From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (1/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:15:58 -0500 "No Greater Love" (1/13) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Hi! Sorry I haven't written. :) This is something a little different from me. It's not the usual romance/erotica thing you're used to seeing me post. It's a case file. Now, this isn't to say that I refrained from inserting =healthy= doses of UST into the mix. I didn't. Sorry to the anti-relationshippers in the crowd. I writes 'em as I sees 'em. And I can't look at Mulder and Scully without believing them to have for each other feelings that extend beyond simple friendship. Okay, Warning One out of the way. (phew!) Warning Two: this story centers around a kind of religious theme. I did this because it worked for the tale and also because I believe there is a lot more to be investigated about our heroes' spiritual lives. But, religion is a tricky subject. As a rule, it provokes strong emotions. If you're easily offended in this regard, I suggest you skip this story. Why put yourself through the discomfort? If you decide to take a chance on it after reading this disclaimer, no fair flaming! :) Warning Three: This story was started in the midst of the Rift (remember, waaaaay back then, before "Pusher" ). Elements of that infamous time have found their way into the story. Bear with me though, I promise M & S don't spend the entire tale fighting. As far as rating this one goes--I don't know, PG? There's basically not much here to shock. Certainly nothing you wouldn't see on the show. The language may be a bit saltier. But, that's it. As usual, Mulder and Scully are most certainly not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. I use them totally without permission, but with great respect and affection. I would like to thank all the folks who wrote me really nice funny little nudge notes along the way asking things like, "Where the hell have you been?" and "Are you still alive?" (The answers would be "sitting in front of my #*!!%&# computer every night!" and "barely".) It's nice to know that people notice if you aren't around. Many, many thanks are also due to LindaJ, formerly Delphi's Keeper of Secret Nurse Things for all her medical know-how and input. And finally, this story is dedicated to my band of readers/editors. Feeling a bit unsure about this one, I relied on their insight and encouragement like it was a lifeline. Eowyn, Jenni and Teresa were kind enough to offer their thoughts on Chapter One. Nicole, Paula, Connie, Kelly and Michele (the world's greatest nudge--but that's another story) put up with my sending them the rest of the thing. Thank you all so much. Comments/criticism--as always, please send them to krasch@delphi.com. I love to hear from you guys. Enjoy! =============================================== "You know, Mulder, if the trip here was any sort of indication as to how this case is going to shape up, I vote for turning the car around and heading back to the airport now." "I must have something wrong with this ear, Scully. Because I could swear I just heard you worrying about 'omens'." Dana Scully leaned her head back against the passenger seat of the Taurus she and her partner had just finished renting, and wearily closed her eyes behind her black Raybans. "I know," she murmured dryly, her lips barely moving, almost as if the effort to speak were too great. "Spooky, isn't it?" Fox Mulder smiled fondly at his partner, then returned his attention to U.S. Highway 63, the road heading due south, right through the center of Missouri. They had been traveling since breakfast and yet still had nearly another hour before they reached their destination, the tiny town of Pine Grove, just southeast of Jefferson City, the state capital. He checked his watch. 6:53. Jesus, with as long as we've been on the road, we should be in Guam by now, he thought wryly. His gaze flickered back with sympathy to the woman beside him. Poor Scully. She had not been having the best of days. It had all started with her alarm clock. Or rather, the lack of her alarm clock. The storm that had rocked D.C. the previous night had knocked out the electricity to her building while she slept. Consequently, looking like a winded, rumpled imitation of her usual polished self, she had met him at Dulles that morning with only seconds to spare before their flight was scheduled to leave for St. Louis. As luck would have it, however, her haste was ultimately for naught. The remnants of that same storm had conspired to anchor their plane solidly on the ground. For more than two hours. Her headache had begun sometime after the first half hour. And as far as he knew, lingered still. "How you feelin'?" he asked as they sped past surprisingly tall limestone bluffs dividing fields just beginning to sprout with that season's crop. Her eyes remained closed. "Have you ever seen those really intricate kinds of clocks, the ones that have figures that come out with little mallets to beat out the hour? You know . . . the kind they have in Munich?" "Yeah?" She grimaced. "Well, it feels like one of those little bastards with the mallets escaped, and has set up shop directly behind my right eye." "Beating out the hour?" "Seconds. He must love his work." At that moment, she doubted she could muster the enthusiasm necessary to echo that particular sentiment. What a day! First, the delay in D.C., then her headache, then they had touched down at Lambert only to discover they had missed their connecting flight to Central Missouri Airport. Finally, after waiting hours in St. Louis for the next puddle-jumper out, their commuter flight had been forced to fight startling gusty head winds all the way in. Consequently, the trip had taken twice as long as it should have, the comfort level being somewhat akin to a toboggan ride down a rock pile the size of Mt. Everest. She listlessly lolled her head against the seat, and eyed the man who was now fiddling with the radio, searching for a station playing something other than country music, her lids feeling as if the little timepiece refugee had brought along some pals to hang from her lashes. Mulder had survived their taste of travel hell far better than she. The blasted man's suit wasn't even wrinkled. How did he do that? She, on the other hand, felt like a walking dirty clothes pile. "You know the worst part of this, Mulder?" "Hmm?" "Now, I'm going to have to play catch-up." He glanced at her, an eyebrow arched. "What do you mean?" She met his eyes through her darkened lenses. "I didn't get a chance to go through the file like I had planned to. I skimmed it at home last night. But, that's it. And with this headache, there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to study it tonight." He shrugged blithely. "What do you want to know?" She scowled at him. "Mulder, it isn't as if we're in high school, and I need you to let me peer over your shoulder for the answers on a test. I need to be able to go over the information in that file and draw my own conclusions." The corner of his mouth turned up at her grumpy tone. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. The woman could be positively endearing when her lips pursed in a little bow like that, he mused. Not that he would ever share that observation. Not if he wanted to continue living. Deciding to pursue instead a far safer course of action, he strove to make his voice as soothing as possible. "You can draw all the conclusions you like once you've had the chance to sleep this headache out of your system. In the meantime, if you're interested, I'd be happy to share my impressions. You may not agree with all of them. In fact, I would count on it. But, it'll give you some place to start when you finally have the opportunity to dig into the stuff on your own." She considered for a moment, sitting up a bit straighter, and turning her head to look at him squarely. "You're sure you don't mind?" He shook his head. "Nope. Nothing good on the radio anyway. Just think of me as your very own private Cliff's Notes." She smiled in spite of herself. "Okay. But rather than you lecturing me--" "I never 'lecture' you." "Says the man with the slide projector," she countered lightly, her lips curved, but her look pointed just the same. "As I was saying, why don't you let me tell you what I do remember, and then you can fill in the blanks." "Fine," he agreed evenly, stinging a bit from the 'lecture' comment, but willing to chalk it up to the headache talking. "Whatever works for you." She took a deep breath, and leaned back against the seat once more, although this time her eyes remained open. With a speed born of practice, she mentally sifted through what she had gleaned of the case at hand thus far. "Okay. First--we've got three deaths." Mulder nodded. "None of which have officially been declared a murder." She nodded as well. "Not yet." No, she thought, not a conventional murder in sight. Instead, all evidence pointed to an accidental drowning, a heart attack, and a brain aneurysm claiming the lives of three of Pine Grove's citizens. "Of course, there has been some speculation that the drowning may have been a suicide," he said