The X-Files Origins--Agent of Chaos

by Kami Garcia

  Mulder’s mom had never recovered from losing Samantha, but she was functional—burnt casseroles and kitchen fires aside. But the Major wasn’t burning dinner. Losing his wife had broken him.

  Mulder went back to studying the crime scene photos and the map for clues, and the Major returned with two glass bottles of Perrier sparkling water.

  Who drinks bottled water? Isn’t that a European thing?

  He handed Mulder a bottle. “Check the seal,” the Major said, doing the same. “You can never be too careful.”

  Mulder twisted it open and took a sip, his attention still focused on the wall.

  “Are you in danger, son? Because you’ve got the look of a man obsessed.”

  Mulder took a deep breath. “My sister disappeared when I was twelve. I was in the room with her, but I blacked out or something, and I don’t remember anything.” He wasn’t sure why he chose that moment to tell the Major, but he wanted Gimble’s dad to understand why this was so important to him.

  “Sounds like a mind wipe. Advanced technology. Too advanced to be man-made. I was wiped back in 1973.”

  “What happened?” Mulder was intrigued. Worst-case scenario, he could use the story for an English assignment.

  The Major walked to the end of the room, where the subject matter on the wall shifted from adult murder victims to aliens. Images of UFOs and crop circles were taped beside magazine pages that featured interviews with scientists and alien “abductees.”

  He touched a photo of himself standing next to a sign with the name of an air force base on it. “In October 1973, I was stationed at El Rico Air Force Base. It was a terrible assignment, on a nothing base, with civilian G-men wandering around, ‘assessing’ our performance. That was the story handed down to us, anyway.”

  “Do you know what they were evaluating?”

  The Major snorted. “Nothing. It was a cover story to keep officers like me out of their hair, while they screwed around in one of our hangars.” He frowned and his face clouded over. “I didn’t realize it back then, but the forces of Chaos and Law were in the middle of a dogfight right under our noses.”

  He raked his fingers back and forth over his scalp, as if it was itching like crazy. “I should’ve known that every damn word my commanding officer was telling me was a lie. He was in on the whole operation. And the cover-up.”

  “Do you know what they were hiding?”

  The Major rushed to the bookshelves. “I didn’t at the time, but I figured it out later. My team had just completed a recon operation, and it hadn’t gone well. It was late, but I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to walk it off.” He flipped over the seat cushion of the recliner and slid a green paperback out from underneath it.

  Another copy of Stormbringer. Seeing the name of the fictional sword that formed the basis for Earl Roy’s delusions sent bile crawling up Mulder’s throat.

  The Major clutched the book against his chest like a security blanket. “I headed out to the hangar, the one that everyone on base was supposed to steer clear of, and I circled around to the back of the building.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “What I saw … I didn’t remember it for a long time. Then the mind wipe wore off enough for me to piece the memory together. The Cigarette Smoking Man’s face came back to me first. He was standing behind the hangar. I knew he was a government man. The tie and long black coat gave him away. He was holding a cigarette, waiting while a bunch of other suits went in. He took a folded American flag from one of them and followed the group inside.”

  “Okay?” Mulder wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “I snuck in behind them and stayed against the back wall, in the shadows. The men walked toward the center of the hangar and the far end of the building opened up, and a bright light shined in. The Cigarette Smoking Man stepped forward and set the flag down like an offering.…”

  Mulder was so wrapped up in the story that he encouraged the Major to keep talking. “To who?”

  “Not to who … to what.” The Major clutched the paperback tighter. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It was a living, breathing alien. The creature’s body was shaped like a human’s, but its skin was gray and wrinkled, and its head was too big for its body. But the alien’s eyes were what scared me. It had gigantic bug eyes, and they were black like a television screen that was turned off.”

  “Maybe it was a prank? A guy in a costume or something?” Mulder offered, but a part of him wanted to believe the story.

  “It was one of them. Just one.” The Major’s eyes darted around the room. “And the Cigarette Smoking Man … he was talking to it.”

  Mulder stared at Gimble’s dad, speechless.

  “That’s it.” The Major sounded defeated. “I got scared, and I took off so they wouldn’t catch me.”

  That seemed like plenty to Mulder.

  “I know what I saw.” The Major sounded like the scout leader from the episode of Project U.F.O. He walked over to the recliner and straightened the seat cushion before he sat down. “But no one believed me, and she paid the price.”

  His wife.

  A heavy silence fell over the room.

  The weatherman on TV chattered in the background. “… a high of fifty-seven degrees, with a ten percent chance of rain.”

  Then a woman cut in. “Thank you, Tom. And now the latest on Earl Roy Propps, the man the press is calling the Lullaby Killer. If you missed our coverage this morning, thirty-two-year-old Earl Roy Propps of Craiger, Maryland, was apprehended by the Anne Arundel County Sheriff’s Department late last night.” Footage of the dilapidated house appeared on the TV screen. It looked even more menacing in the early morning light.

  “After receiving an anonymous tip, the sheriff’s department arrived at the Propps residence, and sources told us they found Earl Roy Propps in the basement with two hostages—eight-year-old Sarah Lowe, who disappeared from her home five nights ago, and a teenage boy whose name has not been released. Deputies recovered numerous weapons from the house. The Lullaby Killer struck fear in the hearts of parents in the metro area as images like these surfaced.”

  Gimble would definitely have to tell the Major now.

  A photo of the magpie with arrows sticking out of its body filled the screen, and the newscaster continued, “While the sheriff’s department refused to speculate, the bird found with Billy Christian—another one of Propps’s young victims—clearly signifies the occult.”

  “Tell the truth, damn it!” the Major shouted at the TV set. “The aliens took those kids. This Earl Roy person is a pawn in the government’s game.”

  Mulder couldn’t tell the Major that Earl Roy Propps had tried to kill him.

  “WJLA News has just received new information related to the case,” the newscaster said. “Brian North is live on the scene at Rock Creek Cemetery.”

  “What do you think they’re up to now?” the Major asked.

  Mulder shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  The newscast cut to the field reporter standing at the top of the hill that overlooked the mausoleums. “This is Brian North, and I’m here at Rock Creek Cemetery, where another tragedy is rapidly unfolding. The Lullaby Killer is behind bars, but he still managed to leave another victim. The body of eight-year-old Daniel Tyler was discovered this morning. Tyler disappeared from his home in Cookstown, Virginia, six months ago. According to the FBI, the Lullaby Killer left his calling card with Daniel’s body—a magpie pierced with eight arrows. Now we are all asking the same question: Did Earl Roy Propps leave behind the bodies of other victims?”

  The reporter glanced over his shoulder at the FBI agents at the scene, his expression solemn. “We don’t have an answer yet, but we can take solace in the fact that a serial killer is off the streets.”

  “The FBI will figure it out,” Mulder said under his breath. “They can’t be that stupid.”

  The Major clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Son, I just told you that someone from the American government made
contact with an alien on a US military base. Who knows how many more little gray men the bastards are hiding? And you’re asking if FBI agents are stupid?”

  “You don’t understand.…” Mulder rubbed his eyes. The lack of sleep was catching up to him. He took a deep breath and started again. “There’s another killer out there—the person who gave Earl Roy Propps the bones. Earl Roy has a serious aversion to blood, like a phobia. He can’t stand the sight of it. A guy like that couldn’t have committed those types of murders.”

  The Major seemed suspicious. “I didn’t hear about that on the news. Where did you get your information?”

  Mulder couldn’t tell the Major the truth without getting Gimble in trouble.

  “Intel,” Mulder said, thinking fast. “You’ve got your sources and I’ve got mine.”

  The Major pursed his lips, studying him. “Good work, airman. Continue.”

  “Earl Roy left the chaos symbol with Billy Christian’s and Daniel Tyler’s bodies. I’m thinking maybe he’s Chaos and the other killer is Law? Did the police find any bone arrows left with the adult victims?”

