From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (4/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:18:14 -0500


"No Greater Love" (4/13)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Still more. Enjoy.
================================================

	Mulder was awakened on that Sunday morning by the
sound of his partner entering the bathroom.  He wasn't surprised 
to discover that it was Scully's muffled movements which had 
stirred him from slumber.  Although she had somehow managed 
to get ready the morning before without alerting him, he knew 
himself to be a man whose mind was far too active and whose 
suspicions ran far too deeply to be easily seduced by sleep.  
So despite her best efforts to be quiet, by the time Scully 
turned on the shower all pretense at dozing was at end.
	Hello world, he thought sardonically.
	He rolled towards the night stand and looked at the 
travel clock atop it.  6:07.  Services didn't start at the Church of 
Christ's Mercy until 10:00.  Scully and he were going to have 
some time to kill.  Maybe they could get to Weaver before the 
festivities began.  That way they could skip the actual ceremony.  
Oh, who was he fooling?  With the way this case was going, not 
only would he undoubtedly be forced to sit through a lengthy 
hellfire and brimstone sermon, but he'd probably be compelled 
through nefarious means to join the choir as well.
	His lips twisting in wry amusement at the thought, he 
glanced out his bedroom window.  The sunny seasonable weather 
they had been enjoying since arriving in the nation's heartland 
was apparently at an end.  The sky looking in on him was an 
ominous gun metal gray.  Droplets of rain spotted the panes of 
glass separating him from the elements.  And he could detect 
quite plainly on the portion of his anatomy not covered by the 
handmade comforter bundled over him a chilly draft snaking in 
through the open window.
	He scowled.  The bleak blustery day matched his mood.
	Mulling over that realization, Mulder stared at the 
ceiling, annoyed with himself and the world at large.  He 
had no reason for the disquiet coursing through him.  No 
*real* reason.  True, the case had certainly proven tedious.  
>From the time they had set forth from Washington, events had, 
with a sort of  gleeful malice, consistently failed to unfold 
smoothly.  Questions were raised without hope of answer, 
roadblocks thrown up simply to see what it would take for him 
and Scully to surmount them, beliefs challenged, relationships 
strained. . . . 
	Relationships strained.
	That was the real problem, wasn't it?  The actual cause 
of the foul temper he acknowledged sat poised at the edges of 
his consciousness, like a predator waiting to strike.  God, he 
hated it when he and Scully were at odds!  Despised it.  Loathed 
it.  
	But for crying out loud, she really didn't expect him to 
swallow that load of bull about Weaver's partnership with God, 
did she?
	Mulder, did she ever once say outright that she believed 
the Reverend to be in cahoots with the Almighty?
	Well, not in so many words, he silently allowed.  But she 
was intrigued by the notion.  Of =that= he was certain.  And 
besides, she sure as hell dismissed out of hand his own theory 
regarding psychokinesis
	As well she should, argued the really annoying little inner 
voice.  What kind of proof do you have?  None.  Motive?  Nothing 
compelling enough to warrant the deaths of three people, one of 
whom was the only family the supposed murderer had.  Hell, 
despite what Scully found, you still don't even know for certain 
that a crime has been committed, let alone that Weaver is the 
culprit.
	Then, how do you explain the bizarre details surrounding 
the deaths of Roy Cullins and Mark Halprin, and the convenient 
destruction of Kimberly Weaver's remains?
	I don't.  You do.  It's your job.
	"Easy for you to say," Mulder murmured aloud in an 
effort to silence the smug interior speaker, stretching his lanky 
frame with abandon as he did so.
	Much as he hated to admit it, all the objections his 
conscience raised were fitting, and perfectly justified given the 
less than perfect case he was constructing against the still 
unseen Weaver.  But he =knew=, felt in his bones the same way 
an arthritic senses a rainstorm that the rash of unexpected 
deaths currently plaguing Pine Grove, Missouri was caused by 
unnatural circumstances, and was far from random.  He just 
wished he could figure out how the murders had been committed.  
And why.  The investigation was in dire need of a motive.  The 
one they had just didn't wash.  Weaver, who by all accounts had 
been a strict but loving father, didn't seem the sort to kill his 
only child in cold blood simply because she had disobeyed him 
by frequenting a local bar.  Neither did it seem likely that the 
Reverend's wrath would extend to Backroads' owners, fueled 
solely by their practice of occasionally serving minors.  No.  There 
had to be something else there.  If only he could figure out what.
	While he was at it, he also wished he could come up 
with a way to deal with the unexpected banks and turns his 
partner's mind was taking of late.  He knew that their 
relationship had recently suffered its share of hills and valleys, 
but none had plagued him so insistently as their current impasse 
over the issue of Pine Grove's resident miracle worker.  Mulder 
just didn't know how to approach Scully on this.  He couldn't 
get a handle on what precisely would set off her alarms.  
Christ, he wasn't even certain what would set off his *own* 
warning bells.  His tolerance level was next to nil when 
it came to "big-haired preachers" and their cronies.  And yet, 
in some sort of twisted cosmic payback, matters of the spirit 
were the one thing that coaxed Dana Scully to believe.
	He considered that for a moment.  Wondering with a 
touch of wistfulness just what it was that drew his skeptical 
partner to the sacred.  He knew from various comments she 
had made that at least part of her schooling had taken place 
under the tutelage of the Catholic church.  He smiled as he 
pictured for an instant a young Dana Katherine Scully, clad in 
her plaid school uniform, her face scrubbed, her knee socks 
pulled high, brightly polished mary-janes adorning her feet.  
With her classic Irish good looks, she would have been the 
ideal poster child for parochial education, he mused fondly.  
	And yet, when he had questioned her mother as to 
reason for Scully wearing her ever-present cross, Mrs. Scully 
had denied any sort of devout belief on the part of her daughter, 
stating instead that she wore the necklace merely for sentimental 
reasons.  He had no real excuse for doubting that.  From what he 
could glean of his partner and her behavior, she didn't frequent 
church.  She wasn't one for openly praying in times of stress.  
And while she was far from gutter-mouthed, Mulder knew with 
absolute certainty that he had heard her use the Lord's name in 
vain from time to time.  
	However, despite her apparent lack of conventional 
religious devotion, there remained about her a calmness, a 
serenity that suggested to Mulder a spiritual foundation he 
knew, with a bittersweet sort of regret, he would never possess.  
This core gave Scully her strength, and perhaps even the courage 
which he recognized he relied on as much as she.  She would 
have had to call on both to survive the horrors she had been 
asked to endure as his partner--all the scares, the injuries, the 
sicknesses, the loss of loved ones, the almost unimaginable loss 
of her own life.
	How might her own near death have affected Scully's 
views of God and her role in His universe, Mulder wondered, his 
gaze holding fast to the ceiling above his head, his hands linked 
behind his neck to support it.  How ironic.  He too had come 
perilously close to death not so long ago.  And yet, although 
he had experienced his own sort of spiritual epiphany, God, in 
some perverse manner, hadn't really entered into it.  No.  
Instead, upon passing over, he had come face to face with his 
past.  A decidedly secular past filled with family and friends 
who welcomed him, gave him advice and solace, yet said 
nothing about the Creator.  He had been tempted to stay with 
them, certainly.  But not because of any sort of peace to be 
found, any desire to remain clutched to God's bosom, any 
sense of homecoming.  Not at all.  He had only toyed with 
remaining there with his father and Deep Throat and the rest 
because he had been tired.  So terribly tired of the lies, of the 
deception, of fighting the good but seemingly doomed fight.  
Only two things had brought him back.
	The confirmation that, despite all evidence to the 
contrary, Samantha was not dead, but merely lost.
	And the knowledge that Scully was in danger, and 
needed him.
	Yes, he had been willing to walk away from death to 
return to his partner's side, a notion that while he recognized 
it as true, quite frankly scared the hell out of him.  As much he 
cared for Scully, he didn't relish her holding that sort of influence 
over him.
	And yet, you hope against all hope that you hold that 
same kind of sway with her, don't you Mulder, piped up that 
wicked little voice again.  You wished with everything you had 
on that certain November night, the night when you could 
literally feel her life slipping away through your fingertips that 
the thought of you being there beside her might be enough to 
tempt her back.
	Mulder turned over onto his stomach in a sudden swoop 
of movement, bile threatening to flood his throat as memories of 
that hellish night at Northeast Georgetown Medical Center 
flooded his brain.  God, would he never be free of those images--
the sights and sounds and smells he linked so irrevocably with 
the near loss of someone whose value to him he dared not 
contemplate too closely.  The tangy antiseptic odor of 
disinfectant, the steady hum of countless monitors and machines 
all charged with the duty of keeping those most fragile of patients 
alive, the dull muted colors that he knew had been chosen to be 
soothing to the eye, but instead only served to remind him that 
life, like the vivid hues missing from the walls, the furniture, the 
bedclothes, was fading away around him.
	Her life.
	Scully's life.
