Date: Wed, 8 Jul 1998 23:58:20 EDT
Subject: NF> Heritage of Fools (1/9)

Heritage of Fools (1/9)
J. Millington
varmstro@zipcon.net

DEDICATION: Thanks to my wonderful editor and beta reader who made me think
about wwhat I was writing and to the gang on the furies-list for
encouragement and feedback.
SUMMARY: Scully brings a case to Mulder that is inextricably tied to his past.
* * * *

Part 1

* * * *

John Sylvester Brown lay naked and pale in front of her, keeping his
secrets to himself. His muscular frame, honed by swimming laps every
morning before court, was now limp and flaccid. Her gloved hands moved over
his form, touching, turning, studying him from every angle in a cold
intimacy. She frowned slightly as she prodded his stomach, then continued
her litany into the recorder.

"Upon completion of gross examination, subject displays a slightly
distended abdomen, but no further abnormalities of the external body
surfaces are revealed."

Dana Scully picked up her scalpel and opened him up. Working methodically
she made her incisions and gently peeled back the flap of skin and tissue,
lifting it up over his face. One by one, she snipped the ribs along each
side allowing her to remove the chest plate, exposing the lungs, heart and
organs of the abdominal cavity.

Ah, now here was her first clue. Blood filled the abdomen, pooling around
the liver. She cut it free from the rest of the organs and took it to the
sink to rinse it free of dark red clots. As the surface of the liver was
exposed, she gasped and almost dropped it.

"Oh, my God."

* * * *

If there was any day in the year guaranteed to crush Fox Mulder in a vise
of mixed emotion, this was it. His father's birthday always reduced him to
the pathetic little boy, waiting anxiously for Dad to get home, clutching
some carefully chosen gift. Afraid to hope for approval, afraid of
rejection.

The whole thing was absurd. His father was dead. 

But he'd still sat there brooding all morning. Five active cases on his
desk, all bogged down with no new leads. Scully called off to do an autopsy
on some high-profile case likely to snare a front page story in the
Washington Post and a minute or so on CNN. Nothing in the office to keep
his mind off of the past.

When Scully had brought back a slide show after lunch, he'd been relieved.
 
He was still both surprised and delighted when his partner initiated an
X-Files case. After all these years, her loyalty and respect still seemed
like unexpected gifts. Not that he would admit that to her.

A slide flashed on the screen, the abdominal cavity after the removal of
the ribs and sternum.

"John Sylvester Brown, retired federal judge, in excellent health, a recent
physical determined his heart and lungs to be exceptionally strong for a
seventy-six year old.  That's why his maid was  shocked to find him dead in
bed yesterday morning." 

Next slide, a liver. Plainly carved into the surface was the unmistakable
form of a swastika.

 Mulder leaned forward to get a better look. "A little impromptu art work
on the liver. Nazi stigmata?  Was it a hate crime?"

The pale light of the projector illuminated the planes of her face,
composed and professional. "No, in fact, there was no external trauma to
the body at all. He apparently bled to death internally from the odd lesion
on his liver."

She flashed the next slide onto the screen. A different view of a
swastika-decorated liver.

"I took cultures and biopsies from the liver, looking for an infection or
disease  process that might have weakened the tissues on the surface of the
organ causing a rupture and subsequent bleeding."

He looked at her and grinned.

Her mouth quirked slightly. "It's not beyond the realm of possibility that
such a laceration could naturally occur in a particular pattern. What is
unlikely, however, is that such a rare and random occurrence could happen
to two separate individuals within the past two weeks."

Another, closer, view of the second liver. Now Mulder was definitely hooked.

"These slides came from a former classmate of mine in New York." She picked
up a file from the desk, glancing at it as she continued. "The deceased is
Peter Seipel, age eighty-four. His neighbor noticed several days
accumulation of newspapers in front of Seipel's apartment. When the
building super checked on him, they found the victim dead in his bed. The
autopsy revealed that he had bled to death from a swastika-shaped
laceration to his otherwise healthy liver. No apparent cause for the injury
could be found."

"So he asked you for your opinion." Reaching out, he traced the mark with
his forefinger. "What is your opinion?"

"I don't know, Mulder," she said, smiling at his curiosity. "But it gets
even more interesting."

"Oh, really." He tipped back in his chair and grinned.

"Seipel was a member of the National Socialist party in Germany during
World War Two, brought to the United States after the war, along with
Wehrner von Braun, to work in the American space program."

"Operation Paperclip." He paused, mulling over the implications. "Besides
their rather unusual deaths, what connection is there between Brown and
Seipel,"

 "Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Her eyebrows lifted, challenging
him to answer.


************* 

The cliff was outlined against the shimmering sky, a dark mass blotting out
the unearthly glow that filled the night. The light of the small campfire
struggled vainly to compete with the more sinister illumination. Seated
before the fire, a lone figure chanted, forming an image in his mind. This
was his target, a foolish old man. He could just picture his victim
slumbering peacefully, unaware.

It was wake-up time. The last two had been easy. Too easy. Now that he knew
that it would work, it was time to have a little fun. He visualized his
victim right there, laying in front of him. The sky-lit figure reached out
with his hands, grasping the empty air, but in his mind he saw the old man,
his eyes bulging from their sockets, gasping for a breath that refused to
come. 

Smiling to himself, the tormenter released his invisible grip, allowing the
choking man to gulp down a desperate breath before he tightened his hold
one more time. 

************

Helen Griffin never tired of watching her husband sleep. Listening to his
gentle snoring, feeling his warmth next to her, always helped her surrender
to sleep herself. She was just beginning to drift off when she felt him
suddenly jerk awake.

"Herbert?" 

He sat up in bed, his chest heaving in a futile effort to suck oxygen into
his air-starved lungs. 

"Herbert! What's wrong?"

Finally his lungs remembered how to work, as he noisily sucked down a
breath. And just as suddenly the air once again refused to come. 

Helen was sobbing into the phone, trying to make a coherent statement to
the 911 operator, when she saw her husband collapse back down into the
pillows.

********** 

Much of Peter Seipel's life came under the classification of 'National
Security', but Mulder was able to piece together the surface details. Where
he lived, where he worked, his marriage and children, none of that was
hidden. 

But there was no meaningful information about the exact nature of his work
for NASA. No published articles or papers delivered at conferences. 

In the end, what he had was all form and no substance. No real idea of what
the man had done in his professional life. No justification for the
American interest in an obscure Nazi scientist.

He had finished compiling all the data he'd unearthed and was arranging it
in the file when Scully came back into the office lugging a small box
crammed with papers.

"Brown's life is an open book." She dropped the box onto his desk "His
complete work history is all there and I could get details on every case he
ever tried as an attorney and every case that came before him as a judge."

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming?" He suppressed a grin.

"But," She flashed him a quick smile, "there are three years missing from
the time he passed the Bar to his first day on the job in New York."

He ran his fingers along the edge of the box, piecing together an idea.
"Let me guess, those three years just happen to correspond with the end of
World War Two." 

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "As a matter of fact they do, but--" 

He waved her off.  "Just hear me out, Scully. What if, immediately after
the war he was offered the prospect of a federal judgeship at some future
date. All he needed to do was help arrange the resettlement of German
scientists during Operation Paperclip. That and keep his mouth shut." Her
face assumed its 'Mulder-be-reasonable' look, but he continued anyway.
"You've got to admit that would be a great recruitment offer to an
ambitious young lawyer. I know, I know, 'Where's the proof?'" 

She sighed and held out her hand.

He handed her Seipel's file, trading it for the box on Brown's life.
Flipping through the papers he paused when he came to the photographs. The
autopsy slides hadn't shown his face, but there was something familiar
about this particular man, he just couldn't put his finger on it. He set
the first photo aside and picked up the next one, looking at the faces of
Brown and his companions, faces he had seen before, in grainy black and
white, lined up in front of a mine in West Virginia. 

When the revelation hit him, it brought back all the unease he'd felt that
morning. 

His chair banged against the filing cabinet as he stood abruptly. "I've got
a call in to the Lone Gunmen to see what they can dig up." He retrieved his
jacket from the back of his chair. "If they call back while I'm gone, ask
them to check on Brown's 'missing time.' Call and let me know what they
find out."

"Where are you going?" She rose halfway out of her chair, as if to stop him. 

"To talk to a ghost." With a grim smile, he left.

* * * *

End part 1

* * * *

Heritage of Fools (2/9)

* * * *

Part 2

* * * *

The trees lining the sidewalk only hinted at the technicolor autumn that
would soon bring the tourists out in droves. Mulder barely noticed the
tinge of red and gold on the foliage as he mounted the steps to her porch.
He rang the doorbell and waited, unsure how to explain his visit.

Christina Mulder opened the door, her cautious expression melting when she
saw who was standing there.

"Fox, I wasn't expecting you." She opened the door wide, making room for
him to enter.

"I know, I should have called." He leaned down to embrace her.

"Nonesense. You hardly need an excuse to visit your own mother." She hugged
him and then pulled back and looked at him. "I was thinking about him
today, too."

His smile was bittersweet. "Your October boys, that's what you used to call
us."  

"Well, come on in." She shut the door behind them and turned to go the
kitchen. 

