by Kami Garcia
“Fine. Her disappearance, or whatever you call it.” Mulder bounced his foot, since he couldn’t pace. “We have information about the case.”
“Take a seat.” The cop gestured at two plastic chairs pulled up beside one of the desks. “I’ll see if the detectives working it are around.”
Mulder and Gimble sat down, but Mulder kept his eyes fixed on the officer with the mustache. What if nobody wanted to talk to them? That had happened to him more than once at the police station in Chilmark.
“He’s talking to those guys by the vending machine,” Gimble said. “Think they’re the detectives?”
A tall man with squinty eyes, wearing a wrinkled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stood next to a short guy with a Santa Claus gut, wearing a fedora.
Laurel and Hardy.
“I know they are,” Mulder said, hoping they hadn’t noticed him at the crime scene. “I saw them at the cemetery.”
Gimble’s eyes went wide. “Did you talk to them?”
“No.” Mulder watched as Laurel and Hardy approached.
“They don’t look friendly.”
The detective with the big gut spoke first. “We heard you have information about the Sarah Lowe case?” He flashed a badge. “I’m Detective Solano, and this is my partner, Detective Walker.”
Mulder stood and wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans before he shook Detective Solano’s hand. “My name is Fox Mulder.”
Solano laughed. “I’m supposed to believe that’s a real name?”
Gimble popped out of his seat. “I’m Gimble. I mean, Gary Winchester. I didn’t see the body or anything, so you probably don’t want to talk to me.”
“The body?” Solano narrowed his eyes.
Mulder shoved Gimble out of the way before he opened his mouth again and dug a deeper hole for them. “What he means is, when I was jogging by Rock Creek Cemetery this morning, I saw the police cars and I stopped to see what was going on.”
“Get to the part when you saw the body,” Walker said.
“A detective unzipped the body bag, and that’s when I saw the little boy.”
Walker and Solano exchanged a look.
“That’s the reason I’m here,” Mulder rushed on. “I figured out there’s a connection between Billy Christian’s death and Sarah Lowe’s kidnapping.”
“Oh, you did? Why don’t you enlighten us?” Walker sounded irritated.
This wasn’t going the way Mulder had hoped. “In the picture of Sarah Lowe they showed on the news, she was wearing white pajamas with gray elephants on them. There was a stain right above the zipper.” He pointed to the spot on his chest. “Billy Christian was wearing the same pajamas.”
“You seem like a nice kid,” Solano said. “And I’m sure you’re trying to help. But do you know how many pairs of elephant pajamas there are in the world?”
“Lots,” Walker added.
“I don’t mean the same style of pajamas,” Mulder said. “Someone dressed Billy Christian in the exact same pair that Sarah Lowe had on when she was kidnapped. The stain was the same shape and color, and it was in the same spot.”
“Mulder notices that kind of stuff,” Gimble explained. “He has a photographic memory.”
Walker snorted. “Well, that changes everything. Can you predict the future, too?”
Solano laughed and his gut jiggled.
“This isn’t a joke.” Mulder raised his voice louder than he intended, and Detective Walker’s expression changed from amused to angry.
“Get outta here.” Walker pointed at the door. “We have real work to do.”
Gimble grabbed Mulder’s arm and tried to steer him toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s go before they arrest us.”
But Mulder didn’t care. “The same person took both kids. Don’t you want to catch him before Sarah Lowe ends up dead, too?”
Solano wiped his forehead with his sleeve and pointed at Mulder. “If we don’t find that little girl, it’ll be because of people like you. We already have dozens of bogus leads to follow up on, and every minute we’re checking out a dead end is a minute we’re wasting.”
“But I’m not making this up.” Mulder’s shoulders sagged. “It’s not a dead end.”
“Stop talking,” Gimble whispered.
A uniformed cop entered the building, leading a scrawny guy by the arm. The guy was barefoot and his hands were cuffed in front of him, below the cracked iron-on image of the Village People on the front of his T-shirt.
Solano nodded at the cop as he passed, then turned his attention back to Mulder. “Seems to me like you need an escort.” He was reaching for Mulder’s collar when pandemonium broke out in the precinct.
The scrawny guy in cuffs suddenly pulled away from the cop. He leaped up onto the nearest desk and shouted, “You don’t have chains strong enough to hold me!”
The sergeant’s office door swung open, and he surveyed the scene. “What the hell is going on out here? Get his ass down from there!”
“He’s part of the head count from the PCP bust on Sixteenth Street,” explained the cop who’d lost hold of the guy. “He thinks he’s Superman.”
The sergeant dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t give a crap what he thinks. Get him down now.”
“We need some help over here,” the cop called out casually.
Why didn’t he seem worried? Mulder had seen news reports about people high on PCP doing bizarre things like jumping through plate-glass windows because they couldn’t feel pain.
“Your chains can’t hold me,” the junkie taunted again.
Several cops in street clothes surrounded the desk. “Come on down,” one of them urged.
The junkie’s eyes went wild. “You gonna jump me? Four against one? While I’m cuffed? Not today, punks!” He raised his hands above his head and yanked his wrists apart.
