by Kami Garcia
Except he had a choice.
Maybe Mulder’s father blamed him for blacking out and not saving his sister.
“Do you want to talk about what happened in that man’s house?”
Mulder looked at his dad, disgusted. “With you? No thanks.”
“Fine. But the FBI wants you to come in tomorrow afternoon. They have questions. And we’re not telling your mother about this. You’re lucky they called me first.” Bill Mulder gave Phoebe a stern look to make sure she knew that his directive applied to her as well. He stormed out of the room, and his office door slammed a moment later.
“Are you okay?” Phoebe asked.
“Yeah.” He picked up a stack of books and his notes. “But I want to finish this before I talk to the FBI.”
“What is it you’re finishing exactly?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet.” It was the truth.
Phoebe nodded. “Then finish it and find out.”
Mulder turned his attention back to the books. He opened his copy of Stormbringer and tried to imagine what kind of man would take on the persona of “Law”—someone who chooses the sinners and thinks he has the right to act as judge and jury. A man who is dependent on the power he believes he gets from a demonic sword.
He made a list of everything he knew about Earl Roy Propps and the elaborate fantasy world he’d created based on Michael Moorcock’s series—in which Earl Roy was the companion and protector of the Eternal Champion.
Mulder outlined the chronology, including the eight-day period the children were drugged and held captive in the killer’s basement, the detailed rituals Earl Roy engaged in to prepare them for the end, and the way he arranged their bodies after he poisoned them. His psych textbooks confirmed what he already knew—Earl Roy suffered from delusions and hallucinations, like hearing the “sword” talk to him and seeing it glow inside the kids.
Between the brief time he’d spent with Earl Roy and the snippets of information that had been released about the man, it was clear that Earl Roy Propps was no genius. He’d dropped out of high school at fifteen and, even as a mechanic, had spent more time doing oil changes than actually fixing cars. Then he moved on to unloading plants at a nursery. A guy like that couldn’t stage a drug overdose or a suicide convincing enough to fool the police.
There was also the complicated sheepshank knot used in the slumlord’s hanging. It had only taken the deputy a few seconds to untie the ropes around Mulder’s wrists. A knot like a sheepshank would’ve required more time.
But Earl Roy’s admissions while he was alone with Mulder and his aversion to blood were the real proof.
Mulder reached for a fresh legal pad and started writing. He wrote until his hand was numb and his vision blurred. He didn’t stop writing when Phoebe fell asleep just after three in the morning, or when his father banged on the door to tell him Gimble was in the living room—or when his friend came in and sat on the floor across from him. Mulder didn’t stop writing until he put a period after the last sentence.
“Mulder.” His father burst into the room. “We have to leave. Now.”
He ignored his dad and flipped to the front of the legal pad.
“Do you mind if I catch a ride with you, Mr. Mulder?” Gimble asked. He was wearing a baggy suit and a striped tie that was too long. “I’m supposed to go in and give a statement, too. But my dad doesn’t really drive … or leave the house.” Gimble held up a folded piece of paper. “He gave me a note.”
“Sure.” Bill Mulder looked down at Gimble with pity.
“I’m coming, too,” Phoebe said. “My parents won’t be here until this afternoon, so I have nothing else to do.”
“Did the FBI call them?” Mulder’s dad asked.
“Yeah. They’re taking me to the interview tomorrow.” She grabbed her bag. “Just give me a minute to change.”
Bill Mulder turned his attention to his son’s room, eyeing the books and papers strewn across the floor.
Mulder stood next to Gimble. “How did the Major take it when you told him?”
Gimble shook his head. “I never got around to it. The FBI showed up at my house because they couldn’t get in touch with my dad over the phone. Especially after I left it at my dungeon master’s house.”
Mulder’s father opened his closet. “Where’s your suit?” he asked, riffling through the hanging clothes.