"Mom?" She stopped and looked back at him, tipping her head slightly. He
might as well get to the point. "I need to look through the rest of Dad's
stuff. Anything that might be left  after..." It was still a raw spot for
both of them. Bill Mulder had left a legacy of pain and unsettled emotions.

"You know I gave his lawyer anything to do with the estate." Her smile
evaporated as she turned, heading into the kitchen, letting him tag along
after her. 

"I know. I'm sorry." If he could have left her out of the mess he would
have, but the answer was almost certainly here. He hadn't found anything at
his father's house when they'd settled the estate. "There was a picture of
Dad that I found earlier and I wondered if he might have left any others. I
mean, did he have any photograph albums? Maybe mixed in with his papers?" 

"Just the one I made for him after the separation. Would you like something
to drink?" She opened the cupboard and reached for a glass. "I had copies
made of the pictures of you and your sister. I gave that to you months
ago." 

"I'm fine, Mom, you don't need to get me anything." He reached out and held
her arm, the touch a physical apology for the intrusion. "Besides the
album. Did he have any more pictures of the men that he worked with?"

 "If he did, it's in the box down in the basement. I didn't want to open
it." She put the glass back on the shelf. "It's just some of his old
clothes. I meant to give them away. What's this about?"

Mulder turned toward the cellar door. "A case. It's nothing for you to
worry about. " He started down the stairs and muttered to himself, "Just
something I might have remembered."

She called after him, "At least tell me that you'll stay for supper. "

"Wouldn't miss it. My flight back doesn't leave until ten." His voice
echoed up from the cellar.

The box wasn't hard to find. Dusty and neglected, she'd set it off to one
side, as if she hadn't wanted the remainder of Bill Mulder's life to sully
her stored memories of the past. He crouched down and rifled through it.
Inside, underneath the layers of sweaters and old wool slacks, was a
smaller box. It was light, not even full. 

He paused, steeled himself against whatever he might find, and opened it,
flinging the lid down to the cement floor. Some old papers lay on top,
documents dealing with his father's house and another insurance policy.
Those he set to the side, his mother must have not known it was there.
There were only two other items in the box, a large manila envelope and a
small photo album.

Not willing to face the pictures yet, he pulled out the envelope. Turning
it upside down, he shook it and three papers fell out. The first two were
childish pictures of a family outside their house. Crayon renderings of a
father and mother, brother and sister, with the word SAMANTHA carefully
scrawled across the bottom. He couldn't move, could barely breathe, just
sat there staring at them. Finally he examined at the third item. It was an
essay he'd written in the sixth grade. "What My Father Means to Me." He sat
back, stunned, and felt his anger boil up. 

Damn him. Why had he kept these mementos all these years? After his
sister's abduction. The bastard. Had it helped him ease the pain,
remembering their childhood, their happiness before his deals and his
choices had destroyed them all? Had he sat in the dark with a glass of
scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other and reminisced? Had he used
his childrens' innocent expressions of love to delude himself that he had
been a good father? Or had he tortured himself with what he'd done and
wallowed in his guilt?

Mulder bolted up and paced across the floor. "God damn him." He kicked the
box closest to him, a box of old dishes which clattered noisily against the
wall. "Shit, shit, shit."

"Is everything all right down there?" His mother's voice rang from the top
of the  steps.

He took a breath and waited until he was sure of his voice. "I'm fine, Mom." 

He wanted to remember the man who'd never hugged his son. He wanted to
remember the man who'd slapped him for coming home late. The man who'd
refused to see him off to college. The man who'd blamed him for breaking
his mother's heart. The man who'd given away his only daughter. 

The image of the cold, aloof man was shattered, replaced by a man as lonely
as Mulder had become. Alone in the world and haunted by the past, what a
fine pair they were, father and son. 

He heard his mother's footsteps at the top of the stairs. "Dinner's almost
ready."

God, don't come down here right now. He wiped his hand across his eyes and
cleared his throat. "I'll be up in a minute." 

As her steps retreated back into the kitchen he sank back in relief. He
leaned his head against the cold plaster wall, closed his eyes, and drew a
long breath. This was getting him nowhere. He opened his eyes and looked
down at the last object from the box. Might as well get it over with.

At first glance the album seemed to be more family pictures, nothing that
wasn't in the larger volume he had inherited. As he reached down to toss it
back in the box he noticed that one page was thicker than the rest. On
closer inspection, he saw that it was two pages carefully glued together
along the edge. 

He felt his pulse quicken. Bill Mulder had taken the time to hide something
here, waiting, perhaps, for his son to find it. 

Mulder took his pocket knife, inserted the blade carefully between the
thick black sheets of paper and gently pried them apart. Inside were grainy
black and white photographs of his father, far younger than in any of the
family snapshots. Photos of his father and his associates. Cancerman was in
many of them. And in one particular picture, a grinning John S. Brown. 

He blew out a breath he hadn't remembered holding. Here was the link
between Brown, Operation Paperclip, Cancerman, and the murders. And his
father was the key that tied them all together. 

*****

Herbert Griffin had insisted on going home. After a day of uncomfortable
and undignified tests, the doctors failed to come up with any reason for
his shortness of breath other than a small bruise on his throat. When the
attending physician had suggested that the elderly man had, perhaps, taken
a fall that he couldn't remember, Griffin had demanded to be released. 

He found it insulting to have a perfect stranger imply that  that he was
senile. Always a man to take charge, he'd insisted that he could sleep much
better in his own bed than in the hospital and there was no reason for him
to stay. End of story, he'd checked himself out.

It hadn't really surprise Helen, that's just the way he was. But she was
still unnerved by his brush with death. She'd known the risk when she'd
married him, a man who thirty years her senior. He would  almost certainly
die before she did. She just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. She
wasn't ready to lose him. 

Pausing on her way upstairs, she peeked in on Herbert as he caught the tail
end of the basketball game. His chin dipped down to his chest as he fought
to stay awake. The lines on his face were more deeply etched tonight, the
transluscent skin stretched tight across the backs of his bony hands. He
looked shockingly frail.

She moved over to the couch, seized with a sudden need to feel his warmth. 
"Herbert," she laid her hand tenderly on his shoulder. "It's been a long
day. Why don't you go on to bed?"

He blinked at her a moment, then smiled and drew her head down to kiss her
cheek. "Not yet, sweetheart, I want to see how this turns out. I'll be up
in a minute."

She kissed his forehead. "Don't stay up too late."

She froze half-way up the stairs. He cried out again, a strangled gasp of
pain. Running back into the den, she found him collapsed on the floor. 

She pulled him off of the floor, hugging him fiercely. His head lolled
against her breast. 

"No, no, no. Not again."

*******

A storm threatened the mountain skyline; flashes of lighting illuminating
the jagged peaks and the raw wind tore at the trees. Kneeling on the
ground, he let the wind rip at him, reveling in the wild passion of the
storm.

He clutched at the soft earth beneath him, filling his hands with the soil,
filling his senses with the wind, filling his mind with the primal power of
the earth, infusing him with strength. He drew in the power, letting it
fill him and spill out into the night. The clouds reflected the alpenglow
bathing the mountainside with an eerie light. 

He dug his knife into the ground, carving the figure slowly, precisely. He
saw the old man writhing in pain, rapidly sinking into shock. The lone
figure drank in the anquish and trembled in ecstasy.

**********

Mulder was already at work, jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, when
Scully arrived at work the next morning. She shook her head, "What time did
you get in?"

He glanced up at her, "A few hours ago." He tapped on the photographs in
front of him. "Take a look at this."

She crossed over to his desk and picked up the small stack of pictures. He
came around beside her, leaning over her shoulder as she examined them
carefully, one by one.

"So far I've identified most of the men in these photos. Most are either
known participants in Operation Paperclip or men known to me as associates
of Cancermen." He left out the fact that his father was in all of them.
"Look at that second one."

She tilted her head, looking up at him. "Judge Brown."

He nodded sharply. "And he looks pretty much at ease with those men, like a
colleague. Someone who is used to dealing with them on a regular basis." He
watched her face, gauging her reaction as she looked back down at the
pictures. When her mouth thinned to a narrow line, he knew she'd found the
picture of Cancerman.

She handed to photographs back to him and frowned. "So what are you saying,
that Brown was a member of the Consortium? That he was somehow connected to
the German scientists who immigrated after the war?"

"I think that the photographs are compelling evidence." He tossed the
photos back down onto the desk.

"Evidence that Brown knew these men, yes." Mulder sat on the edge of the
desk, folding his arms across his chest as she challenged him. "Mulder, we
have no idea where these photographs where these pictures were taken or in
what context.. For all we know their association might have been casual,
maybe some diplomatic  connections." 

He stood abruptly and circled back around the desk. "These men don't have
casual  associations." When she opened her mouth to reply, he held up his
hand "Okay, okay, let's just agree to disagree on that point. What did
Langly dig up about Brown's three missing years?"

Her lips pursed in disaproval, as if she disagreed with the conclusions she
was about to give him. "Only that there is speculation in some circles that
he might have worked for the State Department. Perhaps covertly, since
there aren't any records of that employment."

"The evidence for that is right here--" He waved at the photos.