	All right, he admitted in silent confession, his arms 
wrapped around his pillow, his chin resting on its case.  Yes.  I 
had hoped that my being there would be enough to keep Scully 
alive.
	Did you pray?
	Did he?  He must have.  And yet, for the life of him, he 
couldn't recall what words had been spoken, what entreaties 
had been employed, what promises had been made.
	<PleaseGodI'llDoAnythingAnythingAtAllJustPlease
PleaseDon'tTakeHerFromMeDon'tHaveBroughtHerBackJustTo
MakeMeWatchHerDie>
	Foxhole religion, he thought dismissively, more than a 
trifle chagrined over the accidental pun the phrase brought to mind.  
Angrily, he shoved away memories of that time, and the fear and 
vunerability that never failed to accompany them.   When all was
said and done, desperate times had called for desperate measures, 
that was all.  And he had taken a chance.  Thrown caution to the 
wind.  He had called upon the Almighty for assistance and been 
answered.
	Scully had been returned to him.  Well and whole.
	So why couldn't he believe?
	The answer came readily enough.
	He didn't trust it.  Didn't have faith that this particular 
bounty had been granted without provisos.
	The Lord Giveth And The Lord Taketh Away.
	Striving to convince himself that the shiver which at that 
moment was creeping its way down his spine resulted from the 
draft seeping in through the window beside his bed and not 
from the alarming turn his thoughts had taken, Mulder faintly 
heard the shower being turned off on the other side of the wall.  
Not long after, the scratch of plastic curtain rings sliding along 
the metal bar above the tub sounded through the door.  Then, 
he heard Scully softly knock.
	"Mulder?"
	"Yeah?"
	She eased open the door and peered into the room, her 
small face dwarfed by the towel she had wrapped turban style
around her head.  
	"I tried not to take too long.  I think there's still some
hot water left," she said with a small smile.
	"Thanks," he replied with a yawn, sitting up so the 
comforter pooled at his waist.
	"Is there anything you want to do before we head off
to the church?"
	"Actually, I'd like to see if we can't catch Reverend 
Weaver before the service," Mulder said, running a hand 
through his hair and noting with bemusement the way his 
partner's bare toes peeked out from around the door's sharp
corner.  "I'm thinking we'll have a better opportunity to speak 
with him before his congregation gets there rather than after."
	She nodded.  "Okay.  I'd like to see if maybe I can't get
Mrs. Cullins on the phone before we leave as well.  She was in
town when her son died.  Maybe she can remember something.
Something she forgot to mention when Lowry questioned her."
	"Sounds like a good idea."
	"Okay.  See you downstairs."
	As soon as Scully returned to her room, Mulder rose 
from the bed, stretching once more for good measure as he 
crossed the floor clad merely in his flannel boxers, and entered 
the bathroom.  His partner had left the window closed in 
deference to the chill permeating the early morning air.  
Consequently, steam misted the vanity mirror, obscuring his 
reflection, and condensation glazed the porcelain like dew.  
	But what struck him most profoundly was the way the 
hot moist room smelled.
	Like her.
	Like Scully.
	It hit him all at once.  In a wave.  The impossible to 
define yet instantly recognizeable alchemy of soap and 
lotion and skin and woman.  The scent hung heavy around him;
a scent that he knew with a kind of fatalistic certainty he would 
be able to pinpoint in a stadium full of similarly sweetly smelling 
females.  Intensified by the seemingly innocent mingling of 
water and heat, it clung to him, settling on his body like fog, 
seeping its way into his pores as if attempting in reverse to imitate 
his own sweat.  He stood for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing 
deeply, taking the air inside him.  And musing for just an 
instant over the sexual connotations of the act.
	Then came the knock.
	"Mulder, can you hand me my brush?"
	Blasted from his reverie in a way no less jarring than
being doused with ice water, he crossed to the toliet tank, 
retrieved the item she requested, then padded over to her,
and placed it in her outstretched hand.
	"Thanks a lot," she said from behind the door where
she stood in an effort to afford him privacy, her hand 
disappearing into the santuary of her room, her brush clutched 
tightly in its grasp.
	Shaking his head, he closed the door once more, then 
leaned against it as if for support, a rueful smile flickering 
across his lips as he considered just how close he had come
to getting caught indulging in the forbidden.  
	That's all right, Scully," he murmured, his voice rough, 
the volume just above a whisper, wishing that indeed everything
was.
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"So what did she say?"
	Dana Scully tossed her umbrella to the floor, buckled 
herself into her seatbelt, and with a sigh, settled back against 
the Taurus' passenger seat.  Mulder, anxious to allow them 
enough time at Christ's Mercy to interview Weaver before his 
service, had gone outside to start the car while she had wrapped 
up her telephone conversation with Roy Cullins' mother, Eileen.  
Now, satisfied that his partner was safely ensconced within the 
car, he pulled away from in front of Twin Orchards, the Ford 
crunching lustily down the gravel drive, the windshield wipers 
swishing briskly to and fro.
	"Well, to begin with, she doesn't believe her son was 
murdered," Scully said mildly, patting her hair into place in an 
effort to repair the damage the windy wet weather had wrought.
	"No?"
	"Uh-uh," she confirmed shortly, turning to look at the 
man behind the wheel.  "Apparently, Terry Halprin tried to 
convince her otherwise, but was unsuccessful.  Although 
Mrs. Cullins isn't a member of Reverend Weaver's church, she 
said--and I quote:  'I just can't believe the Reverend would do 
something like that'."
	Mulder smiled dryly as they exited Ginny's place and 
turned on to the county blacktop.  "No doubt about his ability, 
huh?  Only his inclination."
	Scully shrugged.  "Apparently.  However, she did 
mention that Roy came to her before he died, acting rather 
peculiarly."
	"Peculiarly, how?"
	"Afraid," she said succinctly.  "Mrs. Cullins said that 
her son visited her home less than a week before he died.  
According to her, he was almost frantic, certain something 
terrible was going to happen.  He even went so far as to map 
out for her how his finances stood--bank accounts, safety 
deposit box, the deed to his home, the title to his car--"
	"In case anything should happen to him?" Mulder 
queried, shifting to meet her eyes.
	Scully nodded.
	"Gotta love a guy who looks out for his mom."
	His partner smiled.
	"So what =does= she think happened?" he asked after 
they had driven a moment or two in a silence punctuated only 
by the thwap of the wiper blades.
	Scully chuckled.  "Oh, she has her own eerie take on 
the situation."
	Mulder stole a look in her direction.
	Scully returned his gaze, amusement twinkling in her 
eyes.  "Mrs. Cullins believes that her son had a premonition of 
his death.  That God spoke to him, warning it would happen."
	"Where did she get that idea?"
	"From something Roy said," she explained with a wry 
smile, digging into her purse to retrieve the notebook in which 
she had detailed the conversation in question, and deftly 
flipping to the proper page.  "When he was at her home, she 
remembers asking him repeatedly what was wrong, why he was 
so upset.  At first, he wouldn't answer her.  Then, when he finally 
did, Mrs. Cullins said that the words he spoke sounded nothing 
like Roy.  She got the feeling he was quoting something.  Or 
someone."
	"Why?" Mulder asked, clearly intrigued.  "What did he 
say?"
	Scully scanned her notes.  "Let's see . . . Ah--Now, this 
*should* be pretty accurate.  Mrs. Cullins said the whole thing 
made a awfully big impression on her.  Supposedly, Roy told 
her, quote:  'The sinner always believes that he is the one who 
will escape God's judgment.  That his deed was done while the 
Lord blinked.  But the Almighty's eyes never shut.  He sees all.  
And punishes those who defy His teachings' unquote."
	Mulder's lips twisted as if physically trying to hold back 
the commentary Scully just knew was begging to be allowed 
release.  She had to give him credit.  In the end, her partner 
restrained himself, uttering only a heartfelt, "My!"
	She chuckled once more, shutting her note tablet with a 
snap as she did so.  "I thought you'd like that."
	"So Roy Cullins saw himself as a sinner, eh?"
	"So it would seem," she agreed.  "Now the question is, 
just which of the Ten Commandments did Cullins break?"

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	The Church of Christ's Mercy wasn't what Scully had 
thought it would be.  Although, in truth she couldn't say exactly 
=what= she had expected as she dashed between raindrops 
towards the structure in question, Mulder dogging her heels.  
Probably something like a cross between the Taj Mahal and Notre 
Dame.
	In the heart of central Missouri.
	The reality was far less grand, however.  The church 
stood apart and alone, situated on a modest hill overlooking an 
unpaved parking lot and a stand of trees which helped delineate 
its property.  Single-storied, the simple white painted building 
had few garnishments save a plain wooden cross straddling its 
roof , a glass paned board announcing office hours, schedules 
and sermon topics, and a series of tall narrow windows featuring 
stained-glass whose design she had been unable to discern 
through the rain.