“I’ll find it myself,” Mulder snapped, but his dad ignored him. Whatever. There was nothing interesting in there anyway, and he wanted to hear the rest of Gimble’s story.
“Did the Major flip?” he asked.
Gimble shrugged. “Pretty much. He wouldn’t let them in the house, so they had to stand on the front steps to talk to him. But it was worse after they left. He didn’t believe we were at Earl Roy’s place. He thinks they made up the whole story. He wanted to drive to Canada so they couldn’t interview me.”
“That sucks.” Mulder felt bad for his friend, and the FBI agents who showed up at the Major’s door.
“Tell me about it. He thinks the aliens are going to abduct me from the FBI headquarters.”
Mulder’s father marched over to the bed and tossed down a stack of clothes, still on the hangers. Navy blazer, white dress shirt, gray slacks, and a light-blue-and-navy tie that definitely didn’t belong to Mulder. His dad was probably slipping preppy Georgetown University–approved clothing into his closet.
“Get changed. Unless you would rather wait for the FBI to show up on our doorstep, too?” His dad stormed out and Gimble followed, stifling a smile.
Mulder changed his clothes and grabbed the legal pad. This was his chance to speak with a real FBI agent—someone with the power to launch an investigation and hunt down a serial killer. He just needed to find one person to listen.
To believe.
CHAPTER 25
J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building, Washington, DC
April 4, 3:15 P.M.
The Hoover Building dominated Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th Street and 10th Street, like a concrete fortress. It wasn’t the only massive building downtown, but the fact that the FBI and its subdivisions were the only occupants made a formidable impression.
When Mulder and his friends entered the building with his dad, the FBI seal on the wall immediately grabbed Gimble’s attention. Mulder had seen it before in photos, but it was a lot cooler to see the seal from inside the FBI building. In the center of a blue circle, two laurel branches flanked a red-and-white-striped shield, with a scale above it and a white scroll below it. The image was surrounded with gold stars, and a blue border with block lettering on it.
Everyone stared, except his father, who managed to seem bored and annoyed at the same time.
Gimble pulled at his tie. “I want to read what it says.”
But Bill Mulder wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing. Gimble had barely taken a step when he said, “Department of Justice. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Now, let’s check in or you’ll be late.”
He strode past them to the security desk.
Phoebe tightened her pigtails with a fierce look in her eye, as if she was adjusting her armor, then marched over to the seal. Mulder and Gimble followed.
When they caught up with her at the wall, she turned to Mulder. “Remember all the times I lectured you about being too hard on your dad? I feel bad saying this, but you were right. He is a jerk.”
Mulder nudged her shoulder. “I think he has a chronic condition that prevents him from acting like a human being for longer than ten minutes at a time.”
“Maybe he’s a cyborg?” Gimble grinned, on the verge of cracking up at his own joke.
“He’d have a higher likability quotient,” Mulder said, watching as his dad turned away from the desk and looked around for them. Bill Mulder shook his head and scowled when he realized they had ignored his pointless order. Mulder had seen that expression on his dad’s face plenty of times, and it always bothered him.
Until today.
Mulder ushered
Gimble and Phoebe back to the desk where his father was waiting. He ignored his son and continued making small talk with the man behind the desk until an agent arrived to escort them up to the fifth floor.
When everyone got off the elevator, Mulder and his friends followed the adults, who were engaged in a boring conversation about the State Department. Mulder studied the framed photos on the walls as he walked down the hallway. Most of them were old black-and-white photos of DC—the White House and the Capitol Building, the Lincoln Memorial and the view of the Reflecting Pool, and the previous FBI building.
The agent led them into a large office suite with a waiting area. A tall man wearing round wire glasses and a conservative navy suit stood at the desk, talking to the woman behind it. Her lipstick was a dark shade of red, like Mulder’s mom used to wear when his father took her somewhere special—back when she still had special places to go.