"Even if he did, that doesn't necessarily link him to Seipel. Unless you
have a picture here with the two of them together," she challenged.

"No. But don't you see--" The ringing of the phone cut him off and picked it
up.

"Mulder....Yes sir, she's right here." He handed the phone to her, mouthing
the word 'Skinner'.

"Yes, sir."  He watched as she nodded, then looked down at him in surprise.
"No problem, I can get to it right away."

"Well?" Mulder prompted as she hung up.

Instead of filling him in, she picked up the stack of pictures and rifled
through them one more time before finding the one she wanted.

"Former Senator Herbert Griffin. He died unexpectantly last night."She
pointed at a figure standing next to Cancerman. "You may be on to
something, Mulder." 

He smiled but held his tongue. That's what he'd been trying to tell her.

*************

Another liver, another inexplicable swastika. Another man associated with
Cancerman, known by Bill Mulder.

Mulder hovered in the background of the autopsy room, trying to shut out
the sights and smells coming from the Scully's work-in-progress.  He'd paid
attention long enough for her to show him the damaged organ. Now he tried
to fit the pieces into an orderly pattern.

Same cause of death; the man had bled to death internally. But Griffin's
murder had been preceded by the unexplained apnea the night before his
death. According to his widow, Senator Griffin had described the episode as
feeling as if someone was choking him. 

The snap of latex caught his attetion as Scully stripped off her gloves and
deposited them in the trash. "I'm all done here, Mulder. Unless you want
another look at the liver before I send it off to the lab?" She smiled at
his grimace and moved over to the sink, lathering up her hands as she
summarized. "There was nothing concrete, other than a slight bruise on the
left side of his larynx, to explain the shortness of breath from the night
before. It does not appear to be connected with the cause of death. There
is no correlation between the bruised larynx and the wound to his liver.
The liver injury couldn't have occurred twenty-four hours previously,
anyway. The bleeding caused by the deep cuts led to a fairly rapid loss of
consciousness and death."

Even knowing who the killer was targeting left Mulder with no idea as to
how he carried out the act. "Any ideas on what might have caused the
injury?"

"No indication of any prior pathology or disease process." She finished
drying her hands and turned towards her partner. "But I'm sure you have a
theory."

He opened the door for her and smiled. "Believe it or not, I have no idea."


*****

The man sat cross-legged near the edge of the cliff, eyes closed, face
slack. He reached down, down into the bones of the earth and felt the
strength that lay there. For years he'd poured over arcane texts and
obscure books of folklore searching for the key to unlock the power.
Finally he found that the real key lay here, in the earth itself. He shook
off the futility of intellect and the emptiness of his humanity and made
acquaintance with the mountain. Not the forest or the streams that rode the
surface, but this deep and ancient place that held its secrets fast.

The chanting was no longer necessary. He just breathed gently, slowly, in
and out, aware of each breath as it completed the rhythm of life. He let
his awareness drift away, until there was only the rhythm, a rhythm that
began to resonate with something vast beyond belief. Finally belief itself
was suspended, stripping him of the last barrier between himself and the
power that dwelt in the mountain. The air around him began to glow with the
power of the earth as he wrapped it around him for a mantle. 

Oh, Sweet Jesus, had he known the bliss and wonder of this communion were
possible, he would have abandoned the moldy texts so much sooner. Barely
aware of the thrill of ecstasy that filled him, he set his essence into the
ancient strength below him, knowing those rocks as he knew his own body,
the rocks were his flesh and the life of the earth was his life. He could
stretch out from that place, feel the bordering hills and plains and flow
across the face of the earth seeking the next one. The man to whom
retribution would come.

The communion was too dear, too sweet to rush. Tonight he would just tickle
the old man a bit, giving him a taste of doubt. A little jab, just so.

*****

The scratching at the door was punctuated with a sharp yip.

Edmund Strauss cursed his stupidity as he tied the robe around his waist.
Was he getting so old that he couldn't even remember to let the dog back in
at night after she had done her business? The insistent scratching grew
furious and he quickened his steps. 

"I'm coming. I'm coming, Schatze." The dog added a pitiful whine at the
sound of his master's voice. "Quit scratching. Doris will kick us both out
if you ruin that door." 

As he stepped from the living room into the foyer, he felt a sharp pain
impale his instep. He stumbled to the floor clutching his injured foot.
When the fierce wave of pain subsided he pulled off his slipper to assess
the damage. A hole in the bottom of his foot dripped blood onto the tiled
floor, but whatever he'd stepped on was missing. He picked up the slipper,
sure to find a nail or sliver of glass stuck in it, but the sole was smooth
and unblemished. 

****

The tension in the office was palpable as Skinner read over the report they
had handed him. The AD had been tense when they walked in. Mulder glanced
at his partner, unsuccessfully trying to catch her eye, wondering if she
had any idea what was bothering their boss.

Finally laying the papers aside Skinner sat back and scowled slightly. 
"Agent Scully, am I to understand that your interest in the death of
Senator Griffin is tied to these two other men, Brown and Seipel?"

She met his gaze with confidence. "Yes, sir. The presentation of the
unusual marks of the livers of all three men suggests that their deaths may
all be attributed to the same cause."

Hi scowl deepened. "And that cause is--?"

"Unknown at this time." She shot a glance at her partner. 

He nodded almost imperceptibly, this was his father's story, his
responsibility to tell it. "We have evidence, photographs, that connect
these three men to the post-war immigration of German scientists to this
country."

"Yes, Agent Mulder, I saw that in the report," Skinner replied sharply.
"This evidence, does it also suggest to you how or why these men have
died?"

"No, sir." Mulder shifted uneasily in his chair, puzzled by Skinner's
attitude. "But in the absence of any other common element, we believe these
photographs are the key to the link between Seipel, Brown, and Griffin." He
didn't add that they were his father's photos. "If we can get a better
grasp of who the victims are, what ties them together, we'll be in a better
position to identify the killer and his motives."

"I don't need a lecture on basic criminology, Agent Mulder." Skinner cut
him off, but held the agent's gaze. He looked for a moment as if wanted to
say something, giving Mulder the impression of a man on the verge of a
confession.

Instead, he lowered his eyes to the desk, reaching for a file on top of his
desk he flipped it open, briefly scanning its contents before handing it to
Mulder. "You and Agent Scully have an assignment in Colorado. You'll leave
tomorrow morning." 

Mulder didn't trust himself to speak, angry at the blunt dismissal of their
case and uneasy with their superior's attitude. 

Scully saved him the trouble, defending them both while Mulder sunk his
attention into the file in front of him. "Sir," she challenged the AD.
"Whether or not you accept the post-war connection between these three men,
the fact remains that all three deaths are, as yet, unexplained and
suspicious. And all three men were high-level government employees."

Skinner leaned forward, his voice hard. "Agent Scully, I'm not not debating
the legitimacy or the jurisdiction of these deaths. But there are more
pressing needs for your services. Take the rest of the afternoon to wrap up
your ongoing investigation. Your plane leaves at eight-thirty tomorrow
morning." He picked up his neglected paperwork once again, this time
turning his chair away from the two agents.

"But, sir-" She looked confused.

"Is that all, sir?" Mulder caught Skinner's attention, acknowledging with a
nod that he understood the situation.

"Scully, I believe we're finished here." Mulder closed the file, stood and
walked to the door, holding it open for her. Scully retrieved her report
from Skinner's desk and hurried after him. He rested his arm gently on the
small of her back, pressing her forward. 

She jerked away from him and walked briskly down the hall. Jabbing the down
button when they reached the elevator, she spun around and asked, "What was
that about? Giving up without a fight? We have a case here, at least enough
to warrant an investigation." 

He leaned down, speaking softly so no one passing in the hallway  could
overhear. "Not so much giving up, as refocusing." 

"What are you talking about." She was still seething.

"Colorado." The doors opened, discharging the few passengers. Mulder and
Scully were alone as the elevator sank to the basement. He opened the case
file and explained. "Western Regional Historical Association's Conference
on Late-Twentieth Century Emigration and Immigration. Take a look at the
agenda for Friday morning." He handed her the file.

She took it, shuffling through the papers until she found the right one. 
She looked up at him, surprised. "A panel discussion on Operation
Paperclip." 

Mulder jabbed his finger at the page. "Look at the panel members. Three of
them, Strauss, Mueller, and Lessing. All of them emigrated from Germany to
work for NASA. Those men are in the pictures, Scully."

"The ones with your father?" She glanced up at him. "You think Skinner's
assigning us to protect them?"

"Not Skinner. Someone thinks they're in danger, but it's not Skinner.
Someone believes that these three men in the same place at the same time
will present an irresistible target."

The elevator slid open.  Mulder stepped forward. Scully's hand on his arm
stopped him. "So our killer will attend the conference." He nodded, but his
expression expected more, for her to connect the dots and find the picture.
"Mulder, no one else was investigating Seipel, Brown, and Griffin as
homicides. No one else even knew they were connected. Except--"

"Don't you see?" He hissed. "We're not really being sent to protect those
men at the conference. We're being sent to intercept the murderer before he
strikes again, here in Washington." 

Pushing past her, he fumbled in his pocket for the keys and unlocked the
office door. The more he let himself dwell on Skinner's source, the angrier
he became. He threw the file down on his desk in disgust and turned to face
his partner. 

