by Kami Garcia
“What is all this?” Mulder asked without taking his eyes off the map.
“You don’t want to hear about it,” Gimble said from his spot on the sofa.
“Actually, I do.”
The Major glanced around the room before he answered. “I’m tracking murders in the metro area.”
“But it says the psychiatrist overdosed.”
“Do you believe everything you read, Mulder?” the Major asked.
Mulder smiled, thinking about his American history test. “No, sir.”
“There’s only one book you need.” The Major sorted through a stack of books under the map and slid a thin green paperback from the middle.
“Tell me when it’s over,” Gimble called out.
The Major handed the book to Mulder. On the cover a warrior with snow-white hair and skin held a black sword above his head below the title—Stormbringer. It was the same book he’d seen multiple copies of earlier.
The one the Major had started reading after Gimble’s mom died.
“Michael Moorcock figured out what was happening before the rest of us,” the Major said, tapping on the author’s name. “He realized mankind had upset the balance between Chaos and Law, throwing the world into chaos.”
Mulder wasn’t sure what a fantasy novel had to do with it, but the Major was right about one thing. The world was out of control. People were killing one another in wars, and on the streets, with drugs and violence.
“It’s an interesting theory.” Mulder handed the novel back to the Major and watched as Gimble’s dad slid it back into the stack.
“I have proof,” the Major continued. “I discovered a pattern. They were not random murders and accidents, like the press reported.” He gestured at the map. “All these people were murdered, and their deaths are connected.”
“How do you figure? The guy in Severn got attacked by wild animals.” Mulder moved closer to the map. Maybe he had missed something. “How are their deaths connected? Did the victims know each other?” He felt guilty for encouraging the Major’s delusions, but he wanted to hear his theory.
“No. But they did have one important thing in common.”
“Dad!” Gimble bolted off the sofa. It was the first time Mulder had ever heard Gimble refer to his father as anything other than the Major. “Mulder doesn’t need to hear your theory. We talked about this.”
“Your friend wants to know the truth, Gary. He doesn’t want to live in the dark like you do.”
Mulder felt the tension ratchet up in the room. It reminded him of the heated interactions he had with his own father. He didn’t want to put Gimble in that position, but if he didn’t hear the Major out now, it might cause more drama.
“It’s okay.” Mulder gave Gimble a bored look, as if he were throwing the old guy a bone.
Gimble nodded, giving him the go-ahead.
“What did the victims have in common?” Mulder asked.
After a long, uncomfortable silence, the Major cleared his throat. “They were all abducted by aliens.”
Mulder almost laughed, but the look on the Major’s face made it clear that he was serious.
“The clues are here if you know what to look for,” the Major added. “I’ll show you.”
“He has to get home,” Gimble said, signaling Mulder.
“Yeah. My dad is probably back from work by now.”
“What about the telescope?” the Major asked.
“I’ll check it out next time.”
“We’ll talk more then.” The Major turned suddenly and ducked into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Gimble whispered. “I should’ve known he would go all Close Encounters on you. You’d better get out of here before he comes back and tells you his theory about why Abraham Lincoln was really assassinated.”
Mulder was halfway to the door when the Major returned, carrying a cereal box.
“Wait.” He reached into the box and tossed a few handfuls of sugar-coated cornflakes on the floor. “I have something for you.”
“That’s okay, sir. I had a big lunch.”
For a moment, the Major seemed confused, but he shook it off. He reached into the box again and pulled out a book—a green paperback exactly like the one he had pulled out earlier. “Take this.” He offered it to Mulder.
“I wouldn’t want to take one of your books.”
“Just take it,” Gimble said in a low voice, heading for the front door. “He probably has fifty or sixty copies in the house.”
The Major shoved the book into Mulder’s hand. “There are no coincidences. You and Gary meeting, and him bringing you here today, it was all part of a bigger plan. Stormbringer has answers. Moorcock understood their ways.”
Mulder knew he was referring to aliens again. He held up the copy of Stormbringer as Gimble pushed him toward the door. “Thanks, sir. I’ll read it.”
“Or burn it,” Gimble muttered under his breath as Mulder slipped outside.
“Keep your eyes open, Fox Mulder,” the Major called after him.
Before Gimble shut the door, Mulder heard the Major say one last thing. “The truth is out there.”
CHAPTER 4
Mulder Residence
6:18 P.M.
Mulder was used to ideas getting stuck in his head. Usually, they came from Star Trek episodes or books on quantum physics. A retired military conspiracy theorist was a first. But as Mulder walked back to the school parking lot to pick up his car, he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with the Major—and it was still on his mind as he drove to his dad’s apartment.
After listening to Gimble’s dad talk about aliens and running an imaginary black ops unit, it seemed crazy to take him seriously, but the Major had said something that made perfect sense to Mulder because he believed it, too.
There are no coincidences.
When Samantha disappeared, people on the island had called it a coincidence. As if a kidnapper just went out for a stroll that night and happened to pass Mulder’s house when he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming urge to abduct a kid?
Yeah, right.
What were the odds?
He was still thinking about it when he walked into the apartment. The television was on. For once, his father was home before him.
“Dad?” Mulder dropped his backpack in the hallway and grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds from a bag on the kitchen counter. He used to hate them and the shells his father left all over the house, and they still reminded him of birdseed. But two years ago he had started craving them out of the blue, and he’d been eating them ever since. At least they kind of made it feel like home.
“In here,” his dad called from the master bedroom.
Mulder’s dad had rented the apartment when his parents separated, which was code for getting divorced. The place was nice, but it felt more like a hotel than a home. Everything in the second-floor walk-up was brand-new—from the cassette tape player that his dad never used and the expensive toaster that never worked, to the desk in Mulder’s room that was the identical twin to the one in his room back in Chilmark (minus the Dune quotes written all over it).
Living with his dad for the school year—the “getting-to-know-each-other-better experiment,” as Mulder called it—wasn’t much different from the pre-separation status quo of ignoring each other.
When Mulder reached his dad’s room and spotted the open suitcase at the end of the bed, it reminded him of the other reason the apartment felt like a hotel. His dad was always leaving on a business trip or returning from one.
“Going somewhere?” Mulder leaned against the door frame, looking bored. If his dad didn’t care enough to spend any time with him, Mulder wasn’t going to let it bother him.
“New Mexico. It’s a quick trip. I’ll be back on Monday.” His dad didn’t look up from the shirts he was folding. “I want you to head over to Georgetown tomorrow. Spend some time on campus like we talked about. The sooner you make a decision, the better.”
Mean
ing the sooner Mulder made the decision his dad wanted him make. “Acceptance letters don’t come for two more weeks.” Unless, of course, your dad used his connections at the State Department to make sure that you were already accepted to the college he wanted you to attend. “I still have time to decide.”
His father tossed the shirt in his hand on the bed. “There’s nothing to decide. Kids don’t turn down acceptances to Georgetown University.”
Mulder crossed his arms. “Of course they do, or there wouldn’t be a waiting list. And I thought you were coming with me to show me ‘the lay of the land.’ What happened to playing tour guide?” His dad had never attended Georgetown, unless the campus tour counted, but he had the prospective students brochure memorized.
“I’m going out of town, remember?” He gestured at the suitcase, irritated.
“Does everyone at the State Department work weekends, or just you?” Mulder sounded more bitter than usual.
“Most people don’t have my level of responsibility, and the project I’m working on is entering an important phase.” His father arranged the shirts neatly in the suitcase.
“I bet.”
“I tried to get out of going, if that makes you feel any better.” His dad almost sounded sincere. “I know you don’t understand, but what I do is important. It’s bigger than me. I’m trying to do some good in the world.…” He stared at his half-packed suitcase, and for a second, he looked miserable.
Mulder almost felt sorry for his dad, but it didn’t last. Whatever prompted this heartfelt share session couldn’t make up for the past few years. Work was always his father’s priority, even when his family was falling apart, which didn’t make any sense to Mulder. As far as he was concerned, nothing would ever be as important as his sister and finding out what had happened to her.
His dad looked up and shook off any genuine emotion he might have been feeling. “It’s not like I planned to be out of town. I’m not thrilled about the idea of Phoebe staying here while I’m away.”
Phoebe was arriving late Sunday night. They had planned the trip months ago, after he realized they had spring break at the same time.
“Why? You don’t trust me?” Mulder clenched his jaw. Based on this conversation, the answer was obvious.
His father scoffed, “Give me a break. You’re a seventeen-year-old with a stack of Playboy magazines stashed under your bed.”
“I’ll be eighteen in October. Or did you forget again?” Mulder shot back. Last year his dad had called him a day late to wish him happy birthday. “I can write it down if that will make it easier to remember.”
Instead of apologizing for being a crappy parent, Bill Mulder pulled out the big guns. “Maybe I should call Phoebe’s parents and tell them she can’t come?” He reached for the phone on the nightstand.
As much as Mulder wanted to call his father’s bluff, he knew his dad would go through with it. And knowing Phoebe, her parents probably didn’t know much about the trip. So, for once, Mulder kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t screw up his chance to see Phoebe. He missed the hell out of her.
“No smart comment?” his dad asked, reveling in the lame victory.
There’s the Bill Mulder I know. Cold, distant, and condescending.
“Just let her come.” Mulder forced out the words through gritted teeth. “Please.”
“Sleep on the sofa and don’t make me regret trusting you.”
“No problem.” Mulder almost laughed. His dad didn’t even know basic things about him—like the fact that he already spent every night on the sofa.
Mulder retreated to the living room, turned on the TV set, and slumped on a stiff leather armchair. A little background noise would drown out his dad’s annoying voice if he ended up on one of his secret phone calls that Mulder didn’t give a crap about.
Two more months until graduation, and I’m outta here.
Then he could go back to living with his mom until August, when he left for college. If he figured out where he was going by then.
A newscaster’s voice droned on in the background. Mulder wasn’t really listening until he heard the words missing girl. He jerked forward and sat on the edge of the chair, listening.
“Sarah Lowe vanished from her home just before nine o’clock last night,” the reporter said as a photo popped up in the corner of the screen. A little girl with big brown eyes and crooked dirty-blond pigtails, wearing zip-up pajamas with elephants on them, smiled back at him. She looked around the same age as Samantha when she disappeared.
Mulder’s skin went cold.
The newscast switched to another feed. A woman with puffy eyes and the same shade of dirty-blond hair as Sarah stood at a podium between her husband and the DC police chief, clutching a wad of tissues.
“Sarah was playing in the living room, and the power went out,” Mrs. Lowe said between ragged sobs. “So I went down to the basement to check the breaker. I would’ve taken Sarah with me, but she hates it down there. She gets scared. She was only alone for two minutes.” Her breath hitched and she dissolved into tears again. Sarah’s dad put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and tried to console her.
Mulder remembered his mother had the same desperate look right after Samantha was taken.
The police chief turned to Sarah’s mom. “If this is too difficult—”
“I can do it,” Mrs. Lowe said, and looked straight into the camera. “When I came back, Sarah was gone and the front door was wide open.”
Mulder’s stomach lurched and he almost puked.
The power went out and the front door was open. Just like when Samantha was taken. The details were so similar.
Sarah’s photo appeared on the TV screen again, and the police chief took over. “Sarah Lowe has blond hair and brown eyes, and a small scar above her right eyebrow.”
Mulder focused on the photo: Sarah’s happy-kid grin, minus a front tooth. The dimple in her left cheek. Gray elephants marching across her white pajamas, except for the brown one above the top of the zipper. Mulder leaned closer and realized it wasn’t an elephant at all. It was a brown stain, shaped sort of like a hippo.
“The search is ongoing. If anyone has information related to Sarah Lowe’s disappearance, please call the tip line.”
Mulder stood in front of the TV set in a daze. He didn’t even remember getting up from the chair. All he could think about was Samantha and Sarah Lowe, gray elephants and a brown hippo-shaped spot—and two front doors—both hanging wide open. He was still standing there when his dad walked into the living room and turned off the television.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” His father’s harsh tone yanked Mulder back to reality.
Did you hear about the missing little girl? That was what Mulder wanted to ask, but he settled on “Obviously not.”
If he brought up the newscast, his dad would inevitably make a rude comment about Mulder’s “unhealthy obsession” with Samantha’s disappearance, causing Mulder to fire back with a rude comment of his own. Phoebe’s visit would be over before it started. And he had to talk to her about this.
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mulder.” His father stalked down the hallway to his room. “One day that smart mouth of yours is going to get you in real trouble.”
The bedroom door slammed, and it took Mulder a minute to fully absorb the significance of what had just happened. In the last hour, his father had managed to ruin his night, proving, yet again, that Mulder couldn’t count on him. But something else happened, too.
Mulder smiled.
He had finally gotten his dad to stop calling him Fox.
* * *
After the eleven o’clock news, Mulder’s eyes started feeling heavy, not that it mattered. Insomnia won its nightly battle 90 percent of the time. Sleep equaled nightmares: the chance to relive the worst night of his life over and over.
Mulder’s mind flashed on Sarah Lowe’s photo from the news. Another flash hit, and he found himself staring at the face of a different eight
-year-old girl.…
Samantha sitting cross-legged on the living room floor of the Chilmark house with a Stratego game board in front of her.
The news was on in the background—a report about Watergate. Fox’s favorite show was coming on in a few minutes, and he couldn’t miss it. He captured one of his sister’s Stratego game pieces and took it off the board.
“Do we have to watch this, Fox?” she whined.
“Leave it. I’m watching The Magician at nine.”
“Mom and Dad said I could watch a movie,” she argued.
“They’re next door at the Galbrands’. And they said I’m in charge.” As far as he was concerned, that meant he was in charge of the TV, too.
Samantha got up and changed the channel to a stupid Western.
“Hey! Get out of my life!” Fox yelled.
Samantha shrieked in his ear, but she wasn’t getting her way tonight.
He switched it back and stood up, towering over her. “I’m watching The Magician.”
The lights went out suddenly, and that was where the memory got fuzzy. He remembered his heart pounding and hearing Samantha scream his name. “Fox!”
Then the room faded.…
When Fox regained consciousness minutes later, he was lying on his back in the living room, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
Why was he sleeping on the floor out there, instead of in his bedroom? What time was it? He remembered arguing with Samantha and the power going out.
Something was wrong.
Fox bolted upright, an overwhelming sense of dread clutching at his chest. His gaze shot to the rug where his sister had been sitting a few minutes ago. Stratego pieces lay scattered across the board, but no Samantha.
Where did she go?
“Samantha?” Fox called out. No response. Instead he heard a familiar creaking sound behind him, and he turned around slowly.
The front door of the house was wide open.
