The X-Files: I Want to Believe Page 11

  On her hands and knees like another animal, Cheryl pushed through the doggie door and crawled into the cramped passageway—when the doggie door snapped shut behind her, utter darkness was the result—but she scrambled along, whimpering in fear, moving on sheer adrenaline, dragging herself toward the dim outline of another door at the opposite end of the tunnel.

  Faster and faster she crawled. The cold air beckoned her—freedom, whatever it cost, was waiting on the other side of that small door ahead. Then her head hit the door like a battering ram and she pushed her shoulders through out into the dark and the cold, still half in the passageway.

  She gulped at the frosty air.

  It tasted like freedom.

  Then, beyond the snowy ground, out of the darkness, came the sound of something running, not a person, but an animal, growling, snarling, snapping, paws pounding the snow-packed earth, and before she could even see exactly what it was, Cheryl retreated into the passageway in a panic.

  The doggie door slammed shut and Cheryl froze.

  Then it popped open and a snarling pit bull thrust its head in, snapping at her, biting at the air around her, then another pit bull’s head did the same, saliva flecking, teeth bared, eyes crazed, and she began to scream, backing up faster than she thought possible, the dogs having trouble forcing their way into the tunnel.

  And when she popped back out into the kennel, and into the arms of her captors, she wasn’t sure that she’d seen two pit bulls at all. But could she have seen what she thought she’d seen? Were her frazzled brain and the dark night and the horrific circumstances making her crazy?

  Or had she seen a two-headed pit bull?

  Chapter 11

  Sex Offender Dorms

  Richmond, Virginia

  January 11

  His breath steaming in the chill, Fox Mulder climbed out of the back of the Expedition with ASAC Whitney exiting the front rider’s side. While SA Drummy stepped down from behind the wheel and came around, the other two were already entering a scene washed red and blue by the whirling light bar of a pulled-up ambulance.

  Moving with haste and concern toward the emergency vehicle, Mulder—Whitney a few steps behind—saw a stretcher being hauled from the apartment complex by two paramedics, with a third hauling life support alongside their patient.

  Father Joe.

  The priest’s wild hair made him immediately identifiable, though his face was mostly obscured by an oxygen mask. From what Mulder could see, Crissman was in serious condition.

  A doctor was on the scene, however—Dr. Dana Scully.

  She was trailing along in her tan cashmere coat, part of the parade headed to the waiting ambulance. When Scully’s eyes met Mulder’s, her surprise at seeing him there matched his own seeing her.

  Mulder went quickly to Scully and fell in beside her, their breath pluming in the cold and mingling. “What happened?”

  “He had a seizure and collapsed. That’s all we know for sure.”

  Not quite comprehending, in lockstep with Scully now, Mulder felt the tension from their locker room confrontation kick back in. “Who called you?”

  “No one.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Whitney had caught up with them now, and her presence seemed to give Scully hesitation in answering. Almost under her breath, Scully muttered to Mulder, “Looking into the empty darkness.”

  Her manner was almost somnambulistic, and her words only confused Mulder further. He turned his attention to Father Joe, who the paramedics were loading into the ambulance.

  They stopped and watched the procedure.

  Mulder said to Scully, “We have to talk to Father Joe.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen…not for a while.”

  Whitney said to Scully, “It’s important. We’ve got a suspect.”

  Quickly the ASAC brought Scully up to date on the suspect that the Richmond District Attorney’s Office had interviewed about the black-market human organ trade.

  Scully was frowning. “He’s in custody?”

  “No,” Whitney said. “He was released after questioning. But I’m working on getting a warrant to search his employer’s offices. This is the suspect…”

  Whitney handed Scully a blown-up Xerox of a driver’s license photo of one Janke Dacyshyn. Mulder watched Scully as she studied the rugged, angular face framed by long, dark, stringy hair. To her credit, Scully gave it her full attention.