after a beat, his gaze still focused on the road. "=May= have been," she acknowledged. "Although there was no note." The corner of his mouth quirked. "I thought you had only skimmed this." She smiled dryly. "Don't be impressed just yet. It all turns hazy on me rather quickly." Mulder's smile broadened. Several words sprang to mind to describe his partner's thought processes. Hazy wasn't one of them. "According to members of the community, two of the victims knew each other well. Were business partners, in fact," she continued, her brow furrowed in concentration as she strove to remember every last detail possible. "Right. Mark Halprin, our deceased with the apparently bum ticker, and Roy Cullins, a man who, it would appear, had been thinking either too much or too hard. Together, with Mark's brother Terry, they owned 'Backroads'--" "--A bar on the county road running between Pine Grove and Jefferson City," Scully murmured, watching the scenery fly by, finishing Mulder's sentence with that uncanny fluidity they each shared, were now so used to, they took it for granted. "Victim number three is a different matter, however. According to friends of the deceased, she knew the other two only in passing." "Kimberly Weaver," Mulder said, seamlessly supplying the name. "A college student, who, judging by the police report, spent the last hours of her life in a bathtub." So dulled by a combination of alcohol and barbiturates that she forgot to remove her clothing before climbing into said tub and eventually drowned there, Scully thought, nodding in grim agreement as to the circumstances of the co-ed's death. The agents were silent a moment, each considering the girl's sorry end. "And yet," Mulder ventured, his eyes sliding over to steal a look at the woman beside him. "Even though it would appear at first glance that these three had no shared connection. They do, in fact, have one thing in common." "Kimberly's father," Scully said shortly. "The Reverend Andrew Weaver." "Who, if you believe the locals, is a bona fide faith healer." Scully grimaced. Yet another reason why she wasn't looking forward to this particular case. Once again, she and her partner were being thrust into an investigation involving the Almighty, or at the very least, His supposed servants. Mulder caught her look. "What?" She gazed at him through her sunglasses, striving to keep a bland countenance. Any conversation regarding religion was bound to turn personal. It always did. And from there, it was only a short hop, skip and a jump to disbelief, accusations, and defensiveness. Territory she and Mulder knew far too well. She didn't want to visit there again just yet. Her poor head couldn't stand the added aggravation. "Nothing." He saw through her smokescreen instantly. She had never been able to lie to him. "Nothing?" he challenged. She shrugged in discomfort. Take a hint, Mulder. "Nothing *important*." It was as if she had slammed a door. Then thrown the lock for good measure. The man beside her fell mute. Instead, he merely eyed her when he felt it safe to let his gaze stray from the road, disbelief and perhaps . . . disappointment? . . . painted on his face. Her head pounded with a slow steady rhythm as she tried to ignore his voiceless demand for her to speak. Damn it, Mulder, she silently groaned. Let it go. I'm not in the mood for this. Sparring with you always takes all my concentration and double my usual wit. And I'm only able to get my hands on about half my supply of either right now. Besides, we've been down this particular path before. There's no way we're going to reach a middle ground. No way in hell. She waited. Mulder finally abandoned his study of her, and instead scrutinized the road before them with an intensity that bordered on the fanatical, his lips absent-mindedly twisting. Miles passed. Neither said a word, each stubbornly clinging to their solitary stances. At long last, however, the oppressive silence got to Scully. She sighed, giving in. "I just get tired of being assigned to the God Squad." Mulder's eyebrows lifted. When the woman beside him had refused to divulge what precisely was bothering her, he had promised himself that he wasn't going to push. Or at least, not far. Much as the walls she had constructed wounded him, he strove to respect his partner's need for privacy. As close as they were, as greatly as they relied on each other, Scully and he had limits, boundaries neither would allow the other to cross. He had assumed that her reticence served as another of her Do Not Enter signs. To his regret, these had become more plentiful recently and had begun guarding territory far more vast than either of them had ever before realized existed. Now, however, her flip comment suggested something else. What, though? Embarrassment? A degree of chagrin? Or was her unexpected choice of words simply an attempt to derail his inquiry? He couldn't say for sure. These days he found himself, with a touch of dismay, unable read her clearly; not nearly as easily as he had once flattered himself he could. "The God Squad?" Her lips tilted wryly. "I know--not exactly the most respectful of terms. But that's what it feels like to me sometimes." Okay, Scully was talking to him. Good. An almost palpable sense of relief rolled through him. He hated those tense silences that had begun insinuating themselves of late into their conversations. Deciding to match her bemused tone and smile in the hopes of encouraging their tentative yet promising discussion, he mildly shook his head, his brow wrinkled in mock confusion. "Why does that sound as if I should be sporting an afro and your hair should be a lot longer and blond?" She smiled outright, seemingly glad they were taking this tangent. "Is this your subtle way of telling me that gentlemen actually do prefer blondes, Mulder?" "Only when there are no redheads around." He leered at her comically. She chuckled. Mulder smiled back. This was more like it, she thought with no small measure of relief. This she could handle. The easy, ever so slightly loaded banter that had once flowed so effortlessly between them was a welcome diversion. And one that she had dearly missed. The lack of it was understandable, of course. The past year or so had been hard on them. So damn hard on Mulder and her. Her abduction, Mulder's near death in New Mexico, the murders of his father and her sister--all had scarred them and their relationship. Had altered them in ways she wouldn't have believed possible such a short time before. Oh, they still had each other. Still clung tenaciously to that sense of trust and communion that their years as partners under the most difficult of circumstances had forged. But they weren't as free with each other as they once had been. Weren't as close. No. That wasn't true. They were still close, closer perhaps than ever before. Bonded together in ways she couldn't even begin to describe, let alone understand. And yet, at the same time, shielded from each other somehow. Almost as if each realized that the very thing that strengthened them, gave them the courage to face the challenges laid out before them-- their partnership--also had the potential to hurtle them down into a world of pain. Daily, they danced along the lip of that increasingly slippery slope. The one that taunted them with all the vigor and cruelty of a schoolyard bully. And they both knew the cost, didn't they? Each had suffered the lesson being driven home in ways so vivid that their waking hours, their rational minds couldn't contain the memories, the imagery instead spilling over into their dreams. And so, as a means of self-preservation, they had each taken a step or two back. Just enough to allow them range, enough room to breathe, enough distance to protect themselves. And each other. Or so they hoped. And if that added space proved great enough for insecurities, frustrations, and various and sundry other minor irritations to weasel in between them, well . . . Surely that was the lesser of two evils. She took her glasses from her eyes and squinted out the window, trying to ignore the relentless rhythm that pulsed in time to her heartbeat behind her eyes. The sun had dipped low enough over the horizon that her sunglasses had become more affectation than necessity. She put them away, wishing she could put away other, more messy accoutrements as easily. Longing to banish the feelings of loss, guilt and regret that haunted her when she least expected them. The ones that slipped up behind her when she wasn't looking and tapped her on the shoulder as if to say, "Don't forget about us. Because we won't ever forget about you." She shivered at the thought. And the fear. The fear that she would be forced to learn those painful emotions in still more intimate ways. That her trials weren't over. But were instead only beginning. Sometimes, such dark musings didn't even seem possible, let alone likely. She had already given up so much, had been compelled to offer up such tremendous sacrifices. What did she have left to lose? "Are you going to leave me hanging with that cryptic comment?" Mulder asked softly, slicing through her reverie so sharply that it was all Scully could do to keep from jumping in