"He's using us, Scully." By the look on her face, she knew who he was
talking about. He sat down hard in his chair, his face, bitter and angry.
"Why should we help him? Let him die. The bastard deserves to die."

She stared at him. "Do you really mean that?" 

"Yes. No." He paced around the desk, angry at himself for not having
finished the job when he had the chance and angry at being manupulated into
protecting him. "The crimes that man has committed cry out for justice"

"I agree." She sat in the chair across from him. "Justice, but not revenge.
When I had a arrested Luis Cardinale, I had the chance to kill the man who
killed my sister. But I realized something. We can hate them, men like
Cardinale and Cancerman for the things that they have done, but we can't
let that hate consume us. And we can't let that hate stop us from doing our
job."

"Our job?" He laughed increduously. "Is it our job to do his dirty work for
him? Is it our job to protect his worthless ass?" 

She reached out to touch his hand. "Yes, I'm afraid it is." 

He jerked his hand away. "How can you say that? After everything that man
has done to us. To our families." He leaned back in his chair, crossed his
arms over his chest, and glared at her.

"Think about this, then. Forget Cancerman. What about the families of the
men who've died. Just because the husbands and fathers may have committed
crimes, even despicable crimes, does that mean that their wives and
children should suffer too? That they should watch someone they love die
horribly right before their eyes?"

Mulder stared at the wall, jaw clenched, averting his eyes from his partner. 

"These men deserve justice, Mulder. But not like this." Her voice softened.
"Not like this."


End Part 2

* * * *

* * * *

Heritage of Fools (3/9)

* * * *

Part 3


Sometimes Mulder really looked forward to visiting the Lone Gunmen. It
wasn't that the surroundings were pleasant. Their office had all the
ambience of an abandoned warehouse. But whenever the world conspired to
remind him that his aberrant opinions had no legitimate place, a visit to
the Gunmen was an affirmation of his beliefs. Paranoid, and brilliant,
creative and curious, they were kindred spirits. Today, however, the
kindred spirits seemed a little annoyed at his intrusion.

Byers answered the door, phone in hand. "No, you said you'd have it ready
by Friday." He waved Mulder inside, and turned back to his conversation.
"No, you listen to me. . ." Byers paced back to a filing cabinet at the
back of the room, ignoring Mulder's presence.

Frohike and Langly were each pounding away at a computer, neither one
looked up as Mulder came into the room. 

Mulder cleared his throat. No reaction. He set the papers he was carrying
down on the nearest desk, which was Langly's. "Hey, I know you guys are
busy," he started.

"If you know, then you'll shove off and let us get to work." Langly didn't
even look up as he warned Mulder away. "We're running on a deadline here."

"Since when have you let a publication deadline keep you away from a good
story." He spread the lists out on the desk. "I need all you can dig up on
this conference near Poison Spring, Colorado. Lodge employees, speakers,
staff and faculty at Woodland College."

Langly pushed the papers back at Mulder, not even bothering to examine at
them.

Frohike finally looked up. "We really ought to charge a consulting fee, you
know." Coming over to Langly's desk, he picked up the papers and glanced
over the names. "Between the college faculty, the staff at the Pine Crest
Lodge and the academics attending the conference there must be almost a
hundred names here. We really can't promise you anything until late
tomorrow."

"It's not like we're going steady here or anything," Langly quipped. "We
wouldn't be crushed if you found somebody new to dredge up weird stuff on
an impossible schedule."

Mulder grinned. "Yeah, but you guys have such a creative way with
information." None of the Gunmen smiled back. It hadn't occurred to him
that they might be busy. "Just have a look at this stuff. If you can't get
to it tonight, e-mail or fax it to me tomorrow."

Frohike rolled his chair over to Langly's desk, scooped up the papers.
"Tomorrow," he promised. "I just need to put the finishing touches on this
story." He rolled back over to his own desk.

Mulder peered over his friend's shoulder, trying to get a look at the
computer screen. "What's the matter, late-breaking news on the paranormal
perimeter?" 

"As a matter of fact, yes." Frohike scanned through Mulder's lists,
suddenly sitting up straight. "Where's that conference being held?" 

"Pine Crest Lodge. Just outside of Poison Springs." Now Mulder's curiosity
was piqued.

"Maybe you can do us a favor." Frohike said as he printed out the article
he'd been working on. " Strange lights in the night sky on a mountainside
near there. If you're going to be in the neighborhood."

"UFO sightings?" Mulder asked, reaching for the pages.

"No, more like the alpenglow seen in Europe or the mountaintop glows of the
Andes." Langly enthusiastically cut in. "Bright flashes of light believed
to discharges of electrical energy, possibly caused by the discharge of
electrons off of rock formations."

 Mulder grin broadened. "Scully would be so proud. So where's the mystery,
if the phenomenon is understood?"

Byers joined them. "No one's ever seen anything like it in this area. And
legends in Europe connect the lights to paranormal events occurring at the
same time. Unfortunately, there's nothing we can tie into the Colorado
lights."

"So, as long as I'm in the neighborhood--"

"Just keep your eyes open and let us know if you run across --" Byers broke
off to answer the phone. Frohike and Langly turned back to their computers.

******

As Mulder drove northwest from Denver, he found himself in an unquiet mood.
He knew the basics of his job. It was easy to be distracted by the
tantalizing allure of the truth,  the thrill of the chase, the mental
challenge of solving the puzzle. But at the root of it all, there was a
crime to be solved. He was an FBI agent. What set him apart from his
colleagues was his ability to recognize crimes where others saw simple
misfortune or to identify perpetrators in impossible circumstances. The
goal was to solve the crime that had already happened and, if possible,
prevent any further deaths from occurring.

He was still pissed off about serving as the smoking man's bodyguard. But
Scully's words hung over him, a weight of duty that could not be ignored.
The man was a criminal, but no matter who the victim was, murder was still
a crime. No matter what the man had done to Mulder, to his family, to
God-knew how many innocents.

He loved his father and despite everything Bill Mulder had done, his son
still grieved for him in the aftermath of the murder.  Each of the
potential victims had sons or daughters or wives who might be spared that
grief. 

He glanced at his partner as she nodded off, her head wedged against the
window. She wanted so much for there to be a rational explanation for the
peculiar injuries. But even Scully had had to admit that random chance
alone could hardly account for the three identical victims. She still
stubbornly insisted that it was not outside the realm of possibility that
an as-yet unknown disease process might be at work. 

Mulder couldn't deny that statement; it was possible. But for him, it was
also possible that something more sinister, and much less tangible, might
be at fault. He hadn't hit her with a theory yet, he was still trying to
piece the puzzle together.

And he definitely hadn't told her about Frohike's lights-in-the-sky
revelation. He'd have try to do a little sky watching on his own time. No
reason he couldn't enjoy himself a little on this trip. 

The road winding its way along the side of the mountains evoked visions of
Kubrick's version of "The Shining," in which Jack Torrence drove his family
on a panoramic road to hell. But at the end of this road, instead of the
imposing grandeur of the Overlook Hotel, the Pine Crest Lodge was a cluster
of large log buildings nestled among the towering trees. The scene would
have been have been warm and inviting, except for the cluster of police
cars in front of the largest building.

He pulled into the last empty parking space, reached over and gave Scully a
gentle shake. "We're here. Look's like the fun's started without us."

A uniformed officer walked out to meet them before they could park,
motioning for Scully to roll down her window.

"Unless you folks are registered guests of the lodge, I'm going to have to
ask you to turn around and leave."

"I'm Agent Scully." She held out her badge. "This is Agent Mulder."

His attitude warmed considerably. "Sorry about that. We've had reporters
snooping around here since the body was found this morning." 

"Someone died?" Mulder leaned in closer to Scully's side of the car.

"Yes, sir. Edmund Strauss. Old guy was found dead in his bed this morning.
Supposed to be the opening speaker this afternoon. Guess this'll put a kink
in their plans. Sheriff Johnson's in there looking over the scene right
now. Room 203."

Scully exchanged a glance with her partner, the turned back to the officer.
"Thank you. Where can we find Dr. McIntyre or Dr. Weiss?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Been out here all morning scaring off reporters."

She thanked him for his help and rolled her window back up. 

Inside the main lobby small groups of men and women clustered in the lobby,
whispering as if they were mildly ashamed to find excitement in a
colleague's misfortune The young man at the front desk looked a little
overwhelmed.

Mulder took the initiative this time, flipping his badge open for the desk
clerk. "Agent Mulder and Agent Scully. Where might we find Sheriff
Johnson?" 

The desk clerk stared at the identification for a minute, shook his head,
and answered, "203. Second room on the right at the top of the stairs." He
pointed toward the sweeping staircase that bisected the hall.

They flashed their badges at the man standing guard and he waved them
without a word. There were plenty of angry words coming from the room 203.
Stepping through the door, the FBI agents weren't even noticed by the three
men standing near the foot of the bed. One of them, red-faced, mouth
clamped tightly shut, stood to the side, glaring at the other two, who were
engaged in a shouting match. 

Edmund Strauss, sprawled across the bed and ignored them all, his face
turned toward the wall, covered by a sheet stained with the post-mortem
release of his bladder, one bruised ankle protruding from the covers. 