  Whitney said to Scully, “We’ve got a fairly credible witness who says our suspect swam at the same pool as the missing women. Even was seen swimming there at the same time as Cheryl Cunningham, the second victim.”

  Scully was still studying the photo. “Credible enough to arrest him?”

  Whitney nodded. “I have agents moving in to make an arrest, yes.”

  Scully frowned in confusion. “Then what do you need with Father Joe?”

  Irritation just below the surface, Mulder said, “To show him that picture.”

  A second FBI Expedition rolled in and SA Drummy was there to meet it. Mulder watched the big man talk to an agent who leaned out, then Drummy pointed toward Whitney.

  “Excuse me,” Whitney said, and went over to the newly arrived SUV and its several agents to see what was up.

  Mulder pointed to the Xerox photo in Scully’s fingers. “I’m convinced that’s the man in Father Joe’s visions.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Who?”

  “The suspect. Janke Dacyshyn.” He tapped the photo.

  She rolled her eyes. “Now you’re wasting their time, Mulder.”

  He just looked at her. It had taken months to turn her into a partner, years to make her a believer, and here they were back to square one—him trying to get to the truth, and Scully an obstacle. How the hell had this happened?

  He frowned at her. “Tell me what you’re doing here again?”

  She said nothing. Just handed the Xerox back to him.

  The Expedition that Mulder arrived in rolled up to them with Drummy at the wheel. Like a customer paying a carhop at a drive-in, a sourly smirking Drummy handed out another Xerox of a photo ID. A different one.

  “Here’s a vision for you,” Drummy said, giving the Xerox to Mulder. “Couple of my guys brought it over.”

  Mulder looked at the new picture, the new face—another rugged, angularly featured man but with light-color, almost feminine eyes—with another Middle European mouthful of a name: Franz Tomczeszyn.

  The former FBI agent had no way of knowing that he held in his hands photos of the two men who had attacked FBI agent Monica Bannan.

  Drummy, with an edge of I-told-you-so in his voice, said, “That’s our suspect’s employer—an old friend of Father Joe’s, we just learned.”

  Mulder had a sick, sinking feeling.

  Scully’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying Father Joe knows a guy whose business is transporting black-market body parts?”

  “Allegedly transporting,” Drummy said, “but yeah. Father Joe’s known Franz However-you-say-it for a while. Try twenty years.”

  Now Scully’s eyes grew large. “Twenty years?”

  Mulder asked, “Known him how?”

  Drummy savored the moment. “Seems Franz was one of Father Joe’s thirty-seven very special altar boys. And three guesses who Franz is married to in the state of Massachusetts…? None other than our suspect—Janke Whatever-the-hell.”

  Mulder said nothing. He was frankly stunned, standing in shocked disbelief as Agent Whitney leaned close and said, “We’re on top of it. I have the warrant to search their offices.”

  He could feel Scully’s eyes on him, though he sensed none of the smugness SA Drummy radiated. They had been together a long time, Mulder and Scully, and he knew she would feel for him even if this vindicated her argument.

  Which it did.

  Still, he could not bring himself to look at her.

  Drummy pulled the Expedition sharply away, and Mulder stepped out into the lane to wave
down the second FBI SUV. He wanted in on this. No matter how it played, he wanted in.

  Behind him, Scully said, “Mulder…?”

  Finally he turned and looked at her.

  “This is over,” she said gently. She exuded only sadness. “Let them take it home.”

  He did not respond. She had not been smug, but the anger rose in him just the same, and he climbed into the second Expedition and slammed the door. In the rearview mirror, he saw her recede in the distance, standing there watching him go, growing ever smaller.

  Medical Arts Office Building

  Richmond, Virginia

  January 11

  The two Expeditions took the snowy streets quickly, without sirens, as it was late enough on this dark night for traffic to be light, then came to abrupt stops in front of an old three-story brick medical office building. The lights of the city winking around them, FBI agents piled out, with SA Drummy in the lead, but as Mulder climbed from the second SUV, Whitney approached him, her palm up, like a pretty traffic cop.