her seat. "Or do you plan on explaining to me just what you meant by the 'God Squad'?" She licked her lips and shot him a smile. Not one of her most convincing ones, but she caught a break as her partner was more focused on the increasingly shadowed road ahead of them than on her. "I guess I was referring to these crimes we keep running across . . . the ones that supposedly involve religious phenomenon. I don't know. Crazy as it sounds, sometimes I feel like we're being asked to police God." "You think this case sounds like the work of divine intervention, Scully?" "Mulder, we don't even have a case. Yet," she retorted more sharply than she had intended. "We're here because the brother of one of the deceased claims that his sibling did not die of natural causes--" "Right. But instead was murdered by a man using the flip-side of his supposed God-given talent for healing," Mulder responded with an equal edge to his voice, turning his head to pin her with his gaze. She studied his hazel eyes for as long as they held her own. "Do you believe that Reverend Weaver murdered not only Cullins and Halprin, but his own daughter as well?" Mulder took a deep breath and swung his eyes once again away from his partner's, focusing instead on the gently rolling blacktop before them. He hadn't meant to snap that way. What was it about cases such as these that pushed his buttons? He would have liked to have told himself that his mistrust of organized religion resulted from his bone-deep hatred of hypocrisy, his need to expose corruption of all kinds, regardless of how lofty the institution it protected. And yet, this very aversion to lies kept him from doing so. It wasn't just the false hopes it fostered that damned the Church in Mulder's eyes. It was the betrayal he felt he had suffered at its hands. Because he had once bought into such hopes. And he now knew them for the empty promises they were. "Scully," he began carefully, making a conscious effort to keep from saying anything his partner might construe as an attack or an affront. "I don't know what I believe. Not about this. I look at the file, I read the reports from the sheriff, the coroner, and I don't see a crime. But, Terry Halprin does. And he's going around telling people about it. The first thing you know, the county sheriff panics, turns to his cousin the senator, and before you can say 'Elmer Gantry', we're plunked down in the middle of the Show-Me State to check it out." She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "So, you think that when Sheriff Lowry requested our presence here he was looking for help with damage control more than anything else?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Could be. It probably wouldn't hurt his image in the community to be able to say that he had called in the FBI for consultation. But, maybe it's worse than that. Maybe our toughest job will be to protect the good Reverend from his congregation." "Rather than vice versa?" she ventured dryly. "Stranger things have happened." "Especially to us." Her light bantering tone pulled his eyes to hers once more. They held. Each of the car's occupants smiled, the curve of their lips subtle, yet warm. It was over. They had passed through yet another rough patch, Scully acknowledged with an inner sigh of relief. Not unscathed, but yet unbowed. That seemed to be the best they could hope for these days. Mulder slowed the car, and finally flipped on the headlights. A sign just coming into view announced the turn-off for Pine Grove. He took it. Not long after leaving the main highway for the county road, Scully spied a gas station with a small convenience store attached to it. "Can we pull in there? I need to pick up some aspirin. They should carry it--don't you think? I took the last of mine in St. Louis." "Sure. Maybe somebody there can point us in the direction of a motel while we're at it. We're getting close." "Hmm. Aspirin and a motel bed. Why does that combination sound like just this side of heaven to me?" Scully murmured with a wry smile as they pulled into the station. Mulder drove the car to a stop right outside the quick mart's front door and glanced over at his partner. She was paler than she should have been, her tailored slacks suit creased, her hair tucked a bit haphazardly behind one ear. He could see quite plainly in her eyes the strain under which she had labored all day. A sense of regret poured through him unexpectedly. You never go easy on her, Mulder, do you, accused an insistent little voice inside his head. You knew she didn't feel well, and yet you couldn't resist the urge to go one-on-one with her. He never meant to do that--to butt heads just for the sake of butting heads, to vent his frustrations on her simply because she was handy and he knew she could take it. And yet, it happened more often than he cared to admit. It was just that she was so strong, so centered, so sure that he forgot sometimes that she wasn't indestructible. Watching Scully wearily climb out of the Taurus, swaying for a moment when she finally stood, stretching to her full yet slight height, he promised himself he would be more sensitive to that in the future. To the vunerability his partner hid behind her nimble mind and penetrating eyes. She felt his gaze on her, and turned to look at him over the roof of the car. He looked back at her for a moment, saying nothing. She smiled, her expression gentle, softer than he had seen it all day. Some little something inside of him crumbled just a bit. "Come on," he said with a tiny jerk of his head, his voice low, hushed, indicating they should go inside and make their purchases. She nodded, but before turning to proceed him into the store, she lingered just a instant, looking as if perhaps she might speak. At the same time, Mulder felt as if her hesitation invited him to say more. Something. Anything. But, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part II =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (2/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:16:47 -0500 No Greater Love (2/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Disclaimer stuff in Part I. This is just story. :) ================================================ "Good morning." Mulder came to a sudden halt in the dining room doorway. Sunshine poured through the room's large picture window, bathing his partner in soft honey colored light. She sat at a polished yet well used farmer's table that had to be a century old. Papers, photographs, and open file folders surrounded her in a neat semi-circle. An empty coffee cup sat at her elbow, as did a small china plate with a single triangle of toast atop it. A matching cereal bowl holding only an spot of milk and a few dispirited corn flakes lay abandoned as well, an arm's length away. Scully had obviously been at this for awhile. He checked his watch. Nope. He hadn't overslept. 6:57. Jesus. So, exactly what time did they start serving breakfast around here? "Well, I take it the headache is gone?" he ventured dryly, the corner of his mouth turning up as he crossed to sit at the place setting opposite her. "Yes," she said with relish, flashing him one of her high wattage smiles. "I woke up this morning without a trace of it. I feel like a new woman." "Oh, I hope not," Mulder said, his eyes warm as he reached for the carafe of coffee stationed between them, and poured himself a cup. "I was kind of attached to the old one." Her smile mellowed, but the light in her eyes did not. "Actually, I believe I have you to thank for this, Mulder," she murmured, pushing her coffee cup forward for him to refill as well. "I'm sure I would never have recovered so quickly if you hadn't found this place for us to stay. It's heads and shoulders above your usual Motel 6 wannabes." He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn't take credit for their stumbling across Twin Orchards, the bed and breakfast at which they were currently lodged. For that stroke of luck, all thanks had to go to Kathy, the pony-tailed blond behind the counter at the gas station the night before. While Scully had scoured the aisles in search of aspirin, he had taken the opportunity to ask Kathy directions to the nearest motel. The young woman had grimaced in reaction. "Oh, wow. There really isn't one around here. I mean . . . not one that =I= would stay at," she had said, shivering delicately. "There's Seven Acres out on Route P, but that's a resident's motel. And to tell you the truth, it's pretty scary. You and your wife don't want to stay there." Mulder had smiled wryly, glad that Scully was at that point peering into the cooler, studying the store's selection of bottled water, and thus thankfully out of earshot. "Well, what would you suggest?" "Um . . . . Well, I guess you could stay in Jeff City . . . .," Kathy had suggested unenthusiastically, her brow and nose both wrinkled in chagrin. Then, inspiration had struck. "Or . . . you know, my boyfriend's aunt has a place a few miles from here. . . . It isn't far from town at all. . . . Normally, she doesn't open until Memorial Day weekend. But, that's like only a couple of weeks away, right? I bet if I called her . . . ." The now smiling clerk had spun