Mulder cleared his throat. 

A man dressed in a khaki-colored uniform and western hat stepped forward to
intercept them, his face flushed from the heat of the argument. "Can I help
you?" His scowl would have sent nosy reporters scampering back into the
hall.

"I'm Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully." Mulder gestured in the direction
of his partner, who had already walked over to the bed, surveying the body
of the late Dr. Strauss.

"FBI, right?" The youngest of the three men eagerly elbowed forward. "I'm
Darryl McIntyre." He nodded toward the third man. "This is my colleague,
Mike Weiss. We were just trying to impress upon Sheriff Johnson the gravity
of the situation."

"The room was locked from the inside, there's no sign of forced entry or
violence. It's hardly suspicious when an ninety-year old man dies in his
sleep." The sheriff bit his words off, sharp and precise.

The older academic stepped into the fray, voice raised. "No, it wouldn't be
particularly suspicious if it was only Dr. Strauss. Why the hell do you
think the FBI sent a team to the conference, if there was no risk to our
delegates?"

"That's a good question. I sure as hell didn't invite them." Johnson turned
to the two newcomers, finding a fresh target upon which to vent his
frustration. 

Mulder kept his expression neutral and controlled. "The Bureau believes
that there is a danger to certain German immigrants and former government
officials. Several of the conference participants, including Dr. Strauss,
fit the victim profile." Weiss and McIntyre looked smug, as Mulder
confirmed their fears. Their smiles faded a bit as he continued. "But
whether or not his death is related to those on the east coast has yet to
be determined. As Sheriff Johnson pointed out, there is nothing inherently
suspicious about an elderly man dying in his sleep. It may just be due to
natural causes. Why don't you tell us what you've found so far."

Johnson's frown faded slowly, as he began.  "When Dr. Strauss failed to
show for a breakfast meeting this morning, the lodge manager, Mark Zimmer,
came up here to check on him. Found him just like that. Called me and I got
here about an hour ago. We're waiting on the coroner right now." 

"Agent Scully is a forensic pathologist." He looked toward his partner,
intent on her own investigation, hoping she might help defuse the
situation. "Any idea yet on the cause of death?"

"Yes, actually," she turned toward them, her brow furrowed. "But it's not
what I expected."

"What do you mean?" Mulder moved closer to get a better view.

"Sheriff Johnson, I suggest that you seal off the room and get a forensics
team in here." 
The sheriff joined Mulder and Scully at the bedside as she pulled the sheet
further back to show them her discovery. "From the lividity pattern and the
petechial hemorrhages on the face and conjunctiva, I'm almost certain that
this man died from asphyxiation."

"What?" Now Mulder was confused.

"And from the absence of ligature marks," Scully continued, "it was most
likely suffocation. Someone smothered this man."


********

The community hospital had given Scully a small area in which to do her
job. Mulder sat near the door absorbed in the sheriff's preliminary report.
Dressed in scrubs, Scully stood over the corpse, holding the cold liver. 

"Well, That's strange." At the sound of his partner's voice Mulder looked
up from his reading. "The cause of death is certainly suffocation, but the
anomalous mark is also present. Here, look."

He barely glanced in her direction before turning away, swallowing hard.
"Gee, Scully, if you've seen one swastika-carved liver---" 

"No," she interrupted, "it's just that. . .Look." She held the organ out
for his inspection. "There's not nearly enough blood here. This man was
dead before that cut was made."

She went back to work with renewed vigor. Theirs was an odd relationship,
he mused, forged under grim circumstances. How much of their time revolved
around death? How many death scenes had they investigates, side by side?
How many corpses had they examined together? 

He watched as she stripped Edmund Strauss of the trappings of humanity,
reducing him to a set of clues. Clues down the trail where she had to lead
and he could only follow after her work was done. She was completely
absorbed in her work, delicately disassembling the man in front of her. No
detail, however minor, escaped her scrutiny. The mysteries of the end of
life fascinated her. 

Mulder wondered, if his father had not been murdered, would he have ended
up like this, his liver slashed with a hateful brand of his crimes? Sharing
a bond of guilt with every victim so far, Bill Mulder would have been a
logical victim. An image flashed in his mind of his father naked and
dissected under Scully's patient scalpel. His father giving up secrets in
death that he'd been unable to reveal in life.

"That's it, then." Her voice snapped him back to the present. "It's almost
six. I need to get changed before the banquet tonight."

Mulder rubbed his hand over his face, suddenly tired. "You know, we could
get something sent to the room. I want to see if the Gunmen have put
anything together for us yet."

"Mulder," Scully's lips thinned in disapproval. "It won't hurt to go. I
would have thought you'd jump at the chance to size up the potential
suspects and victims."

"I guess you're right." He stood and grabbed his coat from the back of the
chair. "Might as well get it over with."

********

An atmosphere of conviviality greeted Mulder and Scully as walked into the
dining room. A wave of laughter rose over the hum of voices that filled the
air, men and women enjoying good food and conversation. The cheerfulness
felt out of place. No, Mulder chided himself, his gloomy mood was out of
place. As far as these historians knew, Strauss had simply died of old age,
a fact of life, rather than a tragedy. Johnson was keeping the facts under
wraps, hoping the suspect might be less careful. 

McIntyre stood up, motioning them to his table.  "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder."

"Dr. McIntyre," Mulder greeted him when they'd reached the table. 

"Just Darryl, please." McIntyre replied, as he pulled a chair back for
Scully. Mike Weiss and two other men at the table stood as she approached.
She gave him a tight smile and thanked them. 

McIntyre was determined to play the cheerful host. "I want you to meet my
colleagues, Saul and Mary Goldfarb." The middle-aged couple smiled and
nodded. "And Barry Caldwell." 

The youngest man at the table grinned and reached out to shake Mulder's
hand, knocking over his wine glass in the process. The red wine splashed
across the table top, splattering the sleeve of Mulder's jacket.

"Shit. Hey, man. I'm sorry about that." Caldwell slurred, grabbing his
napkin and making a move to wipe off Mulder's jacket.

"That's all right." Mulder grabbed the napkin and swiped at the stain himself.

"It's just that," Caldwell leaned in close, his voice lowered to a whisper,
"those of us at this table, we know what's really going on." 

"Dr. McIntyre," Scully's lips pursed in disapproval. "I thought we'd agreed
not to disclose that information."

"No, no, you don't understand. We're the organizing committee." McIntyre
pleaded their case. "Saul and Mary and Barry and Mike, they knew you were
coming. About the potential risk." He shot his friends an accusing glance.
"Even if they didn't believe it until today."

"Just the same, let's not let it get past this table." Mulder wanted to put
the discussion to rest, no point in panicking the conference members. 

Mueller and Lessing had refused to pack and go home. Both Karl Mueller, a
pioneer in jet propulsion, and Frank Lessing, a physician who'd studied the
medical effects of space flight, were well into their eighties and not
particularly afraid of death. The rest of the conference members were in no
danger. At least he hoped not. 

Mulder coasted through dinner, managed to nod and smile at the appropriate
moments in the conversation, while his mind processed any details relevant
to the case. He cataloged each face in the room, each name, matching them
to the scanty information they had assembled so far. 

Glancing at his partner, he noticed her watching him, that not-quite-scowl
on her face. Hey, he was playing nice and doing his job, even if the spark
of enthusiasm was missing. She knew he'd been reluctant to pursue this
investigation to Colorado.

He watched Mueller and Lessing, both apparently refined and civilized men.
What would their table companions say if they knew the dark secrets behind
the cultured facade. Dr. Lessing, for example hadn't been directly tied to
the Nazi medical atrocities. But the man's friends had all been integral to
the programs. His brother-in-law had freely utilized human subjects from
the death camps. So if their past caught up with them, if they were found
dead in the morning with their livers slashed internally, then maybe they'd
brought it on themselves.

The problem was that, in person, both of the old men struck him more as
kindly old grandfathers than cold-blooded Nazis. Maybe that was just the
human face that hid the monster inside. After all, even concentration camp
commandants loved art and music and had loving families.

Even Bill Mulder had saved mementos from his children's innocence.

Mary Goldfarb's laughter jarred his contemplation.

"Oh yeah," she ruffled her husband's hair. "The two of you will go out to
'watch the lights'. Sounds like a good excuse to polish off that six-pack
of imported beer, to me."

"Antifreeze," Saul countered, defensively. "You wouldn't want us to get
frostbite, now would you?"

"Lights," Scully quizzed the academics, but stared straight at her partner.
"What lights?"

Caldwell leaned forward conspiratorially, filling her in. "For the past few
weeks there've been some strange lights on the mountain. Or at least,
they're supposed to be there. Haven't talked to anyone who's actually seen
them."

A waiter paused at their table. "Oh, they're there all right." He began
collecting the empty plates. "My girlfriend and I saw 'em last night.
Fantastic light show, bouncing right off the clouds. Might not be as good
tonight with the sky so clear."

The rest of the table jumped at the chance to cross-examine their
newly-found expert. Excusing himself, Mulder walked out to the porch,
welcoming the chill night, hoping for a chance to clear his head. 