  “Why don’t you hold up, Mulder?” she said. She was blocking his way. “Let these men do their jobs.”

  The words stung. Like Scully, Whitney was telling him to let the FBI wind this thing up. He had no badge, he had no gun, no authority, no credibility as a consultant for that matter. Not anymore.

  “Look,” Whitney said. “We were all fooled on this. I wanted to believe it as bad as anyone.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mulder said, his attention on the building the other agents had disappeared into.

  “It didn’t break the way we expected,” she said with a shrug. “But, still—give yourself some credit. You broke it.”

  He glanced at her. “Look—I don’t need the sweet talk. I’m a big boy.”

  “But it’s true,” she said with a shrug. “You led us here.”

  “No. Father Joe led us here—under false pretenses. That’s what you believe.”

  “I called you in because I thought you could help me with this case. Because I valued your belief in these phenomena.”

  “Yeah? And now what do you think?”

  “I think…this is a longer conversation.”

  Those lovely light blue eyes were trained on him in a way that conveyed an interest in him that was not entirely professional. Didn’t take a psychic to figure that out.

  He was flattered, but he already had one smart woman in his life who thought his obsessions were out of hand. The last thing he needed was another one.

  Both Mulder and Whitney noticed the Ford van turning down a side street, but neither caught the lettering on its side: DONOR TRANSPORT SERVICES. Nor from their vantage point could they see it pull into a parking garage adjacent to the Medical Arts Building.

  Within the building, SA Mosley Drummy led his team, each agent with weapon in hand, through the atrium to the stairs. At his silent command, a pair of agents broke off to take the elevator; one was conveying the compact, tubular door battering ram. Soon, on the third floor, Drummy was checking suite numbers to get a bearing on where they were headed. The little assault unit in crisp business suits made little or no noise as they stayed on the move.

  The first really noticeable sound was the ding of the elevator as the two agents stepped off to rejoin the rest of the team. Within moments, Drummy was standing at a door reading DONOR TRANSPORT SERVICES.

  “This is Special Agent Drummy with the FBI,” he said, loud enough to be heard a floor down. “We have a warrant to search these offices. Anyone inside, I suggest you identify yourself and unlock this door.”

  They waited.

  When he felt they’d waited long enough, Drummy motioned for a man to bring up the iron battering ram. When the agent with the ram was in position to use it, Drummy again spoke: “We are federal agents and we are armed—open the door or we will open it for you.”

  They waited.

  Finally, Drummy gave the nod and the door burst open on a darkened space. As flashlight beams cut through, Drummy shouted: “Down on the floor—down on the floor…Anybody here, I want down on the floor!”

  As the rest of the agents trailed into the office, the commotion covered the elevator bell dinging again, and the agents did not see their suspect, the Russian Janke Dacyshyn, in brown leather jacket and dark jeans and lugging an organ transport ice chest, emerge.

  At first Dacyshyn was not aware of the FBI presence, though he frowned as he heard sounds coming from the office, and a few steps from the splintered door, he clearly heard Drummy and the agents within. Dacyshyn ventured a quick look inside, as flashlights probed the dark interior to reveal banks of refrigerators and storage units.

  Then, quickly, transport chest still in his grip, Dacyshyn headed for the stairs, unseen.

  In front of the building, on the sidewalk near the parked Expeditions, Mulder was pacing as Whitney continued to try to placate him. He was barely listening.

  “We wouldn’t be standing here,” she was saying, “without your efforts. I hope you appreciate that—I assure you, we do. We were at a standstill and you pushed us forward, no matter the direction we took.”

  “Yeah,” Mulder said.

  “I hope to still find our agent alive, after all. I mean, that is the point of the exercise.”

  Mulder’s eyes narrowed as a figure exited the medical building, a man in a brown leather jacket and black jeans coming quickly out of the front door, carrying something.

  A chest—an ice chest?

  The guy was moving down some steps onto the sidewalk, glancing their way furtively—a bruiser with long, dark, stringy hair and an angular face.