“I’m scheduled for an interview with Agent Barnes,” the man in the glasses told her. He kept adjusting his tie, tightening it and then loosening it again, as if he wasn’t used to wearing one.
It made Mulder less self-conscious about all the tie readjusting he’d been doing.
The woman with the red lipstick handed him his driver’s license. “Relax. If you’re meeting with Agent Barnes, the bureau is interested in you.”
“I hope you’re right,” he confided, adjusting his tie again. “I’m graduating in May, and this is the first job that has interested me.”
Phoebe kicked Mulder’s foot just hard enough to get his attention. “Check out the posters,” she whispered.
Empty eyes and cold expressions stared at them from the WANTED BY THE FBI posters plastered on the walls. Mulder turned in a circle, examining the faces. Some were familiar—John Wayne Gacy, the Killer Clown, who had finally been caught last year after slaughtering thirty-three teenage boys in Illinois; David Berkowitz, Son of Sam; Edward Wayne Edwards, a convicted serial killer who had started killing again after he was paroled. Some of the posters had the word CAPTURED stamped across them in red.
“This room is gonna give me nightmares,” Gimble whispered.
Not Mulder.
The images sent pinpricks up the back of his neck and a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. The thought of catching monsters like the ones pictured on the posters made him think about Samantha, Billy, and Sarah. Catching those monsters mattered.
“It will only be a minute,” said the young agent who had escorted them upstairs.
“Right,” Mulder’s dad snapped, the moment the agent was out of earshot. He barely got the words out before a door opened and another agent came out to greet them.
“Special Agent John Douglas, from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit.” He extended his hand to Bill Mulder, who gave it a quick shake.
“William Mulder. I’m with the State Department. Someone from your office called and asked me to bring in my son.”
Agent Douglas had a hardscrabble look about him that Mulder liked.
“I’m actually scheduled to meet with Gary Winchester—”
“That’s me.” Gimble stepped forward.
“Nice to meet you,” Agent Douglas said to Gimble, before continuing his conversation with Mulder’s father. “Special Agent Ressler will be out in a minute. He’ll be conducting the interview with your son.”
Mulder’s dad sighed, annoyed by the delay.
Agent Douglas ignored him. “So where’s your father, Gary? I spoke with him on the phone briefly after the other agents spoke to him at your house.”
“Oh. He doesn’t leave the house,” Gimble said, as if it was completely normal. “He told me to give you this.” He handed Agent Douglas a sheet of paper folded into a perfect square.
The FBI agent raised an eyebrow and opened it. “‘I, Major William Wyatt Winchester, retired major of the 128th Recon Squadron of the United States Air Force, grant the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation permission to interview my son, Gary William Winchester, on April 4, 1979. I do not grant permission for FBI agents, or other persons employed by the United States government, to ask my son questions about myself, or my work as a civilian. Sincerely, Major William Wyatt Winchester, USAF.’”
Agent Douglas scratched his head and examined the note. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
Gimble shrugged. “Yeah. My dad likes to do his own thing.”
“We don’t usually accept legal documents without a notary seal, or ones written in highlighter.”
“I told him that, but he couldn’t find a pen,” he explained.
“Right.” Agent Douglas gestured for Gimble to follow him as he opened the door. “Why don’t we go ahead and get started, Gary?”
Before the door closed, Mulder heard his friend say, “By the way, everyone calls me Gimble.”
“You didn’t tell me your best friend’s father had a screw loose,” Mulder’s dad said.
Phoebe shot him a dirty look.
But as far as Mulder was concerned, that was letting him off too easy. “Don’t talk about the Major like that. He’s a good man. I don’t care what you think.”
His father’s face turned red. “What did you just say to me?”
Mulder heard the door close behind him and turned to find another FBI agent watching them.
“Special Agent Robert Ressler.” The agent approached Bill Mulder and extended his hand. “I’m with the Behavioral Science Unit.”
Mulder’s father introduced himself, and Ressler turned to Mulder. “Fox, right?” Agent Ressler’s sleeves were rolled up, and his button-down shirt was wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it.
