From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (1/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:15:58 -0500 "No Greater Love" (1/13) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Hi! Sorry I haven't written. :) This is something a little different from me. It's not the usual romance/erotica thing you're used to seeing me post. It's a case file. Now, this isn't to say that I refrained from inserting =healthy= doses of UST into the mix. I didn't. Sorry to the anti-relationshippers in the crowd. I writes 'em as I sees 'em. And I can't look at Mulder and Scully without believing them to have for each other feelings that extend beyond simple friendship. Okay, Warning One out of the way. (phew!) Warning Two: this story centers around a kind of religious theme. I did this because it worked for the tale and also because I believe there is a lot more to be investigated about our heroes' spiritual lives. But, religion is a tricky subject. As a rule, it provokes strong emotions. If you're easily offended in this regard, I suggest you skip this story. Why put yourself through the discomfort? If you decide to take a chance on it after reading this disclaimer, no fair flaming! :) Warning Three: This story was started in the midst of the Rift (remember, waaaaay back then, before "Pusher" ). Elements of that infamous time have found their way into the story. Bear with me though, I promise M & S don't spend the entire tale fighting. As far as rating this one goes--I don't know, PG? There's basically not much here to shock. Certainly nothing you wouldn't see on the show. The language may be a bit saltier. But, that's it. As usual, Mulder and Scully are most certainly not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. I use them totally without permission, but with great respect and affection. I would like to thank all the folks who wrote me really nice funny little nudge notes along the way asking things like, "Where the hell have you been?" and "Are you still alive?" (The answers would be "sitting in front of my #*!!%&# computer every night!" and "barely".) It's nice to know that people notice if you aren't around. Many, many thanks are also due to LindaJ, formerly Delphi's Keeper of Secret Nurse Things for all her medical know-how and input. And finally, this story is dedicated to my band of readers/editors. Feeling a bit unsure about this one, I relied on their insight and encouragement like it was a lifeline. Eowyn, Jenni and Teresa were kind enough to offer their thoughts on Chapter One. Nicole, Paula, Connie, Kelly and Michele (the world's greatest nudge--but that's another story) put up with my sending them the rest of the thing. Thank you all so much. Comments/criticism--as always, please send them to krasch@delphi.com. I love to hear from you guys. Enjoy! =============================================== "You know, Mulder, if the trip here was any sort of indication as to how this case is going to shape up, I vote for turning the car around and heading back to the airport now." "I must have something wrong with this ear, Scully. Because I could swear I just heard you worrying about 'omens'." Dana Scully leaned her head back against the passenger seat of the Taurus she and her partner had just finished renting, and wearily closed her eyes behind her black Raybans. "I know," she murmured dryly, her lips barely moving, almost as if the effort to speak were too great. "Spooky, isn't it?" Fox Mulder smiled fondly at his partner, then returned his attention to U.S. Highway 63, the road heading due south, right through the center of Missouri. They had been traveling since breakfast and yet still had nearly another hour before they reached their destination, the tiny town of Pine Grove, just southeast of Jefferson City, the state capital. He checked his watch. 6:53. Jesus, with as long as we've been on the road, we should be in Guam by now, he thought wryly. His gaze flickered back with sympathy to the woman beside him. Poor Scully. She had not been having the best of days. It had all started with her alarm clock. Or rather, the lack of her alarm clock. The storm that had rocked D.C. the previous night had knocked out the electricity to her building while she slept. Consequently, looking like a winded, rumpled imitation of her usual polished self, she had met him at Dulles that morning with only seconds to spare before their flight was scheduled to leave for St. Louis. As luck would have it, however, her haste was ultimately for naught. The remnants of that same storm had conspired to anchor their plane solidly on the ground. For more than two hours. Her headache had begun sometime after the first half hour. And as far as he knew, lingered still. "How you feelin'?" he asked as they sped past surprisingly tall limestone bluffs dividing fields just beginning to sprout with that season's crop. Her eyes remained closed. "Have you ever seen those really intricate kinds of clocks, the ones that have figures that come out with little mallets to beat out the hour? You know . . . the kind they have in Munich?" "Yeah?" She grimaced. "Well, it feels like one of those little bastards with the mallets escaped, and has set up shop directly behind my right eye." "Beating out the hour?" "Seconds. He must love his work." At that moment, she doubted she could muster the enthusiasm necessary to echo that particular sentiment. What a day! First, the delay in D.C., then her headache, then they had touched down at Lambert only to discover they had missed their connecting flight to Central Missouri Airport. Finally, after waiting hours in St. Louis for the next puddle-jumper out, their commuter flight had been forced to fight startling gusty head winds all the way in. Consequently, the trip had taken twice as long as it should have, the comfort level being somewhat akin to a toboggan ride down a rock pile the size of Mt. Everest. She listlessly lolled her head against the seat, and eyed the man who was now fiddling with the radio, searching for a station playing something other than country music, her lids feeling as if the little timepiece refugee had brought along some pals to hang from her lashes. Mulder had survived their taste of travel hell far better than she. The blasted man's suit wasn't even wrinkled. How did he do that? She, on the other hand, felt like a walking dirty clothes pile. "You know the worst part of this, Mulder?" "Hmm?" "Now, I'm going to have to play catch-up." He glanced at her, an eyebrow arched. "What do you mean?" She met his eyes through her darkened lenses. "I didn't get a chance to go through the file like I had planned to. I skimmed it at home last night. But, that's it. And with this headache, there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to study it tonight." He shrugged blithely. "What do you want to know?" She scowled at him. "Mulder, it isn't as if we're in high school, and I need you to let me peer over your shoulder for the answers on a test. I need to be able to go over the information in that file and draw my own conclusions." The corner of his mouth turned up at her grumpy tone. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. The woman could be positively endearing when her lips pursed in a little bow like that, he mused. Not that he would ever share that observation. Not if he wanted to continue living. Deciding to pursue instead a far safer course of action, he strove to make his voice as soothing as possible. "You can draw all the conclusions you like once you've had the chance to sleep this headache out of your system. In the meantime, if you're interested, I'd be happy to share my impressions. You may not agree with all of them. In fact, I would count on it. But, it'll give you some place to start when you finally have the opportunity to dig into the stuff on your own." She considered for a moment, sitting up a bit straighter, and turning her head to look at him squarely. "You're sure you don't mind?" He shook his head. "Nope. Nothing good on the radio anyway. Just think of me as your very own private Cliff's Notes." She smiled in spite of herself. "Okay. But rather than you lecturing me--" "I never 'lecture' you." "Says the man with the slide projector," she countered lightly, her lips curved, but her look pointed just the same. "As I was saying, why don't you let me tell you what I do remember, and then you can fill in the blanks." "Fine," he agreed evenly, stinging a bit from the 'lecture' comment, but willing to chalk it up to the headache talking. "Whatever works for you." She took a deep breath, and leaned back against the seat once more, although this time her eyes remained open. With a speed born of practice, she mentally sifted through what she had gleaned of the case at hand thus far. "Okay. First--we've got three deaths." Mulder nodded. "None of which have officially been declared a murder." She nodded as well. "Not yet." No, she thought, not a conventional murder in sight. Instead, all evidence pointed to an accidental drowning, a heart attack, and a brain aneurysm claiming the lives of three of Pine Grove's citizens. "Of course, there has been some speculation that the drowning may have been a suicide," he said after a beat, his gaze still focused on the road. "=May= have been," she acknowledged. "Although there was no note." The corner of his mouth quirked. "I thought you had only skimmed this." She smiled dryly. "Don't be impressed just yet. It all turns hazy on me rather quickly." Mulder's smile broadened. Several words sprang to mind to describe his partner's thought processes. Hazy wasn't one of them. "According to members of the community, two of the victims knew each other well. Were business partners, in fact," she continued, her brow furrowed in concentration as she strove to remember every last detail possible. "Right. Mark Halprin, our deceased with the apparently bum ticker, and Roy Cullins, a man who, it would appear, had been thinking either too much or too hard. Together, with Mark's brother Terry, they owned 'Backroads'--" "--A bar on the county road running between Pine Grove and Jefferson City," Scully murmured, watching the scenery fly by, finishing Mulder's sentence with that uncanny fluidity they each shared, were now so used to, they took it for granted. "Victim number three is a different matter, however. According to friends of the deceased, she knew the other two only in passing." "Kimberly Weaver," Mulder said, seamlessly supplying the name. "A college student, who, judging by the police report, spent the last hours of her life in a bathtub." So dulled by a combination of alcohol and barbiturates that she forgot to remove her clothing before climbing into said tub and eventually drowned there, Scully thought, nodding in grim agreement as to the circumstances of the co-ed's death. The agents were silent a moment, each considering the girl's sorry end. "And yet," Mulder ventured, his eyes sliding over to steal a look at the woman beside him. "Even though it would appear at first glance that these three had no shared connection. They do, in fact, have one thing in common." "Kimberly's father," Scully said shortly. "The Reverend Andrew Weaver." "Who, if you believe the locals, is a bona fide faith healer." Scully grimaced. Yet another reason why she wasn't looking forward to this particular case. Once again, she and her partner were being thrust into an investigation involving the Almighty, or at the very least, His supposed servants. Mulder caught her look. "What?" She gazed at him through her sunglasses, striving to keep a bland countenance. Any conversation regarding religion was bound to turn personal. It always did. And from there, it was only a short hop, skip and a jump to disbelief, accusations, and defensiveness. Territory she and Mulder knew far too well. She didn't want to visit there again just yet. Her poor head couldn't stand the added aggravation. "Nothing." He saw through her smokescreen instantly. She had never been able to lie to him. "Nothing?" he challenged. She shrugged in discomfort. Take a hint, Mulder. "Nothing *important*." It was as if she had slammed a door. Then thrown the lock for good measure. The man beside her fell mute. Instead, he merely eyed her when he felt it safe to let his gaze stray from the road, disbelief and perhaps . . . disappointment? . . . painted on his face. Her head pounded with a slow steady rhythm as she tried to ignore his voiceless demand for her to speak. Damn it, Mulder, she silently groaned. Let it go. I'm not in the mood for this. Sparring with you always takes all my concentration and double my usual wit. And I'm only able to get my hands on about half my supply of either right now. Besides, we've been down this particular path before. There's no way we're going to reach a middle ground. No way in hell. She waited. Mulder finally abandoned his study of her, and instead scrutinized the road before them with an intensity that bordered on the fanatical, his lips absent-mindedly twisting. Miles passed. Neither said a word, each stubbornly clinging to their solitary stances. At long last, however, the oppressive silence got to Scully. She sighed, giving in. "I just get tired of being assigned to the God Squad." Mulder's eyebrows lifted. When the woman beside him had refused to divulge what precisely was bothering her, he had promised himself that he wasn't going to push. Or at least, not far. Much as the walls she had constructed wounded him, he strove to respect his partner's need for privacy. As close as they were, as greatly as they relied on each other, Scully and he had limits, boundaries neither would allow the other to cross. He had assumed that her reticence served as another of her Do Not Enter signs. To his regret, these had become more plentiful recently and had begun guarding territory far more vast than either of them had ever before realized existed. Now, however, her flip comment suggested something else. What, though? Embarrassment? A degree of chagrin? Or was her unexpected choice of words simply an attempt to derail his inquiry? He couldn't say for sure. These days he found himself, with a touch of dismay, unable read her clearly; not nearly as easily as he had once flattered himself he could. "The God Squad?" Her lips tilted wryly. "I know--not exactly the most respectful of terms. But that's what it feels like to me sometimes." Okay, Scully was talking to him. Good. An almost palpable sense of relief rolled through him. He hated those tense silences that had begun insinuating themselves of late into their conversations. Deciding to match her bemused tone and smile in the hopes of encouraging their tentative yet promising discussion, he mildly shook his head, his brow wrinkled in mock confusion. "Why does that sound as if I should be sporting an afro and your hair should be a lot longer and blond?" She smiled outright, seemingly glad they were taking this tangent. "Is this your subtle way of telling me that gentlemen actually do prefer blondes, Mulder?" "Only when there are no redheads around." He leered at her comically. She chuckled. Mulder smiled back. This was more like it, she thought with no small measure of relief. This she could handle. The easy, ever so slightly loaded banter that had once flowed so effortlessly between them was a welcome diversion. And one that she had dearly missed. The lack of it was understandable, of course. The past year or so had been hard on them. So damn hard on Mulder and her. Her abduction, Mulder's near death in New Mexico, the murders of his father and her sister--all had scarred them and their relationship. Had altered them in ways she wouldn't have believed possible such a short time before. Oh, they still had each other. Still clung tenaciously to that sense of trust and communion that their years as partners under the most difficult of circumstances had forged. But they weren't as free with each other as they once had been. Weren't as close. No. That wasn't true. They were still close, closer perhaps than ever before. Bonded together in ways she couldn't even begin to describe, let alone understand. And yet, at the same time, shielded from each other somehow. Almost as if each realized that the very thing that strengthened them, gave them the courage to face the challenges laid out before them-- their partnership--also had the potential to hurtle them down into a world of pain. Daily, they danced along the lip of that increasingly slippery slope. The one that taunted them with all the vigor and cruelty of a schoolyard bully. And they both knew the cost, didn't they? Each had suffered the lesson being driven home in ways so vivid that their waking hours, their rational minds couldn't contain the memories, the imagery instead spilling over into their dreams. And so, as a means of self-preservation, they had each taken a step or two back. Just enough to allow them range, enough room to breathe, enough distance to protect themselves. And each other. Or so they hoped. And if that added space proved great enough for insecurities, frustrations, and various and sundry other minor irritations to weasel in between them, well . . . Surely that was the lesser of two evils. She took her glasses from her eyes and squinted out the window, trying to ignore the relentless rhythm that pulsed in time to her heartbeat behind her eyes. The sun had dipped low enough over the horizon that her sunglasses had become more affectation than necessity. She put them away, wishing she could put away other, more messy accoutrements as easily. Longing to banish the feelings of loss, guilt and regret that haunted her when she least expected them. The ones that slipped up behind her when she wasn't looking and tapped her on the shoulder as if to say, "Don't forget about us. Because we won't ever forget about you." She shivered at the thought. And the fear. The fear that she would be forced to learn those painful emotions in still more intimate ways. That her trials weren't over. But were instead only beginning. Sometimes, such dark musings didn't even seem possible, let alone likely. She had already given up so much, had been compelled to offer up such tremendous sacrifices. What did she have left to lose? "Are you going to leave me hanging with that cryptic comment?" Mulder asked softly, slicing through her reverie so sharply that it was all Scully could do to keep from jumping in her seat. "Or do you plan on explaining to me just what you meant by the 'God Squad'?" She licked her lips and shot him a smile. Not one of her most convincing ones, but she caught a break as her partner was more focused on the increasingly shadowed road ahead of them than on her. "I guess I was referring to these crimes we keep running across . . . the ones that supposedly involve religious phenomenon. I don't know. Crazy as it sounds, sometimes I feel like we're being asked to police God." "You think this case sounds like the work of divine intervention, Scully?" "Mulder, we don't even have a case. Yet," she retorted more sharply than she had intended. "We're here because the brother of one of the deceased claims that his sibling did not die of natural causes--" "Right. But instead was murdered by a man using the flip-side of his supposed God-given talent for healing," Mulder responded with an equal edge to his voice, turning his head to pin her with his gaze. She studied his hazel eyes for as long as they held her own. "Do you believe that Reverend Weaver murdered not only Cullins and Halprin, but his own daughter as well?" Mulder took a deep breath and swung his eyes once again away from his partner's, focusing instead on the gently rolling blacktop before them. He hadn't meant to snap that way. What was it about cases such as these that pushed his buttons? He would have liked to have told himself that his mistrust of organized religion resulted from his bone-deep hatred of hypocrisy, his need to expose corruption of all kinds, regardless of how lofty the institution it protected. And yet, this very aversion to lies kept him from doing so. It wasn't just the false hopes it fostered that damned the Church in Mulder's eyes. It was the betrayal he felt he had suffered at its hands. Because he had once bought into such hopes. And he now knew them for the empty promises they were. "Scully," he began carefully, making a conscious effort to keep from saying anything his partner might construe as an attack or an affront. "I don't know what I believe. Not about this. I look at the file, I read the reports from the sheriff, the coroner, and I don't see a crime. But, Terry Halprin does. And he's going around telling people about it. The first thing you know, the county sheriff panics, turns to his cousin the senator, and before you can say 'Elmer Gantry', we're plunked down in the middle of the Show-Me State to check it out." She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "So, you think that when Sheriff Lowry requested our presence here he was looking for help with damage control more than anything else?