	Having ducked inside, she stood in the vestibule, 
shaking the excess water from her umbrella and clothes, her 
partner doing likewise.  The skies had opened up on their drive 
over, flooding the church's sandy car lot and liberally anointing 
the two agents, despite their umbrellas' best efforts, as they exited 
their car.
	"Can I help you?"
	Scully turned and saw a woman, who while no taller than 
she, had to have an additional forty pounds on her.  Butter blond 
hair swirled atop her head like a Dairy Queen cone, the petite 
newcomer looked to be in her early forties, her perfectly applied 
make-up and candy apple red nails an intriguing complement to 
her pink polyester pants with its matching pink and white striped 
blouse.
	Suddenly, Scully's own neutral colored tailored suit felt 
almost unspeakably bland.
	Mulder glanced at Scully, his eyes vaguely bemused.  
Without him having to say anything, she felt certain that his 
merriment arose from their welcoming party's unfortunate 
resemblance to cotton candy.  "We're looking for Reverend 
Weaver."
	"Oh! I'm sorry.  The Reverend can't see you just now," 
the diminutive woman said, real regret in her voice, her head 
shaking from side to side in sympathy.  "Services begin in a 
little over an hour.  He's getting prepared."
	"We understand that, Ms. . . ." Scully said gently, 
letting the sentence trail off in the hopes of getting the woman's 
name.
	The tiny blond smiled brightly.  "Bev.  Bev Blevins.  
I'm Reverend Weaver's secretary."
	Mulder nodded.  "Ms. Blevins, we realize that the 
Reverend is a busy man.  And we promise that we won't keep 
him from his duties.  But, it's imperative that we speak with him."
	Bev took in the serious, no-nonsense expressions of 
the two people before her and frowned in consideration, the 
resulting lines marring her baby-doll features.  "May I ask what 
this is reference to?"
	Scully pulled out her badge from her purse.  "We're 
with the F.B.I.  I'm Special Agent Scully, this is Special Agent 
Mulder."
	"Oh!" the secretary squeaked in alarm, her hand 
fluttering to her ample bosom.  "Oh dear. . . . I'm . . . Oh!  I had 
no idea.  Oh my.  It's just--I don't suppose this could wait, could 
it?  The Reverend so needs this time . . ."
	"We won't take long, Ms. Blevins," Mulder said 
soothingly, reaching out a hand towards her as if attempting to 
calm her agitation.  "And as much as we'd like to oblige, we really 
can't hold off any longer.  We've been waiting to see Reverend 
Weaver for two days as it is.  Besides, I'm sure it would be far 
easier for us to speak with him now, rather than waiting until 
after his service when the church is filled with people all hoping 
to have a minute of his time."
	"Oh, yes," Bev said with a pained smile, nodding her 
understanding, but still not happy about the situation.  "That's 
true.  Things do tend to get a bit out of hand around here.  
Especially on the Sabbath.  I'm just worried . . ."
	Mulder stopped her with a smile.  That gentle, hesitant 
smile that had worked its magic so often on Scully that she 
couldn't believe she hadn't built up an immunity to it, like 
patients did certain medications.  Thank god the man didn't 
fully appreciate its affect.  If he did, she doubted the female 
population of the planet would stand a chance.
	"Ms. Blevins, you don't have to worry about a thing," 
he said quietly, the subtly potent smile still in place.  "We'll be 
sure to tell the Reverend you tried your best to keep us from 
him.  Now if you don't mind--?"
	Bev nibbled on her lips and mulled over her choices, 
clearly aware that she was between a rock and a hard place.  
Mulder held her gaze, waiting.  Scully hung back, watching 
them.  Finally, the pink-clothed blond sighed, her resolve 
ultimately melted by the persuasive manner of the man before 
her.
	Scully was pleased to see that she wasn't the only one 
to fall victim to Mulder's understated charm.
	"All right," Bev said, a tiny smile of her own teasing 
her pert lips.  "I'll take you back.  But mind that you give him 
some time, now.  The poor man needs it.  And don't forget to 
tell him this wasn't my idea."
	Mulder's smile broadened.  With a hand on the small 
of his partner's back, he ushered her after the woman who was 
walking with the resigned air of the condemned down the 
church's center aisle.  "Don't worry, Ms. Blevins, I'm very 
good at taking blame."
	As she and Mulder followed along towards the 
front of the church, Scully took the opportunity to study its 
decor.  The pews were unadorned, plain light colored wood, 
with missals scattered amongst them.  A deep red carpet 
covered the floor, muffling their steps.  The stained glass she 
had glimpsed from outside fit right in with the functional 
simplicity of the church's design.  Rich colors highlighted familiar 
scenes--Mary at the tomb, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, 
the healing of Lazarus--all in a modest yet affecting manner.  The 
sanctuary itself was raised, separated from the nave by an altar 
bar and three hardwood steps with a scarlet runner flowing 
down the middle.  The altar was made of wood a shade darker 
than the pews, flanked on one side by what appeared to be an 
roomy choir space, and on the other by a series of folding 
chairs.  Flowers dotted the area.  But not the hothouse lilies she 
had so often seen decorating her family's church at Easter.  
Instead, a charming mixture of wildflowers and daisies had been 
artlessly placed in a number of white ceramic pots, their bright 
hues and light floral scent doing wonders to enliven the dull gray 
day.
	But, it was the pulpit itself which really caught her eye.  
Constructed of wood identical to that which comprised the altar, 
the stand rose a good eight feet above the sanctuary floor, a 
massive cross carved into its front panel.  As they crossed 
around in back of the structure, she spied a mini-circular 
staircase which led to the the pulpit's platform.  Scully 
remembered reading somewhere that such stands had first 
come into being not only for sightline purposes, but because 
raising the priest or minister up had been thought to 
symbolically bring them closer to heaven.
	Impudent though it was, she couldn't help but muse 
that while standing in such a lofty position, churchmen might 
not only appear nearer to their God, but could be seen as looking 
down on their fellow men and women as well.
	"Here we are," Bev said in a voice just above a 
whisper when the trio came to a halt outside a door tucked 
just in back and to the side of the altar.  "This is the Reverend's 
study.  If you'll excuse me for a moment."
	With that, the secretary rapped softly on the door.  
Then, without waiting for a reply, opened it and peered inside.
	"Reverend Weaver.  I'm =so= sorry to disturb you, 
but there are two people here who have asked to speak with 
you.  They say it's urgent."
	For a moment nothing more was said.  Scully glanced 
over at her partner.  He gazed back, wry humor reflected in his 
hazel eyes, and shrugged.  She smiled in return.
	"Very well," said a deep voice from inside the unseen 
room.  "Send them in, Beverly."
	Bev turned around, and flashed the agents an anxious 
smile.  "Not long," she cautioned in a strained yet quiet voice.
	"Not long," Mulder promised, that lethal smile venturing 
forth once more like a weapon.
	Mulder's promise seemed to placate Bev, who with a nod, 
left them, her quick steps thudding lightly on the carpeted surface
as she retreated in the direction of the vestibule.
	Scully tilted her head as if to say 'let's go,' and stepping 
in front of Mulder, entered the study.
	The room was tiny, almost clautrophobically so, and 
windowless.  Its only illumination came from the lighted mirror 
before which Reverend Weaver sat.  A collection of notes lay 
before him, as did a variety of grooming items--comb, brush, razor, 
shaving cream.  His head was bowed, though whether it was in 
prayer, she couldn't say.  However, whatever the cause of his 
distraction, it allowed her the opportunity to study the gentleman.  
Although she had his vital statistics in his file along with his DMV 
photo, neither had fully prepared Scully for the man himself.   She 
was surprised to find him smaller than she had imagined, and at 
first glance, more fragile.  He was a wiry man, thin shouldered, 
small-boned.  The reports they had placed him at sixty, and his 
shock of thick white hair testified as to the validity of that 
information.  His face was strong with clearly delineated bones, 
flyaway eyebrows that arched over deeply set eyes, a wide 
hard mouth, and a blade of a nose.   By contrast, the hands 
clasped tightly in front of him were almost dainty, in much the 
same way as those of a surgeon or concert pianist.  Long fingers, 
smooth skin only lightly marred by age spots and protruding 
veins.  Yet, despite his seemingly delicate appearance, both 
agents could sense a kind of energy surrounding the man, 
humming in a field around him like a swarm of insects on a still 
summer day.
	"Reverend Weaver?" Mulder began politely, after 
looking to Scully with a raised brow.
	Weaver finally lifted his eyes.
	So gray as to appear nearly transluscent, they locked 
with Scully's in the mirror.
	And grew wide.  The Reverend noticeably paled, 
shock and a kind of horror reflected in his gaze.
	"Oh my dear Lord," he murmured fervently, his hands 
clenching more tightly, his eyes round and moist.
	"Kimberly."
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
Continued in Part V
	

===========================================================================

From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (5/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:18:53 -0500


"No Greater Love" (5/13)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Here we go again.  Thanks for hanging in there.
