eaten. Mulder pushed the last of the burger into his mouth and made a grab for one of her sandwiches. "It won't work this time, Mulder." He looked up with an air of aggrieved innocence to see a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. "What? What won't work?" "Your making a play for my food to motivate me to eat." "I wasn't - " She raised an eyebrow. He put down the sandwich. "Am I that transparent?" he asked sheepishly. She chuckled. "No, as a matter of fact, I didn't catch on for a long time." "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm just worried about you." "I know you are," she said softly. "And you're probably right. That's why I've been playing along. But I'm exhausted and right now my body needs the sleep more than the food." He nodded and stood. "You hit the sack. I'll see you in the morning." She caught his hand as he walked by, holding it in both of hers, and he stopped. "Thank you," she said softly, looking up at him. "Thanks for thinking of me. But I wish you wouldn't worry so much." His lips curled in a sad smile. "Can't help it." He stroked her hair once, twice. Her eyes filled with tears at the tenderness in his gesture, and she closed them quickly so they wouldn't betray her. "Sweet dreams, Dana." He went into his own room, leaving the door between them open. "You too, Mulder," she whispered. Friday, March 14 After getting their assignment and updates at headquarters the next morning, they drove to Fairburn for their first interview. "The profile looks promising, but the geography's all wrong," commented Mulder. "Our guy should live downtown or on the east side of Atlanta. Nothing in our zipcode theory could account for his living this much south and west. Assuming our theory is worth anything, of course. What's the guy's name again?" She scanned her reports. "William Robert Murtree, aged 31, construction worker." He broke into a grin. "Hey - Billy Bob!" "He's probably not our guy for that very reason," she said dryly. They had found their suspect just leaving for work. "Mr. Murtree, I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent Scully of the FBI. We have some questions we'd like you to answer, if you would please." He squinted at them. "What about?" "About the recent bombings of churches in the area." He grinned, showing off cracked, nicotine-stained teeth. "Yeah, I been readin' about them." "You don't seem terribly upset by it," Scully observed coolly. "Upset? Why the hell should I be upset? The more niggers that guy can kill off, the better. More power to him. What? Y'all think I might be the guy?" "It had crossed our minds." "Sorry, but y'all are gonna be disappointed on that score. I'm happy he's doin' it, and I'd give him cash money to get a lawyer when he gets caught, but no way I'd get involved in shit like that. The wife'ud kill me." "Can you give us a detailed description of your whereabouts on these days?" Scully handed him a list. "Hell, this is gonna take some time. You're makin' me late for work." "That's most unfortunate, sir." They stood immovable in his driveway. He saw their resolute expressions and spat. "Oh shit, y'all might as well come in. I'm gonna have to think about this. Shit. Lurlene? I'm coming in and I have some people with me." They heard an outraged screech from behind the door as they entered. Forty minutes later, they had a detailed statement from Murtree. He had a solid alibi for two of the weeks in question, since he had been out of state, on jobs for his construction company. They had confirmed it with his boss. "Nasty little son of a bitch," Scully commented when they were driving away. "Yeah, he's no prize, but he couldn't be our guy. Not quite the right touch of fanaticism about him. Plus, he was out of state for two of the bombings and I don't see this as a cooperative effort." Mulder grinned. "Besides, having met the formidible Lurlene, I'd believe him even without the air-tight alibi. She *would* kill him. No doubt about who wears the pants in that family." Their next call had been the born-again in Forest Park, also not the person they were looking for, though for entirely different reasons. Now they were in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Mulder glanced across at his partner, hating to wake her, but she had the address of their next stop. "Scully?" She stirred. "Almost there, G-woman. I need the address of the construction site. Feel better after your nap?" "Mmm, thanks." Scully sat up and stretched. "It's a whole city block, according to Jeremy. Dulane and 134th to 135th Streets. Backs onto the railroad yards, if that's any help." Ten minutes later, they parked the car and got out. The site was an entire city block of abandoned warehouses and factories, due to be demolished for the construction of a convention center. The size of the site made finding the foreman a challenge, but eventually they caught up with him. Mulder pulled out his ID and made the usual introductions. "We have some questions about a James Robert Gatling." "Jim-Bob?" Mulder flashed Scully a grin that said 'I told you so'. The foreman removed his hardhat and wiped the sweat from his brow. "What's he done now?" he asked resignedly. "You act like you almost expect him to be in trouble, sir," Scully commented. "Well, let's just say it wouldn't surprise me a whole hell of a lot. The guy IS trouble, with a capital 'T'. I've warned him, one more problem and his ass is outta here." "What sort of trouble has he been in, Mr....?" "Granger. Bud Granger, ma'am. Fights, mostly. Can't seem to get along with anyone. 'Specially blacks. His work isn't that great, so I really don't know why the hell I keep the sum'bitch on. If we weren't goin' into the biggest part of our contract here, I'd fire him, but right now I need every man - " His reply was lost in the shrillness of the noon whistle. "How long has this project been underway?" asked Mulder. "Six months, though you wouldn't think it to look around here. Looks like we've done jack shit. But we've had stoppages for labor and permit problems, and we've done quite a bit of site work that doesn't show." "Has Mr. Gatling been with you the whole time?" " 'Fraid so. He's calls out a lot though, with some lousy excuse or other. I figure he's got a booze problem or is real partial to long weekends. Maybe both. Whatcha want him for, anyway?" Scully smiled pleasantly and ignored the question. "Can you tell us where we could find Mr. Gatling, sir? "Well, the noon whistle just blew. He's usually one of the first to clock out. Far as I know, he doesn't leave the site - just finds someplace to hole up and have his lunch by himself. I think he was working down that far end, the old meat packing plant. You'll see it - has a beat-up old sign that says 'Astor's Sausage' over it. Watch yourselves in there. It's not a real safe place to walk around." He watched their retreating forms head toward the structure. End of Part 4A