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Could be. It probably wouldn't hurt his image in the community to be able to say that he had called in the FBI for consultation. But, maybe it's worse than that. Maybe our toughest job will be to protect the good Reverend from his congregation." "Rather than vice versa?" she ventured dryly. "Stranger things have happened." "Especially to us." Her light bantering tone pulled his eyes to hers once more. They held. Each of the car's occupants smiled, the curve of their lips subtle, yet warm. It was over. They had passed through yet another rough patch, Scully acknowledged with an inner sigh of relief. Not unscathed, but yet unbowed. That seemed to be the best they could hope for these days. Mulder slowed the car, and finally flipped on the headlights. A sign just coming into view announced the turn-off for Pine Grove. He took it. Not long after leaving the main highway for the county road, Scully spied a gas station with a small convenience store attached to it. "Can we pull in there? I need to pick up some aspirin. They should carry it--don't you think? I took the last of mine in St. Louis." "Sure. Maybe somebody there can point us in the direction of a motel while we're at it. We're getting close." "Hmm. Aspirin and a motel bed. Why does that combination sound like just this side of heaven to me?" Scully murmured with a wry smile as they pulled into the station. Mulder drove the car to a stop right outside the quick mart's front door and glanced over at his partner. She was paler than she should have been, her tailored slacks suit creased, her hair tucked a bit haphazardly behind one ear. He could see quite plainly in her eyes the strain under which she had labored all day. A sense of regret poured through him unexpectedly. You never go easy on her, Mulder, do you, accused an insistent little voice inside his head. You knew she didn't feel well, and yet you couldn't resist the urge to go one-on-one with her. He never meant to do that--to butt heads just for the sake of butting heads, to vent his frustrations on her simply because she was handy and he knew she could take it. And yet, it happened more often than he cared to admit. It was just that she was so strong, so centered, so sure that he forgot sometimes that she wasn't indestructible. Watching Scully wearily climb out of the Taurus, swaying for a moment when she finally stood, stretching to her full yet slight height, he promised himself he would be more sensitive to that in the future. To the vunerability his partner hid behind her nimble mind and penetrating eyes. She felt his gaze on her, and turned to look at him over the roof of the car. He looked back at her for a moment, saying nothing. She smiled, her expression gentle, softer than he had seen it all day. Some little something inside of him crumbled just a bit. "Come on," he said with a tiny jerk of his head, his voice low, hushed, indicating they should go inside and make their purchases. She nodded, but before turning to proceed him into the store, she lingered just a instant, looking as if perhaps she might speak. At the same time, Mulder felt as if her hesitation invited him to say more. Something. Anything. But, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part II =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (2/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:16:47 -0500 No Greater Love (2/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Disclaimer stuff in Part I. This is just story. :) ================================================ "Good morning." Mulder came to a sudden halt in the dining room doorway. Sunshine poured through the room's large picture window, bathing his partner in soft honey colored light. She sat at a polished yet well used farmer's table that had to be a century old. Papers, photographs, and open file folders surrounded her in a neat semi-circle. An empty coffee cup sat at her elbow, as did a small china plate with a single triangle of toast atop it. A matching cereal bowl holding only an spot of milk and a few dispirited corn flakes lay abandoned as well, an arm's length away. Scully had obviously been at this for awhile. He checked his watch. Nope. He hadn't overslept. 6:57. Jesus. So, exactly what time did they start serving breakfast around here? "Well, I take it the headache is gone?" he ventured dryly, the corner of his mouth turning up as he crossed to sit at the place setting opposite her. "Yes," she said with relish, flashing him one of her high wattage smiles. "I woke up this morning without a trace of it. I feel like a new woman." "Oh, I hope not," Mulder said, his eyes warm as he reached for the carafe of coffee stationed between them, and poured himself a cup. "I was kind of attached to the old one." Her smile mellowed, but the light in her eyes did not. "Actually, I believe I have you to thank for this, Mulder," she murmured, pushing her coffee cup forward for him to refill as well. "I'm sure I would never have recovered so quickly if you hadn't found this place for us to stay. It's heads and shoulders above your usual Motel 6 wannabes." He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn't take credit for their stumbling across Twin Orchards, the bed and breakfast at which they were currently lodged. For that stroke of luck, all thanks had to go to Kathy, the pony-tailed blond behind the counter at the gas station the night before. While Scully had scoured the aisles in search of aspirin, he had taken the opportunity to ask Kathy directions to the nearest motel. The young woman had grimaced in reaction. "Oh, wow. There really isn't one around here. I mean . . . not one that =I= would stay at," she had said, shivering delicately. "There's Seven Acres out on Route P, but that's a resident's motel. And to tell you the truth, it's pretty scary. You and your wife don't want to stay there." Mulder had smiled wryly, glad that Scully was at that point peering into the cooler, studying the store's selection of bottled water, and thus thankfully out of earshot. "Well, what would you suggest?" "Um . . . . Well, I guess you could stay in Jeff City . . . .," Kathy had suggested unenthusiastically, her brow and nose both wrinkled in chagrin. Then, inspiration had struck. "Or . . . you know, my boyfriend's aunt has a place a few miles from here. . . . It isn't far from town at all. . . . Normally, she doesn't open until Memorial Day weekend. But, that's like only a couple of weeks away, right? I bet if I called her . . . ." The now smiling clerk had spun around, her pink smock flaring bell-like with the motion, and enthusiastically picked up the telephone, her course of action set. Not twenty minutes later Mulder had pulled up outside a large, rambling farmhouse. The building's white painted exterior had shone like a beacon in the rosy rays of the setting sun, its newly planted flower boxes and bright red awnings giving the structure a homey, welcoming air. A hand painted wooden sign had heralded the property's name and business. It had taken the tired agents no more than an instant to recognize their good fortune. "Yeah, well my usual choice of motels may not have down comforters and four poster beds," Mulder admitted to his partner, helping himself to her remaining piece of toast, and smiling as he remembered the pleasure that had washed over Scully's face upon seeing their accommodations the night before. "But, they do have--" "Overflowing roach motels? Stained mattresses? Cracked bathroom mirrors? Paper thin walls?" She teased merrily over the rim of her cup. "Adult Pay-Per-View," Mulder countered with a wicked arch of his brow before taking a sip of his own coffee. The young redhead only smiled. "I repeat: paper thin walls. You can't fool me, Mulder. Those movies may not be known for their dialogue, but I've always been told that the actors in them are far from *silent*. Somehow, I have a feeling that if you =were= spending the tax-payers' money on that sort of entertainment, I'd be sharing the experience with you." Mulder dipped his head to hide a smile of his own. "You know, Scully, one of the first things we learned at the Academy was that the best way for a partnership to remain strong is for the two agents to share." She lifted her eyebrows in amused reproof. "Mulder-- in this, I encourage you to be greedy." "Oh there you are, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully thought you might be down about now. Your breakfast will be along in just a minute." Ginny Barker, Twin Orchards' owner and resident chef bustled out of the establishment's kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron covering her jeans and faded checked blouse as she walked. A tall big-boned woman with close cropped hair more gray than brown, she crossed to the table to check the amount of coffee remaining in the carafe. Shaking her head upon discovering how little was left, she said briskly, "I'll bring you both some more coffee too. Can I get you anything else, Agent Scully?" "No. Thank you," Scully replied politely. "Everything is fine. You have a lovely place here." The woman's homely face split with a grin. "Why, thank you. I appreciate that. It's a lot of work, but I enjoy it." "Believe me, we appreciate your letting us stay," Mulder assured her with a small smile. "I know that Kathy said you weren't officially opening for another couple of weeks yet. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of people do you normally have staying out this way?" The twinkle in Ginny's warm brown eyes told the agents that she had been asked that question before. "Well, I know it doesn't look as if there's much out in this neck of the woods. But, you'd be surprised. We've got a real pretty stretch of hiking trail that winds through the wetlands preserve about three miles north of here. That brings in a lot of bird watchers, walkers, that sort of thing. And the river you drove over just before the turn-off into my place is popular with floaters, canoeists. So, when the weather turns warmer, I get my fair share of them too. Then, of course, I get some of Reverend Weaver's people from time to time." "You mean people come from out of town to attend Reverend Weaver's services?" Scully asked in some surprise. A dry smile crossed Ginny's lips. "Oh, folks come from all over to hear ol' Andy Weaver preach. He's quite a celebrity in these parts." Mulder matched her smile. "It sounds as if perhaps you don't share their enthusiasm, Mrs. Barker." "Call me Ginny," she instructed with a playful wave of her hand. "Even after 30 years of marriage I never did get over the need to look around for my husband's mother every time I heard that name." Scully's lips curved. "Have you ever been to one of Reverend Weaver's services yourself, Ginny?" The woman shook her head, a bemused look in her eye. "'Fraid not, Agent Scully. I was born and raised a God-fearing Methodist. We don't go in for all that holy-roller stuff." Mulder's smile broadened. Scully could tell he was getting a kick out of Ginny's disdain for the object of their investigation. "The Reverend gets kind of theatrical, does he?" he asked mildly. The big woman's lips pursed. "Well, like I said, I've never actually set foot in the Reverend's church, so I don't know for certain. But from what I hear, yeah--you go to church at Christ's Mercy and you see quite a show." Scully nodded thoughtfully, hesitating a moment before she spoke. "Have you heard anything else regarding the Reverend? Any stories circulating as to this trouble with the Halprin brothers and their bar?" Ginny snorted and shook her head. "Now there's a pack of trouble if ever I saw it." "The Halprins?" Mulder inquired. "Them and that Roy Cullins," Ginny confirmed with a nod, warming to her subject now, resting her hands on the back of one of the table's ladder back chairs, and leaning in towards her two guests. "Those boys are from around here, you know. I've known them since they were in kindergarten. Terry was in my boy, Bill's, class. And let me tell you, those three--Mark, Terry, and Roy--they were wild from the get-go." Scully frowned, and began leafing through the sheaves of paper before her. "Were they ever in trouble with the law?" Ginny shook her head. "Nothing serious that I know of. Though I wouldn't be surprised if they had their share of speeding tickets and the occasional night in the drunk tank on their records. But, no. I never thought of those boys as criminals. They just liked to have a good time." "Which is why they opened Backroads?" Mulder asked before taking another sip of his coffee. "Well, I'm not a mind reader," Ginny reminded the agents with a small smile, her hands held out before her as if to say 'take this with a grain of salt.' "But, it seems to me that for three young fellas who spent every Friday and Saturday night of their adult lives drinkin' and shootin' pool, the ideal business would be to open up a place of their own." "Is it successful?" Scully asked, having begun to jot down notes on the legal pad before her. "Far as I know. I'm not a drinker, myself," Ginny told them with a wink. "It's that Methodist upbringing, don't you know. But, from what I've been told, Backroads is jumping on the weekends. Or was, until all of this." "All =what= exactly?" Mulder prodded. "Reverend Weaver's crusade," Ginny said simply, scooping up the nearly empty carafe, and preparing to return to her kitchen. "He and his parishioners have been determined to shut the place down." * * * * * * * * "Oh yeah, Reverend Weaver has been on the proverbial mission from God over Backroads." Fox Mulder leaned against the battered wooden desk facing Sheriff Steve Lowry's newer metal one and crossed his arms solidly against his chest. He did not like young Sheriff Lowry. Of course he had to admit, even before he had met the man he was prejudiced. It wasn't fair, he knew. But, Mulder found it awfully hard to keep an open mind about a law enforcement professional who had turned to a relative with political connections the minute things got a little rocky. He looked at Lowry measuringly, wondering why the sheriff had believed himself ill-equipped to handle the conflicts apparently rocking his community. Surely, he wasn't under the delusion that he was physically incapable of handling the task. Lowry was big; built like the former fullback he was. He had probably a couple of inches on Mulder's own more slender frame, and at least thirty more pounds. Sandy brown hair styled in that bristle cut that Keanu Reeves had made fashionable in "Speed" crowned a head complete with bright blue eyes, a lantern jaw and cleft chin. The man practically had "All-American" stamped on his forehead the same way a penny was imprinted with "In God We Trust," Mulder mused darkly. But, it wasn't Lowry's frat boy good looks that sealed Mulder's opinion of the small town sheriff. It was the way the young, former football star was ogling his partner. From the moment the two agents had entered the County Sheriff's office, Lowry had been letting his eyes drift speculatively down Scully's body, skimming over the curves covered by her navy blue linen suit, and settling with obvious male appreciation on the swell of her hip. It was all Mulder could do to keep from decking the guy. For her part, Scully appeared oblivious to the sheriff's interest. Presently, she stood beside him, her nose buried in yet another file. Apparently, she had meant it when she had told Mulder she felt as if she needed to play catch-up. "What exactly have the Reverend and his people been doing to get the place shut down?" she asked, finally lifting her eyes to gaze at Lowry intently. The sheriff shrugged, then offered the redheaded agent his very best smile. "Well, at first Weaver directed his attack from the pulpit. You know, lots of sermons about demon rum and the sins of the flesh." "Did people listen?" Scully asked mildly. Lowry tilted his head noncommittally. "Some. You've got to understand, Agent Scully. This is a real funny part of the country. On the one hand, you're standing right on the northern edge of the Bible Belt. The church plays a real important role in the lives of the people around here. Why, in this county alone we've got everything from Lutherans to Southern Baptists to Pentecostals." "And on the other hand, Sheriff?" Mulder drawled, dragging his eyes from the wall of photographs which lay behindthe sheriff's desk