================================================

	"Sir?"
	Dana Scully directed her worried gaze at her partner 
for an instant before returning it to the stricken snowy-haired 
man sitting before her.  For his part, the Reverend didn't speak, 
but instead merely stared back at her reflection as if mesmerized.  
Her eyes held his, their expression warm, gentle, yet clearly 
puzzled by his reaction.  Finally, after a half a dozen intensely 
uncomfortable seconds, Weaver hung his head, shaking it 
slightly as if erasing a thought, his breath exhaling on a sigh.
	"Forgive me.  I'm sorry.  It's just that--"
	"Is this your daughter, Reverend Weaver?"
	Fox Mulder took a step forward and pointed to a small 
snapshot which lay tucked into the lower right-hand corner of 
the makeup mirror's frame at an angle which had hidden it from 
Scully's view.  The older man hesitated a moment, then briefly 
nodded.
	"May I?" Mulder asked politely, gesturing to the 
photograph.  Again, Weaver waited for just a split second before 
responding.  Then, saying not a word, he carefully loosed the 
picture from its resting place and handed it over his shoulder to 
the tall dark-haired agent standing behind him.  That done, he 
buried his head in his hands and, remaining silent, closed his 
eyes as if unable to bear the sight of the two strangers a moment 
longer.
	Scully crossed in back of the Reverend, and head 
bowed alongside her partner's, studied with Mulder the 
photograph cradled in his hand.
	So this was Kimberly Weaver.
	She reacted to the picture with an echo of the same 
surprise that Weaver had apparently suffered upon seeing her 
enter his chambers.
	The girl smiling up at the two F.B.I. agents looked 
nothing like the young woman in the file the agents had which 
carried her name.
	And yet bore slightly more than a passing resemblance 
to the auburn-haired woman gazing down at her photo so closely.
	No wonder Reverend Weaver had reacted as if he had 
seen a ghost.
	Scully examined the picture carefully, the way a lover 
might scrutinize their beloved's face upon leave-taking, doing her 
best to imprint the features upon her memory.  To know them, 
in the hope of discovering why someone might have wanted 
this girl's life ended.  Ironically, once she spent a few moments 
communing with the snapshot, Scully recognized that while 
there were similarities between the dead coed and herself, the 
likeness was not so pronounced as to cause more than casual 
comment.
	Except when filtered through the eyes of the girl's 
apparently still grieving father.
	"I had thought that Kim had brown hair," Scully 
murmured, not realizing until she heard the words hanging 
leaden in the air that she had uttered them aloud.
	At that,  Weaver lifted his head, his eyes rheumy, 
their shadowed depths glistening in the vanity light.  "She did.  
At one time.  Kim was rarely satisfied . . . with anything.  Her 
hair included.  She liked to experiment.  Some were more 
successful than others.  That, however, . . . that is the color 
God intended."
	Scully looked closely at the picture once more.  It 
showed a brightly smiling young woman perched on the 
bough of a tree, one arm outstretched, grabbing hold of the 
branch above for balance.  Sunlight glanced off a shoulder 
length fall of hair only a shade or two lighter than Scully's 
auburn tresses.  But, where her own hair glowed with copper 
highlights, Kimberly's flashed blonde.  A strawberry blonde 
that when coupled with the freckles sprinkled liberally across 
her small upturned nose reminded the agent far more of a 
distaff Huckleberry Finn, than a younger version of herself.  
The girl in the photograph's large blue eyes twinkled with the 
same sense of mischievous humor that enlivened ol' Huck, and 
the way she was dressed--jeans cut off right at the knee; 
a denim blouse whose shirttails were tied at the waist; her bare 
lower legs and feet, both besmudged with grime, brought to 
mind an unaffected kind of innocence which Scully feared she 
herself had lost many long years before.  Still, judging from the 
photo, she and Kimberly shared a similar size and shape.  And, 
what was more, the girl's heart-shaped face with its stubborn 
little chin and gently sloping cheekbones were reminiscent of 
Scully's own.  She understood how, even if only for a moment, 
the girl's father might have believed himself to be visited from 
beyond.
	"She was a lovely girl, Reverend Weaver," Mulder 
murmured unexpectedly.  So wrapped up had she been in her 
contemplation of the deceased Ms. Weaver that Scully had very 
nearly forgotten her partner stood beside her.
	"Yes," Weaver agreed softly, warily watching the two 
people standing behind him in the mirror, his eyes having lost 
some of their glassiness.  "Yes, she was lovely."
	With a look over at Scully to make certain she agreed, 
Mulder handed the photograph back to its owner.  The Reverend 
took it almost reverently, stared at it a moment, then laid it 
carefully on the make-up table, ultimately placing his hand atop 
it as if to protect it.
	"Who are you?" he asked finally, his voice calmer than 
before, its tone low and rich.
	"We're with the F.B.I.  I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, 
this is Special Agent Fox Mulder."  
	The agents stepped forward then, unconsciously 
flanking Weaver between them as they offered up their badges for 
his perusal.
	"F.B.I.? " Weaver said in some confusion as he turned 
from side to side, pinning first one then the other agent with his 
gaze.  "What would the F.B.I. want here?"
	"We want to find out why Pine Grove's murder rate has 
skyrocketed in the past couple of months," Mulder drawled mildly 
as he leaned a hip against the Reverend's dressing table and 
crossed his arms, the gesture silently conveying that he planned 
on being there awhile.
	"Murder?" Weaver challenged, his eyes unreadable, 
his voice stronger still.  "And just who exactly has been murdered 
here?"
	"Some people think perhaps your daughter may have 
been," Scully said softly, meeting the challenge Weaver raised 
with her usual one-two punch of strength and calm.
	Weaver held her eyes for a long wordless moment, his 
frank and steady gaze revealing nothing to Scully.  Nothing 
other than whatever the older man might be, he was no fool.  
Intelligence gleamed in those eyes.  And a certain steely strength.  
She knew that despite his years, the Reverend would without 
question prove a steadfast ally.  And a most formidable foe.  
	At long last he spoke.  His voice, in defiance of its 
hushed tone, rang to her ears firm and true.  "My daughter was 
not murdered."
	"You sound awfully certain of that, Reverend," Mulder 
interjected with a dip of his head and a quirk of his lips.  Scully 
saw her partner's eyes measuring the man before him, taking in 
the Reverend's conservative brown suit with its stark white shirt 
and matching tie; his lean wiry form, which had grown stooped 
from a combination of care and age; his pale gaunt face, where 
papery skin and fierce ice gray eyes coexisted in a kind of uneasy 
truce.
	And found him lacking.  A figure not to respect, but to 
suspect.  And perhaps, just perhaps, worthy of the smallest 
measure of disdain.
	She wondered just what it was that Mulder saw, what 
flaw he noted and recorded in that immense filofax he called his 
mind which caused him to doubt Weaver.  While at the same time 
she strove to discern just what it was that urged her to believe in 
the Reverend, to assure her that this was a man of integrity and 
honor.
	"I am certain, Agent Mulder," Weaver replied quietly.  
"My child was not murdered."
	"Do you believe she committed suicide?"
	Mulder's cool question visibly pierced something in the 
Reverend, the older man's eyes reflecting his horror at the very 
thought.  "No!  Good heavens, no.  Kimberly would never do that."
	"So, are you saying Kim's death was an accident?" 
Scully asked, partially because she truly wanted to hear the 
answer to her question and partially because she thought the 
query might somehow soothe the man by taking his mind off the 
images her partner's inquiry had induced.
	Her ploy seemed to work.
	"Yes," Weaver affirmed with a nod.  "Kim's death was 
an accident.  A terrible, tragic accident."
	"What about Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins?" Mulder 
asked a bit more forcefully than Scully thought was really 
necessary.  "Were those deaths accidents as well?"
	Weaver shrugged, although his eyes plainly stated that 
he saw the question as far from casual.  "Not that I know of.  From 
what I understand it's believed that those men died of natural 
causes."
	"That's the official verdict, yes," Scully murmured, her 
eyes stealing to Mulder's for just an instant.
	"Well then, Agents Scully and Mulder, it would appear 
that you have no murders to solve," Weaver said briskly, pushing 
away from his place at the vanity and crossing to a clothes rack in 
the room's far corner where he pulled down a deep gold colored 
robe and began to slip it over his suit.
	"So it would appear," Mulder allowed dryly, standing 
upright once more, his hands now going to his overcoat pockets.  
"But not everyone believes the official story."
	Weaver glanced at the agents while his fingers busily 
closed the robe's hidden fastenings, the vaguest hint of rueful 
amusement glinting in his eyes.  "You sound as if you've been 
talking with Terry Halprin."
	Mulder almost noticeably grimaced.  "Not yet.  Although 
not for lack of trying."
	Weaver's amusement grew.  "Ah.  Sheriff Lowry then."
	"How did you--" Scully began.