Something wasn't coming together. If the killer was striking men from
Operation Paperclip, why had he waited until now? So much time had gone by,
many of the potential targets were probably already dead. And how was the
paranormal MO connected to the choice of victims? Something tickled at the
back of his mind, just beyond his grasp. The sound of the the door behind
him broke his train of thought.

Scully stood in the doorway, hugging herself against the cold. "Coming in
soon?"

He threw his head back and inhaled deeply. "Not yet."

"Waiting for the light show?" She joined him on the porch. "You've been a
little detached all evening.  You didn't seem very surprised when Caldwell
brought it up." 

He looked up at the sky. "You know me, a sucker for unexplained phenomena." 

She stiffened a little. "You knew about the lights all along." 

He was still looking up at the night sky, oblivious to her body language.
"Yeah, Langley mentioned it, when I asked the guys to dig up some
background information for me. 

"Is that why you agreed to come out here, Mulder?"  Her eyes sparked a
little in irritation. "After everything we talked about before we left,
about justice and duty, you're really just here for doing a favor for the
Lone Gunmen."

Mulder stood silent for a minute as the elusive links started to come
together. "I wonder if there might be some correlation." 

Her shoulders sagged a bit, as if disappointed with his response.
"Correlation? How could some later-day folk tale possibly have any
correlation with a string of very real deaths?" 

He faced at her finally, surprised by her reaction. "You have to admit,
Scully, there is something unexplainable about the cause of death. It may
not be a coincidence that the last murder occurred in this particular
place."

She sighed and turned to go. "You never really wanted to pursue this
investigation. Did you only come out here to track down some elusive
X-file? Were you  planning on chasing lights in the sky while I did your
job for you?"

"Are you accusing me of slacking off?" He stepped around her and opened the
door. "If you'll excuse me, Agent Scully, I'm going back to my room to pore
over the files one more time." He started to go back inside, but paused.
"Even if we disagree, I thought you'd at least take me seriously." 

*********

The wind was stronger, colder than it had been on the other nights. His
breath blew out in white puffs as he climbed to his spot. But he hardly
noticed, the trembling in his hands was due to excitement, not the chilly
weather. 

Three of them together in one spot. He did regret having wasted Strauss so
abruptly. The old bastard died before he could feel his guilt etched into
his body the way it was etched into his soul. 

At first he'd planned on getting it over quickly, taking out three in a
single weekend. But last night with Strauss had taught him that the power
was almost overwhelming when the victim was this close at hand. It was so
strong that he wasn't sure if he could restrain himself.

And he definitely needed that restraint. Because his retribution had been
so long in coming that he wanted to drink down the pain and fear and savor
every moment. Old men were too weak. Unsatisfying, they couldn't hold up.

But the new one more than made up for it, retaliation for sins once thought
beyond punishment. Every slight, every insult, every abuse of trust and
knowledge could now be paid in full. He could wait for the old men to go
back home. The young one, the unexpected prize, now that one was strong
enough, he could take his time.

He shivered in anticipation, then scolded himself. Discipline, that's what
he needed. Detachment.

He stopped chasing his thoughts and focused his awareness on his breath.
Each breath in, each breath out. Part of him and yet a rhythm beyond his
control. The cycle of breathing grew, emptying himself with each
exhalation, drawing in the strength of the mountain as he inhaled, infusing
his being with the age-old essence, his flesh and bones one with the bones
of the earth.

His attention drifted down off the cliff, down to the valley, down to the
lodge. He found the old men wrapped in peaceful slumber, unaware. Touching
the sleep of each still figure, he left a trail of disquiet in his wake.
First one and then the other, they moaned and tossed in their sleep as the
presence passed over them.

The young one slept uneasily, already in the grip of some internal
struggle. Delicately, a spectral touch traced itself across the long body. 
Hands that were not hands squeezed the solid throat and then released him.
The sleeper moaned and turned over, eyelids fluttered. 

No choking, not tonight. Something a bit more playful.

Invisible hands brushed across the torso, along the shoulders, the arms,
reaching the hands. Stroked the delicate fingers, over and over. The
sleeper's hands twitched, trying to break free. The caress resolved into a
firm grip, the chosen finger held taut, then snapped.

The sleeper jerked awake, choking off a scream of pain.

End Part 3


* * * *

Heritage of Fools (4/9)

* * * *

Part 4

Mulder woke, startled, unsure what was wrong. He drew a deep gasping breath
and started to push himself up off the bed only to collapse in pain. "Fuck.
Oh, shit." Carefully he held his hand out for inspection. Even in the
darkened room he could see that it wasn't right.

Holding his left hand up to ease the throbbing, Mulder rapped on Scully's
door. "Open up, Scully. It's me." The knocking jarred the injured digit so
he cradled his left hand a little closer to his chest, trying to find a
less painful position.

Come on, come on, wake up, Mulder mumbled to himself as he pounded on the
door one more time. He heard the chain rattle as she unfastened it, and
sagged against the doorframe in relief. 

Scully straightened her sleep-tousled hair with one hand while pulling the
door open with the other. "Mulder, it's. . .it's two o'clock in the
morning. This had better be good."

He smiled weakly. "Well. . . I wouldn't call it good. I need you to take a
look at something." Before she could protest, he gingerly held his hand out
for her inspection. The swollen ring finger of his left hand jutted out
from the others at an unnatural angle.

She blinked a couple of times, as if trying to register what she saw in her
sleep-fogged brain. "It's broken," she stated the obvious, reaching out to
examine it. 

Mulder hissed as she touched the finger. "Tell me something I don't know.
Can you fix it? Splint it or something?"  

Gently but firmly holding the injured hand, she turned it over to get a
good look. "This needs an x-ray." She bit her lip and gazed up at his his
face. "What happened?"

He stared at his hand, totally bewildered. "I don't know." She snorted in
disbelief. "Really, I have no idea. I was asleep, dreaming about. . . I'm
not sure. Something odd. And then I woke up. Must have jammed it between
the headboard and the wall."

"How in the hell?" She mused to herself, then shook her head and moved
aside so he could come in. "Come on. Give me a minute to get dressed."
Moving efficiently she pulled the clothes she needed from the dresser and
closet. "Why don't you call the front desk and find out where the nearest
emergency room is?"

Mulder sank down on the bed and reached for the phone.

******

Paused in the entryway to the lodge dining room, Mulder stared at his
partner. No one should look that good on so little sleep. They hadn't
returned from the hospital until almost five. Now it was eight in the
morning and Scully sat at breakfast with Weiss and the Goldfarbs, listening
attentively and looking every inch Ms. FBI.

Mary Goldfarb saw him first as he approached the table, her eyes widening
in concern. "Agent Mulder, what happened to you?"

He held up his hand, three fingers firmly taped together. "Broke it," he
said tersely, not feeling particularly conversational.

She stared in blatant curiosity. "They didn't need to put a cast on it?"  

"Buddy taping." Mulder waved the injured hand. "Sounds friendlier than it
feels."

"It's a good thing you're not married." Mulder stared at her, baffled. "I
mean," she explained, "that finger looks swollen. They would have had to
cut the ring off. How did you do it?"

"He broke it in his sleep." Scully filled her in. "Wedged it in between the
headboard and the wall."

It was so absurd they all laughed. All except Mulder, who waved down a
waiter, got a cup of coffee, ordered breakfast, and ignored them all. As he
sipped his coffee, trying to wake up, Barry Caldwell arrived.

Mary Goldfarb poured Caldwell a cup of coffee from the thermal carafe on
the table. "So, Barry, just how late did you keep my husband out there
chasing phantoms?" As his wife tried to pry information out of the
newcomer, Saul Goldfarb cast a discouraging glance at Caldwell, but failed
to catch his eye.

Caldwell's dull eyes sparked into life. "Mary, you should have come with
us. We were just about to give up, but the sky really lit up around. .
.What was it, one thirty or two?" Caldwell turned toward his friend for
confirmation.

Goldfarb cleared his throat. "Um. . .I guess about one-thirty."

Mary Goldfarb scowled at her husband, but the corners of her mouth twitched
into a smile. "When you crawled into bed last night, you said it was
midnight." She smacked her husband lightly on the arm.

Mulder followed the conversation, intrigued. But from the purse of Scully's
lips, he deduced that it might be safer to stick to business. Maybe he
could find time later to check into celestial phenomena.

When the historians left to get ready for the day, Mulder drew Scully to
the side.  "Thanks for last night."

She smiled gently. "You're welcome. I still can't figure out how you
managed to break your finger."

"Pure talent." He grinned briefly in return, then sobered. "While I was
sleeping in, did you get a chance to check up on our sitting ducks?"

She pushed the last of the breakfast dishes out of the way. "Did it before
I came down for breakfast. Both Lessing and Mueller reported a sound
night's sleep, nothing at all out of the ordinary." She reached under the
table and fumbled through her briefcase, extracting a program for the day's
activities. "The panel discussion on the immigration of German scientists
is still on track for ten this morning. Darryl McIntyre dropped by my room
with the schedule."

"We need to be there, too. Check for anyone that takes an inordinate amount
of interest in the panelists." He skimmed the program briefly before
handing it back. Nothing new there. "I called Frohike to see if they had
anything more for us. Nothing that we couldn't get from the Bureau
resources. But he says that they have an inside source with access to some
relevant DoD documents."