Mulder heard the sickening crack of bones breaking, and the chain between the steel cuffs snapped. One of the junkie’s wrists was at an unnatural angle, broken links of stainless steel hanging from the metal bracelets.
A cop winced and shook his head. “That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”
“Did you see that?” Gimble looked stunned. “He broke his own wrist.”
The junkie took off, jumping from desktop to desktop. Criminals cuffed to the desks cheered him on … right up until the moment when four cops tackled the guy and shoved him to the floor.
Detective Solano shooed Mulder and Gimble away. “Get the hell outta here.”
“If you would just listen—” Mulder tried again.
Solano spun around. “I’m not asking anymore.”
Gimble grabbed Mulder’s sleeve and dragged him out of the precinct. “I’m not getting thrown in a holding cell with a guy who literally broke out of his handcuffs.”
Mulder slumped against the wall outside, defeated. “The detectives haven’t figured out the pajamas were the same, and they didn’t believe me when I told them. I bet they won’t even compare the photos to check.”
“They’re not going to find the little girl, are they?” Gimble asked.
“I’d be impressed if Solano and Walker could find their way out of a paper bag.” Mulder kicked an empty brown bottle and watched it roll toward the parking lot.
“Maybe it’s a sign you should stay out of this.”
Usually nothing could quiet the constant storm that raged inside Mulder, but a sudden calm came over him.
“Or it’s a sign that I have to find her myself.”
CHAPTER 9
Mulder Residence
April 1, 11:02 A.M.
The next morning, Mulder’s bedroom resembled the scene of a burglary. He had spent most of the night drawing and flipping through the books and papers scattered all over the floor—books about serial murder; Washington, DC, street guides; and the secondhand psychology textbooks he’d used in his campaign to get rid of the shrinks his dad forced him to see after Samantha disappeared. He had tossed his desk drawers in search of a sk
etch pad, which he ended up finding under his bed, and he spent hours drawing the dead bird with the arrows sticking out of its body. It wasn’t the best drawing, but after several attempts, the bird didn’t look like a pear with wings anymore.
Mulder kicked through a pile of clothes, in search of a clean pair of jeans and his favorite red T-shirt with the white stripes on the sleeves. A box of cereal hidden under a sweatshirt flew across the floor, scattering stale marshmallows on the carpet. But he hardly noticed.
Everything Mulder did, or didn’t do, was to the extreme. He always had trouble sleeping, but often it turned into full-blown insomnia. After he watched his first Knicks game, he went to the library and read everything he could find about to the team. By the following week, he knew five seasons’ worth of statistics. His father called these tendencies obsessive.
Mulder preferred focused.
And right now he was focused on finding Sarah Lowe.
The elephant pajamas were the only clue, and Billy Christian had been the last person wearing them. After downing two cups of instant coffee, Mulder skimmed last week’s newspapers for details related to Billy Christian and the investigation, but he didn’t find much. It was strange, considering how much information he found about Sarah Lowe. Her mother had shared the important details during the newscast, and journalists had covered the rest, interviewing everyone from Sarah’s neighbors to her kindergarten teacher.
Why hadn’t they interviewed Billy’s teachers? Or his neighbors?
After digging through the pile of newspapers, Mulder finally found Billy’s address in a tiny article in the Washington Post. He recognized the name of the neighborhood, and the lack of information suddenly made sense.
* * *
Mulder checked the address on the piece of ripped newspaper in his hand as he drove through Blue Hill. When he spotted Billy’s house, he parked across the street. Blue Hill was one of the older neighborhoods in Northeast DC. The same Irish Catholic working-class families had lived here for generations—at least according to the guide on the Timeless Trolley Tour he’d taken right after he moved in with his dad. Mulder liked history, and he also liked knowing his way around.
Blue Hill was an insular community, and when a tragedy hit close to home, people in neighborhoods like that stuck together—and to one story. Mulder hadn’t learned any of that from the trolley tour. Those were things you learned firsthand from living in a community like Blue Hill or Martha’s Vineyard.
He stood on the sidewalk, looking at the Christians’ modest home from across the street. The white house had black shutters and a small front porch, with a skateboard leaning against the railing.
Was that Billy’s skateboard? Or did he have a sibling?
Mulder knew he couldn’t just knock on the door and start asking questions. Billy’s parents were probably still in shock.
But a little girl’s life is at stake.
A screen door squeaked open behind him. An old lady wearing a flowered housecoat and pink curlers in her hair stepped onto the porch, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said politely, hoping to put her at ease.
“That depends.” She settled into a white rocking chair, watching him. “If you’re a reporter, I don’t want you standing in front of my house. And don’t tell me that the sidewalk is public property, or I’ll turn my dog loose on you.”
Mulder liked the idea that he looked old enough to have a real job. Then again, maybe the old lady didn’t have the best vision.
“I’m not a reporter. I’m a senior in high school.”
She craned her neck to get a better look at him. “You don’t live around here. I’ve never seen you before, and I know everyone.”
He heard scratching on the other side of her screen door.