	"He is afraid of me, you know," Weaver said 
conversationally, his robe now closed, his hands straightening 
his shirt cuffs beneath it.
	"Lowry?"  Scully asked.
	"Both, actually," Weaver said, his eyes sliding away from 
hers for the first time.  "Lowry and Halprin, both."
	"Do they have reason to be?" Mulder inquired intently, 
taking a step towards his partner in a way that struck Scully as 
oddly protective.
	For a moment, Weaver said nothing, but instead merely 
went about smoothing his collar and tie beneath his vestments, 
his gaze focused on the two agents opposite him as he did so.  
Then he spoke, quietly, crisply.  "No.  Neither man has anything 
to fear from me."
	Mulder nodded and glanced down at his partner.  She 
met his eyes, and knew instantly what he was thinking.  Mulder 
wasn't satisfied.  Not by a long shot.  
	Seemingly unconcerned, Reverend Weaver crossed to 
a small bookcase placed halfway between the vanity and clothes 
rack.  There he picked up a thick battered bible, checked the 
passage marked by the thin red grosgrain ribbon dangling from 
its page, shut the book with a barely audible thud, and turned 
to face his two visitors once more.
	"Will you be staying for the service, agents?" he 
asked in a manner which suggested he was already fairly 
certain of the answer to his query.
	"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Mulder said dryly.
	Weaver nodded.  "Good.  Newcomers are always 
welcome.  You've picked a fine Sunday for it.  Given your 
reason for coming to our community, I believe you'll find 
today's sermon of particular interest."
	"Oh?  And why is that?" Scully asked mildly.
	"The topic," Weaver replied simply, a rueful sort of 
humor warming his cool, fog-colored eyes.  "Today I'll be 
discussing the wages of sin, and its effect on a man's immortal 
soul."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	If Mulder didn't stop fidgeting, Scully was going to 
have to slug him.  
	Honestly, she thought, glancing sideways at her 
partner, the man was just like a little boy who had been dressed 
in his Sunday best, had his hair slicked down, that last smudge 
of dirt smoothed away from his chin by his mother's thumb, 
only to suffer the final indignity--being dragged unceremoniously 
to church when he would much rather have been at home with his 
toys.
	The thought made her smile.
	Then, he sighed.  A gusty put-upon sigh.
	"I thought you 'wouldn't miss this for the world'", she 
reminded him softly without looking at him, the indulgent smile 
still curving her lips
	"It was all bluff, Scully," he whispered back, leaning in 
so closely to speak the words that she felt her hair dance along 
the curve of her cheek, his breath its partner.  "I was putting up 
a brave front for our friend, the Reverend."
	"Oh really?  Funny--I could have sworn you seemed 
anything but friendly," she remarked in a low voice, an eyebrow 
arched to underline the comment.
	They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in a pew near the back 
of The Church of Christ's Mercy.  The rows in front of them had 
been steadily filling during the twenty minutes they had sat 
waiting for that Sunday's service to begin.  Strangely, neither of 
them had felt compelled to speak while they had waited.  Part of 
their shared reticence no doubt stemmed from their desire to keep 
from being overheard.  After all, Bev had been bustling around 
the place like a bumblebee making certain all was in order.  Choir 
members had wandered in to set up music.  Acolytes had lit 
candles.  And ushers had done their last minute cataloguing of 
collection plates and missals.  Now, as they were minutes away 
from the start of service, the agents' own pew had filled to 
capacity as well.  Thus, not only giving them still more reason to 
keep quiet, but also crowding the two government employees 
rather tightly together, forcing the right side of Scully's body 
flush up against Mulder's left.  And yet, despite these very valid 
excuses for remaining mum, it felt, at least to Scully, like the real 
reason why Mulder and she were silent was because they weren't 
really certain what they had to say.  Speaking for herself, she 
recognized that instead of providing any insight regarding their 
current case, their brief interview with the Reverend had only 
served to muddy her theories regarding the investigation.
	She heard Mulder give a muffled snort.  "Oh come on, 
Scully," he muttered near her ear.  "You mean to tell me you 
actually believe that everything is on the up and up with that 
guy?"
	"What do you mean?"
	"Didn't you get the feeling that he wasn't telling us 
the whole story?"
	At that, she turned to look at the man beside her.  
	And found that their faces were way too close for 
casual conversation.
	For just half a breath she let herself merely look him.  
Focus on the extraordinary mosaic of color that composed the 
hazel of his eyes.
	Then, she glanced away, silently cursing her skin's 
fairness.  At times such as these she felt quite certain it was 
only the Irish who blushed.
	"I got the feeling that he was still mourning the loss of 
his daughter," she whispered, her eyes remaining safely trained 
on the pew in front of her.
	"No, it was more than that."
	She felt his arm tense alongside of her, recognizing 
instinctively that his physical reaction wasn't rooted in anger 
as much as in frustration.  A need to know.  A desire to get to 
the bottom of this and all mysteries.  
	She shook her head with a touch of astonishment.  
Good grief.  Was she really so attuned to this man that the mere 
flexing of a muscle was enough to convey to her his frame of 
mind?
	The answer was yes.  Yes, of course.
	She had to smile once more, although anyone noting 
the curving of her lips would have seen little in the way of humor 
in it.  Instead, a mild chagrin was more reflected there.  
	As if there was any question as to just how aware she 
was of Fox Mulder and his physicality.
	After all, the man's touch was in some divinely warped 
way concurrently one of the great joys and banes of their 
partnership.
	Still mulling over that far from recent revelation, she 
chanced a quick peek at him.  Mulder was gazing intently at her 
profile as if awaiting a response, that blasted smile he had earlier 
used to such great effect with poor Bev flirting with his lips, and  
by extension, with her.  Scully cocked an eyebrow at him, hoping 
the gesture would do.  She couldn't come up with anything better 
at just that moment.  Not when he was looking at her like that.  
	A guilty little shiver shimmered down from her shoulders 
to her lap.  Damn.  Why did the one man who could raise her pulse 
rate with a simple glance have to be the single male on the planet 
who was absolutely positively off-limits?
	Oh this is good, Dana.  Excellent time to brood over just 
what precisely you and your partner have between you.  Right 
in the middle of a case.  Well done.  Very professional.
	Well, it's his fault, argued some rather testy little part of 
her personality.  After all, how was she supposed to ignore the 
man when he was always . . . *there*.  Watching her.  Sitting up 
in bed, blinking at her sleepily, naked to the waist. . . .
	Oh, don't go there, Dana.  Not in church.
	Okay, she thought as a little rush of heat lapped at 
her insides like a tongue of flame.  Keep it clean.  After all, 
the intimacy which for all intents and purposes defined the 
relationship she and Mulder shared was only tenuously 
anchored in the sensual.  The physical connection that she 
often found herself craving was, in fact, far more mundane.  His 
warm sure grasp on her forearm.  The way he had of placing a 
gentle hand on her back when they walked together, almost as 
if he were guiding her, supporting her.  It was funny, really.  She 
had never been a "touchy" person per se; not like Melissa had 
been.  It wasn't that she disliked being touched.  Not at all.  
Instead, it was more a matter of manners, of trying to place 
another person's comfort before her own.  After all, she was a 
woman who valued her privacy.  She certainly, in no way, 
wanted to compromise anyone else's personal space.
	But Mulder had no such compunction.  At least, not 
with her.  In fact, sometimes she actually got the impression 
that he looked for opportunities to touch her.  Perhaps even set
about creating them.   Had it been any other man in the Bureau 
whom she suspected of such scheming she would have called 
him on it long ago.  What self-respecting woman of the nineties 
wouldn't?  That sort of behavior was supposed to have gone 
out of style a decade or two ago.
	And yet she said nothing.  How could she?  Truth be 
told, she reveled in it.  In the abbreviated snatches of intimacy 
she always managed to rationalize away before they grew too 
risky to her peace of mind.  Part of her knew that the pleasure 
to be had by indulging in such lapses in professionalism had a 
whiff of decadence about it.  Still, she found it impossible to 
deny herself such small comforts.  Or thrills.  Or improbable 
minglings of both.  She looked forward to them, even as she 
wondered what they might all be leading to.
	"Penny for your thoughts."
	She actually felt the warmth of his breath this time 
against the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear.  Tingles 
of awareness vibrated from the spot.  Radiating down her arms, 
into her fingertips, raising goose bumps in their wake.
	"Sorry, Mulder," she murmured in a husky voice, 
determined not to let his nearness undo her entirely.  "But, I 
don't come that cheap."
	She felt his quick short chuckle pulse noiselessly 
through his body.  But whatever clever retort her partner might 
have been formulating was instantly swept away by a deep 
booming organ chord followed shortly after by the piercing 
sound of a soprano voice warbling out the lyrics to a hymn 
Scully thought she vaguely recognized.
	Sunday service had begun.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Well, Ginny was certainly right about one thing, Mulder 
mused.
	You go to church at Christ's Mercy, and you see quite 
a show.