Scully's lips thinned in disapproval. "Inside where, exactly?" 

He shook his head. "I don't know, exactly. You know them. Better to keep a
'don't ask, don't tell' policy." He scrubbed his good hand across his face,
suddenly aware of how little sleep he'd gotten. "We've checked through the
list for anyone with ties to NASA, German immigration, Nazi victims, hell,
even German or Jewish surnames. What have we got so far?" He knew the list
backwards and forwards, but maybe just having someone else run down the
possibilities would spark an idea.

She pulled her briefcase up onto the table and drew out a neat stack of
papers. "Except for the manager, Mark Zimmer, no lodge employees have
German or Jewish names. Zimmer appears clean, no ties to anything
suspicious. There's nothing out of the ordinary, so far, on any of the
Woodland College staff."

She leafed through the background reports. "The best bets are faculty
members. Weiss. German great-grandparents, specializes in contemporary
European history. He's published papers on the effects of World War Two on
Central Europe. Barry Caldwell's research has focused on post-war Germany,
especially the immigration of Turks into the German labor force."

Mulder chewed on his lip, considering and dismissing the possibilities.
"Neither of them have ties to any of the victims." He took the file from
his partner and flipped through it, tapping his finger on the page he was
looking for. 

She leaned over to see. "Saul Goldfarb." Scully noted the name. "Professor
of American History, specializing in the American Southwest."

"Yeah, a lot of his work deals with the resettlement of Vietnamese
fishermen on the Texas Gulf Coast." Mulder watched his partner expectantly,
waiting for her to fill in the rest.

Looking up, she met his gaze. "But what really interests you isn't his
academic career." He nodded and let her continue. "Son of two concentration
camp survivors. You think he might hold a grudge against former Nazis?
Nazis who were given a free ride by the American government?"

"Maybe." He had to admit Goldfarb made a great suspect. But something was
missing here. "I'm hoping the Gunmen can give us something more to work
with. It's almost nine. What's first on the agenda?"

"McIntyre's paper on fate of Southeast Asian immigrants in Hong Kong."

Mulder pushed his chair back and got up. "Sounds thrilling. Tell you what.
I'll call Sheriff Johnson and see what he may have dug up. Meet you at ten
for the Lessing/Mueller panel?

"Wouldn't miss it."


*****

The old men sat on the dais, exuding an air of confidence, the attitude of
men at ease with their lives. Mueller laughed at one of the questions posed
to him and launched into an amusing story about life in post-war America.
The world might turn a blind eye to the crimes of these men, but at least
one observer knew better.

Even in the daytime, now, he could feel the power thrumming through him.
All it took was a slight mental flick, just so, and he could grasp the
faintest tendril of it. Not as strong, as overwhelming, as at night on the
mountain top, but present, usable.

He knew he should wait until tonight and the cover of darkness, but
curiosity got the best of him. His grandfather had always warned him to
curb his inquisitive mind, to take control of it. But he possessed neither
his grandfather's caution, nor his timidity. There was something he wanted
to try.

It was so easy to probe every inch of a man's body and cause such
gratifying physical pain. So easy to let the power surge through him and
draw off the aftermath of suffering. Feed off of it. Luxuriate in it. Could
he touch the mind as well? Probe the thoughts and fears that lurked,
intangible, below the surface?

He turned his thoughts to the tall man standing at the back of the room.
Gently he sank into the man's head, past the ineffective protection of the
skull, probing for some wisp of thought. Skimming across the contours of
the brain, mapping its peaks and valleys, he left a trail of pain in his
wake. But the ephemeral thoughts remained closed to him. 

Ah, well, trial and error. He couldn't expect every experiment to succeed.
Physical anguish would have to suffice.

********

Laughter bubbled around the meeting room. Both Mueller and Lessing were
charming, delighting them with anecdotes about the early days of NASA,
neatly sidestepping any potentially controversial questions about their
careers in the Third Reich. National Security cushioned the past from sharp
inquiry.

While Lessing captivated them with stories of his work as a doctor for the
Mercury astronauts, Mulder scanned the sea of faces looking for anyone who
took an unusual interest in the two elderly scientists. Most of the crowd
listened attentively. A few yawned and glanced at their watches, not at all
interested in the subject at hand. There was nothing out of the ordinary at
all. 

Saul Goldfarb, in the corner of the room, dozed off, his chin resting on
his chest, too much beer and too little sleep the night before.

Mulder definitely sympathized, he was starting to feel a little
light-headed himself. He'd taken something for the pain in his hand and was
starting to regret it. Stepping out into the lobby, he leaned his head
back, resting it against the wall.

"Mulder, how are you holding up?" 

Scully's voice skirted the fringe of his consciousness, but he couldn't
focus on it. His eyes were open but he couldn't see. The lightheadedness
had been growing, becoming almost painful. As if something or someone was
crawling around inside his skull, massaging the gray matter.

He didn't feel his knees give way.

He did feel the floor smack his nose.

"Mulder?" 

Soft hands brushed his face. Opening his eyes he saw a pair of women's
shoes, then Scully's anxious face dipped into view. He started to push
himself off of the floor, but she stopped him, pressing him back down.

"You passed out for a second." Her words were edged in worry. "I need to
check you out."

He licked his lips, then took stock of how he really felt. Tired, but not
too bad. "Let me up, Scully. Except for this whopper of a headache, I feel
fine." He let her help him sit up. 

Applause spilled out of the room behind them, signaling the end of the
session. Mulder pulled himself off of the floor and stood, propped up
against the wall. Scully watched, her face a mix of patience and concern. 

Upright the dizziness returned. A headache vied for attention with his
throbbing finger. "Give me a minute." He wanted to go lie down, but he
wanted to get there under his own power, not with his partner hanging onto
his elbow.

"Mulder, what just happened?" She backed off, physically, but wasn't
willing to let the incident just slide.

"You said it yourself. I passed out for a second." He shoved off from the
wall and headed toward the stairs. "Not enough sleep and the pain pills
make me loopy. I'll think twice about going to bed early again." 

He grinned, trying to show her he felt better, even if neither of them
really believed it. "I should have stayed up with the big boys, drinking
beer and watching the lights in the sky." Better yet, maybe he should have
just stayed home, he'd definitely had better weekends.

End Part 4

* * * *

Heritage of Fools (5/9)

* * * *

Part 5

A single ray of daylight escaped from between the heavy drapes, slanting
across the room, falling on Mulder's sleeping face. A face twisted in pain
and confusion.

< A cold mist swirled around him. There was no sense of direction, no sense
of time. 

He walked through the haze with no idea of where he was or where he was
going. The chill wind tugged at the mist, parting it to reveal a dark mass
on the horizon. A destination. 

Distance had no meaning as he walked across the landscape; only the looming
mass, growing ever larger, gave him any feeling of progress. As he drew
closer, he could make out the architectural details; it was a house. He
knew this place. 

He tried to stop, to turn around, but his feet kept shuffling toward it.

Fog shifted around the foundation of his father's house, not quite able to
creep up to the porch. Fox Mulder mounted the steps and found himself
standing in front of the door, sweating and ill at ease. Before he had a
chance to ring the bell, the door swung open.

"Fox." Bill Mulder, blood dripping down his head, opened his arms wide and
drew his son into an embrace. "The time has come. The legacy of the father
is transferred to the son."

Mulder squirmed in his father's arms, unable to break away. The smell of
decay filled his nostrils.

"Don't worry, son." Bill Mulder hugged him tighter. "What was once mine, is
now yours."

Mulder groaned, squirmed, tried in vain to break the iron grip. His father
held him tighter, crushing him. Pain lashed through him, a white-hot agony
in his guts.>

Mulder jerked awake, sweating, his heart pounding. The cell phone chirped
again. Fumbling, he retrieved it from the bedside table.

"Mulder." It came out as a grumble. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. Just
woke up."

"Hey, man, are you sleeping on the tax payer's dollar?" Frohike teased.

He laid back down on the bed and closed his eyes against the headache.
"Long night and a long story." He took a slow breath, trying to calm his
racing heart. "What have you got?"

"Nothing much yet," Frohike admitted. "But our friend wants to know what,
specifically, you need him to look for."

"It would help to know what records he's going to be digging around in,"
Mulder growled.

Hesitation on the other end of the line. "I guess it won't hurt to say.
He's at the DTIC."

Frohike's words drove out the last of the post-dream confusion. "The
Defense Technology Information Center?" Mulder gave a low whistle. He'd
been trying to get a line on their records for years. "Those files are
remarkably hard to get your hands on."

"Yeah," Frohike agreed. "Those DoD trolls have stuff that's eighty years
old and still hasn't been declassified. So, our guy's plenty nervous about
having  a look-see for outsiders. Wants to minimize the effort as much as
possible."

"Understandable. It would be a waste of time to try to track down everyone
on the list." He opened his eyes. "The victims. See if he can find anything
on them. And run the names of the conference participants."

Once again Frohike hesitated. "I don't know, Mulder. That's still an awful
lot to sort through."