  Whitney frowned. “Who is it?”

  “The suspect,” Mulder said, moving. “Hey!”

  The guy dropped the ice chest on the sidewalk and took off running into the night, cutting from the sidewalk out into the street, alongside parked cars, with only light traffic to watch out for.

  Mulder cut into the street as well, right on the guy’s heels. Whitney, after a moment, took pursuit, too.

  But as the foot chase over snowy cement grew from one block to two, the athletic suspect began to pull away, and Mulder, breathing hard, his brown coat flapping, was almost a third of the block back, with Whitney well behind him, though her gun was out and ready.

  As he ran, Mulder hoped he didn’t hit a patch of ice, the streets dusted white already, but the damp sidewalks indicated the ice might have thawed—might. He could easily go ass-over-teakettle at any moment, and already his gut was burning. The bruiser up ahead was in better shape than a former agent who’d been spending his days lately sitting in a home office at his computer…

  The suspect turned a corner and disappeared, and when Mulder took that corner himself, he ran into the path of a bus whose brakes screeched as it stopped just in time to avoid squashing Mulder, who traded a startled look with its driver.

  This was a more major thoroughfare but traffic remained light. Mulder could see the suspect up ahead running with the ease of a marathon man, and had lost track of Whitney, though she was coming up fast enough to pass in front of that stopped bus.

  Mulder was panting but he didn’t even think of stopping to rest—he wanted this bastard. Then they were on a downslope, and that made the running just a little easier. The suspect might be an athlete, but he was still stealing looks back at Mulder and seeing somebody who was not about to give up pursuit.

  Pacing himself now, Mulder chased the suspect through a major intersection, though the traffic seemed mostly limited to taxis, with enough vehicles on the streets to keep Mulder from getting reckless. On the other hand, the suspect was crossing in front of cars fearlessly, while Mulder almost ran smack into a passing taxi, close enough to bounce off slightly.

  The traffic grew heavier and the suspect took to running down the center line, and Mulder did the same, breathing hard but maintaining his pace, the bruiser in the brown jacket maybe three car lengths ahead, feeling safe. Then the cocky bastard jumped a chain between posts, li
ke a hurdler, and moments later Mulder did the same, saying a silent prayer of thanks that he’d made it.

  Going down a well-lighted main thoroughfare, the suspect shoved out of his way a hoodie-wearing pedestrian, crossing at the light, then leaped another chain between black metal posts, before nimbly dodging a Brinks truck making a turn. Unfazed, the suspect ran past a little park area where trees glittered with leftover blue Christmas lights. Maintaining his steady pace, Mulder could see a construction area looming ahead.

  Cutting from the street, the suspect entered a covered wooden pedestrian walk as a big flatbed truck carrying a front-end loader with bucket passed by. Then Mulder was in the walk, too, his pounding feet rattling the wooden plank floor, causing the suspect to glance back at him again. Mulder smiled to himself. Not today, he thought. You don’t get away today…

  At the exit of the covered walkway, the suspect cut left and got back out in the street again, falling in behind the big truck as it went clanking along. Mulder whipped out of the boardwalk, ears filled with the sound of a commuter train passing somewhere nearby.

  They were approaching a major construction area where a high-rise was going up. The suspect followed that heavy truck into an underground area where Mulder trailed his quarry down a ramp, into an excavation site where dark working conditions were lighted moment to moment by welders.

  The world down here was shades of blue cut by the sparking arcing of light. Running on concrete, Mulder soon realized he was in a parking garage under construction, with equipment, scaffolding, and construction detritus all around, hanging plastic waving like lazy ghosts. The suspect was way out in front, Mulder had lost him, since the guy had followed that big truck in; then Mulder spotted the truck, which was parked now, and a white van pulled out, revealing the suspect on the run.

  Mulder bore down, yelling to hardhats working here and there around him, “Hey! Hey! Stop him! FBI—he’s a suspect! Stop him!”