	And he had come to that conclusion before even one 
measly little miracle had been performed, he thought drolly.
	Longing to stretch his crowded extremities, Mulder stole 
a look in his partner's direction.  Scully appeared far more patient 
than he with the proceedings.  She kept her eyes trained politely 
on the pulpit before them, listening intently to the man standing 
atop it.  With her gaze otherwise engaged, Mulder let his linger a 
moment, a smile gently molding his lips as it very nearly always 
did when he contemplated his partner, conscious thought in no 
way controlling the reaction.  Finally, relinquishing with a sigh 
his particularly pleasant but unfortunately inappropriate focus 
of attention, he returned his regard to the matter at hand.  So 
far, they had been entertained by a wildly energetic choir, the 
witnessing of four earnest parishioners, and the ecstatic cries 
of believers as they punctuated the proceedings by 
spontaneously praising the Lord with downright unnerving 
intensity.
	And through it all, Reverend Weaver had presided over 
the festivities.  His calm firm voice leading his congregation in 
prayer, introducing the next speaker, and generally keeping 
the service running like a well oiled machine.
	"My brothers and sisters, I'd like to have a few words 
with you today."
	Mulder sat up a bit taller in his seat.  The church 
member who had just been speaking had stepped down.  
Reverend Weaver now towered over his congregation at the 
pulpit.
	"Friends, one of the most troubling issues facing any 
faith is the question of sin.  How to avoid it, how to ask 
forgiveness of God when a sin is committed, and finally, how 
to find the courage within yourself to pay the recompense 
demanded for your transgression."
	The minister's voice was low and powerful, his words 
measured and syncopated, their music manipulated for maximum 
effect the way the sections of an orchestra ebbed and flowed 
beneath a conductor's baton.  
	"And make no mistake, dear ones.  Recompense is 
always demanded.  And must needs be given.  Our God is a fair 
and loving father.  But like all good parents He knows that to 
spare the rod is to spoil the child.  So, for our own good, He 
strives to keep us in line.  Keep us on the straight and narrow.  
And believe me, that is the way the road to heaven runs.  Its 
path is rocky and fraught with distractions.  But God wants us 
to reach our destination.  He wants us to sit beside Him in the 
Kingdom of Heaven.  He wants us to keep on that path.  And 
the best way for Him to lead His children home is with discipline."
	Hmm, Mulder thought.  This was getting interesting.  
For one whimsical moment he wondered if a man's sermon might 
be admissible in a court of law.  He tried to catch Scully's eye, 
wanting to get her reaction to this.  Although her gaze flickered 
in his direction, she wouldn't meet his scrutiny directly.  He felt 
certain she simply didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
	"For it is with discipline that we learn, grow stronger.  
God wants this for us.  He wants us to become better.  Closer to 
Him and His image.  So, as merciful as He is, as kind and 
compassionate a deity as every member of this church knows 
Him to be, when one of His children disobeys His law, the Law of 
God.  That child must be punished."
	Mulder felt Scully take a deep long breath beside him, 
almost as if she were trying to calm herself, or perhaps push 
away some disturbing unwanted emotion.  He didn't blame her.  
The Reverend's words were beginning to get to him as well.
	"And you can't escape it.  No matter how clever you 
might be.  Oh, you think you'll be the exception.  And believe me, 
you won't be the first to think that.  The sinner always believes 
that he is the one who will escape God's judgment.  That his deed 
was done while the Lord blinked."
	Mulder's ears perked, his near perfect memory rewinding 
to a conversation earlier that morning, one where his partner had 
quoted for him the words that had supposedly been spoken by 
a dead man.
	"But the Almighty's eyes never shut.  He sees all.  And 
punishes those who defy His teachings."
	Mulder bent his head to Scully's, so close that a single 
strand of her hair wound up teasing his lower lip, clinging to the 
trace of moisture there.
	"Hey Scully, what d'ya know," he whispered.  "It's the 
voice of God."
	He saw her back stiffen ever so slightly at his words.  
But before she even had the opportunity to look at him, a voice 
rang out from just behind them.
	"What's the matter, Reverend?  Did'ja get worried that 
maybe God wasn't doing His job?  So you thought you'd give Him 
a hand, and kill Mark and Roy for Him."
	The agents shifted swiftly in their seats, looking over 
their shoulders.  There, at the rear entrance to the church, 
stood a tall lanky man with curling medium brown hair, flashing 
dark eyes and an enormous handlebar mustache.  He wore jeans, 
a plain white shirt and navy windbreaker.  Raindrops glistened on 
his longish locks.  His color was high.  Stubble speckled his jaw.  
Mulder noted the way fear wrestled with belligerence in the man's 
stance.  He appeared to be spoiling for a fight, even as he worried 
about its outcome.
	For a breathless moment, Weaver said nothing, instead 
merely gazing down the center aisle at the interloper from his 
pulpit.  No one moved.  Then the silence which had reigned since 
the stranger had entered shattered.  Low humming voices quickly 
built in intensity and volume as the church's occupants murmured 
amongst themselves as to the visitor and his damning claims.
	The man in the back of the church stoked the rapidly 
crescendoing speculation.
	"So how about it, Reverend?  Does God always get His 
employees to do His dirty work?  Or do you just get off on it?"
	At that, Weaver paled, swaying almost imperceptibly 
from his place so high above the crowd.  For an instant, Mulder 
feared that the older man might lose his balance and go tumbling 
from his perch.  But, somehow he retained his composure.  
Gripping the edges of the lectern so tightly that the agents could 
make out his whitened knuckles from where they sat, he said in a 
slow clear voice, "Welcome, Mr. Halprin.  It's so nice to see you 
here."
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
Continued in Part VI	


===========================================================================

From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (6/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:19:35 -0500


"No Greater Love" (6/13)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

We just keep chugging along.  Hope you 're enjoying this.
================================================

	"No.  You're not happy to see me, Reverend.  In fact, I'm 
the last person in the world you want to see."
	Weaver swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing like a 
buoy, his gaze wary.  And yet he continued to look his accuser 
steadily in the eye.  "Why would you say that?"
	"Because I know the truth."
	"We both know the truth.  Don't we, Mr. Halprin?"
	Upon hearing the Reverend's quietly spoken query, 
Terry Halprin's eyes grew wide and a touch more wild.  
Breathing raggedly, his fists bunched, he took a threatening 
step forward.  An usher reached out a hand to impede his 
progress.  But the man was easily old enough to be Halprin's 
father, and was no match for the younger man's strength.  With 
a mere shrug of his shoulder, Halprin loosed his arm from the 
would-be security guard's grasp.  
	Intently watching the scene develop, Scully feared the 
worst.  And judging the situation would with all probability 
rapidly escalate beyond mere name-calling, made to leave the 
pew and circle back around behind Halprin.
	"Wait.  I'll go," Mulder muttered in her ear, his hand 
firmly restraining her in her seat as he scrambled out past her 
and down the church's side aisle.  At first annoyed by her 
partner's high-handedness, Scully quickly saw the advantage 
to be had by one of them remaining in the pew.  This way, 
should Halprin charge the pulpit she could easily dash down 
the aisle parallel to his and intercept him.  She sincerely hoped 
such action would prove unnecessary.
	"Listen to me, you bastard," Halprin gritted out, his 
body strung so tightly that Scully could clearly see from where 
she sat the tendons cording in his neck.  "I came here today, in 
front of all these people, to make =sure= they found out just 
what kind of a man you really are."
	"Then you've wasted your morning," the Reverend said 
softly, his eyes leaving Halprin's for the first time to slowly scan 
his congregation.  "These people know me better than anyone.  
They know the kind of man I am."
	"Like hell they do," Halprin sneered, taking another 
step forward so that he now stood even with the church's next 
to the last row of pews.  Mulder had managed to wind his way 
around to just behind the intruder, keeping himself outside the 
periphery of Halprin's vision.  Scully saw her partner glance in 
her direction.  Get ready, the look warned.  She placed her hand 
on her hip holster.
	"These people don't know you at all," Halprin continued, 
his voice rough and insinuating, spittle dotting his moustache.  
"You've snowed them just like you've snowed everyone in this 
town.  Making them think you're a 'man of God'.  Making them 
believe you're some sort of healer.  Well, I know better, Weaver.  
And I'm telling you, and I'm telling them--You're nothing but a 
fraud!"
	"Mr. Halprin--"
	"YOU KILLED MY BROTHER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!" 
Halprin roared suddenly, surging forward a few steps more, 
swaying on his feet with the power of the emotions churning 
inside him.  Scully noted that Mulder was only a few feet away 
from him now, waiting.   Unable to gauge whether Halprin might 
be armed, it appeared that the agent was biding his time, not 
wanting to force a confrontation unless it was absolutely 
necessary.  Not when there was a church full of people who 
might have to pay the price for an error in judgment.  People 
whose questioning eyes darted back and forth between the man 
they had chosen as their spiritual leader and the man who in no 
uncertain terms condemned that choice as not only foolish but 
obscene.
