From: "David Hearne" Date: Wed, 14 Feb 2001 11:53:31 -0500 Subject: xfc: The Times Square War (8 of 19) Source: xfc TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (8 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART EIGHT A CHANGE OF TACTICS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The incident at the MTV studio in Times Square did catch the notice of Agents Doggett and Scully. Before then, they were interested in the body of the late D.W. His body was taking up space in the city morgue. Despite their familiarity with brutalized corpses, both agents had to wince after the morgue attendant pulled the white blanket off D.W.'s remains. The hard, white bone of the skull contradicted the intact flesh over the rest of the body. The killer had also left the eyeballs in the sockets where they seemed to preserve D.W. horrified expression. After adjusting herself to the sight, Scully examined the body. She immediately noticed the tattoo on D.W.'s chest. "Look at that," she said. Doggett saw a red circular design between the two nipples. "Well," he said. "That looks familiar. But what does it mean?" "I think it means...we have found one of the people responsible for the events in Times Square." "Are you serious? This guy?" "When we've encountered the symbol before, it's been in connection with 'attacks' on people linked to the commerce center of New York City. This man, however, was a pornographer. A lowlife." Scully looked at Doggett, then said, "We might be witnessing the revenge of his kind on the large business interests now controlling Times Square." Doggett took a few moments to absorb this theory, then said, "If that's true...then whoever did this to him might represent those same interests." "I think it's highly likely." "You make it sound like a war." "It might be just that." Doggett and Scully became as quiet as D.W. Then Scully said, "We should thank Officer Wildenstein. This may prove to be a valuable clue for us." "I'll thank her for both of us over dinner." "Dinner?" "M-hm." "Thinking about reliving the past, Agent Doggett?" "You can never relive the past. You can do something about the present, though." "And what are your plans for the present?" "I haven't decided that, yet." Doggett looked at the corpse and said, "This is a helluva place to be discussing this." "You're right. Let's go." "Where?" "I haven't decided that, yet, either." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Come on, Pete. Get your damn ass out of bed." Pete McGovern groaned and twisted in his sheets. "Up, up, up. Before I put a real hurting on you." Pete pressed his hand against the mattress and pushed his body to a sitting position. His head wobbled as he stared at the impatient Salesman. He felt something on his cheek. He touched himself there and dirtied his fingers. Soot had fallen out of his ears. A long dark spot had been marked on the pillow. "Jesus Christ..." he muttered. "Get used to it," The Salesman ordered him. "Now get dressed. You and I have to go hunting." Pete turned back to The Salesman. "How did you get in my apartment?" "I know magic, asshole. Haven't you figured that out by now?" His body was sluggish as Pete left his bed and picked up a pair of jeans from the floor. "What happened?" he asked. "I thought we were done." "No. We're not. The goddamn opposition hasn't backed down. So we have to find other members and teach them the same lesson I taught D.W. last night." "What did you do last night anyway?" A humorless smile appeared on The Salesman's face. "Let's just say the Jeevatek appreciate ruthlessness." Pete studied The Salesman's expression. He wondered if he should be scared. Instead, all he could really feel was his headache. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he asked, "Who are the Jeevatek supposed to be, anyway?" "The Jeevatek are..." The Salesman suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Well, they're just the Jeevatek." "Yeah, but why..." "Look, I didn't come here to answer questions. You work for me, okay? And if you give me one more gram of shit, the pain in your head will be nothing to one you'll feel in your balls." Pete slipped on his shoes. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Doggett and Scully were getting information from D.W.'s former co-workers at the "Adult Emporium" when they heard about the TRL incident. It hadn't taken long before the news was relayed from the local reporters to the ground-level grapevine. A customer at the "Adult Emporium" was rather shocked to be approached by a female FBI agent after she overheard him talking about the "crazy shit in the MTV building." "I'm going to check this out," she told Doggett. "You see about finding this Mr. Price." "Oh, wonderful," Doggett jibed. "You get to meet Carson Daly while I go sniffing around Junkie Row." "In a way, I think you'll be more comfortable there." "Huh. You might be right." "And if I continue to be right, Agent Doggett...then there might nowhere safe in New York City." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX When the cloaked man had appeared in his bedroom, Adam Price had known this was some serious shit. And when the cloaked man had offered a chance to claim Times Square as his personal territory, Price couldn't resist taking it. Now, as he stood in the doorway of an abandoned building, he was having second doubts. A lot of second doubts. Magic had once been a great thing to learn. Price's enjoyment in it had died out, though. All he had left was another thing to make him paranoid. The Jeevatek...Price didn't know a lot about them. He hadn't been *told* a lot about them. It was a fair guess that there were hard-core motherfuckers, though. Price got the impression that what happened to D.W. was the mildest thing they could do to a person. I need to get out of this, he thought. I... "Mr. Adam Price?" Price quickly turned and saw a cop. Or someone like a cop. Whoever this guy was, he had the cop feel all over him -- the purposeful stride, the no-frills business suit, the direct expression. "Yeah?" Price didn't think he was about to get busted. The cops didn't care what about the drug dealers did in this part of the city. With its weed-covered lots and empty stores, this street had been written off. The junkies and homeless people wandered through the street as if they were ghosts in limbo. The man showed Price his ID. "John Doggett, FBI." Price studied the man from inside the doorway. *A fed?* he wondered. *What the hell does he want?* In answer to his unspoken question, Doggett said, "I understand you were acquaintances with Dan Williams." "Not really," Price replied with a straight face. "His employees tell me you were a regular visitor to his store." Price shrugged. "Just looking for entertainment." "I also heard you had a couple of private conversations with him. What about?" "Baseball. Restaurants. Where to get good pussy." Price's toes were clenching inside his shoes. "Nothing big." "Hm. Tell me, have you ever seen this?" Doggett pulled out a pencil drawing of a circular design. Price turned away. "Nope." "You sure? You didn't look at it for long." Price looked back at the drawing. "Nah, I've never seen that." Now it was Price's turn to be studied. "Have you heard about what's been happening around Times Square? The hallucinations? Katie Couric's bleeding ass?" "Of course, man." "Have you heard about what happened at 'Total Request Live?'" Price scratched the back of his neck. "No. I didn't." "Well, you will. Eventually. Lots of strange things have been going on." "Hm." "I'm not sure what to make of it." "Hm." "Mind if I look at your chest?" Just as Price's eyes widened, Doggett smoothly said, "On second thought, you don't have to. However...if you're in the mood to talk, here's my number." He held out a business card. Price hesitated, then accepted the card. "I know you don't have much cause to trust an FBI agent," Doggett said. "But who do you trust now?" Doggett left Price alone in the doorway after saying that, but those wouldn't be his last words exchanged with the drug-dealer. Those would come later. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Scully found the red circular mark on the back of a video monitor. A wind came through the spaces vacated by broken windows and touched her back. "The girl can't remember a thing about what happened," an police officer at the scene told her. "She can't talk much anyway. Her vocal chords are shot. And there's a lot of people whose ears are still ringing." Scully nodded and looked through the empty spaces. She saw sidewalks gleaming in the sunlight as if they were covered in frost. "A lot of people had to be taken in for cuts and lacerations. Some kind of fucking mess, I'm telling you." "I'm assuming they have it all on tape," Scully said. "Yeah. Want to look at it?" A few minutes later, Scully and the police officer were watching a video in the control room. They saw the girl ask her impertinent questions, knock out the security guard, and scream until the windows shattered and the screen was overcome by static. "Goddamn," the police officer said. "God...damn. What the hell happened?" "Do you know what firm the security guard worked for?" The police officer was puzzled by Scully's response (and he was feeling puzzled enough already.) Nevertheless, he left the control room to find out. When he came back, he said, "Golden Chair Protection. Does that matter?" Scully looked amused. "So far, it seems like everything does." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Miss Grawitz, I didn't just hear that." "I'm afraid you did, sir." Edmund Frost slammed a fist on his desk. "You stinking Aryan slut! I refuse to accept that you can't find one darkie street vendor!" "For the moment, we can't, sir. It seems Mister Bustamente has left the city." "Taking the bloody Heart with him, I suppose." "Actually, sir...it is possible he sold it or passed it on." "You mean, it still could be here in the city?" "As I said, sir, it is possible." Frost flung out his arms and knocked over one of his tiny Greek boy statues. "Oh, that's just bloody super! We're back to square fucking one! And with that thing floating around the city, anybody could pick it up!" "I'm aware of that, sir." "Well, are you also aware that the Jeevatek do not tolerate failure? And that I refuse to take the blame?" With her face as inexpressive as ever, Miss Grawitz said, "I'm aware of both these things, sir." "Then find the Heart, Miss Hitler. I do not expect it to just walk into my gallery." Actually, that's just what would happen. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX After conducting their own separate investigations, Doggett and Scully met at the same deli where they ate the night before. They compared notes. "You think Price is scared?" Scully asked. "That's the feeling I got, yeah. It's as if he's caught up in something too deep for him." "Well, he is a drug-dealer." "This was different. I had a..." "Feeling?" Doggett smiled. "Yeah. A feeling that he might be in something deeper than the usual shit. I have another feeling that we might be hearing from him soon." He shook his head. "You've been a rotten influence, Agent Scully." "Well, what's your feeling about Golden Chair?" "I don't know. It's too much of a coincidence to have one of their boys present at another weird incident. It still doesn't explain why Ryder threatened me." "Maybe it's just for the reason you said. To make sure you stay put in town. To make sure you do something that will intimidate Ryder's superiors." "Which will give him the excuse to bust my chops." A smile spread over Doggett's face. "Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint him." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's ill-advised to approach an ex-lover while she is holding a monkey wrench. Yet that was what Orb did. Heather Cobb was working on a cycle engine in the back of her uncle's shop when she heard a throat clearing. She turned around and saw him there -- handsome, transcendent, absolutely despicable. "Hello, Heather," he said, trying to keep his smile intact. Next to him, a female singer could be heard on a tape player. "Is he different?" she asked. "Has he changed what he's about? Or is he just a liar with nothing to lie about?" The monkey wrench felt heavy in Heather's palm. "I can't believe you came back," she replied quietly. "I never said I wouldn't." "I remember what you said." "So do I." Orb paused, then said, "I apologize for it." Heather turned her back and tightened a bolt on the engine. "Apology accepted. Now get out." "I didn't come back just to apologize. In fact...it wasn't the first reason." Heather snorted. "I'm supposed to be surprised by that?" "I'm involved in something big..." "You're always involved in something big, Orb. And the rest of us are too small to see it. Including me, right? That's what you told me." "My words then were...ill-chosen." Heather slapped the wrench onto a table and spun towards Orb. "No," she spat. "They weren't. They were absolutely right. I'm nothing. I'm just some girl from a poor neighborhood. I could never..." "You're the woman I love." Heather's eyes remained bitter, but sadness had entered them as well. "And what do you do to the people you hate?" "Heather..." Orb took one step forward and then his body slumped. He had to grab onto a shelf to keep from hitting the floor. His weakness happened so quickly that it shocked Heather into empathy. "What is it?" she asked as she rushed to his side. "What's wrong?" "I'll be fine." "Don't shit me." "Well...I'm holding on, all right?" He lifted his head in her direction and smiled. "Trust me." Heather looked at that smile -- the same one which had touched her heart so many times. "You crazy little fuck," she whispered. "What have you done to yourself?" "I can't tell you that." "Oh, don't start..." "But I will tell you that I'm attending an art exhibition tonight. I would appreciate the company of an attractive woman at that event." Heather shook her head in disbelief. "I can't. My band is playing tonight." "So cancel it." "I don't walk away from people." Heather went back to the engine and picked up the wrench. "Would you walk away from me?" Orb asked. "You're the one who is always moving, Orb." The man in tan trousers looked at Heather's back for several moments before leaving. "There's a fire just waiting for fuel," the female singer chanted. Heather concentrated on her work, telling herself enough tears had been shed already. It turned out she had more. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The circle resembled perfectly the others, except for one thing. It was yellow. It was also the first object in the room to catch Scully and Doggett's attention. They had seen it upon entering the office of Tony Urich. This time, the circle had come in the form of a paperweight. The two agents looked at each other. Scully showed her confidence in their nearness to this mystery's solution. Doggett showed more uncertainty, but silently admitted that something was up. "Mr. Urich will be you with in a moment," the secretary assured them after showing them in. She was speaking truthfully. Urich walked into the office mere seconds after they had sat down in front of a desk. "Agent Doggett," he said. "Agent Scully." He held out a big hand for them to shake. It was attached to a big body suitable for playing football. Golden Chair Protection had picked him well as a representative. His sheer size would make people feel secure. Not in Doggett and Scully's case, though. "What may I do for you?" he asked as he sat down behind his desk. Doggett said, "I assume you've heard about the incident at MTV studios." "Ah, yes, I have. One of our employees was involved in it." "We have also noticed that you have several employees working for companies around the same area." Urich slowly nodded. "That is also true. Why did you bring it up?" "Lately, Times Square seems to have been ground zero for several strange incidents," Scully said. "We're investigating these incidents. We were also hoping you could assist us." "In what way?" "A co-ordinated effort between Golden Chair and the FBI. Perhaps our two groups can work together to prevent future incidents from occurring." The wariness in Urich's attitude started to ease away. "That could be fruitful. We have worked in joint efforts with state and federal agencies before." "And the NYPD, too," Doggett said. "From what I understand." "Oh, yes. In fact, some of their members are now working for us." "You know, I used to work on the NYPD. Who do you have on your payroll?" "Well, our highest ranking employee is Milton Ryder..." "Ryder...Ryder," Doggett said, his expression thoughtful. "I think I have met him. Good man?" "Very good." "Well, he might be the very person we need working with us. Wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" "I would say so, Agent Doggett." "He might not be available," Urich warned. "Could we meet him at least?" Doggett asked. "I'll see if he's on the premises." Urich turned to the phone and dialed a number. Doggett looked at Scully with raised eyebrows. She raised hers back. Urich's call was answered. "Ryder, it's Urich. Would you come to my office?...Thank you." He hung up the phone. "He'll be here shortly." "Good," Scully said. "By the way, that paperweight...where did you get it?" "Hm? This?" "Yes. That design. It's interesting. Did you buy it yourself?" "Ah, no. It's, uh...just something Golden Chair gives to all of its employees." "I see. Does it have any special meaning?" Urich's huge shoulders went up and down. "Beats me." "I know I've heard Ryder's name somewhere before," Doggett said. "I just can't pin it down..." The door opened. Milton Ryder walked in, rings glittering on his fingers. "You wanted to see..." he said before he saw Doggett. Doggett slapped his forehead. "Oh, now, I remember! I put this guy in jail." Doggett stood up and held out a hand. "How's it going, Milt?" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Zero. Zilch. Bumpkus. Jackshit. Big fucking doughnut hole. That's what The Salesman found on his second run with Pete McGovern. "Those bastards have strengthened their protection," The Salesman growled as he tightened his hands on the steering wheel. "Does this mean we can't find them?" Pete mumbled. The Salesman's right arm shot out and shoved Pete against the passenger window. "We *will* find them," The Salesman insisted. He pulled back his arm and allowed Pete's weak body to slump back into a seat. "The question is," The Salesman said. "can we find them before they...what is it?" "Huh?" "I'm not talking to you, dipshit. Sorry, Tony, I've got some load here with me. What do you want?" For a few moments, The Salesman seemed to be listening to another person. As he did, his already-red face deepened in color. "How the hell did they know Ryder was working for us?" After hearing the answer, he slapped his hand on the wheel. "That goddamn prick! I can't believe it! Does this mean we're gonna have to ice a couple of feds?" When he got the answer to that, his eyes widened. "She's a what?" The answer was repeated. Then The Salesman stomped on the brake. Pete lurched back and forth as if he was an inflatable punching bag. The wheels screeched as did the wheels of all the cars behind him. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The Salesman screamed at the horns complaining behind him. As before, they all fell silent. Pete squirmed against the door. The person sitting next to him was leaking rage from his pores. After The Salesman sat fixed in his seat for many, many seconds, he hit the gas pedal and took two hard rights. Pete felt very grateful that The Salesman was mad at somebody else. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The Salesman had received his communiqué after Doggett and Scully had left the offices of Golden Chair Protection. This was the conversation they had after leaving. "That was pretty sweet," Doggett had observed. "I have to say Ryder did a fair amount of squirming," Scully had replied. "That's because he was caught exceeding his authority. Now we've got him and his damn company where we want them. They have to look co-operative now. Anything happens to us, they have to bear the responsibility." Doggett then chuckled. "What is it?" Scully had asked. "Just thinking about the part where I said 'No hard feelings about arresting you, huh?' to Ryder. If nothing else, I can always out-smart that bastard." Doggett had been wrong. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Milton Ryder waited in his own office. As he trembled in his chair and looked at the expensive furnishings, he thought about losing them. And everything else. He had been sent here after Doggett left with his red-haired partner. Ryder knew who was going to come through that door... The Salesman burst into the office. He flicked his wrist and Ryder flew out of his chair. His back slammed against wood paneling as he was pinned against the ceiling. "What the fuck were you thinking?" The Salesman hollered. "I...I'm sorry..." "I'm not your cellmate, Milt. You can't stick your dick up my ass. But I will send you back to that same hellhole I rescued you from and you can get your butt sodomized again." Ryder gulped. The Salesman shook his head and looked away from the ceiling. "You don't understand what you've done, haven't you? Not only do you deliberately get the attention of a couple of feds, but you picked two we can't touch." Ryder dared to speak. "Uh...boss, I know this looks bad, but the fact is those two were looking into Times Square..." "I know that, asshole. Hell, Agent Scully has even found out about the runes." "Well, then...maybe we should...you know..." The Salesman spun his finger in the air. Ryder's body spun accordingly against the ceiling. After he had stopped, The Salesman said, "Listen to me carefully, Milt. Even if we could get away with it, we still couldn't whack Doggett and Scully. Or, to be more specific, we can't kill Agent Scully." "Why?" "Well, obviously, you didn't read our goddamn files on her." Ryder blinked. "We have files on Scully?" "If you want to play this game, you need certain kinds of knowledge. That includes knowing who is a Historical Nexus." "A what?" The Salesman let out a brief, harsh laugh. "Of course you don't know what a Historical Nexus is! And you don't know Scully is one of them. Would you like to know what that means?" "Um..." "It means she has a date with that cocksucker Destiny. Until then, any attempts to kill her will fail. She cannot die until she accomplishes that task which will alter the world." "What's that?" "How the fuck should I know? The fact is -- we can't kill her. She's always going to find a way out of danger or just get lucky. This woman survived cancer, for Christ's sake! Goddammit, Milt, you..." The Salesman reared back his fist. Ryder closed his eyes, expecting to feel his gut pop open. Instead, he heard a sigh. His body lowered into the chair. "This is my fault, really," The Salesman grumbled. "I recruited you because you're a sadistic shit. I should have gotten a sadistic shit with some brains." This time, Ryder kept his mouth closed. "For now, let's concentrate on this problem. We can't kill Scully. And killing Doggett would just involve her deeper. So we can't hurt them physically..." The Salesman stared at the thick carpet with his fist on his hips. He remained in that position for a long time. Then he lifted his head and smiled for the first time all day. "But," he said. "we can fuck with their heads a little." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (9 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART NINE DINING, CRASHING, SLUMMING... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Doggett was surprised to find Cindy waiting for him at the hotel. "Hey," she called out as he and Scully entered the lobby. "Uh, hey," Doggett replied. "I thought we were going to meet at East." "I wanted to make sure you wouldn't forget." Cindy turned to Agent Scully with cool evaluating eyes. Scully's face was cordial as if to say, "I'm not here to compete with anyone." "You must be Agent Scully," Cindy said. "And you must be Officer Wildenstein," Scully answered. She extended a hand. Cindy decided to shake it. "I guess John has already told you about me," Cindy observed. "Yes. So I guess you two are going out for dinner." "Well, yeah," Doggett said. "I should have told..." "No need. See you two later." Scully went to the elevator. "All right," Doggett said. "Let's..." "Pretty lady." "You mean, Scully?" "Don't you think she is?" "Yes. Yes, I do." "But you're not involved with her." "No." "Ever think about it?" Doggett smiled. "I think she's already got somebody. Come on, Cindy." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The Hellblazer was typical of the many clubs at which Lockdown had played -- small in size, cheap of beer, dirty of toilet. Borrelli, Poveda, and Ralph were doing a sound check when the first customers of the evening entered. Among them were road workers looking for a drink, retro punkers with red-spiked hair, neighborhood Hispanics, aged mumbling eccentrics in bulky clothing, gregarious drug dealers, and even a few dedicated fans of Lockdown. Also present were the local artists with their black clothing, goatees, and clove cigarettes. These people came from affluent backgrounds, but had chosen to live in this poorer area. After the landlords had driven out some of the more unsightly tenants, these artists were able to buy apartments cheap. They were slummers, really. Ben Borrelli hated slummers. "Look at those motherfuckers," he muttered into Ralph's ear. "Sitting over there in their stupid black turtlenecks and smoking those candy-ass cigarettes and talking about Mickey Foucault..." "Mitchell Foucault," Ralph said. He was trying to tune his bass guitar. "Fucking whatever. I ought to teach them a lesson." "They paid at the door, Ben." "Yeah? Well, I'm going to give them a little more bang for their buck." Ralph wondered if he should attempt to cool Ben down. Then he saw Heather and became worried about something else. She had just entered Hellblazer and walking towards the stage. She bumped into one of the road workers who turned around, ready to pick a fight. Then he saw the look in Heather's eye and could tell she was ready to finish a fight. He turned back to his friends, trying not to feel too much like a pussy. Heather stepped onto the stage. "Where's Poveda?" she wanted to know. "Let's get this shit started." This is going to be one long gig, Ralph thought. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Just as he had intended, Edmund Frost's interview with "The New York Post" increased the controversy over his gallery's exhibit. His smirking face on the newspaper's cover along with the title "SCREW YOU, TAXPAYER" rallied the troops. On the night of the private showing for the "Eye-Popper" exhibit, a large crowd of protesters gathered outside the Frost Gallery. They shouted at the members of the NYC elite being taken by limo to the gallery. Posters bearing slogans such as "NOT ONE CENT FOR INDECENCY" and "REPENT, EDMUND FROST" were lofted over their heads along with small wooden crosses. They shook their fists from behind the police barricade. Among their number was a Reverend Dean Landau. His voice screeched from a megaphone. "GOD IS JUDGING THIS CITY! IF WE ALLOW THIS FILTH TO CONTINUE, THEN WE WILL SURELY FEEL HIS WRATH AND..." Blah, blah, blah. The doorman at the entrance to the Frost Gallery was not concerned with divine retribution. Nor was he particularly concerned with the young black man who was trying to pass him. He had already turned away a few crashers and this weak-looking fellow in tan trousers didn't look like any trouble at all, especially not for a Golden Chair employee. "Are you sure my name is not on the list?" the crasher asked. "Friend, I don't even have to look. I can tell just by looking at you that you're not invited." "Please, just take a look." "Move along, pal." "Take...a look." The doorman's face went blank for a few moments. Then he smiled and leaned forward. "Do you think you're the first person to use magic to crash a private affair?" he said. "Mr. Frost hired me specifically because I don't fall for that voodoo shit." A crestfallen expression overcame the crasher's face. "I'm telling you for the last time -- beat it." With his head hanging low, the crasher turned and walked away from the door. The doorman smiled as he saw the crasher disappear behind the protesters. Behind him and the glass doors, someone else was smiling. The real Orb grinned at the doorman's back, then turned and headed deeper into the gallery. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX When they had been both living in New York City, East in the West had been the favorite restaurant of Doggett and Cindy. Going back to it together felt significant. In what way, they weren't sure. "I hope the rezala is as good as it was years ago," Doggett said. "Me, too," Cindy replied. "Why do you say that? When was the last time you ate here?" Cindy gave him a look. Doggett didn't say anything and neither did Cindy until they ordered. Then they stayed silent in the small Indian restaurant for another few seconds. "So how's the case going?" Cindy asked. Doggett smiled a little. "Yeah, okay. A goddamn obvious question. How about a goddamn answer?" "Uh...with an X-File, it's little hard to tell if you're making progress. By the way, that murder you told me about...it does have a bearing on the investigation." "No kidding?" "No kidding. Would you be kidding if you said you just wanted to talk shop?" Cindy smiled. "Your tolerance for bullshit is as low as ever." The smile went away. "At least, when the bullshit comes from other people." "What does that mean?" "Tell me why we broke up, John." "We didn't break up..." "And the bullshit already starts." "I had to leave the city. It was the only thing I could do." "I know that. But did you ever think about asking me to come with you?" "Oh, come on. I could never have asked you to leave the job and city you loved." "I said...did you ever *think* about it? Did you honestly want me to come with you?" Doggett opened his mouth, but the words took awhile to come out. "What are you saying?" he finally asked. "Back then, the hardest part wasn't finding out your partner was crooked. It wasn't being the girlfriend of the detective who busted cops. It was your doubt towards me. It was the way you questioned my integrity. You never said it, but I could see it in your eyes." Cindy folded her hands on the table. "I look in your eyes now and I don't know what you're thinking. So, tell me -- do you doubt me any less than before?" Doggett didn't get to answer her question that night. What saved him from answering was far from pleasant, though. "My, my," a voice said. "do I smell the scent of rekindled love?" Doggett and Cindy both turned. Milton Ryder smiled back at them, teeth and rings gleaming. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX While Doggett and Cindy went to the restaurant, Scully typed up a report back in her hotel room. "While the full details remain unclear," the report went. "it is the conclusion of this agent that the events in Times Square and the murder of Dan Williams are shots exchanged in a battle. The kind of weapons and the purpose behind the conflict have yet to be fully determined. However, if a war is being fought, then how should the FBI respond?" "That's not the real question." If you had struck Scully in the head with a lead pipe, you still could not have produced a more stunned reaction on her face than she had at that moment. Her skin was tingling and her muscles resisted her commands. It took her several moments before she could face the speaker. So much about the speaker was familiar -- the brown color of his hair, the fullness of his lips, the lanky athleticism of his body. What was less familiar was the look in his hazel eyes. She had seen this man regard her with love, fear, concern, exasperation, pity, weariness, amusement. This was the first time he had viewed her with contempt. "The real question is -- just where did you get off involving yourself in this?" Shock hit Scully twice. The first was the effect of just seeing the man. The other was in his words. She could find no words for a response. "You're pregnant, Scully. Yet you keep running into one dangerous situation after another. Don't you have any sense of responsibility? Is the work that important to you? Is your life so meaningless that you need to keep playing FBI agent?" Scully finally spoke, but her throat could only produce choked noises. "If that is more important than your baby, then why bother to carry one? Just abort it. Because I don't know if you're worthy of being a mother." A complete word finally burst from Scully's mouth. It was a name screamed at... ...no one. She felt the red marks against her forehead and the warmth of the table on which she had been typing. She couldn't recall laying her head down for sleep, yet she must have done it. Her visitor had only been a dream. That didn't make his words hurt any less, though. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Thus commences the head-fucking," The Salesman declared. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Up until the incident with the artists, Lockdown had been playing a good set. Heather's anger was being fed into her drums again and got regurgitated as high energy through the band. The crowd loved it. Bodies pressed against each other without self-consciousness as people danced. Short haircuts and dye jobs were bobbing with equal speed in the air. The only ones not paying attention to Lockdown were the artists. They remained in their corner, managing a discussion about post-modernism in the face of the thundering speakers. This pissed Ben Borrelli off. Or, to be more exact, it heightened his already-high level of pissivity. He tried to focus his rage into the first five songs -- four originals ("By the Tunnel," "Power Outage," "Rudy Giuliani Sucks My Cock" and "Bloody Knuckles") and one cover ("Underground"). However, as he growled "There's a world going on underground..." into his mike, his control slipped away. The moment the song was finished, Borrelli threw out his hand as a command for silence. "I've got something to say..." He pointed. "...to you motherfuckers over there." The artists didn't notice Borrelli at first. For them, the music had been nothing more than background noise for their conversation. "I think the usage of skulls is meant to remind the viewer of the fleeting quality of life..." "Hey, you shitheads in black! I'm talking to you!" Finally, the artists stopped talking and turned to the stage in surprise. "I want to know why you fuckers came here anyway? It's not to listen to us! What are we, fucking elevator music to you?" Ralph focused his eyes at the corner of the bar. Heather just sat behind the drums, clutching her sticks and sweating and waiting for things to start up again. Poveda, however, tried to calm Borrelli. "Be at my peace, my friend..." "I won't be at fucking peace! I'm tired of all these artsy assholes in my neighborhood!" A few voices in the crowd shouted their assent. The rest were just amused