around, her pink smock flaring bell-like with the motion, and enthusiastically picked up the telephone, her course of action set. Not twenty minutes later Mulder had pulled up outside a large, rambling farmhouse. The building's white painted exterior had shone like a beacon in the rosy rays of the setting sun, its newly planted flower boxes and bright red awnings giving the structure a homey, welcoming air. A hand painted wooden sign had heralded the property's name and business. It had taken the tired agents no more than an instant to recognize their good fortune. "Yeah, well my usual choice of motels may not have down comforters and four poster beds," Mulder admitted to his partner, helping himself to her remaining piece of toast, and smiling as he remembered the pleasure that had washed over Scully's face upon seeing their accommodations the night before. "But, they do have--" "Overflowing roach motels? Stained mattresses? Cracked bathroom mirrors? Paper thin walls?" She teased merrily over the rim of her cup. "Adult Pay-Per-View," Mulder countered with a wicked arch of his brow before taking a sip of his own coffee. The young redhead only smiled. "I repeat: paper thin walls. You can't fool me, Mulder. Those movies may not be known for their dialogue, but I've always been told that the actors in them are far from *silent*. Somehow, I have a feeling that if you =were= spending the tax-payers' money on that sort of entertainment, I'd be sharing the experience with you." Mulder dipped his head to hide a smile of his own. "You know, Scully, one of the first things we learned at the Academy was that the best way for a partnership to remain strong is for the two agents to share." She lifted her eyebrows in amused reproof. "Mulder-- in this, I encourage you to be greedy." "Oh there you are, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully thought you might be down about now. Your breakfast will be along in just a minute." Ginny Barker, Twin Orchards' owner and resident chef bustled out of the establishment's kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron covering her jeans and faded checked blouse as she walked. A tall big-boned woman with close cropped hair more gray than brown, she crossed to the table to check the amount of coffee remaining in the carafe. Shaking her head upon discovering how little was left, she said briskly, "I'll bring you both some more coffee too. Can I get you anything else, Agent Scully?" "No. Thank you," Scully replied politely. "Everything is fine. You have a lovely place here." The woman's homely face split with a grin. "Why, thank you. I appreciate that. It's a lot of work, but I enjoy it." "Believe me, we appreciate your letting us stay," Mulder assured her with a small smile. "I know that Kathy said you weren't officially opening for another couple of weeks yet. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of people do you normally have staying out this way?" The twinkle in Ginny's warm brown eyes told the agents that she had been asked that question before. "Well, I know it doesn't look as if there's much out in this neck of the woods. But, you'd be surprised. We've got a real pretty stretch of hiking trail that winds through the wetlands preserve about three miles north of here. That brings in a lot of bird watchers, walkers, that sort of thing. And the river you drove over just before the turn-off into my place is popular with floaters, canoeists. So, when the weather turns warmer, I get my fair share of them too. Then, of course, I get some of Reverend Weaver's people from time to time." "You mean people come from out of town to attend Reverend Weaver's services?" Scully asked in some surprise. A dry smile crossed Ginny's lips. "Oh, folks come from all over to hear ol' Andy Weaver preach. He's quite a celebrity in these parts." Mulder matched her smile. "It sounds as if perhaps you don't share their enthusiasm, Mrs. Barker." "Call me Ginny," she instructed with a playful wave of her hand. "Even after 30 years of marriage I never did get over the need to look around for my husband's mother every time I heard that name." Scully's lips curved. "Have you ever been to one of Reverend Weaver's services yourself, Ginny?" The woman shook her head, a bemused look in her eye. "'Fraid not, Agent Scully. I was born and raised a God-fearing Methodist. We don't go in for all that holy-roller stuff." Mulder's smile broadened. Scully could tell he was getting a kick out of Ginny's disdain for the object of their investigation. "The Reverend gets kind of theatrical, does he?" he asked mildly. The big woman's lips pursed. "Well, like I said, I've never actually set foot in the Reverend's church, so I don't know for certain. But from what I hear, yeah--you go to church at Christ's Mercy and you see quite a show." Scully nodded thoughtfully, hesitating a moment before she spoke. "Have you heard anything else regarding the Reverend? Any stories circulating as to this trouble with the Halprin brothers and their bar?" Ginny snorted and shook her head. "Now there's a pack of trouble if ever I saw it." "The Halprins?" Mulder inquired. "Them and that Roy Cullins," Ginny confirmed with a nod, warming to her subject now, resting her hands on the back of one of the table's ladder back chairs, and leaning in towards her two guests. "Those boys are from around here, you know. I've known them since they were in kindergarten. Terry was in my boy, Bill's, class. And let me tell you, those three--Mark, Terry, and Roy--they were wild from the get-go." Scully frowned, and began leafing through the sheaves of paper before her. "Were they ever in trouble with the law?" Ginny shook her head. "Nothing serious that I know of. Though I wouldn't be surprised if they had their share of speeding tickets and the occasional night in the drunk tank on their records. But, no. I never thought of those boys as criminals. They just liked to have a good time." "Which is why they opened Backroads?" Mulder asked before taking another sip of his coffee. "Well, I'm not a mind reader," Ginny reminded the agents with a small smile, her hands held out before her as if to say 'take this with a grain of salt.' "But, it seems to me that for three young fellas who spent every Friday and Saturday night of their adult lives drinkin' and shootin' pool, the ideal business would be to open up a place of their own." "Is it successful?" Scully asked, having begun to jot down notes on the legal pad before her. "Far as I know. I'm not a drinker, myself," Ginny told them with a wink. "It's that Methodist upbringing, don't you know. But, from what I've been told, Backroads is jumping on the weekends. Or was, until all of this." "All =what= exactly?" Mulder prodded. "Reverend Weaver's crusade," Ginny said simply, scooping up the nearly empty carafe, and preparing to return to her kitchen. "He and his parishioners have been determined to shut the place down." * * * * * * * * "Oh yeah, Reverend Weaver has been on the proverbial mission from God over Backroads." Fox Mulder leaned against the battered wooden desk facing Sheriff Steve Lowry's newer metal one and crossed his arms solidly against his chest. He did not like young Sheriff Lowry. Of course he had to admit, even before he had met the man he was prejudiced. It wasn't fair, he knew. But, Mulder found it awfully hard to keep an open mind about a law enforcement professional who had turned to a relative with political connections the minute things got a little rocky. He looked at Lowry measuringly, wondering why the sheriff had believed himself ill-equipped to handle the conflicts apparently rocking his community. Surely, he wasn't under the delusion that he was physically incapable of handling the task. Lowry was big; built like the former fullback he was. He had probably a couple of inches on Mulder's own more slender frame, and at least thirty more pounds. Sandy brown hair styled in that bristle cut that Keanu Reeves had made fashionable in "Speed" crowned a head complete with bright blue eyes, a lantern jaw and cleft chin. The man practically had "All-American" stamped on his forehead the same way a penny was imprinted with "In God We Trust," Mulder mused darkly. But, it wasn't Lowry's frat boy good looks that sealed Mulder's opinion of the small town sheriff. It was the way the young, former football star was ogling his partner. From the moment the two agents had entered the County Sheriff's office, Lowry had been letting his eyes drift speculatively down Scully's body, skimming over the curves covered by her navy blue linen suit, and settling with obvious male appreciation on the swell of her hip. It was all Mulder could do to keep from decking the guy. For her part, Scully appeared oblivious to the sheriff's interest. Presently, she stood beside him, her nose buried in yet another file. Apparently, she had meant it when she had told Mulder she felt as if she needed to play catch-up. "What exactly have the Reverend and his people been doing to get the place shut down?" she asked, finally lifting her eyes to gaze at Lowry intently. The sheriff shrugged, then offered the redheaded agent his very best smile. "Well, at first Weaver directed