“You can call me Mulder, and this my friend Phoebe Larson.”
Phoebe smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
“I think we have an appointment tomorrow, Miss Larson,” Agent Ressler said.
“Then I guess I’ll see you again tomorrow,” she said.
Mulder’s dad cleared his throat and gestured at the open door behind the agent. “Let’s get this over with.”
Agent Ressler held up his hand. “I’d prefer to speak to your son alone, if that’s all right with you? There’s a great coffee shop across the street. Best chocolate cream pie I’ve ever tasted.”
Bill Mulder opened his mouth to argue, but Ressler kept talking. “I bet the State Department has a smart guy like you working around the clock.”
“I was on a business trip when your office called me,” Mulder’s father grumbled. “I flew in last night.”
Ressler offered a sympathetic nod. “So we’re both overworked. Go ahead and take a break. Have a slice of pie.”
“Are you all right with going in alone?” Mulder’s dad asked him.
“Yeah.” A week ago Mulder would’ve cared about the fact that his father was ditching him, during an interview about his son being held captive by a serial killer, to eat pie. Now he saw his dad for what he was—a coward who gave up on his family.
“I’ll wait here,” Phoebe said, planting herself in a vinyl chair. “For moral support.”
“I’ll run F—” Ressler caught himself. “Mulder and Phoebe across the street to you when we finish.” He walked Bill Mulder to the hallway before the man changed his mind.
Ressler returned and ushered Mulder toward the door to the back offices. Mulder glanced over his shoulder to nod at Phoebe, and she gave him a thumbs-up.
“Can I get you a soda or a snack from the vending machine before we get started?” Agent Ressler asked as they walked down the hall.
“You got rid of my dad, so I’m good.”
Ressler laughed. “My father isn’t the easiest person to get along with, either.”
By the time Mulder took a seat in front of Agent Ressler’s desk, he felt comfortable enough to walk the agent through what they had pieced together and the events that had taken place at Earl Roy’s house. Ressler sat behind his desk taking notes, even though he was recording the conversation. He stopped Mulder whenever he had a question or
needed clarification, but mostly he just listened.
When Mulder finally finished telling his story, he slumped in the leather armchair. “It feels like I just ran a marathon.”
“What you did took guts. You saved Sarah Lowe’s life and stopped a killer who murdered at least two children,” Ressler said.
Mulder sat up straight. “You said ‘at least.’ Does that mean you think he killed even more kids? Ones you haven’t found yet?”
Because that’s what I think.
“Recovering Daniel Tyler’s body proves something I was afraid of.”
His throat went dry. “What?”
Ressler unwrapped a roll of antacids sitting on his desk, popped two in his mouth, and swallowed them. “That Earl Roy Propps didn’t start murdering kids five days ago. He’s been doing this for a long time.”
Something clicked in Mulder’s mind. “Did you find the bikes in the backyard? Did they belong to other kids? Earl Roy had a bike for Sarah. He said it was a gift. I thought maybe the other bikes were gifts, too.”
“We found the bikes,” Ressler said. “But we aren’t sure who they belonged to yet.”
“Then what made you think Billy Christian wasn’t Earl Roy’s first victim?”
“It’s my job to catch killers like Earl Roy, and I’ve been doing it long enough to recognize when I’m dealing with an experienced serial killer.” Agent Ressler pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’ll hear about it on the news tonight, if the media hasn’t figured it out already.” He leaned against the wall behind his desk. “We found a third child’s body, in another mausoleum at Rock Creek Cemetery. So that makes four victims, now.”
“How did you know where Earl Roy hid the bodies? Did you find something at his house? Like a list? Or did he tell you himself?”
Ressler sat down again and propped his elbows on the desk. “No. We didn’t have anything that concrete. But leaving the bodies in mausoleums fit Earl Roy’s profile.”