	"You killed him," Halprin repeated, his volume lower, 
but his voice still anguished, his eyes glittering now with unshed 
tears.  "And soon . . . soon you're going to kill me too."
	"Mr. Halprin," Reverend Weaver said, leaning  in over 
his lectern as if to in some small way bring himself closer to the 
man hurtling obscenities in his direction, accusing him of 
unspeakable crimes.  "I give you my word.  I will not harm you.  
Not now.  Not ever."
	For a moment, Halprin considered Weaver's words, 
weighing whether to believe them.  And in the end, declined to 
trust.  "No, man.  No way.  I've seen what you can do.  I know 
what you're capable of."
	Weaver sighed wearily, and for an instant looked 
heavenward.  When his eyes engaged Halprin's once more they 
swam with regret and a horrible kind of knowledge, a burden 
that bowed his body far more than age.   "Mr. Halprin, you 
have no idea what I'm capable of."
	Halprin staggered back a bit, unsteady on his feet, his 
complexion paling.  "You heard that!  You heard it.  He's 
threatening me!  That bastard is threatening me!  And you--
you people are all my witnesses!!  When I'm dead, remember--
he's the one who will have done it!!  He's the one who 
murdered Mark and Roy and now me.  God . . .  He's going 
to kill me, and there's nothing you or anybody here can do 
to protect me!!"
	Halprin was ranting now.  Turning in small semi-
circles as he indulged in his own little bout of impromptu 
preaching.  The people sitting around him were frozen, not 
knowing how to react.  Several church members who had been 
fortunate enough to be sitting near the rear of the sanctuary 
had taken the opportunity to slip through the back door once 
Halprin had safely passed them by.  Those who remained sat 
pinned in their seats, fear and a sort of morbid fascination 
compelling them to stay.
	"No . . . nobody can protect me but myself.  Nobody 
but me," Halprin mumbled, slowly making his way up the aisle 
towards Weaver.  "I've gotta look out for myself.  Gotta keep 
you from doing to me what you did to poor Mark . . ."
	Halprin had only crossed perhaps a third of the way 
towards the pulpit when he stopped suddenly, almost as if he 
had fallen into a momentary stupor, or in some bizarre way had 
gotten lost.  Shaking his head slightly, he reached inside his 
jacket.  From his vantage point, Mulder couldn't tell what Halprin 
was searching for.  Unwilling to take any chances, he decided it 
was finally time to make his move.  The agent silently trotted up 
the carpeted walkway until he was only little more than an arms' 
length away from his target.  Pausing only an instant, he tackled 
Halprin with a flying leap, sending the man face first onto the 
floor, his arms pinned beneath him.
	Scully stood immediately.  "Everyone, please remain 
seated and remain calm."  She grabbed her i.d. from her coat 
pocket and held it aloft.  "Federal Bureau of Investigation, the 
situation is under control.  But I must ask you to remain in your 
seats."
	She strode briskly around the back of the congregation 
towards her partner, passing Bev along the way.  "Bev, call 
Sheriff Lowry for me, will you?  Tell him to get somebody out here 
=now=."
	The little woman nodded nervously and turned on her 
heel, anxious to do as she was bidden.
	"You all right, Mulder?" Scully asked in a husky voice 
as she reached his side, her gun drawn and pointed at the fallen 
man who twisted and rolled at her feet, muttering obscenities.  	
	"Yeah, I'm fine," Mulder replied as he struggled with 
Halprin, his knee pressing into the small of the man's back while 
he simultaneously snapped handcuffs on his wrists.  "I'm not so 
sure about our pal Halprins's traveling liquor cabinet, however."
	Before Mulder had even finished his sentence, Scully's 
nose wrinkled at the sour odor rising up from beneath Halprin's 
prone body.  Seeing that he was at long last safely restrained, 
she helped Mulder pull the man from the floor.  He staggered 
upright, swaying just a bit, the front of his shirt and windbreaker 
stained just like the rug upon which he had so recently laid with 
what appeared to be Johnny Walker's finest.
	"God, it's a wonder he didn't impale himself on a piece 
of glass," she murmured as she bent down to examine the shards.
  	"It would have been better if I had," Halprin insisted 
heatedly, staring down at her through bloodshot eyes.  "It's all 
over for me, anyway.  I'm a dead man.  I told you that."
	"Come on, Mr. Halprin," Mulder urged quietly, his grasp 
tight around the man's upper arms as he impelled him towards the 
back of the church.  "You've bothered these nice people long 
enough.  Why don't you just calm down, and we'll go someplace 
where we can talk.  Someplace quiet.  Like the sheriff's office." 
	"You've gotta do something, man." 
	Having witnessed no softening in Scully's eyes when he 
once more relayed his plight, Halprin turned his attention to 
Mulder, whispering hoarsely at the agent from behind his carefully 
groomed moustache as he stumbled along side of him.  "You're 
the feds.  If anyone can do anything it would be you."
	Mulder's lips quirked as he shot Scully a look over his 
shoulder.  "And just what would you like us to do for you, Mr. 
Halprin?"
	"Kill him.  Kill Weaver.  Kill him before he has the 
chance to kill anyone else."
	Scully's eyes widened with a combination of 
amazement and revulsion as she trailed behind.
	"Sorry, can't help you there," Mulder murmured dryly, 
as he half-dragged, half-pushed Halprin along before him.  
"Our Murder for Hire Department just got closed down due to 
budget cuts.  You know those darn Republicans--always 
looking for a way to pinch pennies."
	"Mulder, why don't you take him out front and wait 
for the sheriff," Scully said softly once they were clear of the 
pews and prying eyes and ears, her hand resting lightly on 
partner's shoulder to gain his attention.  She received it 
instantly.  "I think maybe I should hang around here for a bit 
in case the Reverend runs into any more trouble."
	Mulder raised a skeptical brow.  "You afraid these 
folks might suddenly turn ugly, Scully?"
	She shrugged a bit helplessly.  "I don't know.  They 
seem quiet enough, I suppose.  But still, I have a feeling it 
wouldn't take much to have this whole thing blow up in our 
faces.  I'd just . . . I'd feel better if I kept an eye on things for a 
bit."
	Mulder looked at her a moment before nodding.  "All 
right.  That's probably not a bad idea."  He crossed the 
vestibule and peered out through a pane of glass in one of 
the church's front doors.  "It looks like the rain has let up for 
now.  I'll take Halprin outside."  Retaining his hold on the man 
in question with one hand, he dug around in his trenchcoat 
pocket with the other.  "Here, take the keys.  I'll ride into town 
with whoever Lowry sends.  Pick me up when you can."
	"Thanks," she said with a small smile.  "I won't be 
long.  I want to hear what Mr. Halprin has to say just as much 
as you do."
	"I've said all I'm going to say," Halprin muttered 
sullenly, resting his head against the doorframe with a 
weariness that suggested his Dutch courage had finally run 
out.  "I ain't talking to anybody about anything until I've had 
the chance to talk to my lawyer."
	"Sounds familiar," Mulder intoned wryly, pulling the 
other man from his place against the wall and guiding him 
through the open door.  "Go on back in, Scully.  Everything's 
under control here."
	"Okay.  Thanks, Mulder."
	With one last look at her partner leading away a 
rather subdued Terry Halprin, Scully returned to stand at the 
back of the sanctuary.
	And found that the quiet which had prevailed since 
Halprin had disrupted that morning's service had shattered.
	The room buzzed like an oversized honeycomb--
questions flying, theories bandied, accusations lobbed like 
hand grenades.
	<"That Terry Halprin has never been anything but 
trouble.""Did you see the look in his eyes?""It's the drink that 
does it.  The Reverend was right.  First, Kim.  Now, Terry.""Did 
you notice he never denied it?  Reverend Weaver never once 
said that he didn't kill Mark and Roy.""Gettin' so a person can't 
even go to church anymore without havin' to put up with 
hooligans!""Oh yeah?  Well, I heard he killed Kim because she 
was pregnant.""I don't care what anybody says.  I don't believe 
a word of it.">
	Scully stood stone still at the back of the congregation, 
letting the sights and sounds roll over her.  Not everyone was 
staying to debate the events which had just occurred.  Mothers 
and fathers were bundling their children into their coats and 
leading them up the aisle, past her.  Husbands and wives, 
grandmothers with their handbags over their arms, teenagers 
dressed as they would never have dreamed of showing up for 
class all filed by as well, heads bent towards each other in heated 
discussion as they tried to make sense out of what they had just 
witnessed.  Their troubled eyes conveyed their doubts and 
concern to the red-haired F.B.I. agent far more powerfully than 
did the snatches of conversation reverberating within the church 
walls.
	"Reverend, just what is going on here?"