his attack from the pulpit. You know, lots of sermons about demon rum and the sins of the flesh." "Did people listen?" Scully asked mildly. Lowry tilted his head noncommittally. "Some. You've got to understand, Agent Scully. This is a real funny part of the country. On the one hand, you're standing right on the northern edge of the Bible Belt. The church plays a real important role in the lives of the people around here. Why, in this county alone we've got everything from Lutherans to Southern Baptists to Pentecostals." "And on the other hand, Sheriff?" Mulder drawled, dragging his eyes from the wall of photographs which lay behindthe sheriff's desk chronicling the man's gridiron career to pin him with his gaze. Lowry's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. Mulder suspected that the thinly veiled animosity he harbored for the man was no doubt the cause of the sheriff's befuddlement. And yet, the agent felt little guilt. The man was encroaching on his partner. And that just wouldn't do. Apparently unable to put his finger on what exactly was prompting Mulder's less than kindly stare, Lowry gave up his momentary contemplation of the matter, and decided to instead forge on, a sheepish grin in place. "*On the other hand,* folks around here like to blow off a little steam after putting in a day's work. Just like anywhere, I expect. This is mostly farm country. Men finish a hard day in the field, they like to come into town and share a beer with their friends, talk over the weather, feed prices, whatever. Besides, let's face it--there isn't much else to do around here. Pine Grove's three bars get plenty of business." "Three bars?" Mulder asked in surprise. Lowry nodded. "Three if you count Backroads. Although it is technically outside the city limits." Scully cocked her head. "So why target Backroads? Is Reverend Weaver also trying to close the other two places?" The sheriff turned once more to the petite redhead beside him, seemingly much happier to direct his focus to her intense blue eyes than to her partner's stony hazel ones. "Not that I know of. He never seemed to pay much attention to them at all." "So why pick on the Halprins? Did they have some kind of history with Weaver?" Mulder asked, moodily eyeing the way Lowry leaned in to Scully, almost as if he were getting ready to whisper something not at all professional in her ear. Lowry straightened again at the male agent's tone. "Well, that's what folks wondered. Rumor was the whole thing started because of Kimberly." "Reverend Weaver's daughter?" Scully queried. "Yeah," Lowry confirmed shortly. "Kim was a good kid. But she had a bit of a wild streak." "So what--are you saying she took to hanging out at Backroads?" Mulder asked a bit impatiently, longing to just get the information they needed and then get out of there. Lowry wasn't telling them much more than Ginny Barker had been able to impart. Mostly just hearsay and gossip. Mulder wanted to interview the actual suspects in this case. If they could get the sheriff to move it along, he hoped to get over to the Church of Christ's Mercy before the day was done and talk to the Reverend himself, or perhaps visit the families of Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins. Anything, rather than just standing around chewing the fat with this Howie Long look-alike. But, Scully didn't seem to be in any great hurry. Perhaps, she believed that the sheriff might actually have some pertinent information to share. Surely, she wasn't lingering because she enjoyed Lowry's attention. "From what I know of the situation, yeah," Lowry retorted, the edge in his voice suggesting he was getting a bit tired of Mulder's less than friendly attitude. "We've had a problem with Backroads letting in underage patrons. We'd sweep the place from time to time, talk to Terry and Mark, but you know how it is. We had bigger things to worry about than a few kids sneaking a couple of beers before their twenty-first birthdays." "Oh, yeah. I imagine this place is a regular *hotbed* of crime," Mulder murmured, his eyes daring the sheriff to convince him such a statement had even a grain of truth to it. The agent's disdainful challenge was, for the sheriff, the last straw. Having finally reached his limit of tolerance, Lowry bristled as sharply as his hair. "Listen, Agent Mulder-- I've got a handful of men trying to patrol an entire county here. A county filled with roads that aren't even on the map and plenty of wide open spaces. We've got a hell of a lot of area to cover. And my men and I do our jobs with only a fraction of the resources you feds take for granted. So don't try to tell me--" "Sheriff Lowry," Scully said, smoothly cutting into his tirade, and stepping forward to neatly insert herself between the two men whose testosterone levels had somehow inexplicably spiked. "If we go with the assumption that Reverend Weaver was intent on closing Backroads to keep his daughter from frequenting there, how did he go about it?" Lowry glared at Mulder for a good second or two more. Mulder met his eyes, the agent's gaze frankly amused. Although Lowry might have the physical edge on him, Mulder thought he was more than capable of holding his own against the sheriff in a battle of wits. The thought cheered him immeasureably. Lowry cleared his throat, paused a moment, getting himself under control, then continued. "Well, like I said, first he just preached about it. Told his people to stay away from the place. Then, first thing you know, signs started appearing all over town. Posters tacked to anything that wasn't moving. But it didn't all come to a head until the picketing." "Picketing?" Mulder questioned, unable to keep a chuckle from coloring the query. Lowry wasn't prepared to let go of his glower just yet. "Yeah. Picketing. Every weekend, Weaver would show up with a van load of people out at Backroads. If he could get enough of them together, they'd make an appearance during the week too. They never really did anything, just stood around outside with signs and bibles and asked the folks going in to reconsider the error of their ways. Kinda like the sort of thing you see done outside of abortion clinics. It got nasty from time to time, though. We had to break up more than a couple of fights." Mulder shook his head, clearly amused. "How long did this go on?" The sheriff shrugged. "I don't know. Since March. Maybe even the end of February." Scully flipped through the legal pad she had earlier set on Lowry's desk. "And Kimberly Weaver died . . .?" "March twenty-seventh," Lowry supplied smoothly. "Mark Halprin died almost a month later to the date, April twenty-fifth. Roy Cullins died a week after that." "May third," Scully murmured, her brow creased in thought as she considered the information before her, looking as if she were trying to put together a sort of timetable for the supposed crimes. Lowry took advantage of her absorption, and leaned in to peer over her shoulder in a move designed to appear as if he wanted to get take a peek at her notes himself, but in reality, Mulder recognized, served to surreptiously give the sheriff a commanding view down the front of the unsuspecting woman's blouse. The thought made something grow heavy and hard low in Mulder's stomach. And so, feeling as if he really just had to say *something*, the agent opened his mouth to protest Lowry's tactics. Yet, while Scully's concentration was focused on something other than the tall, wide-shouldered man towering over her, she wasn't comatose. And before her partner could ride to the rescue with one of his patented cutting remarks, she merely glanced at Lowry with a mild yet far from gentle expression, a brow arched. To his credit, the sheriff took the subtle hint, and eased off. Mulder smiled in open satisfaction. "Is the Reverend still at it?" Mulder inquired, crossing to stand beside his partner, wanting for some undefineable reason to reaffirm their connection to Sheriff Lowry. To in some small way warn the other man away. Apparently, the message got through. Lowry took a step back. Scully's bemused gaze swung first from the lean, lanky dark-haired man on her left to the taller, brawnier man on her right, then back again. In reply to his partner's unspoken query, Mulder merely offered her his blandest, most innocent face. He wasn't certain it worked. But in the end, Scully decided to let the moment pass. It was all Mulder could do not to sigh with relief. Noting the silent communication between the two agents and yet unable to read what specifically was being said, Lowry hesitated for a moment. Then, offering a pained smile, he continued. "No need to keep at it. Reverend Weaver did what he set out to do. Backroads is in trouble. Not that Terry Halprin is worried about that right now though. Hell--let's face it--pouring a few less drinks on a Saturday night is the last thing on his mind. His brother and best friend are dead, and he's scared shitless that the same thing is going to happen to him. Oh--sorry, Agent Scully." "Don't worry about it," she murmured with a tiny smile. "Scared of what exactly?" Mulder asked, catching his partner's eyes with his own, and mirroring her smile. "That Reverend Weaver is coming after him next?" Lowry ducked his head as if acknowledging the absurdity of what he was about to say. "You smile now, Agent Mulder. But you may not find the idea so far-fetched once you meet the man." * * * * * * * * Mulder would have given anything to learn that day if Lowry's assessment of Pine Grove's resident celebrity was accurate. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, at the end of one of the most tedious days in recent memory, the FBI's best known believer sat, a mound of pillows cushioning his back, against the headboard of his sturdy mahogany four poster and moodily popped another sunflower seed into his mouth, unable to believe his and his partner's recent string of bad luck. The whole trip felt cursed. With narrowed eyes, he worried the seed with his tongue and studied the meager collection of notes he had struggled that day to collect. God, he and Scully would have had better luck interviewing those directly involved with the case from their basement office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building than they were having in Pine Grove, Missouri. Soon after Sheriff Lowry had made his enigmatic comment regarding the Reverend and his supposed abilities, Mulder and Scully had separated for the day. Scully had accepted Lowry's offer to drive her to Jefferson City where the bodies of the deceased were awaiting her perusal, thus allowing Mulder to keep their car and begin his half of the investigation in town. Unfortunately, the people he most wanted to talk to failed to hold up their end of the bargain. Try though he might, Mulder was unable to make contact with any of the people on his "most wanted" list. Reverend Weaver was in Springfield speaking at Southwest Missouri State University. Terry Halprin was in Columbia meeting with the bank that held the mortgage on Backroads. Mrs. Cullins, Roy's mother and only living family member, was visiting friends in Florida. Stymied, Mulder had been forced to improvise. Sticking out like a heron among sparrows, he had roamed the half a dozen blocks which constituted beautiful downtown Pine Grove, questioning the locals, and trying to get a feel for the town and its most famous citizen. It had not proven to be the most enlightening afternoon of his life. Now, with the clock inching towards 9:00, and his impatience with the case in general and that day in specific growing exponentially with every tick-tock, he yearned to share his frustration with his absent partner. Where the hell was she? Not that he begrudged her the time spent in the autopsy bay. Scully had been thrilled to learn she was going to be able to get a look at the bodies of the supposed victims. When it came to using her medical expertise to hunt for clues, his physician partner was more than in her element. Mulder envied her that. At least Scully got to do what she did best to help move the investigation along. By contrast, he felt as if he had spent the day slogging in an ever narrowing circle through mud. From outside his half opened window he heard a car pull up. He pushed himself from the bed and crossed to investigate, spitting out the husk of the sunflower seed into the room's wicker trash basket as he passed it. He peered through white eyelet lace curtains and spied the county sheriff's tan sedan. Although night had fallen thickly on the Missouri sky, the porch light was bright enough to highlight Scully's hair as she raised her hand in farewell, then turned to climb the steps leading to Twin Orchards' entrance. Good. She was back. Mulder felt something ease in the center of his chest. He returned to his previous resting spot on the bed. Half-heartedly scanning the pages before him, he heard Scully climb the stairs to the second floor, the click of her door, her light tread across the floorboards in her room. They were lodged at the end of a long hallway, in chambers separated by a bathroom they both shared. Ginny had apologized for the inconvenience, and explained that with over two weeks before she had planned on officially opening the inn for that season, she had decided to do a little sprucing up of the bed and breakfast's accommodations. She had managed to get the two rooms in which they were presently staying completed, but the rest of the floor was still in the midst of redecorating. He waited, wrestling with his restlessness for Scully to come to him. Eventually, she did, her soft knock at what Mulder thought of as his bathroom door alerting him to her presence. "Come on in." A tired smile on her face, Scully crossed into the room, her suit jacket off, her blouse untucked, the top button freed from its hole, her feet bare. "Hi." He smiled back at her. She looked exhausted. Rubbing the back of her neck wearily, she surveyed the oddly ordered chaos of papers and files that littered the comforter upon which he sat. Shaking her head in bemusement, she padded softly over to perch on the side of his bed, even with his knees, and reached up to undo her hair which was secured at the base of her neck in a low ponytail. The whole thing struck Mulder as almost astonishing intimate. He glanced away from her for an instant, touched by just the smallest amount of chagrin, unable to escape the sensation that the opportunity to see his partner in this manner --her clothes disheveled, somewhere between dressed and not; her movements languid with fatigue; her face thoughtful; her gaze soft--was something he wasn't meant to view. And yet, at the same time, was exactly how he longed to see her. "How'd it go?" he asked in an effort to cover his strangely unsettling thoughts, pleased when his voice failed to betray him. She shrugged. "I had a few surprises." "Such as?" "Such as I had only two bodies to look at instead of three." Mulder arched a brow in question. Scully raised hers as if silently answering him. "It seems that Reverend Weaver decided to have his daughter's body cremated. The funny thing is he came to this decision nearly a month after her death." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part III =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (3/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:17:28 -0500 "No Greater Love" (3/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com More story. Thanks! ================================================ "He had the body cremated?" Scully nodded, wishing she weren't quite so exhausted and thus could better appreciate the look of utter incredulity currently gracing her partner's face. "That's right. On April 26, Reverend Weaver put in a request to have his daughter's body exhumed. Within the week, her remains were returned to Berrier Brothers Funeral Home, the place where she was originally prepared for burial, and promptly cremated." Mulder's gaze darkened with frustration. "Well, there goes =that= lead. I don't suppose you were given any explanation as to the Reverend's sudden change of heart?" Scully shook her head. "No, I have no idea why. I inquired at the morgue, but no one had any answers for me. In fact, nobody seemed to know anything about it, period. Not Gerald Perkins, the County Coroner and M.E. of record, and not Sheriff Lowry. Although, to be honest, I don't know why any of this should surprise me. After all, these are the same people who believed the destruction of Kimberly Weaver's remains wasn't important enough to mention in the paperwork they faxed over to us in the first place." Although she appreciated the sympathetic grimace Mulder was at that moment sending her way, it did little to alleviate the annoyance and disappointment that had coursed through her veins since learning of this latest stumbling block early that afternoon. Damn it! She had thought she was going to be able to get at a look at the bodies of all the so-called victims. But, because of the suspicious yet entirely legal actions of their chief suspect, that avenue of investigation had been compromised. Scully knew with a sort of intuition she normally associated with Mulder that Kimberly Weaver's body had held secrets. Information which would have shed some much needed light on their case; a theory that was more than substantiated when she took into account what she had learned from the remains of Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins. "Any other surprises?" Mulder asked glumly. Scully tucked a leg beneath her, and cocked a brow. "One or two. And these I think you're going to love, Mulder." "Good, I could use a little cheering up," he murmured wryly, his lower lip poked forward just a bit for effect. She smiled at his assumed peevishness, more than appreciating the sentiment. It had not been an easy day. For either of them, she suspected. Her lower back might feel as if sometime during the hours spent standing on the morgue's unforgiving tile floor a stainless steel spike had been driven into it, but Mulder looked as if their hours apart had been no kinder to him. He sat facing her, his long legs pressing into her hip, dressed in the remains of his slate colored suit. The jacket, tie and shoes were missing. Only the white dress shirt, carelessly unbuttoned at his throat, and creased gray slacks remained, both undeniably the worse for wear, wrinkled in a way only the dry cleaners could repair. Her partner's usually intense hazel eyes were a less than attractive combination of sleep-tinged and red-rimmed. The latter apparently the result of trying to rub the former away. His hands had also seemingly found their way into his hair, strands of which presently poked skyward at strangely endearing angles. All in all, Mulder looked like a little boy who had played too hard and was now way too tired to go to sleep. Smiling in sudden surprise at the unnerving trend her thoughts were taking, Scully looked away from the man opposite her, feigning interest in the delicate stitching woven into the comforter upon which she sat. Taking a deep breath, she resolutely pushed aside her exhaustion and the peculiar effect her rumpled partner was having on her, striving instead to remember with precision what she had intended to share with Mulder when she had first entered his room. Finally, raising her eyes once more, she plunged in. "Although both Cullins and Halprin appear to have indeed died in the manner in which the coroner reported, I did find some irregularities." Mulder's interest piqued immediately. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. "What sort of irregularities?" She shrugged slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. And to be completely frank, I'm not at all sure I can explain it." "Sounds like an X-File," he said with the smallest hint of a smile, the weariness that had only moments before clouded his eyes lifting ever so slightly. "Run it by me, Scully." Her eyes smiled back in reaction to his enthusiasm. "What do you know about coronaries?" "Other than this job will likely give me one? Not much." Her appreciation of his humor reached her lips. "Heart disease is genetic, Mulder. Most sufferers uncover a history of the disorder in their family." "Not so with Mark Halprin?" he guessed. "No. Not a trace of it," she confirmed with a quick shake of her head. "Now, that in and of itself is not tremendously unusual. After all, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility for a distant relative to perhaps be afflicted with the disease. Someone whose medical history wouldn't readily have made its way into his file." Mulder nodded his understanding. "However, this supposed cause of death does become a trifle more odd when you take into consideration the man's age and physical condition. Halprin would have turned 35 this year. He didn't smoke. He was a cross country runner, and according to his brother Terry, a swimmer as well. A man in excellent shape." Humor twinkled in her partner's eyes. "Are you trying to tell me I should worry, Scully?" She shook her head, a subtle smile still curving her lips. "Not at all. Under normal circumstances, Mark Halprin would not have been considered a likely candidate for a heart attack." "Normal circumstances?" She dipped her head. "That's just it--when I opened him up what I found was far from normal." "How do you mean?" "A heart attack can occur in a number of ways. Usually, however, some sort of clogging of the arteries will be evident--plaque or clotting of some kind." "Let me guess--Halprin's were as clean as a whistle." "Good guess. But that wasn't what was *really* strange." The corner of Mulder's expressive mouth raised just a fraction. "You know, I never thought of you as a tease, Scully, but right about now--" She arched a brow and gave him one of her trademarked looks. "The heart looked beaten, Mulder." "Beaten?" he echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion. She nodded. "Most times, in cases such as Halprin's, you'll find what is called a myocardial infarction--a bruising of the heart. But, this usually occurs in one location. =One=. Halprin had them all over his heart, almost as if the organ had been pummeled. One of the ventricles was even ruptured." Mulder didn't understand all the intricacies involved, but he got the gist of it. "Any idea what would cause something like that?" She shook her head. "Not a clue. But it gets better." "Scully, I just knew that sharing a bed with you would make my day." Her eyes widened, then sharply narrowed at his quip. Mulder's only defense was his grin, which he employed shamelessly. Luckily for him, his partner was too exhausted to do more then gaze at him, thunderclouds intensifying the already vivid blue of her eyes. Ultimately however, the threatening storm dissipated before it reached fruition, blown aside by her own reluctant bemusement at his sally. "Cullins' brain exploded." Mulder blinked at her without comprehension. "Excuse me?" "My sentiments exactly," she murmured dryly. "Any medical textbook will tell you that an aneurysm essentially involves a weakened area of blood vessel, normally occurring in the Circle of Willis." "Okay," Mulder said, not really following her, but willing to take her word for it. "So what--are you saying that Cullins had some sort of a massive blowout of blood vessels?" "No. That's just it. Cullins had =no= blood vessels compromised. Not a single one. And yet, when I spread his cranium, it was filled with blood." The man sitting opposite her shuddered in distaste. "How is that possible?" "I wish I knew," she replied with a degree of apology. Mulder's eyes slid away from hers for a moment, his mind whirring. "Are there any kinds of drugs that could bring about this sort of damage?" "No." "Could Halprin and Cullins' injuries have been inflicted in any way from outside the body? Through a blow or wound of some kind?" She shrugged again, wishing she had some better answers for him. "No, not that I know of. Besides, there were no markings on the surface, no indication of any physical injury from an outside source." "And Weaver wasn't present at the deaths of either of these two men?" Mulder asked softly, his question rhetorical; his partner recognizing that his gaze had now turned inward, centering on that place where his mind put together patterns and theories faster than any other agent in the Bureau. "No," Scully assured him, her fingers playing with the barrette in her hands, the one that had held her thick fall of hair away from her face while she had performed the examinations they were discussing, and now served as a kind of worry-stone, a tool of sorts to help channel and order her own jumbled thoughts. "Not that we know of. Cullins died on the job--at Backroads--in full view of a bar load of customers. No one was standing anywhere near him, and Reverend Weaver and his picketers weren't even on the premises that night." "And Halprin died at home?" "Mmhmm," Scully murmured, stifling a yawn behind her hand. Lord, she was tired. The day had taken its toll. She wondered if she would even feel the pillow beneath her weary head before she nodded off. "Alone. The Reverend was at his church at the time. Members of his congregation's bible study class confirmed his alibi." Mulder nodded, his brow still creased in thought, his eyes focused on some point beyond Scully's shoulder, his teeth gnawing restlessly on his lower lip. The young redhead watched him patiently, intrigued as always by the manner in which his brain did its job, wondering just when all the little pieces of his latest theory would tumble into place with an almost audible click, her equally agile mind already composing counter-hypotheses. "Scully, what if the whole God angle doesn't figure into it at all? What if Weaver has some sort of psychokinetic ability? What if he was able to kill Halprin and Cullins simply by reaching into their bodies and causing them to short circuit?" Scully stared at him dumbly. None of the theories she had been busily constructing had quite taken into consideration this angle. "Psychokinesis?" Mulder's eyes gleamed. She knew that look. The man believed he was on to something. "Sure. It makes sense. Not only about these murders, but about his entire faith healer shtick." She frowned. "What do you mean?" "Think about it, Scully," he instructed as he leaned towards her and shifted to sit cross-legged so that their knees nearly touched. "Weaver has made a living out of curing the sick and giving the credit to the Almighty. But what if all along =he= was the one with the power? He was the one who was going in and manipulating tissue, blood chemistry, whatever. Hell, he may not even realize it himself. He could have some highly developed sort of psychokinetic talent and not even be aware of it." "Mulder, the kind of psychic ability you're describing is almost unimaginable in its power. Researchers studying extrasensory perception become ecstatic when they discover a subject who is able to bend a spoon, and yet you're suggesting that Reverend Weaver has the power to alter at a cellular level a person's physical being." "Just because it's never been documented doesn't mean it's not possible," Mulder reminded her swiftly. Shaking her head, Scully continued relentlessly. "It's not only the magnitude of the power necessary to accomplish what you're proposing Weaver is able to, it's the medical knowledge he would have to possess in order to do what you believe he can do. He would have to have a detailed understanding of the human body, its structure, the workings of its various systems--" "So, he's a medical buff," Mulder countered carelessly, shrugging away her protests as if they were merely troublesome gnats. "Maybe he got As in college biology, or subscribes to the American Journal of Medicine. I don't know. Maybe, he doesn't need to know the particulars in order for the changes to take place. Perhaps all he has to do is focus on an area and think 'good thoughts'." Scully stared at the man before her for a moment, chewing on the inside of her cheek, her expression vexed. "Mulder, =think= what you're suggesting. We have no motive, no evidence. And yet, you've jumped to a conclusion that's so . . . . so . . =out there.