chronicling the man's gridiron career to pin him with his gaze. Lowry's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. Mulder suspected that the thinly veiled animosity he harbored for the man was no doubt the cause of the sheriff's befuddlement. And yet, the agent felt little guilt. The man was encroaching on his partner. And that just wouldn't do. Apparently unable to put his finger on what exactly was prompting Mulder's less than kindly stare, Lowry gave up his momentary contemplation of the matter, and decided to instead forge on, a sheepish grin in place. "*On the other hand,* folks around here like to blow off a little steam after putting in a day's work. Just like anywhere, I expect. This is mostly farm country. Men finish a hard day in the field, they like to come into town and share a beer with their friends, talk over the weather, feed prices, whatever. Besides, let's face it--there isn't much else to do around here. Pine Grove's three bars get plenty of business." "Three bars?" Mulder asked in surprise. Lowry nodded. "Three if you count Backroads. Although it is technically outside the city limits." Scully cocked her head. "So why target Backroads? Is Reverend Weaver also trying to close the other two places?" The sheriff turned once more to the petite redhead beside him, seemingly much happier to direct his focus to her intense blue eyes than to her partner's stony hazel ones. "Not that I know of. He never seemed to pay much attention to them at all." "So why pick on the Halprins? Did they have some kind of history with Weaver?" Mulder asked, moodily eyeing the way Lowry leaned in to Scully, almost as if he were getting ready to whisper something not at all professional in her ear. Lowry straightened again at the male agent's tone. "Well, that's what folks wondered. Rumor was the whole thing started because of Kimberly." "Reverend Weaver's daughter?" Scully queried. "Yeah," Lowry confirmed shortly. "Kim was a good kid. But she had a bit of a wild streak." "So what--are you saying she took to hanging out at Backroads?" Mulder asked a bit impatiently, longing to just get the information they needed and then get out of there. Lowry wasn't telling them much more than Ginny Barker had been able to impart. Mostly just hearsay and gossip. Mulder wanted to interview the actual suspects in this case. If they could get the sheriff to move it along, he hoped to get over to the Church of Christ's Mercy before the day was done and talk to the Reverend himself, or perhaps visit the families of Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins. Anything, rather than just standing around chewing the fat with this Howie Long look-alike. But, Scully didn't seem to be in any great hurry. Perhaps, she believed that the sheriff might actually have some pertinent information to share. Surely, she wasn't lingering because she enjoyed Lowry's attention. "From what I know of the situation, yeah," Lowry retorted, the edge in his voice suggesting he was getting a bit tired of Mulder's less than friendly attitude. "We've had a problem with Backroads letting in underage patrons. We'd sweep the place from time to time, talk to Terry and Mark, but you know how it is. We had bigger things to worry about than a few kids sneaking a couple of beers before their twenty-first birthdays." "Oh, yeah. I imagine this place is a regular *hotbed* of crime," Mulder murmured, his eyes daring the sheriff to convince him such a statement had even a grain of truth to it. The agent's disdainful challenge was, for the sheriff, the last straw. Having finally reached his limit of tolerance, Lowry bristled as sharply as his hair. "Listen, Agent Mulder-- I've got a handful of men trying to patrol an entire county here. A county filled with roads that aren't even on the map and plenty of wide open spaces. We've got a hell of a lot of area to cover. And my men and I do our jobs with only a fraction of the resources you feds take for granted. So don't try to tell me--" "Sheriff Lowry," Scully said, smoothly cutting into his tirade, and stepping forward to neatly insert herself between the two men whose testosterone levels had somehow inexplicably spiked. "If we go with the assumption that Reverend Weaver was intent on closing Backroads to keep his daughter from frequenting there, how did he go about it?" Lowry glared at Mulder for a good second or two more. Mulder met his eyes, the agent's gaze frankly amused. Although Lowry might have the physical edge on him, Mulder thought he was more than capable of holding his own against the sheriff in a battle of wits. The thought cheered him immeasureably. Lowry cleared his throat, paused a moment, getting himself under control, then continued. "Well, like I said, first he just preached about it. Told his people to stay away from the place. Then, first thing you know, signs started appearing all over town. Posters tacked to anything that wasn't moving. But it didn't all come to a head until the picketing." "Picketing?" Mulder questioned, unable to keep a chuckle from coloring the query. Lowry wasn't prepared to let go of his glower just yet. "Yeah. Picketing. Every weekend, Weaver would show up with a van load of people out at Backroads. If he could get enough of them together, they'd make an appearance during the week too. They never really did anything, just stood around outside with signs and bibles and asked the folks going in to reconsider the error of their ways. Kinda like the sort of thing you see done outside of abortion clinics. It got nasty from time to time, though. We had to break up more than a couple of fights." Mulder shook his head, clearly amused. "How long did this go on?" The sheriff shrugged. "I don't know. Since March. Maybe even the end of February." Scully flipped through the legal pad she had earlier set on Lowry's desk. "And Kimberly Weaver died . . .?" "March twenty-seventh," Lowry supplied smoothly. "Mark Halprin died almost a month later to the date, April twenty-fifth. Roy Cullins died a week after that." "May third," Scully murmured, her brow creased in thought as she considered the information before her, looking as if she were trying to put together a sort of timetable for the supposed crimes. Lowry took advantage of her absorption, and leaned in to peer over her shoulder in a move designed to appear as if he wanted to get take a peek at her notes himself, but in reality, Mulder recognized, served to surreptiously give the sheriff a commanding view down the front of the unsuspecting woman's blouse. The thought made something grow heavy and hard low in Mulder's stomach. And so, feeling as if he really just had to say *something*, the agent opened his mouth to protest Lowry's tactics. Yet, while Scully's concentration was focused on something other than the tall, wide-shouldered man towering over her, she wasn't comatose. And before her partner could ride to the rescue with one of his patented cutting remarks, she merely glanced at Lowry with a mild yet far from gentle expression, a brow arched. To his credit, the sheriff took the subtle hint, and eased off. Mulder smiled in open satisfaction. "Is the Reverend still at it?" Mulder inquired, crossing to stand beside his partner, wanting for some undefineable reason to reaffirm their connection to Sheriff Lowry. To in some small way warn the other man away. Apparently, the message got through. Lowry took a step back. Scully's bemused gaze swung first from the lean, lanky dark-haired man on her left to the taller, brawnier man on her right, then back again. In reply to his partner's unspoken query, Mulder merely offered her his blandest, most innocent face. He wasn't certain it worked. But in the end, Scully decided to let the moment pass. It was all Mulder could do not to sigh with relief. Noting the silent communication between the two agents and yet unable to read what specifically was being said, Lowry hesitated for a moment. Then, offering a pained smile, he continued. "No need to keep at it. Reverend Weaver did what he set out to do. Backroads is in trouble. Not that Terry Halprin is worried about that right now though. Hell--let's face it--pouring a few less drinks on a Saturday night is the last thing on his mind. His brother and best friend are dead, and he's scared shitless that the same thing is going to happen to him. Oh--sorry, Agent Scully." "Don't worry about it," she murmured with a tiny smile. "Scared of what exactly?" Mulder asked, catching his partner's eyes with his own, and mirroring her smile. "That Reverend Weaver is coming after him next?" Lowry ducked his head as if acknowledging the absurdity of what he was about to say. "You smile now, Agent Mulder. But you may not find the idea so far-fetched once you meet the man." * * * * * * * * Mulder would have given anything to learn that day if Lowry's assessment of Pine Grove's resident celebrity was accurate. Alas, it was not to be. Instead, at the end of one of the most tedious days in recent memory, the FBI's best known believer sat, a mound of pillows cushioning his back, against the headboard of his sturdy mahogany four poster and moodily popped another sunflower seed into his mouth, unable to believe his and his partner's recent string of bad luck. The whole trip felt cursed. With narrowed eyes, he worried the seed with his tongue and studied the meager collection of notes he had struggled that day to collect. God, he and Scully would have had better luck interviewing those directly involved with the case from their basement office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building than they were having in Pine Grove, Missouri. Soon after Sheriff Lowry had made his enigmatic comment regarding the Reverend and his supposed abilities, Mulder and Scully had separated for the day. Scully had accepted Lowry's offer to drive her to Jefferson City where the bodies of the deceased were awaiting her perusal, thus allowing Mulder to keep their car and begin his half of the investigation in town. Unfortunately, the people he most wanted to talk to failed to hold up their end of the bargain. Try though he might, Mulder was unable to make contact with any of the people on his "most wanted" list. Reverend Weaver was in Springfield speaking at Southwest Missouri State University. Terry Halprin was in Columbia meeting with the bank that held the mortgage on Backroads. Mrs. Cullins, Roy's mother and only living family member, was visiting friends in Florida. Stymied, Mulder had been forced to improvise. Sticking out like a heron among sparrows, he had roamed the half a dozen blocks which constituted beautiful downtown Pine Grove, questioning the locals, and trying to get a feel for the town and its most famous citizen. It had not proven to be the most enlightening afternoon of his life. Now, with the clock inching towards 9:00, and his impatience with the case in general and that day in specific growing exponentially with every tick-tock, he yearned to share his frustration with his absent partner. Where the hell was she? Not that he begrudged her the time spent in the autopsy bay. Scully had been thrilled to learn she was going to be able to get a look at the bodies of the supposed victims. When it came to using her medical expertise to hunt for clues, his physician partner was more than in her element. Mulder envied her that. At least Scully got to do what she did best to help move the investigation along. By contrast, he felt as if he had spent the day slogging in an ever narrowing circle through mud. From outside his half opened window he heard a car pull up. He pushed himself from the bed and crossed to investigate, spitting out the husk of the sunflower seed into the room's wicker trash basket as he passed it. He peered through white eyelet lace curtains and spied the county sheriff's tan sedan. Although night had fallen thickly on the Missouri sky, the porch light was bright enough to highlight Scully's hair as she raised her hand in farewell, then turned to climb the steps leading to Twin Orchards' entrance. Good. She was back. Mulder felt something ease in the center of his chest. He returned to his previous resting spot on the bed. Half-heartedly scanning the pages before him, he heard Scully climb the stairs to the second floor, the click of her door, her light tread across the floorboards in her room. They were lodged at the end of a long hallway, in chambers separated by a bathroom they both shared. Ginny had apologized for the inconvenience, and explained that with over two weeks before she had planned on officially opening the inn for that season, she had decided to do a little sprucing up of the bed and breakfast's accommodations. She had managed to get the two rooms in which they were presently staying completed, but the rest of the floor was still in the midst of redecorating. He waited, wrestling with his restlessness for Scully to come to him. Eventually, she did, her soft knock at what Mulder thought of as his bathroom door alerting him to her presence. "Come on in." A tired smile on her face, Scully crossed into the room, her suit jacket off, her blouse untucked, the top button freed from its hole, her feet bare. "Hi." He smiled back at her. She looked exhausted. Rubbing the back of her neck wearily, she surveyed the oddly ordered chaos of papers and files that littered the comforter upon which he sat. Shaking her head in bemusement, she padded softly over to perch on the side of his bed, even with his knees, and reached up to undo her hair which was secured at the base of her neck in a low ponytail. The whole thing struck Mulder as almost astonishing intimate. He glanced away from her for an instant, touched by just the smallest amount of chagrin, unable to escape the sensation that the opportunity to see his partner in this manner --her clothes disheveled, somewhere between dressed and not; her movements languid with fatigue; her face thoughtful; her gaze soft--was something he wasn't meant to view. And yet, at the same time, was exactly how he longed to see her. "How'd it go?" he asked in an effort to cover his strangely unsettling thoughts, pleased when his voice failed to betray him. She shrugged. "I had a few surprises." "Such as?" "Such as I had only two bodies to look at instead of three." Mulder arched a brow in question. Scully raised hers as if silently answering him. "It seems that Reverend Weaver decided to have his daughter's body cremated. The funny thing is he came to this decision nearly a month after her death." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part III =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (3/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:17:28 -0500 "No Greater Love" (3/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com More story. Thanks! ================================================ "He had the body cremated?" Scully nodded, wishing she weren't quite so exhausted and thus could better appreciate the look of utter incredulity currently gracing her partner's face. "That's right. On April 26, Reverend Weaver put in a request to have his daughter's body exhumed. Within the week, her remains were returned to Berrier Brothers Funeral Home, the place where she was originally prepared for burial, and promptly cremated." Mulder's gaze darkened with frustration. "Well, there goes =that= lead. I don't suppose you were given any explanation as to the Reverend's sudden change of heart?" Scully shook her head. "No, I have no idea why. I inquired at the morgue, but no one had any answers for me. In fact, nobody seemed to know anything about it, period. Not Gerald Perkins, the County Coroner and M.E. of record, and not Sheriff Lowry. Although, to be honest, I don't know why any of this should surprise me. After all, these are the same people who believed the destruction of Kimberly Weaver's remains wasn't important enough to mention in the paperwork they faxed over to us in the first place." Although she appreciated the sympathetic grimace Mulder was at that moment sending her way, it did little to alleviate the annoyance and disappointment that had coursed through her veins since learning of this latest stumbling block early that afternoon. Damn it! She had thought she was going to be able to get at a look at the bodies of all the so-called victims. But, because of the suspicious yet entirely legal actions of their chief suspect, that avenue of investigation had been compromised. Scully knew with a sort of intuition she normally associated with Mulder that Kimberly Weaver's body had held secrets. Information which would have shed some much needed light on their case; a theory that was more than substantiated when she took into account what she had learned from the remains of Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins. "Any other surprises?" Mulder asked glumly. Scully tucked a leg beneath her, and cocked a brow. "One or two. And these I think you're going to love, Mulder." "Good, I could use a little cheering up," he murmured wryly, his lower lip poked forward just a bit for effect. She smiled at his assumed peevishness, more than appreciating the sentiment. It had not been an easy day. For either of them, she suspected. Her lower back might feel as if sometime during the hours spent standing on the morgue's unforgiving tile floor a stainless steel spike had been driven into it, but Mulder looked as if their hours apart had been no kinder to him. He sat facing her, his long legs pressing into her hip, dressed in the remains of his slate colored suit. The jacket, tie and shoes were missing. Only the white dress shirt, carelessly unbuttoned at his throat, and creased gray slacks remained, both undeniably the worse for wear, wrinkled in a way only the dry cleaners could repair. Her partner's usually intense hazel eyes were a less than attractive combination of sleep-tinged and red-rimmed. The latter apparently the result of trying to rub the former away. His hands had also seemingly found their way into his hair, strands of which presently poked skyward at strangely endearing angles. All in all, Mulder looked like a little boy who had played too hard and was now way too tired to go to sleep. Smiling in sudden surprise at the unnerving trend her thoughts were taking, Scully looked away from the man opposite her, feigning interest in the delicate stitching woven into the comforter upon which she sat. Taking a deep breath, she resolutely pushed aside her exhaustion and the peculiar effect her rumpled partner was having on her, striving instead to remember with precision what she had intended to share with Mulder when she had first entered his room. Finally, raising her eyes once more, she plunged in. "Although both Cullins and Halprin appear to have indeed died in the manner in which the coroner reported, I did find some irregularities." Mulder's interest piqued immediately. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. "What sort of irregularities?" She shrugged slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. And to be completely frank, I'm not at all sure I can explain it." "Sounds like an X-File," he said with the smallest hint of a smile, the weariness that had only moments before clouded his eyes lifting ever so slightly. "Run it by me, Scully." Her eyes smiled back in reaction to his enthusiasm. "What do you know about coronaries?" "Other than this job will likely give me one? Not much." Her appreciation of his humor reached her lips. "Heart disease is genetic, Mulder. Most sufferers uncover a history of the disorder in their family." "Not so with Mark Halprin?" he guessed. "No. Not a trace of it," she confirmed with a quick shake of her head. "Now, that in and of itself is not tremendously unusual. After all, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility for a distant relative to perhaps be afflicted with the disease. Someone whose medical history wouldn't readily have made its way into his file." Mulder nodded his understanding. "However, this supposed cause of death does become a trifle more odd when you take into consideration the man's age and physical condition. Halprin would have turned 35 this year. He didn't smoke. He was a cross country runner, and according to his brother Terry, a swimmer as well. A man in excellent shape." Humor twinkled in her partner's eyes. "Are you trying to tell me I should worry, Scully?" She shook her head, a subtle smile still curving her lips. "Not at all. Under normal circumstances, Mark Halprin would not have been considered a likely candidate for a heart attack." "Normal circumstances?" She dipped her head. "That's just it--when I opened him up what I found was far from normal." "How do you mean?" "A heart attack can occur in a number of ways. Usually, however, some sort of clogging of the arteries will be evident--plaque or clotting of some kind." "Let me guess--Halprin's were as clean as a whistle." "Good guess. But that wasn't what was *really* strange." The corner of Mulder's expressive mouth raised just a fraction. "You know, I never thought of you as a tease, Scully, but right about now--" She arched a brow and gave him one of her trademarked looks. "The heart looked beaten, Mulder." "Beaten?" he echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion. She nodded. "Most times, in cases such as Halprin's, you'll find what is called a myocardial infarction--a bruising of the heart. But, this usually occurs in one location. =One=. Halprin had them all over his heart, almost as if the organ had been pummeled. One of the ventricles was even ruptured." Mulder didn't understand all the intricacies involved, but he got the gist of it. "Any idea what would cause something like that?" She shook her head. "Not a clue. But it gets better." "Scully, I just knew that sharing a bed with you would make my day." Her eyes widened, then sharply narrowed at his quip. Mulder's only defense was his grin, which he employed shamelessly. Luckily for him, his partner was too exhausted to do more then gaze at him, thunderclouds intensifying the already vivid blue of her eyes. Ultimately however, the threatening storm dissipated before it reached fruition, blown aside by her own reluctant bemusement at his sally. "Cullins' brain exploded." Mulder blinked at her without comprehension. "Excuse me?" "My sentiments exactly," she murmured dryly. "Any medical textbook will tell you that an aneurysm essentially involves a weakened area of blood vessel, normally occurring in the Circle of Willis." "Okay," Mulder said, not really following her, but willing to take her word for it. "So what--are you saying that Cullins had some sort of a massive blowout of blood vessels?" "No. That's just it. Cullins had =no= blood vessels compromised. Not a single one. And yet, when I spread his cranium, it was filled with blood." The man sitting opposite her shuddered in distaste. "How is that possible?" "I wish I knew," she replied with a degree of apology. Mulder's eyes slid away from hers for a moment, his mind whirring. "Are there any kinds of drugs that could bring about this sort of damage?" "No." "Could Halprin and Cullins' injuries have been inflicted in any way from outside the body? Through a blow or wound of some kind?" She shrugged again, wishing she had some better answers for him. "No, not that I know of. Besides, there were no markings on the surface, no indication of any physical injury from an outside source." "And Weaver wasn't present at the deaths of either of these two men?" Mulder asked softly, his question rhetorical; his partner recognizing that his gaze had now turned inward, centering on that place where his mind put together patterns and theories faster than any other agent in the Bureau. "No," Scully assured him, her fingers playing with the barrette in her hands, the one that had held her thick fall of hair away from her face while she had performed the examinations they were discussing, and now served as a kind of worry-stone, a tool of sorts to help channel and order her own jumbled thoughts. "Not that we know of. Cullins died on the job--at Backroads--in full view of a bar load of customers. No one was standing anywhere near him, and Reverend Weaver and his picketers weren't even on the premises that night." "And Halprin died at home?" "Mmhmm," Scully murmured, stifling a yawn behind her hand. Lord, she was tired. The day had taken its toll. She wondered if she would even feel the pillow beneath her weary head before she nodded off. "Alone. The Reverend was at his church at the time. Members of his congregation's bible study class confirmed his alibi." Mulder nodded, his brow still creased in thought, his eyes focused on some point beyond Scully's shoulder, his teeth gnawing restlessly on his lower lip. The young redhead watched him patiently, intrigued as always by the manner in which his brain did its job, wondering just when all the little pieces of his latest theory would tumble into place with an almost audible click, her equally agile mind already composing counter-hypotheses. "Scully, what if the whole God angle doesn't figure into it at all? What if Weaver has some sort of psychokinetic ability? What if he was able to kill Halprin and Cullins simply by reaching into their bodies and causing them to short circuit?" Scully stared at him dumbly. None of the theories she had been busily constructing had quite taken into consideration this angle. "Psychokinesis?" Mulder's eyes gleamed. She knew that look. The man believed he was on to something. "Sure. It makes sense. Not only about these murders, but about his entire faith healer shtick." She frowned. "What do you mean?" "Think about it, Scully," he instructed as he leaned towards her and shifted to sit cross-legged so that their knees nearly touched. "Weaver has made a living out of curing the sick and giving the credit to the Almighty. But what if all along =he= was the one with the power? He was the one who was going in and manipulating tissue, blood chemistry, whatever. Hell, he may not even realize it himself. He could have some highly developed sort of psychokinetic talent and not even be aware of it." "Mulder, the kind of psychic ability you're describing is almost unimaginable in its power. Researchers studying extrasensory perception become ecstatic when they discover a subject who is able to bend a spoon, and yet you're suggesting that Reverend Weaver has the power to alter at a cellular level a person's physical being." "Just because it's never been documented doesn't mean it's not possible," Mulder reminded her swiftly. Shaking her head, Scully continued relentlessly. "It's not only the magnitude of the power necessary to accomplish what you're proposing Weaver is able to, it's the medical knowledge he would have to possess in order to do what you believe he can do. He would have to have a detailed understanding of the human body, its structure, the workings of its various systems--" "So, he's a medical buff," Mulder countered carelessly, shrugging away her protests as if they were merely troublesome gnats. "Maybe he got As in college biology, or subscribes to the American Journal of Medicine. I don't know. Maybe, he doesn't need to know the particulars in order for the changes to take place. Perhaps all he has to do is focus on an area and think 'good thoughts'." Scully stared at the man before her for a moment, chewing on the inside of her cheek, her expression vexed. "Mulder, =think= what you're suggesting. We have no motive, no evidence. And yet, you've jumped to a conclusion that's so . . . . so . . =out there.= This explanation actually sounds plausible to you?" she asked with more than a touch of disbelief. "While you find it more believable to assert that Weaver makes a living and does away with those who cross him by asking God for favors?" Mulder countered mildly, holding her gaze effortlessly with hazel eyes afire with challenge. Scully's own turbulent blue eyes clung to his with fierce resolution, almost as if she thought that dropping them would be admitting some kind of weakness, some sort of doubt regarding both her theories and her own judgment. Finally however, she raised her eyebrows and lightly shook her head, her voice hushed and tightly controlled. "I never said that, Mulder. I never said that I thought the Reverend was some sort of avenging angel. And besides, precisely when did we decide that not only had murder been committed, but that Weaver was indeed our prime suspect?" Mulder recognized that his rebuff had angered her, and yet he wasn't quite prepared to let it all go. "You're the one who came up with the proof, Scully. The one who discovered that everything wasn't as cut and dried as we had been led to believe." "Mulder, what I found today proves =nothing=." He persisted. "Then explain to me how Halprin and Cullins' bodies came to be in the shape they're in." "I can't!" she shot back at him, the stresses and strains of the day fueling her frustration with her partner and his pig- headedness, propelling her voice upwards in both volume and tone. "You know that. I can't explain what exactly killed those men anymore than you can to prove to me that Weaver did it by thinking 'bad thoughts'!" For a moment they simply glared at each other, both breathing hard. Finally, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to physically banish the unexpectedly heated disagreement he and his partner had both just shared, Mulder said in a tone designed to placate, "Well, regardless of which theory is eventually proven right, one thing is for certain." Scully cocked her head, not meeting his eyes. "What?" "The need for proof," he said shortly. "Neither theory has any hope of becoming anything more without hard evidence." "Which we are notably lacking," she agreed with a little nod, now considering the man before her, the one that infuriated and fascinated her, both in equal measure. Neither agent said anything for a moment, instead mulling over all that had already been said. Then, Scully ventured quietly, "So, what about you? What did you learn today?" Mulder smiled dryly. "Nothing quite so colorful, I assure you. Although, the afternoon was *not* without its revelations." He leaned over to the night stand and selected another sunflower seed from the bag resting there, popping it into his mouth, then offering one to Scully. She declined, even as the tilt of her head invited him to continue. "For instance, did you know that The Coffee Cup does a really excellent BLT?" Only Mulder had the power to make her emotions turn so sharply on a dime, Scully thought with a rueful twinge of self-knowledge. Not a moment before she had wanted to throttle him, both for his flights of fancy and for the almost spooky talent he had for getting under her skin when he put his mind to it. But that desire had passed, just as it had so many times before. Oh, he had struck a nerve with his jab over her willingness to believe in miracles. But the attack hadn't been malicious. She knew that. It was just hard to remember it sometimes when he hit that close to home. Now, however, his bizarre sense of humor had kicked in. And, as a result, the corner of her lips quirked. "Why no, I hadn't realized that." she murmured, gazing at him with a raised brow. "Thank you, Mulder. That's good to know." He nodded, a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor lighting his eyes. "Especially since The Coffee Cup is Pine Grove's one and only restaurant." "So, are you trying to tell me that lunch was the highlight of your day, Mulder?" He dipped his head again. "Sad, but true." Scully smiled in sympathy. "I take it the locals were not forthcoming?" "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he countered, even as the look in his eyes assured her that was =precisely= what he would say. "They were more than willing to tell me that Kimberly Weaver was a nice girl. A good girl. A credit to her father and her community, and a person who is sorely missed." She chuckled over his sing-song recitation. "Shocking. What did you learn about the Reverend?" "Oh, nothing quite as juicy as I learned about his daughter," Mulder assured her with heavy irony, bending down to spit out the seed shell with a sharpshooter's accuracy into the waste basket beside the bed. "Although I did find out that people seem to respect him and this 'gift' he has. Nearly everyone I spoke with had some story they had either witnessed themselves or had heard regarding Weaver's healing ability." "You weren't able to track down the Reverend himself?" "I tried," Mulder protested, with an exasperated flailing of hands. "But Weaver skipped town with the rest of this case's principal players." He quickly filled her in as to the whereabouts of Weaver, Halprin, and the rest of their absent interviewees. She smiled her condolences, and lightly patted his calf in comfort. "Well, as Scarlett O'Hara said, 'tomorrow is another day'." Mulder looked at the hand resting atop his pants' leg for a beat before meeting his partner's sleepy blue eyes. "You expect me to be cheered by the words of a woman who made her living room curtains double as evening wear?" he murmured with a dry smile. "No. As with everything in this case, I'm afraid it's not that easy, Scully. True, if all things go according to plan, we'll finally get our opportunity to speak with the elusive Reverend--a man who, may I say, is turning out to be as mythical as your two brothers. But, first we're going to have to sit through an hour or two of the PTL Club Live. I'm not so sure it's an even trade." "Well then, we better get our rest," she said with a small smile as she rose from the bed and crossed to the connecting door. However, once she reached the portal, Scully paused, her hand on the knob, her body turned only slightly towards the man on the bed. "Mulder, these people you spoke with today-- you said they seemed to respect Weaver's supposed gift. But . . . did you find that most of them believed in it?" she asked hesitantly, her eyes not quite meeting his. He shrugged, a bit uncomfortable with the direction in which the conversation was headed. "Well, it's not as if I was with Gallup, Scully. My poll was informal at best." "I know," she said with a little nod, her gaze still not engaging his directly, her hands once again busy with her barrette. "But, I'm curious. What did people say?" He couldn't lie to her, although saying the words didn't come easily. "Most people bought it. The whole routine. It appears that Ginny is in the minority. Most of the people I spoke with thought that Reverend Andrew Weaver was the real McCoy. A genuine holy man." Scully nodded, saying nothing. "Does that matter?" he asked, his intent gaze revealing how much her answer mattered to him. She waited a moment before replying, almost as if weighing her words. "No. No, not at all. Like I told you, I'm curious, that's all." He nodded, studying her shuttered face. For a moment they said nothing. "Go to sleep, Scully," he told her quietly after their eyes had silently asked all the questions hanging in the air between them only to find the answers no less elusive than before. She nodded once more but still made no move to leave the room. Finally, she spoke. "Mulder, I'm okay with this. You know? I don't want you to think--" "I know that, Scully," he said swiftly, softly, cutting through her assurances to him with a ruthlessness that illustrated how unnecessary he believed them to be. "I'm not worried. I never doubt your abilities. Never." "Good," she said, her voice low, her eyes fierce. "I just wanted you to know." "I do," he said without hesitation, leaning forward once more, almost as if his body were drawn to her somehow even without him being consciously aware of it. "I know I can count on you." She smiled, quick and tight, and exited, shutting the door carefully behind her. Mulder sat for a good long time after she had left him, staring at the wall separating their rooms and wondering about all the things he and his partner never said. * * * * * * * * Continued in Part IV =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (4/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:18:14 -0500 "No Greater Love" (4/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Still more. Enjoy. ================================================ Mulder was awakened on that Sunday morning by the sound of his partner entering the bathroom. He wasn't surprised to discover that it was Scully's muffled movements which had stirred him from slumber. Although she had somehow managed to get ready the morning before without alerting him, he knew himself to be a man whose mind was far too active and whose suspicions ran far too deeply to be easily seduced by sleep. So despite her best efforts to be quiet, by the time Scully turned on the shower all pretense at dozing was at end. Hello world, he thought sardonically. He rolled towards the night stand and looked at the travel clock atop it. 6:07. Services didn't start at the Church of Christ's Mercy until 10:00. Scully and he were going to have some time to kill. Maybe they could get to Weaver before the festivities began. That way they could skip the actual ceremony. Oh, who was he fooling? With the way this case was going, not only would he undoubtedly be forced to sit through a lengthy hellfire and brimstone sermon, but he'd probably be compelled through nefarious means to join the choir as well. His lips twisting in wry amusement at the thought, he glanced