	Scully slipped into the last pew on the aisle, straining 
her neck to see just who precisely had at long last voiced the 
question she knew had been on everyone's minds.   After 
craning over the heads of the faithful who still half filled the 
church's sanctuary, she spied the speaker.  He was middle-aged, 
stocky, possessed of less hair than more, his tanned face wind-
lined.  Those sitting around her fell silent once more in 
anticipation of the question's answer.
	"We've stood by you, Reverend.  Supported you.  Told 
the gossips to keep their opinions to themselves.  But now, I 
think you owe us an explanation."
	"John," Weaver began quietly, his discomfiture evident 
in the tenseness of his posture, the thin seam of his lips, the 
furrowing of his brow.  "I've told you before--."
	"No, Reverend.  That's just it," said a tall thin blond-
haired woman who sat three rows in front of the first speaker, 
shaking her head sadly.  "You haven't told us anything."
	The rumble of murmurs began again.  Slowly.  Quietly.  
But with a fierce sort of undercurrent throbbing beneath the
still rational questioning.  Scully was glad that she had stayed.
	"How come it's just those boys from Backroads who 
have died?  Seems mighty peculiar to me that first you tell us 
the place needs to be shut down, and then suddenly its owners 
are dropping like flies," opined an older gentleman with round 
wire-rimmed glasses and tufts of hair sprouting from above each 
ear.
	"I just want to hear you say you didn't do it," 
stammered a slender brown-haired young man with freckles 
and earnest blue eyes as he surged to his feet, tightly gripping 
the pew in front of him as if for courage.  "I just want to hear 
you say the words."
	Weaver hesitated just a half a heartbeat, his gaze 
flickering to the bible before him.
	"The Reverend doesn't have to say anything."
	All heads swiveled to the center of the sanctuary.  
There, a pale gaunt figure of a man spoke as he struggled to 
his feet, aided by a cane and the strong right arm of a woman 
with short curly black hair who looked to Scully as if she might 
be the man's wife.  Once standing, he looked up unguardedly at 
Weaver, trust shining in his eyes.  For a moment no one moved.  
The effort to remain standing obviously taxed the man.  He 
swayed precariously.  The woman beside him remained seated, 
although both hands were outstretched as if she were making 
ready to catch him should his balance fail.
	"You don't owe us any explanation, Reverend," the 
man said with a small smile as he awkwardly left his pew and 
began a slow tortuous trip up the church's center aisle.  "I know 
a man like you could never hurt another living soul."
	Weaver said nothing, clearly moved by the man's 
profession of faith.  The reverend's eyes glistened with emotion 
as he watched his champion's progress towards him.  For their 
part, the congregation quieted once more, curious about their 
leader''s unexpected supporter.
	"I don't think I know you, friend," Weaver said softly 
as he stepped down from the pulpit and, with measured step, 
made his way to the man.  "Have you ever been to our church 
before?"
	Sweat beaded on the other man's brow.  Muffled 
sounds of pain and effort escaped his lips.  But he kept on 
shuffling to the front of the church, leaning heavily on his cane.  
"No, sir.  I'm not from around here.  My name is Decker.  Martin 
Decker."
	"Welcome, Martin," Weaver said simply, meeting the 
man at the second row of pews and clasping his hand in greeting.  
"We're glad that you're here."
	"Not as glad as I am," Martin countered, attempting a 
smile that ended in a grimace.  Scully wondered what was wrong 
with the man.  She found it difficult to tell from where she was 
seated.  But, given the man's wasted physique and lack of mobility, 
she knew that whatever was afflicting him, it was serious.
	Leaning his cane against the nearest pew, Decker clung 
to Weaver's forearms, using them for support as he lowered 
himself to his knees.  "You've got to help me, Reverend," he said 
in a low rough voice.  "I've come a long way.  I'm a sick man, and 
I need your help."
	Weaver nervously licked his lips, then rested his hands 
on the other man's shoulders.  "Martin--" he began hesitantly.
	"Reverend, please," Decker pleaded, his grip tightening 
on the reverend's arms.
	Scully silently damned her view of the action.  She 
couldn't see Weaver's face clearly from her post at the back of 
sanctuary.  But, whatever the reverend's visage was revealing 
to poor sick Mr. Decker,  it provided him little comfort.
	"I've been to doctors, Reverend," Decker continued in 
a hushed plaintive voice that barely carried to Scully's ears.  
"They tell me there's nothing they can do.  I've got a wife.  I've 
got a family.  I don't want to die.  You've got to help me.  Help 
make me better."
	Still, Weaver hesitated, torn by some inner dilemma 
Scully could only guess at.  Then finally, he laid his hand on 
the hair of the man who knelt before him, caressing the strands 
lightly as one would to soothe a child.  "All right," he said with 
a small nod, his voice deep and calm.  "Bow your head, Martin, 
and pray with me."
	Decker did as he was instructed, clasping his shaking 
hands tightly in his lap.  Weaver  took a deep breath, then 
closed his eyes, focusing his concentration.
	Scully could feel the change.  The barely discernable 
hum of energy she had earlier sensed surrounding Weaver in 
his study intensified.  The air around her pulsed with it.  Her 
skin tingled.  The hair on the back of her neck stood quite 
literally on end.  Her throat was suddenly leeched of all moisture.  
Fascinated, she looked around her.  Although equally enthralled, 
the congregation seemed to find none of this odd.  Half of them 
had lowered their eyes in an imitation of Decker's posture, 
apparently lending their own prayers to the effort.  The other 
half serenely watched the proceedings, their faces aglow with 
anticipation and awe.
	Weaver's hands hovered over Decker, just barely 
grazing the man's shoulders and head.  	
	"Brothers and sisters, let us pray," the Reverend 
intoned solemnly, his head thrown back, his eyes still sealed 
shut.
	"This man comes before us today asking for my help, 
asking for the Lord Almighty's help in casting out of his weary 
body this dreadful disease.  This plague that weakens him, that 
threatens his very life."
	From various corners of the congregation came 
muffled "Amens" and other murmured entreaties for God's 
assistance.  The devisiveness that had threatened to cleave 
the group only moments before had vanished as  the church's 
occupants found themselves now united against a common 
enemy.
	"And so, dear Lord, we come to You.  Asking for Your 
blessing on this man.  Asking for Your assistance, Your love, 
Your might to do the impossible.  To heal this man.  To make 
him whole once more.  To return him to his family as he once 
was.  Free of sickness.  Free of disease."
	More privately offered prayers were mumbled.  Some 
parishoners began to slowly rock in their seats, their faces 
closed in concentration.  One woman across the aisle from 
Scully wept freely.  Much to her amazement, the agent found 
herself on the verge of tears.  She couldn't help it.  She didn't 
know where exactly it came from but some something, some 
*power* had entered the church's confines that morning.  It 
ebbed and flowed, winding its way through those assembled; 
its center, the Reverend.
	Weaver's hands were now away from Martin Decker's 
trembling form.  The reverend's arms were open, palms up, as 
if he meant to capture the raw energy swirling around him, to 
cage it in the hopes of channeling it to his own end.
	"Help me, Lord," Weaver entreated, swaying slightly, 
his eyes still closed, a smile of ecstasy lighting his face.  "Help 
me to do Your work.  Help me to heal this man.  I ask this of You, 
Lord.  In Your name."
	With this last invocation, Weaver's eyes flew open, his 
hands swooping down onto Decker's head.  The stricken man's 
back arched, his shoulders and head tilting back.  Decker's teeth 
closed sharply on his lower lip, a small sound of surprise and 
what sounded to Scully like pain trickled from his mouth.  	
	Weaver kept his hands where they were, his eyes boring 
into Decker's.  For an endless succession of seconds it felt to 
Scully as if the entire sanctuary held its breath.  No one dared 
twitch.  Instead, they waited.  Every pair of eyes focused on the 
whip lean man in the golden robe whose very essence seemed to 
be pouring into the crouched figure before him.
	Suddenly, Decker cried out, a strangled choking sound 
that snapped Scully out of her silent contemplation of the 
apparent miracle taking place before her very eyes.  She started 
just as Decker crumpled to a broken heap at the front of the 
congregation.  Seemingly rooted to the spot, Weaver didn't 
move.  He stood stunned, staring down unblinking at the man 
at his feet.  Finally, his hand quivering ever so slightly, he 
reached down and gently rolled Decker onto his back.  The 
man's eyes were open.
	And unseeing.
	"Oh no!" Weaver mumbled brokenly.  "Oh, dear God, 
no!"
	Scully ran up the aisle, past people who were just 
beginning to stir in confusion in their seats.  She got to Decker 
quickly, and bent down to search for a pulse, a heartbeat, 
anything.
	And found no sign of life.
	Questions silently piling on top of one another, she 
glanced up at the Reverend.  He was backing away in shock, 
his horror at the situation, a living breathing thing.
	"Oh, no . . ." Weaver murmured as he inched further 
and further away, tears streaking his cheeks.  "I've killed him.  
I've killed him just like the others."
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
Continued in Part VII
	
	
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