= This explanation actually sounds plausible to you?" she asked with more than a touch of disbelief. "While you find it more believable to assert that Weaver makes a living and does away with those who cross him by asking God for favors?" Mulder countered mildly, holding her gaze effortlessly with hazel eyes afire with challenge. Scully's own turbulent blue eyes clung to his with fierce resolution, almost as if she thought that dropping them would be admitting some kind of weakness, some sort of doubt regarding both her theories and her own judgment. Finally however, she raised her eyebrows and lightly shook her head, her voice hushed and tightly controlled. "I never said that, Mulder. I never said that I thought the Reverend was some sort of avenging angel. And besides, precisely when did we decide that not only had murder been committed, but that Weaver was indeed our prime suspect?" Mulder recognized that his rebuff had angered her, and yet he wasn't quite prepared to let it all go. "You're the one who came up with the proof, Scully. The one who discovered that everything wasn't as cut and dried as we had been led to believe." "Mulder, what I found today proves =nothing=." He persisted. "Then explain to me how Halprin and Cullins' bodies came to be in the shape they're in." "I can't!" she shot back at him, the stresses and strains of the day fueling her frustration with her partner and his pig- headedness, propelling her voice upwards in both volume and tone. "You know that. I can't explain what exactly killed those men anymore than you can to prove to me that Weaver did it by thinking 'bad thoughts'!" For a moment they simply glared at each other, both breathing hard. Finally, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to physically banish the unexpectedly heated disagreement he and his partner had both just shared, Mulder said in a tone designed to placate, "Well, regardless of which theory is eventually proven right, one thing is for certain." Scully cocked her head, not meeting his eyes. "What?" "The need for proof," he said shortly. "Neither theory has any hope of becoming anything more without hard evidence." "Which we are notably lacking," she agreed with a little nod, now considering the man before her, the one that infuriated and fascinated her, both in equal measure. Neither agent said anything for a moment, instead mulling over all that had already been said. Then, Scully ventured quietly, "So, what about you? What did you learn today?" Mulder smiled dryly. "Nothing quite so colorful, I assure you. Although, the afternoon was *not* without its revelations." He leaned over to the night stand and selected another sunflower seed from the bag resting there, popping it into his mouth, then offering one to Scully. She declined, even as the tilt of her head invited him to continue. "For instance, did you know that The Coffee Cup does a really excellent BLT?" Only Mulder had the power to make her emotions turn so sharply on a dime, Scully thought with a rueful twinge of self-knowledge. Not a moment before she had wanted to throttle him, both for his flights of fancy and for the almost spooky talent he had for getting under her skin when he put his mind to it. But that desire had passed, just as it had so many times before. Oh, he had struck a nerve with his jab over her willingness to believe in miracles. But the attack hadn't been malicious. She knew that. It was just hard to remember it sometimes when he hit that close to home. Now, however, his bizarre sense of humor had kicked in. And, as a result, the corner of her lips quirked. "Why no, I hadn't realized that." she murmured, gazing at him with a raised brow. "Thank you, Mulder. That's good to know." He nodded, a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor lighting his eyes. "Especially since The Coffee Cup is Pine Grove's one and only restaurant." "So, are you trying to tell me that lunch was the highlight of your day, Mulder?" He dipped his head again. "Sad, but true." Scully smiled in sympathy. "I take it the locals were not forthcoming?" "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he countered, even as the look in his eyes assured her that was =precisely= what he would say. "They were more than willing to tell me that Kimberly Weaver was a nice girl. A good girl. A credit to her father and her community, and a person who is sorely missed." She chuckled over his sing-song recitation. "Shocking. What did you learn about the Reverend?" "Oh, nothing quite as juicy as I learned about his daughter," Mulder assured her with heavy irony, bending down to spit out the seed shell with a sharpshooter's accuracy into the waste basket beside the bed. "Although I did find out that people seem to respect him and this 'gift' he has. Nearly everyone I spoke with had some story they had either witnessed themselves or had heard regarding Weaver's healing ability." "You weren't able to track down the Reverend himself?" "I tried," Mulder protested, with an exasperated flailing of hands. "But Weaver skipped town with the rest of this case's principal players." He quickly filled her in as to the whereabouts of Weaver, Halprin, and the rest of their absent interviewees. She smiled her condolences, and lightly patted his calf in comfort. "Well, as Scarlett O'Hara said, 'tomorrow is another day'." Mulder looked at the hand resting atop his pants' leg for a beat before meeting his partner's sleepy blue eyes. "You expect me to be cheered by the words of a woman who made her living room curtains double as evening wear?" he murmured with a dry smile. "No. As with everything in this case, I'm afraid it's not that easy, Scully. True, if all things go according to plan, we'll finally get our opportunity to speak with the elusive Reverend--a man who, may I say, is turning out to be as mythical as your two brothers. But, first we're going to have to sit through an hour or two of the PTL Club Live. I'm not so sure it's an even trade." "Well then, we better get our rest," she said with a small smile as she rose from the bed and crossed to the connecting door. However, once she reached the portal, Scully paused, her hand on the knob, her body turned only slightly towards the man on the bed. "Mulder, these people you spoke with today-- you said they seemed to respect Weaver's supposed gift. But . . . did you find that most of them believed in it?" she asked hesitantly, her eyes not quite meeting his. He shrugged, a bit uncomfortable with the direction in which the conversation was headed. "Well, it's not as if I was with Gallup, Scully. My poll was informal at best." "I know," she said with a little nod, her gaze still not engaging his directly, her hands once again busy with her barrette. "But, I'm curious. What did people say?" He couldn't lie to her, although saying the words didn't come easily. "Most people bought it. The whole routine. It appears that Ginny is in the minority. Most of the people I spoke with thought that Reverend Andrew Weaver was the real McCoy. A genuine holy man." Scully nodded, saying nothing. "Does that matter?" he asked, his intent gaze revealing how much her answer mattered to him. She waited a moment before replying, almost as if weighing her words. "No. No, not at all. Like I told you, I'm curious, that's all." He nodded, studying her shuttered face. For a moment they said nothing. "Go to sleep, Scully," he told her quietly after their eyes had silently asked all the questions hanging in the air between them only to find the answers no less elusive than before. She nodded once more but still made no move to leave the room. Finally, she spoke. "Mulder, I'm okay with this. You know? I don't want you to think--" "I know that, Scully," he said swiftly, softly, cutting through her assurances to him with a ruthlessness that illustrated how unnecessary he believed them to be. "I'm not worried. I never doubt your abilities. Never." "Good," she said, her voice low, her eyes fierce. "I just wanted you to know." "I do," he said without hesitation, leaning forward once more, almost as if his body were drawn to her somehow even without him being consciously aware of it. "I know I can count on you." She smiled, quick and tight, and exited, shutting the door carefully behind her. Mulder sat for a good long time after she had left him, staring at the wall separating their rooms and wondering about all the things he and his partner never said. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part IV ===========================================================================