Mulder debated how much of the investigation he should reveal. "Okay. I'm
going to go out on a limb here. Just run those professors that have an
obvious link. In heritage or professional specialty. Especially those who
had a hand in running the conference and getting the Paperclip panel
assembled."

"So we're looking at the Germans or the German history professors." Frohike
ran down the list. "You want him to look at the guys on the organizing
committee? Saul and Mary Goldfarb. Caldwell. He's into German history,
isn't he? Mike Weiss. And Darryl McIntyre."

"McIntyre." Mulder laughed. That's a classic German name if I ever heard one."

"Didn't do your homework, did you, Mulder?" Frohike chided him. "His father
may have been a McIntyre and his stepmother a Jones, but the guy's natural
mother was. .  . Geez, now you're going to make me try to pronounce it.
Neunteufel."

"Stepmother?" Mulder was going to have to have a serious talk with the
Bureau researcher who didn't dig deep enough this time. "Did the mother die
or was it divorce?"

"Died in childbirth. Papa McIntyre remarried when little Darryl was
eighteen months old." 

Mulder scrambled for a pencil. Usually he could remember names, but this
one sounded a little too odd. He needed to see how it was spelled. "What
did you say that name was, again? Spell it."

"Neunteufel. N-E-U-N-T-E-U-F-E-L. Means 'nine devils'."

Mulder snorted. "Seriously?"

"I kid you not. Sounds about right for an X-File. Any other info you need
from the DTIC?" 

"While he's in there hacking around, see if he can dig up any records on
Operation Paperclip. Germans who came over. Look at DoD or State Department
liaisons on the American side of things." So far the only men he knew were
connected to the victims were the Consortium members. Unlikely suspects,
since the whole Colorado trip was a mission to save their wrinkly old
hides.

"You don't ask for much, do you?" Frohike sounded a little irritated.

"What do you mean?" If the guy was already in the system, a few more files
couldn't be that hard to find

"The Paperclip stuff is probably buried in the Legacy Collection. All hard
copies. Old stuff from the forty's and early fifty's. Lots of recovered
German and Japanese records. None of it on computer. Hell, they've still
got the index to that shit on a manual card file."

The mother lode. "Frohike, is there any way. . .I mean, do you think your
friend could sneak me in there for just a few--"

"No way, Mulder. No fucking way." 

"It was worth a shot." Mulder laughed. "By the way, those lights in the sky
showed up last night."

"Did you get a look at them?" The enthusiasm was clear, even over the
phone. "What time was it?"

"An eyewitness put it about one-thirty. I was out like a light by then."
But he hadn't been. Not really. He hadn't put the two events together
before, but that was just about the time he had jerked awake in pain.
"Frohike could you send me a list of the other sightings? I could run it by
some of the locals. Maybe find out if anything else was going on here at
the same time."

A thump on the door interrupted the conversation.

"Scully's here, Frohike, I've got to go."  Mulder sat up.

"I can wait and talk to her, if that's all right." The little man sounded
eager.

"Down, boy." Mulder laughed. "She's armed and dangerous. Can you get me
those dates this afternoon?"

"Sure, I just need to pull up that file. Guess I better let you get back to
the red-head." 

Mulder pressed 'end' and stashed the phone back on the table. The door
thumped again. He opened the door just as Scully, balancing a large tray in
both hands, drew her foot back for another kick. 

"I thought you might be hungry." Crossing the room she set the tray on the
table by the window and, with a flourish and a smile, removed the stainless
steel cover. Mushroom and potato soup with toasted whole-grain bread. 

It smelled tantalizing, he hadn't realized how hungry he was. Pulling a
chair up to the table, he took the rolled-up napkin and shook the soup
spoon loose. He took a big bite from the toast and mumbled his thanks
around the mouthful of food. 

He took a drink of the iced tea. "What time is it?" 

"A little after two." Her smile faded just a little. "How are you feeling?
Still have a headache?"

"Food first, Dr. Scully, then you can take my medical history." He slurped
another spoonful of soup. She sat down and silently watched him finish
eating. 

Ignoring the finer points of table manners, he took the last hunk of toast
and swiped the  bowl clean. With a belly full of good, but simple, food and
a couple of hours sleep he did feel a little better.

He slouched back in the chair, stretching his long legs out under the
table. "That was good. Did anything else happen this morning?"

"You mean after you toppled to the floor?" Her faint smile flickered for
just a moment, then faded completely. "What exactly happened this morning?"

Absently brushing his good hand over his aching head, he stared in front of
him. "I'm still not sure. It felt like. . . Like something was inside my
skull. Physically, I mean." He looked directly into her face, locked his
eyes with hers. "Scully, I don't expect you to believe me. But I could feel
something touching my brain."

She reached out to cup his chin. "There's every chance this could be
serious, Mulder. The agitated sleep last night. Neurological symptoms this
morning." She fished a tiny flashlight from her pocket. "Let me take a
quick look."

She went through the drill, as well as she could with the limited resources
at hand. At no time did her facade crack; serious, business-like, Dr.
Scully, all the way. At least the worry crease in her forehead didn't
deepen. He took that as a good sign.

"Really, I feel a lot better now." He scooted the chair back and stood.
"Headache's  almost gone." Not quite a lie, it was better. "I just needed a
nap and something to eat."

"How's your hand?" She reached for it, but he pulled it back.

"Fine." Well, maybe not fine, it still throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch, but
he was not going to take those pain pills again.

"I'm really sorry to dump so much of this investigation on you." No way a
change of subject would fool her, he felt like shit and probably looked it,
too. But she would know he wasn't going to talk about it anymore. 

Her gaze drilled into him and for a moment he thought she wouldn't let it
go. But she sighed and lowered her eyes. "No problem. So far there isn't
much of a case to investigate.  Except for Strauss, who died before we even
got here. Sheriff Johnson's forensics team didn't turn up any prints or
other evidence. As far as they can tell, the old man was alone in his
room." 

That nagging feeling that he was missing something persisted. It didn't
make sense. Why attack one of the scientists and not the other two? And why
waste an entire night, when the conference only lasted a few days?

Seized with a sudden need to do something, to make some forward progress,
he got up to set up his laptop and printer. "Frohike said something
interesting. Seems like we need to add another suspect to the list." She
raised her eyebrows, but didn't interrupt. "McIntyre. Found out his natural
mother's maiden name was Neunteufel."

He watched her process that information, translating the name.

A wide grin lit her face. "Nine devils? Mulder that is an X-File." Her
laugh was refreshing.

"That's what Frohike said. Speaking of which. . ." He booted up his
computer and checked his mail. A message from Frohike was already waiting.
"That was fast."

She stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. "What is it? Something
from his source?"

"Not yet. Just a couple of things he dug up on his own." He printed out all
the messages but one and handed them to his  partner. He read the remaining
file from the screen, frowning in concentration.

Scully summarized as she read. "So Darryl McIntyre's birth mother was Marie
Neunteufel, daughter of of Georg Neunteufel who immigrated from Germany in
. . .  Mulder the date's not on here." She leaned over to see what he was
reading. "Is that what you've got?"

Twisting in his chair, he tried to hide the screen. "No, this is something
else." He closed the file, but not before she got a good look at it.

Disappointment etched her face. "Dates of the alpenglow sightings? Mulder,
I thought you were here to work, not this--" She waved at the computer. 

The beginning of a theory had sprouted in his mind and although he wasn't
sure what the connection was yet, he decided he might as well fill her in
on it. "Look at this, the end of the list. Anything seem familiar?" He
turned the computer toward her. 

Now she looked confused. "Sporadic sightings over the past six months.
Increases in the last couple of weeks."  

Swinging the screen back so he could see it he pointed out the relevant
dates. "Here and here and here and here. What else happened on those
nights?"

It took her only a second to make the connection, but her sigh of
resignation surprised him. "So what? Those four dates happen to correspond
to the deaths of the four victims. But what about all the other sightings?
Mulder, this has been going on for months. It's got nothing to do with the
four dead men." She pursed her lips. "If you want to chase after the
lights, fine. At least wait until the investigation is over. Don't use the
case to legitimize--."

He sat back, stunned. "Can't you hear me out?"

Her disappointment shifted to dismissal. "No, Mulder. This is ridiculous.
How can you reduce every crime, every murder to some supernatural
phenomenon?" she shouted at him.

Leaning in closer he hissed, "That's rather simplistic, isn't it?" His
voice grew louder as he continued. "Tell me, Agent Scully. What's the
rational explanation for the swastikas carved into the livers of Seipel and
Brown and Griffin and Strauss? If there is no logical solution, no rational
explanation, then perhaps the answer lies with the 
unexplained." Now he was shouting, too.

"Wait--" She tried to break in.

But he was angry and in pain and, even though he knew he'd regret it later,
he kept yelling at her. "If you weren't so obsessed with keeping science
corralled in your narrow world, maybe you would open you eyes and solve
some of these cases without me dragging you through to the end. How often
are my 'irrational' solutions the right ones?" He broke off, his head was
pounding, and he was suddenly ashamed at his outburst.

She worked her mouth noiselessly, as if trying to decide what to say, but
turned and left without a word, slamming the door behind her.

He let her walk out, knowing he'd been too harsh. But he was scared. What
he hadn't mentioned was the date of the last sighting.  

End Part 5