“I’m coming,” the lady hollered at whatever was on the other side. It took her a moment, but she opened the door and a tiny orange puffball trotted out.
A Pomeranian? That was the dog she’d threatened to sic on him?
Mulder raised an eyebrow.
“She’s meaner than she looks,” the woman said defensively.
The puffball ran down the porch steps and straight to Mulder, yipping and wagging her tail. He bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. The old lady seemed shocked.
“Do you have bacon in your pocket?” she asked, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to carry around.
“No, ma’am. Why?”
The lady clapped and the dog ran back up the steps. She scooped up the ball of fur and sat down in her rocking chair. “Gidget doesn’t like strangers.” Her logic was a little off, but at least she was talking to him.
Gidget sat up on her owner’s knees like a tiny lion.
“She seemed to like me,” Mulder reminded her.
“I noticed.” She rocked for a moment, then added, “And Gidget is an excellent judge of character. Last year, the post office messed around with the routes and we got a new mailman. Gidget hated the man the first time she laid eyes on him. Three months later we found out he was stealing social security checks out of the mailboxes.”
“My dad won’t let me have a dog.” Mulder wasn’t sure why he said it, but it was true. He glanced at Billy’s house.
Did Billy have a dog?
“Every child should have a dog,” she said. “You keep looking at the Christians’ house. Do you know the family? Or were you just curious?”
“Neither.” Mulder stared at the sidewalk. Somebody had traced a heart with two sets of initials in cement while it was still wet. “Someone kidnapped my sister when she was eight. I was home, too, but they only took her. So I know what it’s like. I just wish there was something I could do.”
“I’m sorry about your sister. Did the police find her—?” The old lady stretched out the word her, as if she’d caught herself before she said her body.
Mulder shook his head. “No. She’s still missing.”
The woman hugged her fur ball. “A child should be safe at home. It’s bad enough that I can’t walk Gidget outside after dark anymore without worrying about getting hit over the head. But after what happened to that sweet little boy, now I have to worry about a monster walking right through my front door.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
She can’t mean …
“Is that what happened to Billy? Someone came into the house?” His heart pounded in his ears as he waited for her answer.
The old lady walked over to the railing and lowered her voice. “Billy’s mother said the police didn’t want to release too many details, because it would take longer to look into all the tips people were calling in.”
Detective Solano had complained about following up on false tips and dead ends.
“But now that the little angel is gone, it can’t hurt to tell you.” She hugged Gidget. “Billy’s mother told me that he was playing on the living room floor with his Matchbox cars. The green one was his favorite,” she added, as though she was sharing a secret. “The phone rang and his mom walked into the kitchen to answer it. She swore she wasn’t gone for more than a minute or so. But when she came back, her baby was gone and the door was open.”
Mulder’s stomach bucked, and he almost puked. “The front door?”
She nodded, and the pink curlers jiggled. “That’s right. Can you imagine? His mother called the police, and they arrived in less than five minutes, but there was no trace of Billy. I looked out the window when I heard the sirens.”
“Do you remember what time it was?” His chest tightened.
“Must’ve been a few minutes before nine. I go to bed at nine o’clock on the dot every night.”
The sidewalk seemed to shift under Mulder’s feet. Billy Christian had been kidnapped from his home around the same time that Samantha and Sarah Lowe were taken. Even the details were eerily similar—all three children were eight-year-olds, playing in the living room just before they disappeared, and the front doors of their houses had been left open.<
br />
What if he was right and the same person was responsible?
Mulder had been so focused on finding a connection between Samantha’s disappearance and Billy’s and Sarah’s abductions that he hadn’t stopped to think about what it would mean if he found one. Mulder’s throat burned and he stared at the sidewalk, blinking back tears as he processed the truth. He didn’t want to be right anymore, because if he was …
It means my sister is dead.
CHAPTER 10
Mulder Residence
9:32 P.M.
“What time did you say she was getting here?” Gimble asked Mulder for the tenth time. They were camped out at Mulder’s apartment, waiting for Phoebe to show up.
“No clue. It depends on which airport she flew into.” A piece of information he didn’t know, because Phoebe had switched her flight to an earlier one without telling him until an hour ago, when she landed. Their conversation yesterday must have raised a red flag.
“I can’t believe she just changed her flight and hopped on a plane.” Gimble scooped some sunflower seeds out of the bag and alternated between crunching and talking. “That’s hot.”
“She always knows when I’m about to get myself into trouble,” Mulder said, flipping through the worn paperback the Major had given him.
Gimble noticed. “You’re actually reading Stormbringer? You must’ve been bored.”
More like I needed a distraction.
“You said it was a good book. And I’d already watched the Knicks lose to the Clippers, 116 to 126. I figured the book couldn’t be any worse.”
Mulder didn’t mention that before the game he’d spent most of the afternoon in the library, poring over microfiche, searching for articles about other missing children. If the person who killed Billy Christian and abducted Sarah Lowe was the same head case who had taken his sister, why the huge time gap? Or had the kidnapper taken other kids in between? Looking at photos of children who might never see their families again had left him feeling tense and edgy. He tucked the copy of Stormbringer in his back pocket.