out his bedroom window. The sunny seasonable weather they had been enjoying since arriving in the nation's heartland was apparently at an end. The sky looking in on him was an ominous gun metal gray. Droplets of rain spotted the panes of glass separating him from the elements. And he could detect quite plainly on the portion of his anatomy not covered by the handmade comforter bundled over him a chilly draft snaking in through the open window. He scowled. The bleak blustery day matched his mood. Mulling over that realization, Mulder stared at the ceiling, annoyed with himself and the world at large. He had no reason for the disquiet coursing through him. No *real* reason. True, the case had certainly proven tedious. >From the time they had set forth from Washington, events had, with a sort of gleeful malice, consistently failed to unfold smoothly. Questions were raised without hope of answer, roadblocks thrown up simply to see what it would take for him and Scully to surmount them, beliefs challenged, relationships strained. . . . Relationships strained. That was the real problem, wasn't it? The actual cause of the foul temper he acknowledged sat poised at the edges of his consciousness, like a predator waiting to strike. God, he hated it when he and Scully were at odds! Despised it. Loathed it. But for crying out loud, she really didn't expect him to swallow that load of bull about Weaver's partnership with God, did she? Mulder, did she ever once say outright that she believed the Reverend to be in cahoots with the Almighty? Well, not in so many words, he silently allowed. But she was intrigued by the notion. Of =that= he was certain. And besides, she sure as hell dismissed out of hand his own theory regarding psychokinesis As well she should, argued the really annoying little inner voice. What kind of proof do you have? None. Motive? Nothing compelling enough to warrant the deaths of three people, one of whom was the only family the supposed murderer had. Hell, despite what Scully found, you still don't even know for certain that a crime has been committed, let alone that Weaver is the culprit. Then, how do you explain the bizarre details surrounding the deaths of Roy Cullins and Mark Halprin, and the convenient destruction of Kimberly Weaver's remains? I don't. You do. It's your job. "Easy for you to say," Mulder murmured aloud in an effort to silence the smug interior speaker, stretching his lanky frame with abandon as he did so. Much as he hated to admit it, all the objections his conscience raised were fitting, and perfectly justified given the less than perfect case he was constructing against the still unseen Weaver. But he =knew=, felt in his bones the same way an arthritic senses a rainstorm that the rash of unexpected deaths currently plaguing Pine Grove, Missouri was caused by unnatural circumstances, and was far from random. He just wished he could figure out how the murders had been committed. And why. The investigation was in dire need of a motive. The one they had just didn't wash. Weaver, who by all accounts had been a strict but loving father, didn't seem the sort to kill his only child in cold blood simply because she had disobeyed him by frequenting a local bar. Neither did it seem likely that the Reverend's wrath would extend to Backroads' owners, fueled solely by their practice of occasionally serving minors. No. There had to be something else there. If only he could figure out what. While he was at it, he also wished he could come up with a way to deal with the unexpected banks and turns his partner's mind was taking of late. He knew that their relationship had recently suffered its share of hills and valleys, but none had plagued him so insistently as their current impasse over the issue of Pine Grove's resident miracle worker. Mulder just didn't know how to approach Scully on this. He couldn't get a handle on what precisely would set off her alarms. Christ, he wasn't even certain what would set off his *own* warning bells. His tolerance level was next to nil when it came to "big-haired preachers" and their cronies. And yet, in some sort of twisted cosmic payback, matters of the spirit were the one thing that coaxed Dana Scully to believe. He considered that for a moment. Wondering with a touch of wistfulness just what it was that drew his skeptical partner to the sacred. He knew from various comments she had made that at least part of her schooling had taken place under the tutelage of the Catholic church. He smiled as he pictured for an instant a young Dana Katherine Scully, clad in her plaid school uniform, her face scrubbed, her knee socks pulled high, brightly polished mary-janes adorning her feet. With her classic Irish good looks, she would have been the ideal poster child for parochial education, he mused fondly. And yet, when he had questioned her mother as to reason for Scully wearing her ever-present cross, Mrs. Scully had denied any sort of devout belief on the part of her daughter, stating instead that she wore the necklace merely for sentimental reasons. He had no real excuse for doubting that. From what he could glean of his partner and her behavior, she didn't frequent church. She wasn't one for openly praying in times of stress. And while she was far from gutter-mouthed, Mulder knew with absolute certainty that he had heard her use the Lord's name in vain from time to time. However, despite her apparent lack of conventional religious devotion, there remained about her a calmness, a serenity that suggested to Mulder a spiritual foundation he knew, with a bittersweet sort of regret, he would never possess. This core gave Scully her strength, and perhaps even the courage which he recognized he relied on as much as she. She would have had to call on both to survive the horrors she had been asked to endure as his partner--all the scares, the injuries, the sicknesses, the loss of loved ones, the almost unimaginable loss of her own life. How might her own near death have affected Scully's views of God and her role in His universe, Mulder wondered, his gaze holding fast to the ceiling above his head, his hands linked behind his neck to support it. How ironic. He too had come perilously close to death not so long ago. And yet, although he had experienced his own sort of spiritual epiphany, God, in some perverse manner, hadn't really entered into it. No. Instead, upon passing over, he had come face to face with his past. A decidedly secular past filled with family and friends who welcomed him, gave him advice and solace, yet said nothing about the Creator. He had been tempted to stay with them, certainly. But not because of any sort of peace to be found, any desire to remain clutched to God's bosom, any sense of homecoming. Not at all. He had only toyed with remaining there with his father and Deep Throat and the rest because he had been tired. So terribly tired of the lies, of the deception, of fighting the good but seemingly doomed fight. Only two things had brought him back. The confirmation that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Samantha was not dead, but merely lost. And the knowledge that Scully was in danger, and needed him. Yes, he had been willing to walk away from death to return to his partner's side, a notion that while he recognized it as true, quite frankly scared the hell out of him. As much he cared for Scully, he didn't relish her holding that sort of influence over him. And yet, you hope against all hope that you hold that same kind of sway with her, don't you Mulder, piped up that wicked little voice again. You wished with everything you had on that certain November night, the night when you could literally feel her life slipping away through your fingertips that the thought of you being there beside her might be enough to tempt her back. Mulder turned over onto his stomach in a sudden swoop of movement, bile threatening to flood his throat as memories of that hellish night at Northeast Georgetown Medical Center flooded his brain. God, would he never be free of those images-- the sights and sounds and smells he linked so irrevocably with the near loss of someone whose value to him he dared not contemplate too closely. The tangy antiseptic odor of disinfectant, the steady hum of countless monitors and machines all charged with the duty of keeping those most fragile of patients alive, the dull muted colors that he knew had been chosen to be soothing to the eye, but instead only served to remind him that life, like the vivid hues missing from the walls, the furniture, the bedclothes, was fading away around him. Her life. Scully's life. All right, he admitted in silent confession, his arms wrapped around his pillow, his chin resting on its case. Yes. I had hoped that my being there would be enough to keep Scully alive. Did you pray? Did he? He must have. And yet, for the life of him, he couldn't recall what words had been spoken, what entreaties had been employed, what promises had been made. Foxhole religion, he thought dismissively, more than a trifle chagrined over the accidental pun the phrase brought to mind. Angrily, he shoved away memories of that time, and the fear and vunerability that never failed to accompany them. When all was said and done, desperate times had called for desperate measures, that was all. And he had taken a chance. Thrown caution to the wind. He had called upon the Almighty for assistance and been answered. Scully had been returned to him. Well and whole. So why couldn't he believe? The answer came readily enough. He didn't trust it. Didn't have faith that this particular bounty had been granted without provisos. The Lord Giveth And The Lord Taketh Away. Striving to convince himself that the shiver which at that moment was creeping its way down his spine resulted from the draft seeping in through the window beside his bed and not from the alarming turn his thoughts had taken, Mulder faintly heard the shower being turned off on the other side of the wall. Not long after, the scratch of plastic curtain rings sliding along the metal bar above the tub sounded through the door. Then, he heard Scully softly knock. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" She eased open the door and peered into the room, her small face dwarfed by the towel she had wrapped turban style around her head. "I tried not to take too long. I think there's still some hot water left," she said with a small smile. "Thanks," he replied with a yawn, sitting up so the comforter pooled at his waist. "Is there anything you want to do before we head off to the church?" "Actually, I'd like to see if we can't catch Reverend Weaver before the service," Mulder said, running a hand through his hair and noting with bemusement the way his partner's bare toes peeked out from around the door's sharp corner. "I'm thinking we'll have a better opportunity to speak with him before his congregation gets there rather than after." She nodded. "Okay. I'd like to see if maybe I can't get Mrs. Cullins on the phone before we leave as well. She was in town when her son died. Maybe she can remember something. Something she forgot to mention when Lowry questioned her." "Sounds like a good idea." "Okay. See you downstairs." As soon as Scully returned to her room, Mulder rose from the bed, stretching once more for good measure as he crossed the floor clad merely in his flannel boxers, and entered the bathroom. His partner had left the window closed in deference to the chill permeating the early morning air. Consequently, steam misted the vanity mirror, obscuring his reflection, and condensation glazed the porcelain like dew. But what struck him most profoundly was the way the hot moist room smelled. Like her. Like Scully. It hit him all at once. In a wave. The impossible to define yet instantly recognizeable alchemy of soap and lotion and skin and woman. The scent hung heavy around him; a scent that he knew with a kind of fatalistic certainty he would be able to pinpoint in a stadium full of similarly sweetly smelling females. Intensified by the seemingly innocent mingling of water and heat, it clung to him, settling on his body like fog, seeping its way into his pores as if attempting in reverse to imitate his own sweat. He stood for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, taking the air inside him. And musing for just an instant over the sexual connotations of the act. Then came the knock. "Mulder, can you hand me my brush?" Blasted from his reverie in a way no less jarring than being doused with ice water, he crossed to the toliet tank, retrieved the item she requested, then padded over to her, and placed it in her outstretched hand. "Thanks a lot," she said from behind the door where she stood in an effort to afford him privacy, her hand disappearing into the santuary of her room, her brush clutched tightly in its grasp. Shaking his head, he closed the door once more, then leaned against it as if for support, a rueful smile flickering across his lips as he considered just how close he had come to getting caught indulging in the forbidden. That's all right, Scully," he murmured, his voice rough, the volume just above a whisper, wishing that indeed everything was. * * * * * * * * "So what did she say?" Dana Scully tossed her umbrella to the floor, buckled herself into her seatbelt, and with a sigh, settled back against the Taurus' passenger seat. Mulder, anxious to allow them enough time at Christ's Mercy to interview Weaver before his service, had gone outside to start the car while she had wrapped up her telephone conversation with Roy Cullins' mother, Eileen. Now, satisfied that his partner was safely ensconced within the car, he pulled away from in front of Twin Orchards, the Ford crunching lustily down the gravel drive, the windshield wipers swishing briskly to and fro. "Well, to begin with, she doesn't believe her son was murdered," Scully said mildly, patting her hair into place in an effort to repair the damage the windy wet weather had wrought. "No?" "Uh-uh," she confirmed shortly, turning to look at the man behind the wheel. "Apparently, Terry Halprin tried to convince her otherwise, but was unsuccessful. Although Mrs. Cullins isn't a member of Reverend Weaver's church, she said--and I quote: 'I just can't believe the Reverend would do something like that'." Mulder smiled dryly as they exited Ginny's place and turned on to the county blacktop. "No doubt about his ability, huh? Only his inclination." Scully shrugged. "Apparently. However, she did mention that Roy came to her before he died, acting rather peculiarly." "Peculiarly, how?" "Afraid," she said succinctly. "Mrs. Cullins said that her son visited her home less than a week before he died. According to her, he was almost frantic, certain something terrible was going to happen. He even went so far as to map out for her how his finances stood--bank accounts, safety deposit box, the deed to his home, the title to his car--" "In case anything should happen to him?" Mulder queried, shifting to meet her eyes. Scully nodded. "Gotta love a guy who looks out for his mom." His partner smiled. "So what =does= she think happened?" he asked after they had driven a moment or two in a silence punctuated only by the thwap of the wiper blades. Scully chuckled. "Oh, she has her own eerie take on the situation." Mulder stole a look in her direction. Scully returned his gaze, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Mrs. Cullins believes that her son had a premonition of his death. That God spoke to him, warning it would happen." "Where did she get that idea?" "From something Roy said," she explained with a wry smile, digging into her purse to retrieve the notebook in which she had detailed the conversation in question, and deftly flipping to the proper page. "When he was at her home, she remembers asking him repeatedly what was wrong, why he was so upset. At first, he wouldn't answer her. Then, when he finally did, Mrs. Cullins said that the words he spoke sounded nothing like Roy. She got the feeling he was quoting something. Or someone." "Why?" Mulder asked, clearly intrigued. "What did he say?" Scully scanned her notes. "Let's see . . . Ah--Now, this *should* be pretty accurate. Mrs. Cullins said the whole thing made a awfully big impression on her. Supposedly, Roy told her, quote: 'The sinner always believes that he is the one who will escape God's judgment. That his deed was done while the Lord blinked. But the Almighty's eyes never shut. He sees all. And punishes those who defy His teachings' unquote." Mulder's lips twisted as if physically trying to hold back the commentary Scully just knew was begging to be allowed release. She had to give him credit. In the end, her partner restrained himself, uttering only a heartfelt, "My!" She chuckled once more, shutting her note tablet with a snap as she did so. "I thought you'd like that." "So Roy Cullins saw himself as a sinner, eh?" "So it would seem," she agreed. "Now the question is, just which of the Ten Commandments did Cullins break?" * * * * * * * * The Church of Christ's Mercy wasn't what Scully had thought it would be. Although, in truth she couldn't say exactly =what= she had expected as she dashed between raindrops towards the structure in question, Mulder dogging her heels. Probably something like a cross between the Taj Mahal and Notre Dame. In the heart of central Missouri. The reality was far less grand, however. The church stood apart and alone, situated on a modest hill overlooking an unpaved parking lot and a stand of trees which helped delineate its property. Single-storied, the simple white painted building had few garnishments save a plain wooden cross straddling its roof , a glass paned board announcing office hours, schedules and sermon topics, and a series of tall narrow windows featuring stained-glass whose design she had been unable to discern through the rain. Having ducked inside, she stood in the vestibule, shaking the excess water from her umbrella and clothes, her partner doing likewise. The skies had opened up on their drive over, flooding the church's sandy car lot and liberally anointing the two agents, despite their umbrellas' best efforts, as they exited their car. "Can I help you?" Scully turned and saw a woman, who while no taller than she, had to have an additional forty pounds on her. Butter blond hair swirled atop her head like a Dairy Queen cone, the petite newcomer looked to be in her early forties, her perfectly applied make-up and candy apple red nails an intriguing complement to her pink polyester pants with its matching pink and white striped blouse. Suddenly, Scully's own neutral colored tailored suit felt almost unspeakably bland. Mulder glanced at Scully, his eyes vaguely bemused. Without him having to say anything, she felt certain that his merriment arose from their welcoming party's unfortunate resemblance to cotton candy. "We're looking for Reverend Weaver." "Oh! I'm sorry. The Reverend can't see you just now," the diminutive woman said, real regret in her voice, her head shaking from side to side in sympathy. "Services begin in a little over an hour. He's getting prepared." "We understand that, Ms. . . ." Scully said gently, letting the sentence trail off in the hopes of getting the woman's name. The tiny blond smiled brightly. "Bev. Bev Blevins. I'm Reverend Weaver's secretary." Mulder nodded. "Ms. Blevins, we realize that the Reverend is a busy man. And we promise that we won't keep him from his duties. But, it's imperative that we speak with him." Bev took in the serious, no-nonsense expressions of the two people before her and frowned in consideration, the resulting lines marring her baby-doll features. "May I ask what this is reference to?" Scully pulled out her badge from her purse. "We're with the F.B.I. I'm Special Agent Scully, this is Special Agent Mulder." "Oh!" the secretary squeaked in alarm, her hand fluttering to her ample bosom. "Oh dear. . . . I'm . . . Oh! I had no idea. Oh my. It's just--I don't suppose this could wait, could it? The Reverend so needs this time . . ." "We won't take long, Ms. Blevins," Mulder said soothingly, reaching out a hand towards her as if attempting to calm her agitation. "And as much as we'd like to oblige, we really can't hold off any longer. We've been waiting to see Reverend Weaver for two days as it is. Besides, I'm sure it would be far easier for us to speak with him now, rather than waiting until after his service when the church is filled with people all hoping to have a minute of his time." "Oh, yes," Bev said with a pained smile, nodding her understanding, but still not happy about the situation. "That's true. Things do tend to get a bit out of hand around here. Especially on the Sabbath. I'm just worried . . ." Mulder stopped her with a smile. That gentle, hesitant smile that had worked its magic so often on Scully that she couldn't believe she hadn't built up an immunity to it, like patients did certain medications. Thank god the man didn't fully appreciate its affect. If he did, she doubted the female population of the planet would stand a chance. "Ms. Blevins, you don't have to worry about a thing," he said quietly, the subtly potent smile still in place. "We'll be sure to tell the Reverend you tried your best to keep us from him. Now if you don't mind--?" Bev nibbled on her lips and mulled over her choices, clearly aware that she was between a rock and a hard place. Mulder held her gaze, waiting. Scully hung back, watching them. Finally, the pink-clothed blond sighed, her resolve ultimately melted by the persuasive manner of the man before her. Scully was pleased to see that she wasn't the only one to fall victim to Mulder's understated charm. "All right," Bev said, a tiny smile of her own teasing her pert lips. "I'll take you back. But mind that you give him some time, now. The poor man needs it. And don't forget to tell him this wasn't my idea." Mulder's smile broadened. With a hand on the small of his partner's back, he ushered her after the woman who was walking with the resigned air of the condemned down the church's center aisle. "Don't worry, Ms. Blevins, I'm very good at taking blame." As she and Mulder followed along towards the front of the church, Scully took the opportunity to study its decor. The pews were unadorned, plain light colored wood, with missals scattered amongst them. A deep red carpet covered the floor, muffling their steps. The stained glass she had glimpsed from outside fit right in with the functional simplicity of the church's design. Rich colors highlighted familiar scenes--Mary at the tomb, the miracle of the loaves and fishes, the healing of Lazarus--all in a modest yet affecting manner. The sanctuary itself was raised, separated from the nave by an altar bar and three hardwood steps with a scarlet runner flowing down the middle. The altar was made of wood a shade darker than the pews, flanked on one side by what appeared to be an roomy choir space, and on the other by a series of folding chairs. Flowers dotted the area. But not the hothouse lilies she had so often seen decorating her family's church at Easter. Instead, a charming mixture of wildflowers and daisies had been artlessly placed in a number of white ceramic pots, their bright hues and light floral scent doing wonders to enliven the dull gray day. But, it was the pulpit itself which really caught her eye. Constructed of wood identical to that which comprised the altar, the stand rose a good eight feet above the sanctuary floor, a massive cross carved into its front panel. As they crossed around in back of the structure, she spied a mini-circular staircase which led to the the pulpit's platform. Scully remembered reading somewhere that such stands had first come into being not only for sightline purposes, but because raising the priest or minister up had been thought to symbolically bring them closer to heaven. Impudent though it was, she couldn't help but muse that while standing in such a lofty position, churchmen might not only appear nearer to their God, but could be seen as looking down on their fellow men and women as well. "Here we are," Bev said in a voice just above a whisper when the trio came to a halt outside a door tucked just in back and to the side of the altar. "This is the Reverend's study. If you'll excuse me for a moment." With that, the secretary rapped softly on the door. Then, without waiting for a reply, opened it and peered inside. "Reverend Weaver. I'm =so= sorry to disturb you, but there are two people here who have asked to speak with you. They say it's urgent." For a moment nothing more was said. Scully glanced over at her partner. He gazed back, wry humor reflected in his hazel eyes, and shrugged. She smiled in return. "Very well," said a deep voice from inside the unseen room. "Send them in, Beverly." Bev turned around, and flashed the agents an anxious smile. "Not long," she cautioned in a strained yet quiet voice. "Not long," Mulder promised, that lethal smile venturing forth once more like a weapon. Mulder's promise seemed to placate Bev, who with a nod, left them, her quick steps thudding lightly on the carpeted surface as she retreated in the direction of the vestibule. Scully tilted her head as if to say 'let's go,' and stepping in front of Mulder, entered the study. The room was tiny, almost clautrophobically so, and windowless. Its only illumination came from the lighted mirror before which Reverend Weaver sat. A collection of notes lay before him, as did a variety of grooming items--comb, brush, razor, shaving cream. His head was bowed, though whether it was in prayer, she couldn't say. However, whatever the cause of his distraction, it allowed her the opportunity to study the gentleman. Although she had his vital statistics in his file along with his DMV photo, neither had fully prepared Scully for the man himself. She was surprised to find him smaller than she had imagined, and at first glance, more fragile. He was a wiry man, thin shouldered, small-boned. The reports they had placed him at sixty, and his shock of thick white hair testified as to the validity of that information. His face was strong with clearly delineated bones, flyaway eyebrows that arched over deeply set eyes, a wide hard mouth, and a blade of a nose. By contrast, the hands clasped tightly in front of him were almost dainty, in much the same way as those of a surgeon or concert pianist. Long fingers, smooth skin only lightly marred by age spots and protruding veins. Yet, despite his seemingly delicate appearance, both agents could sense a kind of energy surrounding the man, humming in a field around him like a swarm of insects on a still summer day. "Reverend Weaver?" Mulder began politely, after looking to Scully with a raised brow. Weaver finally lifted his eyes. So gray as to appear nearly transluscent, they locked with Scully's in the mirror. And grew wide. The Reverend noticeably paled, shock and a kind of horror reflected in his gaze. "Oh my dear Lord," he murmured fervently, his hands clenching more tightly, his eyes round and moist. "Kimberly." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part V =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (5/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:18:53 -0500 "No Greater Love" (5/13) By Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com Here we go again. Thanks for hanging in there. ================================================ "Sir?" Dana Scully directed her worried gaze at her partner for an instant before returning it to the stricken snowy-haired man sitting before her. For his part, the Reverend didn't speak, but instead merely stared back at her reflection as if mesmerized. Her eyes held his, their expression warm, gentle, yet clearly puzzled by his reaction. Finally, after a half a dozen intensely uncomfortable seconds, Weaver hung his head, shaking it slightly as if erasing a thought, his breath exhaling on a sigh. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. It's just that--" "Is this your daughter, Reverend Weaver?" Fox Mulder took a step forward and pointed to a small snapshot which lay tucked into the lower right-hand corner of the makeup mirror's frame at an angle which had hidden it from Scully's view. The older man hesitated a moment, then briefly nodded. "May I?" Mulder asked politely, gesturing to the photograph. Again, Weaver waited for just a split second before responding. Then, saying not a word, he carefully loosed the picture from its resting place and handed it over his shoulder to the tall dark-haired agent standing behind him. That done, he buried his head in his hands and, remaining silent, closed his eyes as if unable to bear the sight of the two strangers a moment longer. Scully crossed in back of the Reverend, and head bowed alongside her partner's, studied with Mulder the photograph cradled in his hand. So this was Kimberly Weaver. She reacted to the picture with an echo of the same surprise that Weaver had apparently suffered upon seeing her enter his chambers. The girl smiling up at the two F.B.I. agents looked nothing like the young woman in the file the agents had which carried her name. And yet bore slightly more than a passing resemblance to the auburn-haired woman gazing down at her photo so closely. No wonder Reverend Weaver had reacted as if he had seen a ghost. Scully examined the picture carefully, the way a lover might scrutinize their beloved's face upon leave-taking, doing her best to imprint the features upon her memory. To know them, in the hope of discovering why someone might have wanted this girl's life ended. Ironically, once she spent a few moments communing with the snapshot, Scully recognized that while there were similarities between the dead coed and herself, the likeness was not so pronounced as to cause more than casual comment. Except when filtered through the eyes of the girl's apparently still grieving father. "I had thought that Kim had brown hair," Scully murmured, not realizing until she heard the words hanging leaden in the air that she had uttered them aloud. At that, Weaver lifted his head, his eyes rheumy, their shadowed depths glistening in the vanity light. "She did. At one time. Kim was rarely satisfied . . . with anything. Her hair included. She liked to experiment. Some were more successful than others. That, however, . . . that is the color God intended." Scully looked closely at the picture once more. It showed a brightly smiling young woman perched on the bough of a tree, one arm outstretched, grabbing hold of the branch above for balance. Sunlight glanced off a shoulder length fall of hair only a shade or two lighter than Scully's auburn tresses. But, where her own hair glowed with copper highlights, Kimberly's flashed blonde. A strawberry blonde that when coupled with the freckles sprinkled liberally across her small upturned nose reminded the agent far more of a distaff Huckleberry Finn, than a younger version of herself. The girl in the photograph's large blue eyes twinkled with the same sense of mischievous humor that enlivened ol' Huck, and the way she was dressed--jeans cut off right at the knee; a denim blouse whose shirttails were tied at the waist; her bare lower legs and feet, both besmudged with grime, brought to mind an unaffected kind of innocence which Scully feared she herself had lost many long years before. Still, judging from the photo, she and Kimberly shared a similar size and shape. And, what was more, the girl's heart-shaped face with its stubborn little chin and gently sloping cheekbones were reminiscent of Scully's own. She understood how, even if only for a moment, the girl's father might have believed himself to be visited from beyond. "She was a lovely girl, Reverend Weaver," Mulder murmured unexpectedly. So wrapped up had she been in her contemplation of the deceased Ms. Weaver that Scully had very nearly forgotten her partner stood beside her. "Yes," Weaver agreed softly, warily watching the two people standing behind him in the mirror, his eyes having lost some of their glassiness. "Yes, she was lovely." With a look over at Scully to make certain she agreed, Mulder handed the photograph back to its owner. The Reverend took it almost reverently, stared at it a moment, then laid it carefully on the make-up table, ultimately placing his hand atop it as if to protect it. "Who are you?" he asked finally, his voice calmer than before, its tone low and rich. "We're with the F.B.I. I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder." The agents stepped forward then, unconsciously flanking Weaver between them as they offered up their badges for his perusal. "F.B.I.? " Weaver said in some confusion as he turned from side to side, pinning first one then the other agent with his gaze. "What would the F.B.I. want here?" "We want to find out why Pine Grove's murder rate has skyrocketed in the past couple of months," Mulder drawled mildly as he leaned a hip against the Reverend's dressing table and crossed his arms, the gesture silently conveying that he planned on being there awhile. "Murder?" Weaver challenged, his eyes unreadable, his voice stronger still. "And just who exactly has been murdered here?" "Some people think perhaps your daughter may have been," Scully said softly, meeting the challenge Weaver raised with her usual one-two punch of strength and calm. Weaver held her eyes for a long wordless moment, his frank and steady gaze revealing nothing to Scully. Nothing other than whatever the older man might be, he was no fool. Intelligence gleamed in those eyes. And a certain steely strength. She knew that despite his years, the Reverend would without question prove a steadfast ally. And a most formidable foe. At long last he spoke. His voice, in defiance of its hushed tone, rang to her ears firm and true. "My daughter was not murdered." "You sound awfully certain of that, Reverend," Mulder interjected with a dip of his head and a quirk of his lips. Scully saw her partner's eyes measuring the man before him, taking in the Reverend's conservative brown suit with its stark white shirt and matching tie; his lean wiry form, which had grown stooped from a combination of care and age; his pale gaunt face, where papery skin and fierce ice gray eyes coexisted in a kind of uneasy truce. And found him lacking. A figure not to respect, but to suspect. And perhaps, just perhaps, worthy of the smallest measure of disdain. She wondered just what it was that Mulder saw, what flaw he noted and recorded in that immense filofax he called his mind which caused him to doubt Weaver. While at the same time she strove to discern just what it was that urged her to believe in the Reverend, to assure her that this was a man of integrity and honor. "I am certain, Agent Mulder," Weaver replied quietly. "My child was not murdered." "Do you believe she committed suicide?" Mulder's cool question visibly pierced something in the Reverend, the older man's eyes reflecting his horror at the very thought. "No! Good heavens, no. Kimberly would never do that." "So, are you saying Kim's death was an accident?" Scully asked, partially because she truly wanted to hear the answer to her question and partially because she thought the query might somehow soothe the man by taking his mind off the images her partner's inquiry had induced. Her ploy seemed to work. "Yes," Weaver affirmed with a nod. "Kim's death was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident." "What about Mark Halprin and Roy Cullins?" Mulder asked a bit more forcefully than Scully thought was really necessary. "Were those deaths accidents as well?" Weaver shrugged, although his eyes plainly stated that he saw the question as far from casual. "Not that I know of. From what I understand it's believed that those men died of natural causes." "That's the official verdict, yes," Scully murmured, her eyes stealing to Mulder's for just an instant. "Well then, Agents Scully and Mulder, it would appear that you have no murders to solve," Weaver said briskly, pushing away from his place at the vanity and crossing to a clothes rack in the room's far corner where he pulled down a deep gold colored robe and began to slip it over his suit. "So it would appear," Mulder allowed dryly, standing upright once more, his hands now going to his overcoat pockets. "But not everyone believes the official story." Weaver glanced at the agents while his fingers busily closed the robe's hidden fastenings, the vaguest hint of rueful amusement glinting in his eyes. "You sound as if you've been talking with Terry Halprin." Mulder almost noticeably grimaced. "Not yet. Although not for lack of trying." Weaver's amusement grew. "Ah. Sheriff Lowry then." "How did you--" Scully began. "He is afraid of me, you know," Weaver said conversationally, his robe now closed, his hands straightening his shirt cuffs beneath it. "Lowry?" Scully asked. "Both, actually," Weaver said, his eyes sliding away from hers for the first time. "Lowry and Halprin, both." "Do they have reason to be?" Mulder inquired intently, taking a step towards his partner in a way that struck Scully as oddly protective. For a moment, Weaver said nothing, but instead merely went about smoothing his collar and tie beneath his vestments, his gaze focused on the two agents opposite him as he did so. Then he spoke, quietly, crisply. "No. Neither man has anything to fear from me." Mulder nodded and glanced down at his partner. She met his eyes, and knew instantly what he was thinking. Mulder wasn't satisfied. Not by a long shot. Seemingly unconcerned, Reverend Weaver crossed to a small bookcase placed halfway between the vanity and clothes rack. There he picked up a thick battered bible, checked the passage marked by the thin red grosgrain ribbon dangling from its page, shut the book with a barely audible thud, and turned to face his two visitors once more. "Will you be staying for the service, agents?" he asked in a manner which suggested he was already fairly certain of the answer to his query. "Wouldn't miss it for the world," Mulder said dryly. Weaver nodded. "Good. Newcomers are always welcome. You've picked a fine Sunday for it. Given your reason for coming to our community, I believe you'll find today's sermon of particular interest." "Oh? And why is that?" Scully asked mildly. "The topic," Weaver replied simply, a rueful sort of humor warming his cool, fog-colored eyes. "Today I'll be discussing the wages of sin, and its effect on a man's immortal soul." * * * * * * * * If Mulder didn't stop fidgeting, Scully was going to have to slug him. Honestly, she thought, glancing sideways at her partner, the man was just like a little boy who had been dressed in his Sunday best, had his hair slicked down, that last smudge of dirt smoothed away from his chin by his mother's thumb, only to suffer the final indignity--being dragged unceremoniously to church when he would much rather have been at home with his toys. The thought made her smile. Then, he sighed. A gusty put-upon sigh. "I thought you 'wouldn't miss this for the world'", she reminded him softly without looking at him, the indulgent smile still curving her lips "It was all bluff, Scully," he whispered back, leaning in so closely to speak the words that she felt her hair dance along the curve of her cheek, his breath its partner. "I was putting up a brave front for our friend, the Reverend." "Oh really? Funny--I could have sworn you seemed anything but friendly," she remarked in a low voice, an eyebrow arched to underline the comment. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in a pew near the back of The Church of Christ's Mercy. The rows in front of them had been steadily filling during the twenty minutes they had sat waiting for that Sunday's service to begin. Strangely, neither of them had felt compelled to speak while they had waited. Part of their shared reticence no doubt stemmed from their desire to keep from being overheard. After all, Bev had been bustling around the place like a bumblebee making certain all was in order. Choir members had wandered in to set up music. Acolytes had lit candles. And ushers had done their last minute cataloguing of collection plates and missals. Now, as they were minutes away from the start of service, the agents' own pew had filled to capacity as well. Thus, not only giving them still more reason to keep quiet, but also crowding the two government employees rather tightly together, forcing the right side of Scully's body flush up against Mulder's left. And yet, despite these very valid excuses for remaining mum, it felt, at least to Scully, like the real reason why Mulder and she were silent was because they weren't really certain what they had to say. Speaking for herself, she recognized that instead of providing any insight regarding their current case, their brief interview with the Reverend had only served to muddy her theories regarding the investigation. She heard Mulder give a muffled snort. "Oh come on, Scully," he muttered near her ear. "You mean to tell me you actually believe that everything is on the up and up with that guy?" "What do you mean?" "Didn't you get the feeling that he wasn't telling us the whole story?" At that, she turned to look at the man beside her. And found that their faces were way too close for casual conversation. For just half a breath she let herself merely look him. Focus on the extraordinary mosaic of color that composed the hazel of his eyes. Then, she glanced away, silently cursing her skin's fairness. At times such as these she felt quite certain it was only the Irish who blushed. "I got the feeling that he was still mourning the loss of his daughter," she whispered, her eyes remaining safely trained on the pew in front of her. "No, it was more than that." She felt his arm tense alongside of her, recognizing instinctively that his physical reaction wasn't rooted in anger as much as in frustration. A need to know. A desire to get to the bottom of this and all mysteries. She shook her head with a touch of astonishment. Good grief. Was she really so attuned to this man that the mere flexing of a muscle was enough to convey to her his frame of mind? The answer was yes. Yes, of course. She had to smile once more, although anyone noting the curving of her lips would have seen little in the way of humor in it. Instead, a mild chagrin was more reflected there. As if there was any question as to just how aware she was of Fox Mulder and his physicality. After all, the man's touch was in some divinely warped way concurrently one of the great joys and banes of their partnership. Still mulling over that far from recent revelation, she chanced a quick peek at him. Mulder was gazing intently at her profile as if awaiting a response, that blasted smile he had earlier used to such great effect with poor Bev flirting with his lips, and by extension, with her. Scully cocked an eyebrow at him, hoping the gesture would do. She couldn't come up with anything better at just that moment. Not when he was looking at her like that. A guilty little shiver shimmered down from her shoulders to her lap. Damn. Why did the one man who could raise her pulse rate with a simple glance have to be the single male on the planet who was absolutely positively off-limits? Oh this is good, Dana. Excellent time to brood over just what precisely you and your partner have between you. Right in the middle of a case. Well done. Very professional. Well, it's his fault, argued some rather testy little part of her personality. After all, how was she supposed to ignore the man when he was always . . . *there*. Watching her. Sitting up in bed, blinking at her sleepily, naked to the waist. . . . Oh, don't go there, Dana. Not in church. Okay, she thought as a little rush of heat lapped at her insides like a tongue of flame. Keep it clean. After all, the intimacy which for all intents and purposes defined the relationship she and Mulder shared was only tenuously anchored in the sensual. The physical connection that she often found herself craving was, in fact, far more mundane. His warm sure grasp on her forearm. The way he had of placing a gentle hand on her back when they walked together, almost as if he were guiding her, supporting her. It was funny, really. She had never been a "touchy" person per se; not like Melissa had been. It wasn't that she disliked being touched. Not at all. Instead, it was more a matter of manners, of trying to place another person's comfort before her own. After all, she was a woman who valued her privacy. She certainly, in no way, wanted to compromise anyone else's personal space. But Mulder had no such compunction. At least, not with her. In fact, sometimes she actually got the impression that he looked for opportunities to touch her. Perhaps even set about creating them. Had it been any other man in the Bureau whom she suspected of such scheming she would have called him on it long ago. What self-respecting woman of the nineties wouldn't? That sort of behavior was supposed to have gone out of style a decade or two ago. And yet she said nothing. How could she? Truth be told, she reveled in it. In the abbreviated snatches of intimacy she always managed to rationalize away before they grew too risky to her peace of mind. Part of her knew that the pleasure to be had by indulging in such lapses in professionalism had a whiff of decadence about it. Still, she found it impossible to deny herself such small comforts. Or thrills. Or improbable minglings of both. She looked forward to them, even as she wondered what they might all be leading to. "Penny for your thoughts." She actually felt the warmth of his breath this time against the sensitive patch of skin just below her ear. Tingles of awareness vibrated from the spot. Radiating down her arms, into her fingertips, raising goose bumps in their wake. "Sorry, Mulder," she murmured in a husky voice, determined not to let his nearness undo her entirely. "But, I don't come that cheap." She felt his quick short chuckle pulse noiselessly through his body. But whatever clever retort her partner might have been formulating was instantly swept away by a deep booming organ chord followed shortly after by the piercing sound of a soprano voice warbling out the lyrics to a hymn Scully thought she vaguely recognized. Sunday service had begun. * * * * * * * * Well, Ginny was certainly right about one thing, Mulder mused. You go to church at Christ's Mercy, and you see quite a show. And he had come to that conclusion before even one measly little miracle had been performed, he thought drolly. Longing to stretch his crowded extremities, Mulder stole a look in his partner's direction. Scully appeared far more patient than he with the proceedings. She kept her eyes trained politely on the pulpit before them, listening intently to the man standing atop it. With her gaze otherwise engaged, Mulder let his linger a moment, a smile gently molding his lips as it very nearly always did when he contemplated his partner, conscious thought in no way controlling the reaction. Finally, relinquishing with a sigh his particularly pleasant but unfortunately inappropriate focus of attention, he returned his regard to the matter at hand. So far, they had been entertained by a wildly energetic choir, the witnessing of four earnest parishioners, and the ecstatic cries of believers as they punctuated the proceedings by spontaneously praising the Lord with downright unnerving intensity. And through it all, Reverend Weaver had presided over the festivities. His calm firm voice leading his congregation in prayer, introducing the next speaker, and generally keeping the service running like a well oiled machine. "My brothers and sisters, I'd like to have a few words with you today." Mulder sat up a bit taller in his seat. The church member who had just been speaking had stepped down. Reverend Weaver now towered over his congregation at the pulpit. "Friends, one of the most troubling issues facing any faith is the question of sin. How to avoid it, how to ask forgiveness of God when a sin is committed, and finally, how to find the courage within yourself to pay the recompense demanded for your transgression." The minister's voice was low and powerful, his words measured and syncopated, their music manipulated for maximum effect the way the sections of an orchestra ebbed and flowed beneath a conductor's baton. "And make no mistake, dear ones. Recompense is always demanded. And must needs be given. Our God is a fair and loving father. But like all good parents He knows that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. So, for our own good, He strives to keep us in line. Keep us on the straight and narrow. And believe me, that is the way the road to heaven runs. Its path is rocky and fraught with distractions. But God wants us to reach our destination. He wants us to sit beside Him in the Kingdom of Heaven. He wants us to keep on that path. And the best way for Him to lead His children home is with discipline." Hmm, Mulder thought. This was getting interesting. For one whimsical moment he wondered if a man's sermon might be admissible in a court of law. He tried to catch Scully's eye, wanting to get her reaction to this. Although her gaze flickered in his direction, she wouldn't meet his scrutiny directly. He felt certain she simply didn't want to give him the satisfaction. "For it is with discipline that we learn, grow stronger. God wants this for us. He wants us to become better. Closer to Him and His image. So, as merciful as He is, as kind and compassionate a deity as every member of this church knows Him to be, when one of His children disobeys His law, the Law of God. That child must be punished." Mulder felt Scully take a deep long breath beside him, almost as if she were trying to calm herself, or perhaps push away some disturbing unwanted emotion. He didn't blame her. The Reverend's words were beginning to get to him as well. "And you can't escape it. No matter how clever you might be. Oh, you think you'll be the exception. And believe me, you won't be the first to think that. The sinner always believes that he is the one who will escape God's judgment. That his deed was done while the Lord blinked." Mulder's ears perked, his near perfect memory rewinding to a conversation earlier that morning, one where his partner had quoted for him the words that had supposedly been spoken by a dead man. "But the Almighty's eyes never shut. He sees all. And punishes those who defy His teachings." Mulder bent his head to Scully's, so close that a single strand of her hair wound up teasing his lower lip, clinging to the trace of moisture there. "Hey Scully, what d'ya know," he whispered. "It's the voice of God." He saw her back stiffen ever so slightly at his words. But before she even had the opportunity to look at him, a voice rang out from just behind them. "What's the matter, Reverend? Did'ja get worried that maybe God wasn't doing His job? So you thought you'd give Him a hand, and kill Mark and Roy for Him." The agents shifted swiftly in their seats, looking over their shoulders. There, at the rear entrance to the church, stood a tall lanky man with curling medium brown hair, flashing dark eyes and an enormous handlebar mustache. He wore jeans, a plain white shirt and navy windbreaker. Raindrops glistened on his longish locks. His color was high. Stubble speckled his jaw. Mulder noted the way fear wrestled with belligerence in the man's stance. He appeared to be spoiling for a fight, even as he worried about its outcome. For a breathless moment, Weaver said nothing, instead merely gazing down the center aisle at the interloper from his pulpit. No one moved. Then the silence which had reigned since the stranger had entered shattered. Low humming voices quickly built in intensity and volume as the church's occupants murmured amongst themselves as to the visitor and his damning claims. The man in the back of the church stoked the rapidly crescendoing speculation. "So how about it, Reverend? Does God always get His employees to do His dirty work? Or do you just get off on it?" At that, Weaver paled, swaying almost imperceptibly from his place so high above the crowd. For an instant, Mulder feared that the older man might lose his balance and go tumbling from his perch. But, somehow he retained his composure. Gripping the edges of the lectern so tightly that the agents could make out his whitened knuckles from where they sat, he said in a slow clear voice, "Welcome, Mr. Halprin. It's so nice to see you here." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part VI =========================================================================== From: krasch@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (6/13) by K. Rasch Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:19:35 -0500 "No Greater Love" (6/13) by Karen Rasch krasch@delphi.com We just keep chugging along. Hope you 're enjoying this. ================================================ "No. You're not happy to see me, Reverend. In fact, I'm the last person in the world you want to see." Weaver swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing like a buoy, his gaze wary. And yet he continued to look his accuser steadily in the eye. "Why would you say that?" "Because I know the truth." "We both know the truth. Don't we, Mr. Halprin?" Upon hearing the Reverend's quietly spoken query, Terry Halprin's eyes grew wide and a touch more wild. Breathing raggedly, his fists bunched, he took a threatening step forward. An usher reached out a hand to impede his progress. But the man was easily old enough to be Halprin's father, and was no match for the younger man's strength. With a mere shrug of his shoulder, Halprin loosed his arm from the would-be security guard's grasp. Intently watching the scene develop, Scully feared the worst. And judging the situation would with all probability rapidly escalate beyond mere name-calling, made to leave the pew and circle back around behind Halprin. "Wait. I'll go," Mulder muttered in her ear, his hand firmly restraining her in her seat as he scrambled out past her and down the church's side aisle. At first annoyed by her partner's high-handedness, Scully quickly saw the advantage to be had by one of them remaining in the pew. This way, should Halprin charge the pulpit she could easily dash down the aisle parallel to his and intercept him. She sincerely hoped such action would prove unnecessary. "Listen to me, you bastard," Halprin gritted out, his body strung so tightly that Scully could clearly see from where she sat the tendons cording in his neck. "I came here today, in front of all these people, to make =sure= they found out just what kind of a man you really are." "Then you've wasted your morning," the Reverend said softly, his eyes leaving Halprin's for the first time to slowly scan his congregation. "These people know me better than anyone. They know the kind of man I am." "Like hell they do," Halprin sneered, taking another step forward so that he now stood even with the church's next to the last row of pews. Mulder had managed to wind his way around to just behind the intruder, keeping himself outside the periphery of Halprin's vision. Scully saw her partner glance in her direction. Get ready, the look warned. She placed her hand on her hip holster. "These people don't know you at all," Halprin continued, his voice rough and insinuating, spittle dotting his moustache. "You've snowed them just like you've snowed everyone in this town. Making them think you're a 'man of God'. Making them believe you're some sort of healer. Well, I know better, Weaver. And I'm telling you, and I'm telling them--You're nothing but a fraud!" "Mr. Halprin--" "YOU KILLED MY BROTHER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!" Halprin roared suddenly, surging forward a few steps more, swaying on his feet with the power of the emotions churning inside him. Scully noted that Mulder was only a few feet away from him now, waiting. Unable to gauge whether Halprin might be armed, it appeared that the agent was biding his time, not wanting to force a confrontation unless it was absolutely necessary. Not when there was a church full of people who might have to pay the price for an error in judgment. People whose questioning eyes darted back and forth between the man they had chosen as their spiritual leader and the man who in no uncertain terms condemned that choice as not only foolish but obscene. "You killed him," Halprin repeated, his volume lower, but his voice still anguished, his eyes glittering now with unshed tears. "And soon . . . soon you're going to kill me too." "Mr. Halprin," Reverend Weaver said, leaning in over his lectern as if to in some small way bring himself closer to the man hurtling obscenities in his direction, accusing him of unspeakable crimes. "I give you my word. I will not harm you. Not now. Not ever." For a moment, Halprin considered Weaver's words, weighing whether to believe them. And in the end, declined to trust. "No, man. No way. I've seen what you can do. I know what you're capable of." Weaver sighed wearily, and for an instant looked heavenward. When his eyes engaged Halprin's once more they swam with regret and a horrible kind of knowledge, a burden that bowed his body far more than age. "Mr. Halprin, you have no idea what I'm capable of." Halprin staggered back a bit, unsteady on his feet, his complexion paling. "You heard that! You heard it. He's threatening me! That bastard is threatening me! And you-- you people are all my witnesses!! When I'm dead, remember-- he's the one who will have done it!! He's the one who murdered Mark and Roy and now me. God . . . He's going to kill me, and there's nothing you or anybody here can do to protect me!!" Halprin was ranting now. Turning in small semi- circles as he indulged in his own little bout of impromptu preaching. The people sitting around him were frozen, not knowing how to react. Several church members who had been fortunate enough to be sitting near the rear of the sanctuary had taken the opportunity to slip through the back door once Halprin had safely passed them by. Those who remained sat pinned in their seats, fear and a sort of morbid fascination compelling them to stay. "No . . . nobody can protect me but myself. Nobody but me," Halprin mumbled, slowly making his way up the aisle towards Weaver. "I've gotta look out for myself. Gotta keep you from doing to me what you did to poor Mark . . ." Halprin had only crossed perhaps a third of the way towards the pulpit when he stopped suddenly, almost as if he had fallen into a momentary stupor, or in some bizarre way had gotten lost. Shaking his head slightly, he reached inside his jacket. From his vantage point, Mulder couldn't tell what Halprin was searching for. Unwilling to take any chances, he decided it was finally time to make his move. The agent silently trotted up the carpeted walkway until he was only little more than an arms' length away from his target. Pausing only an instant, he tackled Halprin with a flying leap, sending the man face first onto the floor, his arms pinned beneath him. Scully stood immediately. "Everyone, please remain seated and remain calm." She grabbed her i.d. from her coat pocket and held it aloft. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, the situation is under control. But I must ask you to remain in your seats." She strode briskly around the back of the congregation towards her partner, passing Bev along the way. "Bev, call Sheriff Lowry for me, will you? Tell him to get somebody out here =now=." The little woman nodded nervously and turned on her heel, anxious to do as she was bidden. "You all right, Mulder?" Scully asked in a husky voice as she reached his side, her gun drawn and pointed at the fallen man who twisted and rolled at her feet, muttering obscenities. "Yeah, I'm fine," Mulder replied as he struggled with Halprin, his knee pressing into the small of the man's back while he simultaneously snapped handcuffs on his wrists. "I'm not so sure about our pal Halprins's traveling liquor cabinet, however." Before Mulder had even finished his sentence, Scully's nose wrinkled at the sour odor rising up from beneath Halprin's prone body. Seeing that he was at long last safely restrained, she helped Mulder pull the man from the floor. He staggered upright, swaying just a bit, the front of his shirt and windbreaker stained just like the rug upon which he had so recently laid with what appeared to be Johnny Walker's finest. "God, it's a wonder he didn't impale himself on a piece of glass," she murmured as she bent down to examine the shards. "It would have been better if I had," Halprin insisted heatedly, staring down at her through bloodshot eyes. "It's all over for me, anyway. I'm a dead man. I told you that." "Come on, Mr. Halprin," Mulder urged quietly, his grasp tight around the man's upper arms as he impelled him towards the back of the church. "You've bothered these nice people long enough. Why don't you just calm down, and we'll go someplace where we can talk. Someplace quiet. Like the sheriff's office." "You've gotta do something, man." Having witnessed no softening in Scully's eyes when he once more relayed his plight, Halprin turned his attention to Mulder, whispering hoarsely at the agent from behind his carefully groomed moustache as he stumbled along side of him. "You're the feds. If anyone can do anything it would be you." Mulder's lips quirked as he shot Scully a look over his shoulder. "And just what would you like us to do for you, Mr. Halprin?" "Kill him. Kill Weaver. Kill him before he has the chance to kill anyone else." Scully's eyes widened with a combination of amazement and revulsion as she trailed behind. "Sorry, can't help you there," Mulder murmured dryly, as he half-dragged, half-pushed Halprin along before him. "Our Murder for Hire Department just got closed down due to budget cuts. You know those darn Republicans--always looking for a way to pinch pennies." "Mulder, why don't you take him out front and wait for the sheriff," Scully said softly once they were clear of the pews and prying eyes and ears, her hand resting lightly on partner's shoulder to gain his attention. She received it instantly. "I think maybe I should hang around here for a bit in case the Reverend runs into any more trouble." Mulder raised a skeptical brow. "You afraid these folks might suddenly turn ugly, Scully?" She shrugged a bit helplessly. "I don't know. They seem quiet enough, I suppose. But still, I have a feeling it wouldn't take much to have this whole thing blow up in our faces. I'd just . . . I'd feel better if I kept an eye on things for a bit." Mulder looked at her a moment before nodding. "All right. That's probably not a bad idea." He crossed the vestibule and peered out through a pane of glass in one of the church's front doors. "It looks like the rain has let up for now. I'll take Halprin outside." Retaining his hold on the man in question with one hand, he dug around in his trenchcoat pocket with the other. "Here, take the keys. I'll ride into town with whoever Lowry sends. Pick me up when you can." "Thanks," she said with a small smile. "I won't be long. I want to hear what Mr. Halprin has to say just as much as you do." "I've said all I'm going to say," Halprin muttered sullenly, resting his head against the doorframe with a weariness that suggested his Dutch courage had finally run out. "I ain't talking to anybody about anything until I've had the chance to talk to my lawyer." "Sounds familiar," Mulder intoned wryly, pulling the other man from his place against the wall and guiding him through the open door. "Go on back in, Scully. Everything's under control here." "Okay. Thanks, Mulder." With one last look at her partner leading away a rather subdued Terry Halprin, Scully returned to stand at the back of the sanctuary. And found that the quiet which had prevailed since Halprin had disrupted that morning's service had shattered. The room buzzed like an oversized honeycomb-- questions flying, theories bandied, accusations lobbed like hand grenades. <"That Terry Halprin has never been anything but trouble.""Did you see the look in his eyes?""It's the drink that does it. The Reverend was right. First, Kim. Now, Terry.""Did you notice he never denied it? Reverend Weaver never once said that he didn't kill Mark and Roy.""Gettin' so a person can't even go to church anymore without havin' to put up with hooligans!""Oh yeah? Well, I heard he killed Kim because she was pregnant.""I don't care what anybody says. I don't believe a word of it."> Scully stood stone still at the back of the congregation, letting the sights and sounds roll over her. Not everyone was staying to debate the events which had just occurred. Mothers and fathers were bundling their children into their coats and leading them up the aisle, past her. Husbands and wives, grandmothers with their handbags over their arms, teenagers dressed as they would never have dreamed of showing up for class all filed by as well, heads bent towards each other in heated discussion as they tried to make sense out of what they had just witnessed. Their troubled eyes conveyed their doubts and concern to the red-haired F.B.I. agent far more powerfully than did the snatches of conversation reverberating within the church walls. "Reverend, just what is going on here?" Scully slipped into the last pew on the aisle, straining her neck to see just who precisely had at long last voiced the question she knew had been on everyone's minds. After craning over the heads of the faithful who still half filled the church's sanctuary, she spied the speaker. He was middle-aged, stocky, possessed of less hair than more, his tanned face wind- lined. Those sitting around her fell silent once more in anticipation of the question's answer. "We've stood by you, Reverend. Supported you. Told the gossips to keep their opinions to themselves. But now, I think you owe us an explanation." "John," Weaver began quietly, his discomfiture evident in the tenseness of his posture, the thin seam of his lips, the furrowing of his brow. "I've told you before--." "No, Reverend. That's just it," said a tall thin blond- haired woman who sat three rows in front of the first speaker, shaking her head sadly. "You haven't told us anything." The rumble of murmurs began again. Slowly. Quietly. But with a fierce sort of undercurrent throbbing beneath the still rational questioning. Scully was glad that she had stayed. "How come it's just those boys from Backroads who have died? Seems mighty peculiar to me that first you tell us the place needs to be shut down, and then suddenly its owners are dropping like flies," opined an older gentleman with round wire-rimmed glasses and tufts of hair sprouting from above each ear. "I just want to hear you say you didn't do it," stammered a slender brown-haired young man with freckles and earnest blue eyes as he surged to his feet, tightly gripping the pew in front of him as if for courage. "I just want to hear you say the words." Weaver hesitated just a half a heartbeat, his gaze flickering to the bible before him. "The Reverend doesn't have to say anything." All heads swiveled to the center of the sanctuary. There, a pale gaunt figure of a man spoke as he struggled to his feet, aided by a cane and the strong right arm of a woman with short curly black hair who looked to Scully as if she might be the man's wife. Once standing, he looked up unguardedly at Weaver, trust shining in his eyes. For a moment no one moved. The effort to remain standing obviously taxed the man. He swayed precariously. The woman beside him remained seated, although both hands were outstretched as if she were making ready to catch him should his balance fail. "You don't owe us any explanation, Reverend," the man said with a small smile as he awkwardly left his pew and began a slow tortuous trip up the church's center aisle. "I know a man like you could never hurt another living soul." Weaver said nothing, clearly moved by the man's profession of faith. The reverend's eyes glistened with emotion as he watched his champion's progress towards him. For their part, the congregation quieted once more, curious about their leader''s unexpected supporter. "I don't think I know you, friend," Weaver said softly as he stepped down from the pulpit and, with measured step, made his way to the man. "Have you ever been to our church before?" Sweat beaded on the other man's brow. Muffled sounds of pain and effort escaped his lips. But he kept on shuffling to the front of the church, leaning heavily on his cane. "No, sir. I'm not from around here. My name is Decker. Martin Decker." "Welcome, Martin," Weaver said simply, meeting the man at the second row of pews and clasping his hand in greeting. "We're glad that you're here." "Not as glad as I am," Martin countered, attempting a smile that ended in a grimace. Scully wondered what was wrong with the man. She found it difficult to tell from where she was seated. But, given the man's wasted physique and lack of mobility, she knew that whatever was afflicting him, it was serious. Leaning his cane against the nearest pew, Decker clung to Weaver's forearms, using them for support as he lowered himself to his knees. "You've got to help me, Reverend," he said in a low rough voice. "I've come a long way. I'm a sick man, and I need your help." Weaver nervously licked his lips, then rested his hands on the other man's shoulders. "Martin--" he began hesitantly. "Reverend, please," Decker pleaded, his grip tightening on the reverend's arms. Scully silently damned her view of the action. She couldn't see Weaver's face clearly from her post at the back of sanctuary. But, whatever the reverend's visage was revealing to poor sick Mr. Decker, it provided him little comfort. "I've been to doctors, Reverend," Decker continued in a hushed plaintive voice that barely carried to Scully's ears. "They tell me there's nothing they can do. I've got a wife. I've got a family. I don't want to die. You've got to help me. Help make me better." Still, Weaver hesitated, torn by some inner dilemma Scully could only guess at. Then finally, he laid his hand on the hair of the man who knelt before him, caressing the strands lightly as one would to soothe a child. "All right," he said with a small nod, his voice deep and calm. "Bow your head, Martin, and pray with me." Decker did as he was instructed, clasping his shaking hands tightly in his lap. Weaver took a deep breath, then closed his eyes, focusing his concentration. Scully could feel the change. The barely discernable hum of energy she had earlier sensed surrounding Weaver in his study intensified. The air around her pulsed with it. Her skin tingled. The hair on the back of her neck stood quite literally on end. Her throat was suddenly leeched of all moisture. Fascinated, she looked around her. Although equally enthralled, the congregation seemed to find none of this odd. Half of them had lowered their eyes in an imitation of Decker's posture, apparently lending their own prayers to the effort. The other half serenely watched the proceedings, their faces aglow with anticipation and awe. Weaver's hands hovered over Decker, just barely grazing the man's shoulders and head. "Brothers and sisters, let us pray," the Reverend intoned solemnly, his head thrown back, his eyes still sealed shut. "This man comes before us today asking for my help, asking for the Lord Almighty's help in casting out of his weary body this dreadful disease. This plague that weakens him, that threatens his very life." From various corners of the congregation came muffled "Amens" and other murmured entreaties for God's assistance. The devisiveness that had threatened to cleave the group only moments before had vanished as the church's occupants found themselves now united against a common enemy. "And so, dear Lord, we come to You. Asking for Your blessing on this man. Asking for Your assistance, Your love, Your might to do the impossible. To heal this man. To make him whole once more. To return him to his family as he once was. Free of sickness. Free of disease." More privately offered prayers were mumbled. Some parishoners began to slowly rock in their seats, their faces closed in concentration. One woman across the aisle from Scully wept freely. Much to her amazement, the agent found herself on the verge of tears. She couldn't help it. She didn't know where exactly it came from but some something, some *power* had entered the church's confines that morning. It ebbed and flowed, winding its way through those assembled; its center, the Reverend. Weaver's hands were now away from Martin Decker's trembling form. The reverend's arms were open, palms up, as if he meant to capture the raw energy swirling around him, to cage it in the hopes of channeling it to his own end. "Help me, Lord," Weaver entreated, swaying slightly, his eyes still closed, a smile of ecstasy lighting his face. "Help me to do Your work. Help me to heal this man. I ask this of You, Lord. In Your name." With this last invocation, Weaver's eyes flew open, his hands swooping down onto Decker's head. The stricken man's back arched, his shoulders and head tilting back. Decker's teeth closed sharply on his lower lip, a small sound of surprise and what sounded to Scully like pain trickled from his mouth. Weaver kept his hands where they were, his eyes boring into Decker's. For an endless succession of seconds it felt to Scully as if the entire sanctuary held its breath. No one dared twitch. Instead, they waited. Every pair of eyes focused on the whip lean man in the golden robe whose very essence seemed to be pouring into the crouched figure before him. Suddenly, Decker cried out, a strangled choking sound that snapped Scully out of her silent contemplation of the apparent miracle taking place before her very eyes. She started just as Decker crumpled to a broken heap at the front of the congregation. Seemingly rooted to the spot, Weaver didn't move. He stood stunned, staring down unblinking at the man at his feet. Finally, his hand quivering ever so slightly, he reached down and gently rolled Decker onto his back. The man's eyes were open. And unseeing. "Oh no!" Weaver mumbled brokenly. "Oh, dear God, no!" Scully ran up the aisle, past people who were just beginning to stir in confusion in their seats. She got to Decker quickly, and bent down to search for a pulse, a heartbeat, anything. And found no sign of life. Questions silently piling on top of one another, she glanced up at the Reverend. He was backing away in shock, his horror at the situation, a living breathing thing. "Oh, no . . ." Weaver murmured as he inched further and further away, tears streaking his cheeks. "I've killed him. I've killed him just like the others." * * * * * * * * Continued in Part VII