  The Major snorted. “No. But that doesn’t mean his symbol wasn’t there. The police department is full of fools, just like the Federal Bureau of Idiots. Law left his name at every crime scene.”

  For a second, Mulder wasn’t sure if he’d heard him correctly.

  “You don’t believe me?” The Major sounded amused.

  Mulder realized his mouth was hanging open. “No. I—”

  “I’m used to people doubting me. Not everyone wants to see the truth.” He marched over to what Mulder was beginning to think of as the murder wall. “Do you want to see what I’m talking about, airman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Major pointed at an enlarged version of the article about the dead madam, who had been pimping out teenage girls. “Victim number one. Her body was discovered at oh-eight hundred. There.” He pointed at the dumpster. “Notice anything unusual in the photograph?”

  Mulder squinted, concentrating. “Umm … her shoe is on the ground? Maybe it fell off during the struggle?”

  “This will be your last black op if you can’t do better than that.” The Major rapped his knuckles against the wall. “I didn’t ask what you thought. I asked what you saw.”

  “A dumpster in an alley and a woman’s high-heeled shoe. Graffiti and a liquor store sign.”

  “You sure that’s graffiti?”

  Suddenly, Mulder saw it—a lone arrow pointing up, spray-painted above the dumpster.

  “How about this one?” The Major moved on to a glossy black-and-white photograph of the drug-dealing psychiatrist’s bedroom.

  “Did Sergio get you this picture, too?”

  “Sergio is a jack-of-all-trades,” the Major said with pride. “The CIA wanted him, but Sergio turned them down.”

  I bet, Mulder thought.

  The Major tapped on the photo. “Do you see it?”

  Mulder searched for an arrow in the image. His eyes stopped on the nightstand. The pills the psychiatrist had taken—or, more likely, that someone had forced him to take—were scattered across the top of the nightstand, between empty prescription bottles.

  Now that he knew what to look for, he saw it—a straight arrow formed by some of the pills. “I can’t believe the cops missed this.”

  The Major shrugged. “They weren’t looking for it. People see what they want to see. Or what the government tells them to.”

  Mulder was beginning to agree with him.

  “And that’s how they keep the aliens a secret,” the Major added.

  If the Major stopped tossing around the word alien, he would seem pretty brilliant.

  “Right,” Mulder said, zeroing in on the photograph of the slumlord hanging from the ceiling fan with a rope around his neck. “There it is.” He pointed at a sheet of paper on the floor next to a fast-food bag and a pile of clothes. “On the flyer.”

  The instructions on the notice read: IF EVICTED, LEAVE APARTMENT KEYS IN THIS LOCKBOX.

  A vertical arrow pointed at the top of the page, where a strip of masking tape ran along the edge.

  “The police probably thought the guy was about to put up the notice,” the Major explained. “But someone could’ve easily taken it down and left it inside the apartment.”

  “It isn’t over.” Mulder felt the weight of his words and what they really meant.

  “Not even close.” Gimble’s dad glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The aliens won’t stop until they get what they want.”

  “And what is that exactly?”

  The Major looked down at the worn paperback in his hand. “I have my theories, but only one person knows for sure. The man I saw talking to one of them.”

  The Cigarette Smoking Man from El Rico Air Force Base—if the man was more than a figment of the Major’s imagination.

  “I’ve gotta go, sir.” Mulder headed for the door. “The other killer is still out there.”

  “I don’t know where you got your intel, airman, but this is too big for you to take on alone.”

  The scene in Earl Roy’s basement proved that Mulder couldn’t even handle the Eternal Champion’s sidekick. What if he came up against the other killer—the “real” Eternal Champion? “Then I’ll get help. Maybe I should talk to someone at the FBI?”

  The Major followed him to the door. “Did you listen to a word I said? The FBI can’t help anyone, and they might be working with the aliens. What if they report you?”

  “I’ll have to risk it … for my sister. I don’t know if Earl Roy is the person who took her, but I still have to try.” Mulder knew that if it was Earl Roy, the odds of Samantha being alive were slim to zero.

  Mulder held out his hand. “Thanks for your help, sir.” They shook hands, and Mulder held on for an extra second. He looked the Major in the eye. “Sir, I just want to say that I’m sorry about what happened to your wife.”

  The Major nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up. “There’s something I need to give you.”

  “That’s okay—” Mulder didn’t need another copy of Stormbringer.

  “Don’t argue with a superior officer unless you want to get your tail handed to you.” The Major scribbled on a scrap of paper and handed it to Mulder. “If you get in over your head, call that number. Sergio will answer. It’s a secure line, but he’ll still ask you for the code words—”

  “Agent of Chaos?” Mulder wasn’t sure how a guy who carried out his top secret missions from his mom’s basement could help, but he appreciated the gesture. “Thanks again, sir. And the next time I come by, I really do want to check out that telescope.”

  “Anytime, airman.” The Major unlocked the dead bolts and reached for the knob. “But be careful. If you start putting the puzzle together, the FBI will start paying attention. You can’t trust them.”

  Mulder didn’t know much about the FBI.

  But I have to trust someone.

  CHAPTER 24

  Mulder Residence

  8:42 P.M.

  Mulder had been holed up in his bedroom for hours. After his conversation with the Major, he drove straight home and ransacked his room, searching for every single secondhand psychology textbook he’d brought from home. Phoebe helped, even though she wasn’t sure what he was trying to find. He wasn’t sure himself.

  The Meaning of Murder was his go-to when it came to anything related to the topic. The book referenced personality disorders and psychological conditions that suddenly felt critical for him to understand.

  The information in one of those books could hold the answer to catching Law—the Eternal Champion.

  Mulder was diving into an abnormal psychology text to learn more about the signs of a split personality when the apartment door slammed.

  For a split second, he forgot that Earl Roy was in police custody.

  “Mulder?” his father shouted from the living room. “Mulder? Where the hell are you?”

&nb
sp; “He sounds really pissed,” Phoebe whispered. “And when did he start calling you that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Interacting with his dad sucked on a normal day, but after being locked in a dog kennel by a delusional psychopath, he wasn’t in the mood. Mulder dropped the textbook on his bed and prepared to storm out of the room when his door flew open instead. It banged against the wall so hard that it rebounded and almost hit his dad in the face.

  “Where the hell have you been?” The rage in his dad’s eyes took him by surprise.

  “I’ve been here all night.” Mulder picked up the psych book. He had never seen his father this angry. “Reading and hanging out with Phoebe.”

  Phoebe waved.

  “I thought you weren’t coming home for three more days.”

  His dad’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Mulder with contempt. “I thought so, too, until I got a call from the FBI!”

  Oops.

  “Do you want to explain why you were in Craiger, Maryland, looking for a serial killer—who almost hacked you to pieces in his basement?” His father’s voice rose.

  “The guy was kidnapping and murdering kids. Someone had to find the missing little girl.”

  Mulder’s dad jabbed his finger in the air. “Why did it have to be you?”

  The question loomed.

  “You know why,” he fired back.

  “This obsession of yours is dangerous. And it ends here.”

  Mulder leaped off the bed. “You don’t get to decide when it ends. It won’t end for me until I find my sister.”

  Phoebe stared at her hands folded in her lap. Mulder wished she didn’t have to hear this.

  His dad slumped against the wall. “She’s gone. You can’t save her. You and your mother need to let this go.”

  His stomach caved in like his father had punched him, and every muscle in his body tightened. “I’ll find out what happened to her.”

  Mulder’s dad seemed to shrink before his eyes. He had already given up on the possibility of finding Samantha. Just like he gave up on his marriage and his relationship with his son. Samantha wasn’t the only one who had disappeared that night almost five and a half years ago. His father had vanished, too.