or bewildered. As for the artists, their initial shock was wearing off. They started to smile. "All these goddamn fucking Picassos treating neighborhoods like ours as if it was their own personal playground! They think they're getting authenticity!" He turned back to the artists. "You ain't getting shit!" Now the artists began to laugh. They weren't threatened by this belligerent punk singer. Belligerence was what they expected from people like Borrelli. It was a sign of...well, authenticity. "Oh, you think it's funny? You think it's funny that you can't see yourself as you really are? You don't see a bunch of rich fucks who are helping the city squeeze people like me out? When the city pushes poor people further to the edge, who the hell do you think they're working for? Do you think all your pretentious talk about Mickey Foucault..." "Mitchell," Ralph muttered. "...changes any of that? You know what I think? I think you oughtta die!" The artists kept on laughing. One of them even applauded as if Borrelli's rancor was an excellent piece of performance art. "You think I'm kidding? I'm not! I want you all to fucking DIE!" The final word roared out of the speakers. As it echoed against the back walls, the artists stopped laughing. Their faces became stiff and pale. Then all five of them collapsed to the floor. Then the crowd laughed, thinking they had just witnessed a play put on their benefit. Borrelli, however, wasn't moving. His hand was still pointing at where the artists had been sitting. When his shock was noticed, the crowd stopped laughing. Ralph jumped off the stage and pushed his way through the crowd. After he felt the cold necks of the artists, a single name immediately appeared in his mind. He had no idea what has just happened. He did have a good idea about who was responsible. "Jesus Christ," Borrelli whispered. "What have I done?" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (10 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART TEN ...AND EXPLODING XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX If nothing else, the art at the "Eye-Popper" exhibit certainly caught your attention. Among the collected items was "The Location of Injun Joe," a statue of a naked man touching the ground as an arm extended from his anus. Another statue featured a pink, fat man with a wide-open mouth. A continuously running motor inside the statue allowed a green slime to be pumped from the man's mouth so it could run down his chest, get collected into a wide glass bowl, and then get sucked back into the statue. Thus the statue was called "Vomit Machine." "Two Skeletons Fucking" was...well, two skeletons arranged in the described position. "Snot Collection" was also self-explanatory. "Enjoyment" featured a glass case containing a dead cat. Viewers could press a button on the case and watch a spike stab the corpse. Then there was the painting of Christ. In this work, priests dressed in fast food uniforms were carving out pieces of a crucified Jesus and serving them between sesame seed buns. The painting was called "McSacrament." This was the one causing the most fuss. As explicit as the art was, the real attention was focused on the celebrities and various cognoscenti present at the gallery. Edmund Frost was getting to know them all. "Ah, Mr. Harrelson! Once again, your jacket looks good enough to smoke! "Hello, Mr. Hilfinger! Still trying to be African-American? "Good evening to you, Miss Crawford! And don't you worry. I don't see too many wrinkles. "Oh, my dear Geffen. How is my favorite faggot billionaire? "Well, your failure-to-success ratio is now three-to-one, Mr. Carter. Are you now trying to make it four-to-one? "My, my, what's a good Catholic girl like you doing in a place like this? Do you expect to be married for long, Miss M?" "Excuse me, Mister Frost?" Frost blinked and turned around. He saw a young black man smiling at him and waving a hand wrapped in a green glove. "I don't know who you are," Frost said. "Because of that, I want you to be gone by the time I look in this direction again." He turned back to 'Miss M.' "Oh, you don't want that, Mr. Frost," the young man cheerfully said. "I've got something you want -- something that goes to the...heart of your difficulties." The gallery owner remained completely still for a moment. Then he smiled at the woman and said, "Pardon me for a moment, dearie." He touched the young man on the elbow and led him over to a large sculpture entitled "All of My Favorite Abortions." "I should kill you just for that joke," Frost whispered in the young man's ear. "Maybe. But you would lose something valuable." Frost studied the party crasher, then said, "Let's say we go somewhere more private so we can 'talk turkey.'" "Mr. Frost, we can talk all the fowl you want." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Doggett stood up, walked over to Ryder and said, "You get out of here before I stuff you full of curry." "Ah, come on, John. You were talking so nice earlier today." Just as Doggett made a fist, Cindy said, "Easy, John. Milt, what do you want?" "To talk with you, Cindy," Ryder responded. Doggett looked between Ryder's smug face and Cindy's cool expression. He was surprised (or not so surprised) to hear Cindy say, "Okay." "I don't think that's a good idea," Doggett told Cindy. "There's no need to be worried," Cindy said in a flat voice. "About anything." Doggett stayed between Ryder and Cindy for another few seconds. Then he walked out of the restaurant, passing by a nervous waitress. His hand was still clenched. From the sidewalk, Ryder and Cindy could be seen through a window. He sat down at her table. The expression she held against his attempt to ingratiate himself was blank. And ambiguous. Doggett hated not knowing what they were talking about, hated his suspicion, hated even coming to this diner in the first place, hated all the shit still yet to buried. As he fumed outside East in the West, his cellular phone buzzed in his jacket. He closed his eyes. It wasn't until the third ring that he answered it. "Yeah?" "Agent Doggett, this is Price." "What do you want?" "What do I want? What the fuck do you think I want?" "Beats the hell out of me," Doggett said, keeping an eye on Cindy and Ryder. Cindy was doing the talking now. Was it his imagination or did she just say "I owe you?" "I want to talk, stupid," Price snapped. "You want to know what the fuck is going down? Well, I can tell you." Doggett paused, then said, "Is that so?" "Yeah. You want to hear it or not?" "Okay. Where do we meet?" Just as Price named the place and hung up, Ryder stood up and left the restaurant. Just before he passed Doggett, he turned to the FBI agent and said, "You know, she was a great partner." Then he went on his way. Doggett watched the shadows of the street spread over the ex-officer. Cindy looked up as Doggett walked back to the table. Before she could say a word, he said, "I have to go. There's been a break in the case." "I see. Mind if I tag along?" "Actually...it would be better if you stayed behind." "Oh. All right." "I'm sorry I have to run off..." "I never tried to interfere with your work, John." Doggett slowly nodded, then mumbled, "Good night." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX She stayed in the chair, despite the ringing of her phone. Only by the sixth ring did she answer it. "Hello?" "It's Doggett. Where were you? The phone was ringing forever." "I...I'm sorry. What's happening?" "Price wants to talk." Doggett gave her the meeting place. "You want me to be there?" "Hell, yes." "All right." "Is something wrong?" "I'm...it's nothing. What about you? You sound a little tense." "Yeah, well...I rather not think about that now. I'll see you in about a half-hour." "Right. See you." Scully hung up the phone. With slow movements, she put on her gun holster and coat. Then she plodded to the door, opened it, and looked back at the room. "I have to go," she whispered to the empty spaces. Then she left. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Now, my dear boy," Frost said after he and Orb sat down in his office. "explain to me why I shouldn't hold you over a pit of scorpions until you tell me where the Heart is." "Oh, I can tell you where the Heart of Power is right now. It wouldn't do you any good, though." "You sound so cheeky." Frost waved his cigarette in a circle. "All right. Where is it?" Orb touched his chest. "Here." Frost raised an eyebrow. "Under your shirt?" "Under my skin." Orb unbuttoned the top four buttons in his shirt and exposed his chest. Black lines of thread had knit together a long wound on the skin. Frost laughed. "Oh, come now. What's to prevent me from slicing you open and getting the Heart?" "Ever hear of the Binding Spell of R'drunna?" Frost stopped smiling. "Yes. I have." "That's what I've done. I've bound my heart to the Heart of Power. It's now part of me. It depends on my life now. Kill me or even remove it from my body...then the Heart loses its magic. It becomes as worthless as the art in your gallery." "Oh, very droll." "I know." Orb buttoned his shirt. "So...if you want to use the Heart now, you have to co-operate with me." "There are ways of ensuring *your* co-operation, darling. We are quite skilled in the act of torture on our side. We know just how much pain to inflict on a person without killing him. We could make life itself hellish enough for you to obey us. Or maybe we could practice our art on one of your loved ones?" "I wouldn't push me that far. I might do something drastic." Orb pressed his forefinger against his temple and twitched his thumb. "Know what I'm saying?" "You would really do that?" "If worse came to worse. More likely, I would go to Whiteknife." Frost sat up in his chair. "You know about him?" "Why am I coming to you now? I know about the war between Whiteknife and the Jeevatek. And I know the Heart of Power would make a valuable weapon for either side." "So you're willing to sell your services to the highest bidder." Orb spread out his hands and grinned. "Whoomp, there it is." Frost leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe we should just take you out of the equation," he mused as he blew smoke upwards. "Kill you and see that nobody possesses the Heart." "That is an option," Orb replied without blinking. "And you might not need it to defeat Whiteknife. But it's a big old world, Mr. Frost. Someone else might come around -- someone more powerful than Whiteknife or the Jeevatek. Wouldn't you want the Heart, then?" "Hm. You are obviously a bright lad." "'Cor, yes, guv'ner." "So is there any time frame for a final bid here?" "Not really. Just when I get really impatient." Orb lifted himself from the chair. He paused before he was fully erect as if he was summoning strength. Frost quickly glanced at him, then looked back at the ceiling. Then Orb stood up straight and said, "You start considering your offer. Think lots of zeroes." Orb left the office. "A bright lad," Frost repeated after the door closed. A smile spread over his face. "Bright enough to screw himself into an early grave." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Adam Price's hackles went up when he saw Doggett and a mystery woman enter the alley. He had been already on edge, stiffening at the sound of every passing pedestrian and car. There was too much which could be fantasized in the night and too many of those fantasies were real. "Who the hell is she?" Price hissed, backing up. "It's okay," Doggett assured him. "She's my partner." Price examined the woman's face. She didn't strike him as being an FBI agent. Right now, she looked more like a child whose dog had just gotten shot. There was something sad and painful in her eyes. Fuck it, Price thought. I've got my own problems. "All right," he said. He looked around the dark alley one more time. "What I'm about to tell you will sound too strange to be believed. But it's real. I'm only telling you this because you seem capable of believing it. And because I've got nowhere to go." "I'm willing to listen, Mr. Price. Of course, Agent Scully here can do better in believing strange things than me." "Really?" Price looked at Scully and said, "Ever hear of Whiteknife? And the Jeevatek? "I..I can't say I have," Scully responded. Price snorted. "No shit. Not a whole lot of people know about them. But the Jeevatek are the ones who control the city now. And Whiteknife is the guy trying to knock them from the throne." "Control the city?" Doggett said. "Through businesses, through city hall, through the cops...they've taken hold of this town. They own the juiciest property and most of the money flows through their channels. Their power isn't complete, but they're sure enough getting to that point." Doggett and Scully glanced briefly at each other. "They're supposed to be what exactly?" Doggett asked. "I'm not sure. All they know is that they're some bad motherfuckers. And Whiteknife is their enemy. Always has been. There is a long history between their two sides. I don't know all the details there and I don't care to find out. What I do know is that he lost track of the Jeevatek a couple of decades back. Now he's found them here and...well, it's war." Price laughed. "Guess who was dumb enough to enlist as a soldier?" "Are you claiming responsibility for what's been happening in Times Square?" Scully asked. "Some of it, yeah." Price reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring. The ring was white with a red seal imbedded in it. "Me and the others have been marking our territory." He pressed the ring against the wall, leaving a familiar red circle. "Who are the others?" Doggett asked. Price opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He now looked puzzled, as if an invisible cat had brushed against his feet. "What is it?" Price pressed his hands against his chest. He stared at the spot between his nipples. Then he quickly raised his head and said, "Oh, sh..." At first, Doggett and Scully could only see huge blotches of color -- brown and white and red. Then they could only see black as they shut their eyes against the warm, lumpy substance which spread across their faces and clothes. They spent a few moments gagging and spitting as the echo of a loud pop dissipated. Doggett wiped the gunk off his eyelids. He opened his eyes to see Scully sprayed with human insides. Part of an intestine was draped over her right shoulder. He took a step back from her. Something squished under his shoe. He lifted and saw a small pile of white ooze sticking against his heel. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have just stepped on Adam Price's eye. From on top of one of the buildings bordering the alley, a cloaked man looked down with red eyes. Those eyes lingered briefly in the air as the rest of him vanished. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (11 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART ELEVEN THE NEXT STEPS TOWARDS HELL XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX In the morning, things got worse. An interesting coincidence also occurred in that day's early hours. Heather would usually arrive at her uncle's shop to do a workout in the basement. A person who often joined in was a police officer Heather had met at a gym. Over the past few months, they had served as the other's sparring partner. No punches had landed on flesh, though. One of them would put on the glove pads and the other would hammer on them. This changed on that morning. "You want to put on the gloves today?" the police officer asked after arriving at the repair shop. "Actually," Heather said. "I thought we would both put on the gloves today." The police officer looked at Heather carefully. "Are you sure you want to do that?" "Let's just say I'm in the mood." "Huh," Cindy Wildenstein said. "So am I." It was a fairly risky thing they were doing. There were no referees and no ropes -- just a basement with two women throwing punches. Cindy had a longer reach and a bit more experience. Heather was younger and had a bit more power. "So...what are...you upset about?" Cindy asked as she panted and jabbed. Heather caught the jab on her cheek, but didn't seem much affected by it. "Old boyfriend," she answered and threw a hard left. Cindy weaved around it, but barely. "Huh," the policewoman replied. "Funny. I have..." She threw a left-right combination. Heather raised her arms in time to intercept them. "...the same problem." The two women each took a step back and circled around each other. "Your ex acting...like a jerk, too?" Heather asked. "There's a problem. He just...won't come out and...admit it." "It's different for me." Heather and Cindy charged at the same time. There was a brief flurry of exchanged punches before they wound with their arms over the other's shoulders. Heather pushed Cindy back and said, "He...doesn't even see...the problem. Not really." Cindy moved forward, feinted with the left, and got Heather on the mouth with the right. Heather appeared a bit woozy as a cut formed on her lip. Cindy decided not to follow up on her punch, stepped back and said, "But you...still care for him." "That's the biggest problem of all," Heather admitted, licking the blood in her mouth. "Same here." The two women began to circle each other again. Cindy wondered if she should stop the fight now, but Heather was still ready to go. Cindy decided to continue. "On top of that," Heather said. "I saw five people die...at once last night." "Huh?" "In the...club where I was...playing with my band last night." "What happened? They get shot?" "Nah. Our lead singer told them...to die and...they did." Cindy could see Heather was being absolutely serious. She was so bewildered that she let her guard down. In a split second, Heather cleared the distance between them. The power punch she delivered sent Cindy stumbling. Thoughts jumbled through her brain. She was thinking, "I have to find out what happened in that club." As she Heather came after her for the follow-up punch, she was also thinking, "I better do something before this chick knocks my brains out." The punch Cindy threw was instinctual, quick and clumsy, but it landed where it was needed -- right into Heather's kidneys. Heather snarled her pain. The blow had halted her attack, but it had also pissed her off. She might have inflicted some real damage, if Cindy hadn't grabbed her on the head and forced Heather to look into her eyes. "Tell me what happened," the policewoman demanded. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Orb, Ralph thought. It had to be Orb's fault. This had been the thought which had kept repeating through Ralph's mind last night. As the medical team had hauled the bodies away and Borrelli sat trembling on the stage, Ralph could only find one person to blame for this. He couldn't figure out how, but he just knew that Orb's voodoo had finally hit the fan. When he had returned to his mother's apartment, Orb was not to be found. Mrs. Nichols had already been in a state of worry. As the clock headed for midnight, her concern had increased. Both mother and son had eventually gone to bed. When the sun rose, Orb was still missing. "Oh, something terrible has happened to him," Mrs. Nichols wept. Ralph suspected something terrible had happened to everyone. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The morning also saw The Salesman and Edmund Frost being reviewed by their masters. They stood together in a dimly lit room, surrounded by pipes. "So this person...Orb...has bonded with the Heart?" a girl asked through a pipe. "That he has," Frost answered. "However, he has overestimated his ability to hold its power. It's consuming him from the inside-out." "Then we should keep a close eye on him," a middle-aged woman's voice said. "We may get the Heart's power yet." "Ah, yes, we *should* keep a close eye on him." The pipes were silent for a few seconds. Then the old man speaking from the large overhead pipe said, "Has something happened?" "Well...I had Miss Grawitz and her people follow him from the gallery last night, but...at a certain point...he just vanished." "You lost him?" "It wasn't me!" Frost asserted. "Herr Dresspants was supposed to..." The computerized voice spoke. " We...cannot...risk...Orb...falling ...into...the...hands...of...the...enemy." "Yes, I..." "Salesman," a new male voice spoke from a pipe resting on the floor. "how goes the search for the servants of Whiteknife?" "Not well," The Salesman admitted, his hat in his hands. "I need to run that little fuck Pete McGovern around some more. On the plus side, one of them bought it last night." "Yes," an old woman said from a pipe behind The Salesman's head. "The one called Adam Price. Whiteknife killed him, did he not?" "That's right. He was going to break secrecy to Doggett and Scully." "And what about the Historical Nexus? Is she still a problem?" The Salesman grinned. "Not any longer. Soon, Doggett will be taken care of as well. In fact, I'm wondering if Whiteknife's troops are falling apart, too." "They are still dangerous," a young boy's voice warned them. "In fact, they've struck again." The Salesman stopped smiling. "Oh, great. What have they done this time?" "Murder." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Cindy tried to reach Doggett on his cellular phone, but received only an automatic message informing her "this line has been disconnected." She headed for the station house, not knowing where else to find Doggett. Fortunately, he was there. Unfortunately, he was not in a good mood. In fact, a dark cloud was blowing through the whole station. Police officers were moody, detectives were surly, and the arrested were afraid. Doggett, however, was the surliest of them all. He was in Lieutenant Cavanaugh's office. She could see him through the office windows, pointing his finger and yelling. Cavanaugh just sat there in his chair, looking bewildered and helpless. She could hear some of Doggett's louder words. "--doing the same damn thing as Ryder--" "--going to get killed--" "--can't trust anybody--" When he was finally done, he stormed out of Cavanaugh's office. He saw Cindy in the main office area. His eyes stared at her, but he didn't slow down. He went right past her, ignoring her attempts to talk with him. She chased after him into the stairwell. "John, wait a second..." Finally, he stopped and turned. "What do you want?" His angry tone threw her off balance. "Well..." "Is there something you want to say to me?" Her shock was giving way to irritation. "I've got some more information for you." "Do you now?" "As a matter of fact, yeah." "You want to know what information I want? I want to know what you and Ryder were talking about last night." "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" "I don't know. It's just that I had a meeting with a key informant last night. I watched that informant die. He blew up right in front of me." He snorted. "Luckily, I packed an extra suit." "Well, I'm sorry. But what are you pissed of at me for?" "Only two other people knew about this meeting -- Scully and you." Cindy felt cold in her stomach and hot on her neck. "What are you saying?" she whispered. "Somebody knew about the meeting. I'm trying to figure out how." "You...asshole," Cindy said, her voice slowly rising. "I can't believe you that you would...you didn't even tell me where you were going!" "I'm just trying to figure out what happened." Doggett's voice remained firm and level. "And I'm still trying to figure out what's between you and Ryder." "Fuck Ryder. And fuck you, too." "That's kind of the scenario being considered, isn't it?" With that, Doggett went down the stairs. Cindy wanted to follow him, only this time to grind his bones into a fine powder. She kept her feet still, but trembled. Eventually, she realized her choices were either to kill Doggett or find out what the hell was going on. Cavanaugh was still seated in his chair with a gloomy expression when he heard a new person stomp into his office. "Hey, Cindy," he said, then he noticed the bruise on her face. "What happened to you?" "Never mind," she responded, closing the door. "I want to know what's wrong with John." Cavanuagh shook his head. "I don't know. He's gone completely paranoid. Do you know he's even turned off his cell phone? He says that he doesn't know who might be listening in." As did a lot of police officers, Cindy disliked Cavanaugh and his obsequious manners. At that moment, though, she sympathized with him. "Do you know where I can reach Agent Scully?" "You can try, but it won't do you much good. She's gone back to D.C. She removed herself from this case." "Why?" "I don't know that, either." Cindy glanced at the detectives through the windows, then turned back to Cavanaugh. "Can you tell me why everybody out there looks like the entire Yankee team just died in a plane crash?" Cavanaugh looked at Cindy and said, "I guess you haven't heard." "Heard what?" "A cop got killed last night." Cindy could feel glass in her stomach. What's more, she could tell this death had been something even nastier than getting shot by a car thief. "What happened exactly?" she asked. The police lieutenant told her. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Officer Bill Thompson hadn't seen anything wrong in what he had been doing. The people whom he had been abusing were garbage, scum, shit on the heels of society. If an entrepreneur wanted to shove aside a bunch of crackheads so decent people could move in, what was wrong with that? And if a man could add a little to his pay for assisting in this service, explain how that was a sin. Thompson's nose had pinched as he had entered the basement. The mere smell of the four derelicts living there had angered him. Couldn't they take care of themselves? he had thought. Luckily, he had been carrying some tough love with him. He had taken his truncheon off his belt and walked over to a woman. As were the other three bums, she had been sleeping. Her thin, dirty body rested on an old mattress. He had tapped her foot with the truncheon. "Hey. Wake up." The dirty woman had twitched in her sleep. "Wake...up," Thompson had repeated, tapping her foot just a little harder. He only got a murmur in response. "Wake the fuck up!" This time, he had whacked her on the buttocks. Her eyes and mouth opened wide. She wailed in pain as she spilled off the mattress. "That's right. I'm here to renew your goddamn urban lifestyle. Get going." The woman had knelt on all fours, her face turned away from the police officer. "I don't like repeating myself, bitch. You and your friends here better leave or I'll..." She had spun in Thompson's direction. The expression on her face had not been the withdrawn, defensive look common to homeless people. Her eyes had been bright, her teeth bared, her skin tight. And she had been growling. Thompson had placed his hand on his gun. "Watch it, cunt," he had warned. Then he had heard the basement door slam. When he had turned, he saw a red circle printed on his side of the door. He had also seen seven other people with filthy clothes and weathered skin. He hadn't known from where the other three people came. All he had known was that he was trapped with eight people and they all had the same fiery look in their eyes. They were converging on him. They didn't move as weak drug addicts, but as slinking panthers. "Fucking-aye" was all Thompson had time to say. Two shots were all he had time to fire. Then he was pressed under a stinking mass of flesh. He had felt no rage in their scabby palms. Only hunger. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (12 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART TWELVE THE FINE ART OF DAMNING YOURSELF XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Walter Skinner could understand her decision. He had been worried himself about the risks she had been taking in the field. Of course, he was worried about the risks any agents took. This was different, though. Only he knew her secret. Others might see it as her deserting an investigation, but Skinner understood her true motivation. That didn't change the fact that she *was* deserting an investigation. This fact was gnawing at him. It was devouring Dana Scully whole. The blood hadn't even been washed off their bodies when Scully told Doggett about her planned return to D.C. "Why do you want to do that?" he had asked in bewilderment. "I...I don't think I should be involved in this case. And neither should you." The turning lights of police cars had swept over Doggett's red face. Behind him, a forensics team had been scraping bits of Adam Price off a wall. "What the hell are you saying?" he had said. "I'm saying this situation is getting too...dangerous. We can't control it anymore." She hadn't been able to face his eyes. She had to look down at her soaked jacket. "Since when have you ran away from anything?" Doggett had wanted to know. "What makes this different?" After realizing that he was getting no response, Doggett had said, "Fine. Go back to D.C. But I'm not running away. Not after this." His cold words could not be forgotten, not even within the walls of her apartment. She sat on a sofa miles and miles away from the war. The television gave her news of the next skirmish. "New York City is already feeling the aftershock of the murder of Officer Bill Thompson," a reporter told her. "The NYPD remains stunned and angry. For one of their own to die is bad enough. To have the dead officer be the victim of cannibalism..." The reporter had a little trouble getting that word out. "...has only increased their anger. Some have feared that police officers will take their outrage out on the homeless population. One person who may have witnessed just that was Kenneth Nordin, a homeless activist. Nordin attempted to intervene in what may have been a police beating of a destitute man." The reporter paused. "Nordin is now in the hospital with several injuries..." It was falling apart right in front of her eyes. Scully could do nothing to stop it. This war was not her war. She couldn't participate in it and couldn't risk the life of her baby. Couldn't... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX If you were willing to listen, Reverend Dean Landau had a pretty novel idea about what had caused the Great Depression. "America chose to wallow in sin and was punished for it," he would insist. "The twenties were a sinful time. Women were smoking, cursing, drinking, wearing short skirts." Most people would laugh at the idea of correlating the GNP with women's hemlines, but Landau could take the laughter. He had warned them and they would inevitably see the rightness of his words. Soon, very soon, God would spread poverty over a land which had turned its back on God. What concerned him was whether he would be among the punished. In his pocket was a ring made from a lion's bone. On his chest was the mark of pagan magic. He had adopted these tools because he had been promised a chance to spread the Gospel among all of the unsaved in New York City. If Whiteknife won, Landau would be given a chance to claim the psychic territory vacated by the Jeevatek. It was not an opportunity Landau could push aside. Now he had given into temptation and he walked with an uneasy sense of condemnation. He did not fear death (too much), but he did fear for his soul. By siding with Whiteknife, had the reverend turned his back on God? If only this blasted city would accept Christ as its savior, he thought. Thompson's death and Nordin's assault were signs screaming "Repent now!" Yet this city's population continued with its adultery and its sodomy and its bloodthirst and its godlessness. Landau prayed that he did not damn himself along with them. That's why he did in the morning as he had always done. He went to his church. It was a small building. The congregation used folding chairs for seating and a chalkboard for displaying hymn numbers. Yet it was Landau's sanctuary and no demon would enter it as long as he lived. When he unlocked the front door, someone was waiting for him. The man was sitting in the front row of the congregation place. He stared at the small cross nailed to the back wall. His head bobbed slightly. "How did you get in here?" was the first question Landau asked. When the intruder made no response, Landau crept up to the front row. He kept one hand around his crucifix hanging from his neck and his other hand around the ring in his pocket. When he stopped by the front row, he could now fully see the intruder. His appearance make the reverend think of the homeless. The intruder's rumpled, eccentric garb (candy-striped shirt and tan trousers) and dreamy expression would have looked well on one of the city's wandering mental cases. "Who are you?" Landau asked. The intruder blinked and his head swiveled towards Landau. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, smiling. "I seemed to have lost track of myself." "May I...help you?" "Actually, Reverend, I came here to help you." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Marcia Arbenz had made her first big career move when she cut her pimp's throat. That was how she promoted herself to "madam" over the prostitutes on her block. Soon, other whores on other streets would flock under her umbrella of protection. If life as a prostitute could be safe anywhere, it could be safe working for Arbenz. She had hired large men to look over her workers. If they couldn't finish the job, Arbenz's razor could. (And it would have to, more than once.) The women selling themselves for Arbenz respected her. They also feared her. Arbenz would cut a fair deal on her percentage of the take, but occasionally a prostitute would regard it as not being fair enough. Arbenz would always find them out and punish them in her own way. Eventually, Arbenz left the streets. She now ran her prostitutes out of escort services. Her clientele were now exclusively upper-class. On the morning after Adam Price exploded, Officer Thompson got eaten alive, and Agent Scully flew back to D.C., one of her best customers came to her apartment. "Buenas dias! Just how is my little Mexican jumping bean?" "I'm doing well. And just to remind you, my family was Guatemalan, not Mexican." Edmund Frost grinned and waved his cigarette-holding hand dismissively. "Guatemala, Mexico, Taco Bell, it's all the same to me, dearie. You're all one big spic stew." Frost placed his hand on Arbenz's back. She placed her hand on his back and did her best to smile back at him. "Guess what?" he said. "What?" "I'm throwing a party. I need you to catch it." "Is party being thrown for business or pleasure?" "Oh, please, senorita! Don't you know by now I always mix the two?" "Quite right." "I need...you..." He touched her nose. "...to see that the best whores are on the premises so that my guests may be molested, sucked, probed, and flushed to their heart's content." "I'll make sure of it." "Bless you." "But I'll bring no one under eighteen. You'll have to take care of that yourself." Frost sighed. "Oh, Marcia, Marcia. We need to rid you of those last vestiges of Catholicism." "My parents never raised me Catholic. They never raised me at all." "Doesn't matter. All you wetbacks have traces of holy water in your veins." Frost leaned forward and rubbed his chin against Marcia's. "Don't worry. I still trust you. In fact, you're just about the only person I do trust." "I know." Frost and Arbenz heard a chirping noise. "Pardon me," she said, then went to answer a curved phone. "Hello?" "I have found it!" Arbenz winced and not just because of the volume of the caller's voice. Edmund Frost was standing only fifteen feet away as Reverend Landau yelled through her phone. She turned her face away from Frost's view. "I told you never to call me here," she muttered. "God has delivered it into my possession! He has not forsaken me! Oh, glory..." "What the hell are you talking about?" After getting an explanation, Arbenz said, "Okay. Hold it there. You know who to go see." She hung up the phone. "Problem?" Frost inquired. Arbenz turned to Frost with a calm face. "Nothing I can't handle. Just an idiot I have to deal with." Frost laughed. "Oh, do I know about those! Might I deal with him for you?" "No, it's all right..." "It would give me a pleasure..." Arbenz smiled. "I have few pleasures of my own. Allow me this one." "Very well. However, I do hope this won't interfere with your arrangements for tonight." "I assure you, Edmund...nothing in the world will interfere with that." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Seeing Heather Cobb on his doorstep was not much of a surprise to Ralph. The policewoman at her side was a surprise, though. "Ralph Nichols, I'm Officer Wildenstein. I want to talk to you about what happened in the Hellblazer." Ralph looked at Heather. "It's okay," Heather said. "I know her. She's my sparring partner." Ralph saw Heather's puffy lip and the policewoman's shiner. "Did you two just fight each other?" "Yes," Cindy said. "Could we come inside?" The bass-player stepped aside. "Is your mom at work?" Heather asked as the two women entered the apartment. "She is," Ralph answered. Heather paused, then said, "What about Orb?" "He's...not here. In fact, he didn't come in last night. It was all I could do to make mom go to work. She's worried sick." He tucked his hands into his pockets. "I'm pretty worried myself." "Mister Nichols," Cindy said. "you may have noticed that a lot of strange things have been happening in this city of late." "Yep." "I was wondering if you could give me any details about the strange thing you witnessed." Ralph considered his response for a few seconds, then asked, "Do you want to hear the evasive, watered-down version or the entire thing in all of its weirdness?" "I was expecting the latter." "I've already told another police officer about Orb's disappearance. He got the short version. Why are you here to get the long one?" "Because I want to show a mulehead just how fucking professional I am." Ralph considered that response, then nodded and said, "Take a seat." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX In Harlem, a passing squad car was showered with bricks. In a subway station, a thirteen-year-old girl lost a tooth after she "mouthed off" to a police officer. Incidents such as these were not surprising -- not after what had recently happened. They weren't even unprecedented. However, certain other events occurred that day which seemed a bit more inexplicable. An actress in a matinee performance of "The Phantom of the Opera" started crying on-stage for no reason. A traffic light exploded on Forty-Fourth Street in an impressive shower of sparks. Shelves tumbled in the New York Public Library. From the window of his apartment, a professional baseball player urinated on the pedestrians. In an emergency room, a doctor accused a patient of "faking" his gushing ax wound. A cab driver suddenly went blind and drove into the back of a garbage truck. Speaking of garbage, two dumpsters had gone missing. So had a large number of the city's dogs. John Doggett heard about most of this weirdness on his car radio. When he had enough of it, he twisted the radio knob to a different station. "Whole damn city has gone crazy except for me," he muttered. If somebody had been in the car with Doggett, that person might have questioned that statement's accuracy. A person might have wondered why Doggett was driving all over the city. A person might have also wondered why Doggett kept muttering, "Damn Cindy...damn Scully...can't trust anybody...can't trust anybody." What would have that person made of the ring in Doggett's pocket -- a ring which had belonged to a drug dealer? If the person had heard Doggett's belief that the "ring will lead me right to those motherfuckers," that person would have jumped out of the car. Coming from the radio, a song with a sharp rhythm filled the car. "Very superstitious...nothin' more to say...very superstitious...the devil's on his way..." "I don't trust you, either, Stevie," Doggett said. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "That's all...pretty weird." "I thought you would say that." "You really think your friend Orb had something to do with those deaths?" Ralph glanced at Heather, then said, "Yes, officer. I do." Heather said nothing as she held her arms against her chest. "Well," Cindy said. "maybe we ought to go find him. Where would you start looking?" An idea sparkled in Ralph's eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. "Mister Nichols? You wanted to say something?" Ralph sighed. "Yeah, well...Orb liked to hang around in real poor areas." Heather looked around the apartment. "Uh, no offense, but..." "I'm talking *real* poor. I'm talking about people who would view this apartment as the fucking Hilton. People living in the park, in alleys, in subway tunnels." "I remember that," Heather said. "He called those places 'The Realm of Things Unseen.'" "Your friend," Cindy said. "sounds weirder by the minute." "That's kind of the reason why I'm not eager to go look for him," Ralph explained. Cindy stood up. Heather stood up. Sighing again, Ralph stood up. "I need to leave a note for my mother." "And I need to make a call," Cindy said. "A long-distance one. I'll pay for it." "Fine." Ralph led Cindy to the kitchen. "I appreciate your co-operation on this," she told Ralph as she dialed. "Not too many young black men trust cops nowadays." "Neither do I. So don't make a big fucking deal out of it." "Okay." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Reverend Landau was being confronted by a call-girl madam and a centuries-old mystic. He didn't know which intimidated him more. "What the fuck do you mean, he's gone?" Arbenz said. Her voice was just a notch louder than normal. She never yelled when she got angry. All of her fury could be seen in her eyes. "I just turned my back for one second and then..." "Don't give me that shit, Reverend." Arbenz reached into her pocket -- the pocket where she kept her razor. Landau backed away and held up his Bible in front of him. "You can't hurt me!" he screamed. "Not in the house of the Lord!" "Enough," Whiteknife said, then turned his hooded face to Landau. "What did this young man tell you about the Heart?" Landau cleared his throat. "He said that he had...bonded it to himself. He mentioned something called the Binding Spell of Red...Red..." "R'drunna. I have heard of it. Tell me...did he look sickly to you?" "Come to think of it, he did not look well at all." Whiteknife smiled. It was the first time Arbenz and Landau had ever seen him smile. It didn't make them feel all warm inside. "He had overestimated himself, this Orb," Whiteknife said. "The Heart of Power is draining him of life." "Wait a minute. He said that if he dies, then the Heart of Power dies with him." "That was the idea behind the Binding Spell." "Then why are you smiling? If this young man is dying..." "He's not dying. The Heart is simply taking over his body. At this rate, he will become as the Heart itself -- a powerful object, but with no will of its own. We can use him without having to deal with him." "So can the Jeevatek," Arbenz reminded Whiteknife. Whiteknife stopped smiling. "We must track down this Orb immediately. Reverend, you and I..." The door to the church was kicked open. Everyone turned to face a man holding a gun. "Up against the wall, all of you!" he commanded. His eyes were bloodshot and sweat dripped off his forehead. "Who are you?!" Landau yelled back. "How dare you intrude into this holy place?!" "A preacher's ass bleeds like anybody else's, pal. Up against the wall! That includes the monk!" "No," Whiteknife said. "I think not." His eyes flashed red. The door slammed shut. The man with the gun glanced at the door, then turned back to Whiteknife. He was trembling, but he wouldn't lower the gun. "You're behind everything," he snarled. "I don't know how, but..." "No. You don't know, do you? You don't know anything right now." Whiteknife's eyes flashed red again. The face of the intruder stiffened as if he had been injected with novocaine. "Just...relax," Whiteknife suggested. The intruder lowered his gun. He became motionless with his arms sagging at his sides. "Who is this asshole?" Arbenz asked as she and Whiteknife walked towards the intruder. (She walked, anyway. Whiteknife kind of...glided.) "He is one of the FBI agents Price was speaking with last night.," Whiteknife explained. "But how did he find us?" "I suspect..." Whiteknife reached into Agent Doggett's pocket and pulled out a ring. "...this guided him here. It was Price's." "Just that?" "No. It couldn't have been merely this." Whiteknife looked into Doggett's wide eyes. "Hmmm. Ah, I see. The Jeevatek have tampered with this man's mind. They have increased his suspicion and paranoia." "You mean, he's working for them?" "Not this one. He just found us out by accident." Arbenz reached into her pocket. "Then maybe I should..." "No. No need for that." Whiteknife turned fluidly in Landau's direction. "Reverend...make preparations. We are going to hunt for Orb." Landau nodded and slipped out of the congregation place. As if he was standing on a merry-go-round, Whiteknife twisted towards Arbenz. "As for you, you have your own preparations to make for tonight." "I do. I just hope you remember that this is it for me. After tonight, I am out of town and out of this war." "That was our bargain. I will stand by it. It is good that Adam Price never knew of our bargain." "And it's good the Reverend doesn't know, either." Arbenz looked at Doggett. "So just what are you going to do with this guy, anyway?" The smile returned to Whiteknife's face. "I have special plans for him." Fear shined briefly in Doggett's eyes, then was gone. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (13 of 19) AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX PART THIRTEEN SNAPSHOTS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A highly-paid lawyer grabbed a "THE END IS NEAR" sign away from a street-corner preacher. "Don't you see it, people?" he yelled with honest fervor as he raised the sign. "This is it! This is the big time! We're all going down and there are no goddamn lifeboats! Kiss your asses good-bye!" The preacher looked both offended and impressed. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX She hid under her blankets, trying to ignore the ringing phone. On the fifth ring, she finally extended a hand, plucked the receiver off its hook, and pulled it under the blanket. "Hello?" "Agent Scully, it's me. Officer Wildenstein." "How...how did you get my home number?" "Well, first, I called the FBI. You weren't there. Then your A.D. told me..." "Skinner told you?" "I guess I sounded pretty urgent. And I am. Kind of." "Well...what do you want?" "I have some new information for you." "Um, you should be talking to Agent Doggett." "Agent Doggett is part of the problem. Now, you want to listen or what?" Scully paused, then said, "All right." Wildenstein related what she had learned about the Hellblazer club and Orb. After she was done, Wildenstein said, "So what do you think about that?" "Maybe...maybe Orb has some kind of power. And that power spreads through whatever close connections he has. It went from him to Heather and Ralph to Borrelli. That's why when Borrelli wished somebody dead, it happened." "O...kay. Look, you seem to be a little less confused about this than I am. Why don't you..." "No, no, no. I can't. I can't go back. I can't..." Scully cut her mewling off. For many seconds, she listened to the other woman's silence. "You know," Cindy said. "I met you very briefly, but you didn't strike me as the kind of person who would shit her panties and run away in the face of danger." Cindy paused, then said, "Then, again, I didn't think John Doggett could be this big of an asshole." "What do you mean?" "He's completely shut me out. He's even accused me of having something to do with that drug dealer's murder. See what I mean by asshole?" "Yeah," Scully said slowly. "I do." "But you know what? I don't have time to deal with either one of you. Something fucked is happening in my town. I'm going to find out what it is. Help me or don't help me. Your choice, Agent." Cindy hung up. Scully kept her ear pressed against the receiver until an automated voice told her to hang up. She placed the receiver back onto the hook and then huddled under the blankets. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX At a welfare office, a social worker put her mouth against the water cooler's spout and tried to drain the cooler in one gulp. When her fellow workers tried to restrain her, the cooler was knocked over. Water was spread over the floor tiles. The social worker slipped out of the restraining arms and lapped at the puddle. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Heather knocked on the door to Poveda's apartment until he answered. The guitarist was wearing a long brown robe and a medallion in the shape of the sun. The scent of incense drifted over shoulder. "Hello, Heather." "Get dressed. I mean, get some pants on." "What for?" "We need to find Orb." "I wasn't aware he was missing." "He is. Now I need you to help me find him." Poveda glanced behind him, then turned to Heather. "I'm afraid I can't come with you. Ben and I are at an important stage..." "Ben? He's in there with you?" Poveda stepped aside. Heather entered the apartment and followed the smell of incense to the main room. Nearly every religion imaginable was represented here -- a cross for Christianity, a fat little statue for Buddhism, a Star of David for Judaism, a prayer mat for Islam, and on and on. Ben Borrelli was kneeling on the floor, also dressed in a brown robe. Lit candles were arranged before his knees. He kept his eyes closed as he breathed slowly in and out. "What the hell are you doing, Ben?" Borrelli jerked his head towards Heather. "Please, Heather, don't disturb my concentration," he complained. "I repeat -- what the hell are you doing?" "We are performing a cleansing ritual," Poveda explained. "Ben wants to control his negative emotions." "Huh?" "I have to do this," Borrelli asserted. "My anger killed those people." "Oh, for Christ's...Ben, you didn't have anything to do with that." "You're wrong." Borrelli's eyes were very sad. "I did not understand the power of my anger until now. I must harness it before someone else gets hurt." "So you turned to Uriel?" "Uriel has a strong sense of inner peace. I want to have that." "I cannot give you inner peace, my friend," Poveda said. "You can always give yourself that." "I'm talking with a pair of fortune cookies," Cindy grumbled. "Okay, okay. Stay here. Meditate or chant or suck each other's cock. I'll go look for Orb." "Are you sure you want to do that?" Poveda asked. "Well, why not?" "Heather...there is a bad aura hovering over this city now. Can't you feel it?" To be honest, Heather could feel it. There was a growing sense of insanity in New York City. You could almost hear the ticking of a time bomb. However, she just said, "I need to find Orb." "This place is a sanctuary. Outside, however, the winds of madness are blowing through the steel canyons. What will you do when the wind touches you?" "Kick it in the nuts." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A junkie died in a public bathroom stall. As the life left his body like the blood dripping from his arm's puncture wounds, he thought he could see ghosts drifting through pipes. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Whiteknife stood on top of a building and coveted the city. He did not want the city for itself. There was much grandness in it, but he had controlled grander cities in the past. He wanted it because the Jeevatek owned it. When he thought about the Jeevatek, his heart contained as much admiration as anger. It was a clever thing his old enemy had done -- using this city's inner conflicts, appealing to the fears and vanities of the rich, directing the suspicion of those under foot away from the foot's owner, reducing law to a mere squabble over borders. Had he not been involved in other concerns, Whiteknife would have done the same thing. He had gnashed his teeth when he learned of the Jeevatek's accomplishment. Whiteknife had believed that their last battle had driven his foe back to the netherworld. Not only had he been wrong, but the Jeevatek had gained enormous power. Whiteknife needed his own soldiers. Since the Jeevatek had the city's rulers and their enforcers on his side, Whiteknife had to cull his army from less reputable areas. His lieutenants were unscrupulous dealers of one kind or another, except for Reverend Landau who was just blindly self-righteous. His soldiers were the dispossessed and the discarded; the vilified and the victimized; the forgotten and the fucked-up. Whiteknife could sense their raw emotions, their discontent, their hunger, their borderline insanity. It would be the force of their anger which would drive the Jeevatek from the city. The first attacks had been on the thoughtless visitors who saw the city as a simple market. Then Whiteknife had gone after the glib servants of the city's order, whether they be cheerful boosters or faux-rebels. The murder of Officer Thompson had been the next step. It had been a deliberate blow against his opponent's enforcers. Tonight would see a major offense launched on the elite who had benefited the most from the Jeevatek. Whiteknife would continue to escalate his attacks until a victor was declared. At least, that was the idea. As he watched the city, he felt a little...concerned. Little pockets of madness were forming in every burrough. This has been an intended effect. Whiteknife had also anticipated some of this insanity to be spontaneous reactions to his own efforts. Yet, he wasn't sure that all of the extra madness was just the product of untouched minds. What if there was another force at work -- a third player with his own agenda? Whiteknife briefly considered this notion before dismissing it. These people belong to either the Jeevatek or myself, he told himself. They can go nowhere else. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A Barnes & Noble bookstore was burning. All the customers and cashiers had fled the building, except for the college student who had started the fire. He was laughing and dancing around the flames. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX They were not smiling in the photo. Both of them were concentrating on the details of a crime scene. The photo had been taken by a member of the forensic team present at the time. It was the only photo she had of him and the only photo of them together. Every other image had been claimed in the fire which had torched the basement office. She studied that photo and wondered what that woman would be doing in her situation. She also speculated about what the man might have done. "Don't even think about it." She didn't reply to the voice. She just stared at the photo. "You finally did the right thing. Don't go back on it. Don't put your child in danger again." Still, she didn't answer, but the voice acted as if she had. "Their problem is not your problem. If you risk yourself in their conflict, you'll be committing a sin." Finally, she turned to the speaker and said, "And what am I doing right now?" XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Eight people simultaneously spewed purple vomit in a Japanese restaurant. Their sickness has nothing to do with the food. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX *Fuck this traffic. Fuck this city. Fuck the Jeevatek. Fuck everybody and everything.* These were the thoughts in Milton Ryder's head as his Porsche remained wedged in a traffic jam. He could see the jam's cause a few blocks ahead of him. A car had overturned and now laid broken in the middle of the street. *How the hell did that happen?* he wondered. *No, stupid question. It's this goddamn war. All kinds of fucked-up things are happening because of it. Why am I in the middle of it? I should get out of this town, find some way of getting out of the Jeevatek's range...* The thump on his roof made his body clench. The second thump was less surprising, but the third and fourth were just as unnerving. Ryder realized that someone was jumping on the roof. There was also a person bouncing on the trunk and another had just leapt on the hood. His Porsche had just been surrounded by black boys who couldn't have been any older than twelve. They were laughing and denting the Porsche's metal and rocking the car. Ryder swayed inside as he screamed, "You motherfucking punk niggers get away from my car!" He reached for the glove compartment where a .44 Magnum waited for his twitching fingers. Then, as one, the black boys hoisted buckets. And they poured. Ryder's view of the world became clogged with a brown mush. It was partly solid, but soft and runny. As it slithered across the windows, Ryder caught a whiff through the air vents. Judging from the forceful aroma, his Porsche had just been doused with ten gallons of moist shit. He heard the black boys running away and laughing. His first thought was -- how did they get so much of this stuff? His second thought was much angrier. In this baptism of feces, Ryder found a purpose. He no longer cared about the Jeevatek or Whiteknife. He simply wanted to hurt whomever the black boys represented. He was going to strike back with all of his wrath. He was going to make them eat the shit splashed over his car. However, to do that, he would need more than just his own resources. A genuine army was needed. As the windshield wipers pushed at the brown gunk, Ryder figured out where he had to go, what he had to do, and whose ass he had to fry. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The lights went out in the mayor's office and would stay out through the night. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Where the hell are you going?" "Back to New York City," Scully said as she put on her gun holster. "Back to help Doggett." "So you would really do it. You would risk the life of your..." Scully spun towards the man berating her. "Don't tell me my responsibilities, you piece-of-shit. God knows I don't want to lose my child. But I wouldn't be able to look my child in the eye if I abandoned my partner." The man's handsome face changed from stern to abashed. "But...don't I get a say in this?" "Mulder would agree with me. I don't know who the hell *you* are." She pulled the coat over her shoulders. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm in a bitchy mood and I don't want to waste it on you." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX In an abandoned subway tunnel, an album spun on a record player. A man in tan trousers was huddled next to it. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX