The X-Files: I Want to Believe

by Max Allan Collins

  “Who did?”

  “Father Joe.”

  Mulder opened the medicine cabinet, took out his safety razor and a can of shaving cream. Closing the cabinet, he saw Scully in the mirror again, and she was frowning in surprise.

  She said again, “Mulder—what are you doing?”

  He filled a palm with shaving cream and began applying the stuff to his bearded face. “Is it a tranquilizer you’d give a dog?”

  But she didn’t answer him, instead saying, “This Father Joe character, Mulder, he’s a phony. He pulls these so-called visions out of thin air, and now he’s got you straining to connect them. That’s a standard carny trick, Mulder—next thing to a cold reading.”

  “When I see someone cry tears of blood in the snow,” he said, putting on more shaving cream, “at a crime scene they recognize, without ever having visited it…I’ve got to go out on a limb and say maybe it’s not a carny trick. You know what I mean?”

  She cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “Tears of blood?”

  “Tears of blood. How do you fake that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know how to fake that, Mulder. I don’t know that it’s not indicative of a medical condition, or the result of a life of depravity and dissolution…both reasonable routes to go down, considering. But I do know that there are limits to which obsession can affect the outcome of the inevitable.”

  He was in no mood to hear this. He began to shave.

  Gently, she said, “It’s what you were just telling me.”

  He’d as much as told Scully she was trying to save this sick boy to somehow reclaim William; and now she was telling Mulder he was trying to save a missing FBI agent to “find” his sister.

  He could have gotten mad. He could have said, Bullshit.

  But instead he said only, “This isn’t about obsession.”

  In the mirror, Scully looked exhausted; she seemed to be trying to choose between finding something else to say and resigning herself to saying nothing else at all.

  He paused in his shaving to turn and look at her not in the mirror but directly. “My sister is dead. This agent is alive.”

  But Scully shook her head. “I don’t think she is alive, Mulder. And I don’t think there’s a thing we can do about it.”

  He turned back to the mirror and stared at her there. “I think you’re wrong.”

  She sighed, shook her head; she seemed too tired to fight about it. She wheeled and left the bathroom, leaving Mulder stuck with just his own reflection as his beard slowly gave way to tender flesh.

  Scully crawled into the bed and felt very alone, lying there quietly frustrated, knowing she had caused all this by talking Mulder into getting involved in the first place. She was wondering if she would ever get to sleep when, as if in answer to that question, her cell phone rang.

  Sitting up, she frowned, trying to remember where she’d left the damn thing. Then she got up out of bed and followed the trill to the top of her dresser.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively. Few people had this number…

  “Dr. Scully?” came a male voice she didn’t recognize.

  “Yes?” Her heart raced—was this bad news from the hospital, about Christian?

  “I need to patch you through, Dr. Scully. I have Dakota Whitney calling for you…”

  Then a connection was made and Scully could hear the sound of travel in the background, and quickly realized Whitney was no doubt calling from an FBI Expedition on yet another country road.

  “I’m sorry to call you at this hour, Dr. Scully,” Whitney said. Her voice jiggled a little from a fairly rough ride. “I’m trying to reach Fox Mulder.”

  From the doorway, Mulder, bare-chested, wiping shaving cream from his now smooth face, asked, “Who is it?”

  Scully said to Whitney, “Has there been a break?”

  Mulder came to where Scully stood and asked, “Did they find her?”

  Scully heard Whitney say, “We’re pursuing another lead…”

  “From another source?” Scully asked.

  “Same source. But new news…”

  Scully closed her eyes in frustration as she heard, in the background, Father Joe yelling, “Here—turn here!…It’s here…it’s here…”

  Mulder was next to her, looking like his old self, like he was about ten years old with that newly shaved mug and the earnest eyes.

  “It’s for you,” Scully said, and handed him the phone.

  Chapter 6

  Rural Virginia

  January 11

  Despite the darkness of the night—or rather of the early morning—Dana Scully, at the wheel of her Taurus, had no difficulty catching up with the FBI team. Mulder, riding next to her, had navigated—this, it seemed, was one of the same snowbound country roads he, ASAC Whitney, SA Drummy, and Father Joe had traversed the morning before.

  Not that the wintry landscape past midnight didn’t have its own unique beauty as well as an undeniable foreboding aspect—even before Scully and Mulder spotted the two black Expeditions parked on the shoulder, they’d seen the beams of flashlights cutting the night in ghostly streaks.

  Scully drew up behind an Expedition on this otherwise long, empty stretch of moon-washed winterscape cleaved by a ribbon of asphalt. She was first to get out, bundled in her brown coat with UGG boots riding high on her jeans. Quickly she moved to Whitney, in black thermal FBI jacket, who stood in the road near an Expedition. The agent did not look happy.

  Alarmed, Scully asked, “You found her? Was she…?”

  But Whitney did not immediately answer. Her ice-blue eyes had gone past Scully, who glanced back to see Mulder coming up. For just a moment, the ASAC didn’t seem to recognize the clean-shaven version of the former agent. Whitney finally smiling a little in recognition at this new version of Mulder was a female moment not entirely lost on Scully.

  With perhaps some irritation showing, Scully got Whitney back on point, saying, “Did you find her?”

  “No,” Whitney said.

  As Mulder came up beside Scully, they exchanged relieved expressions. However dire the odds against the agent’s survival, Scully shared with everyone else on the search team the same hope that those odds would be beaten.

  “When we spoke,” Scully reminded Whitney, “you said there was news…?”

  Whitney sighed and then smirked a little. “I’m afraid the ‘news’ is that our favorite psychic has led us to the exact same site where he took us before.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. This was something of a false alarm. But you are here, so…”

  Scully’s urge was to turn around and get back in her car; but Mulder was already loping off across the snow-covered field toward where the flashlight beams were carving up the night. With a small twitch of a frown, Scully fell in behind him, and then Whitney fell in after Scully.

  Those flashlight beams were trained on the ground now, half a dozen agents in their FBI jackets poring over the landscape as they kicked methodically through the heavy stuff, renewed by even more snowfall this afternoon. Leading this plodding charge was Father Joe Crissman himself, currently stopping to face a perturbed-looking Agent Drummy.

  The African-American agent was breathing hard, not from exertion Scully would guess—more like annoyance, his breath pouring forth like smoke.

  Actual smoke slipped from the ex-priest’s lips—he was smoking a cigarette, a shambling, unshaven figure who looked more like a homeless man seeking shelter than a psychic leading an FBI search team.

  Crissman, seemingly frustrated himself, was saying to Drummy, “Stay with it. You’re going to find it—”

  “That’s what you keep saying,” Drummy said. “Find what? Where?”

  Crissman sucked on the cigarette. Held the smoke in his lungs. Exhaled. “You’re going to find a body.”

  Drummy’s eyes and nostrils flared. “But you keep telling us she’s alive!”

  Nodding, his shaggy hair with a nest-of-snakes life of its own, Father Joe said, “She is.”

&
nbsp; Drummy threw up his arms and shook his head and looked toward the approaching Mulder, Scully, and Whitney, his expression saying, I give up!

  Scully couldn’t blame the man. To her, Father Joe’s actions put the emphasis on the first part of the word: act. Nothing about his behavior or his bearing seemed particularly psychic to her. She had encountered any number of individuals on the X-Files assignment who had convinced her to take the notion of psychic phenomena seriously. Father Joe did not stack up with them.

  Drummy, shaking his head again, said to Whitney, “We could do this all night. Be out here till dawn. I respectfully suggest we bail.”

  Whitney seemed to be considering the agent’s plea.

  He gestured to the searchers nearby, seemingly on a snipe hunt with their flashlight beams stroking the snow. “Your people are running on empty,” Drummy said.

  Whitney drew in a breath and expelled it in a gray cloud. “Call it,” she said to Drummy. “Let’s pull the plug.”

  Drummy was too professional to grin at that, but Scully could tell he almost had. The formidable agent raised two fingers to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle that split the night. Then he began walking back toward the road and the waiting SUVs, the other agents falling in with him and behind him.

  Whitney glanced apologetically at Scully and said, “I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed off.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Really. I’m sorry for calling you out.”

  With that, Whitney plodded off behind the other agents.

  Now Scully was alone with Mulder and Father Joe. She was about to give Mulder a look that said they, too, should bail on this effort; but Mulder’s attention was on Father Joe, who was staring off into the dark, snowy distance.

  Mulder asked, gently, “What do you see?”

  Inwardly, Scully groaned.

  Father Joe shook his head. Closed his eyes.

  Really, she thought, this is the worst psychic act I’ve ever seen…

  “I see a face,” the ex-priest said, eyes still shut. “I see…eyes. Staring out.”

  Faint excitement edged Mulder’s voice. “Who? Who is it?”

  Crissman shook his head; his eyes remained closed. “It’s…unclear. It’s like I were looking through…like through dirty glass.”

  Scully gaped at Mulder. Surely he wasn’t buying this?

  “It’s out there,” the priest said. He moved his head as if trying to help his vision; but unless he could see through his eyelids, he wasn’t seeing anything. “I know it.”

  Then the priest’s eyes popped open.

  Scully almost jumped a little, then thought, Cheap effect, and Father Joe began to walk, half in-a-trance, half dog-picked-up-a-scent. Underdressed for the chill in the tweed jacket and twill trousers, he staggered and yet moved with purpose, apparently toward a distant rock outcropping.

  Mulder just watched him go, for a few moments, then mumbled, “What does he mean…? ‘Through dirty glass’?”

  Then he went after the priest.

  Scully worked to tag along. “Mulder…Mulder!”

  Without looking at her, as if dazed, he said, “What?”

  “Stop. Stop!”

  But he didn’t. He just kept on tromping through the snow, after the father.

  Scully dogged his heels, saying, “Jesus, Mulder…it’s one in the morning.”

  “Feel free to give up like everybody else.”

  “This is not my job anymore, Mulder…”

  He glanced back at her. “No. It’s mine. But you are my booking agent.”

  She caught up and put a gloved hand on the sleeve of his topcoat, stopping him. He turned to her, expressionless. How dearly she could love that baby face of his. And how deeply it could frustrate her…

  “You’re right,” she said, her expression earnest, her eyes almost begging him. “This is my fault.”

  He smirked, half a smirk, anyway. “What do you mean, ‘your fault’…?”

  She waved a gloved hand. “For getting you involved in this. I thought it would be a good thing for you. Get you out of that office of yours and back into the world.”

  He nodded, barely. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Yes. Yes.” She shook her head and gazed at him yearningly. “But not the right thing for you.”

  His eyes tightened a little as he stared at her; he didn’t understand what she meant, and he wanted to. But she couldn’t find the words.

  Mulder said, “You think Father Joe is a fraud. You despise him for who he is, or anyway who he was. I get that. But, Scully—I believe this man.”

  She said it as gently as she could: “You want to believe him, Mulder.”

  He drew away from her, pulling his arm from her grasp.

  Scully, feeling desperation rise within her, said, “This isn’t about a missing FBI agent, Mulder. This is about what it’s always been about—this is you trying to save your sister.”

  He gave her the blank look again. “My sister’s dead.”

  “Yes she is. But that’s never stopped you looking for her.”

  Mulder turned away from Scully, his eyes tracking Father Joe up ahead.

  Letting all the emotion come in, Scully said, “I’ve been through this too many years with you. You believing you can save her. You cannot save her, Mulder…not now and not ever.”

  She had his attention back, all right, but she could see the resentment in his eyes.

  “I’m serious, Mulder.” Her tone drew a line in the snow. “I won’t do this again. I won’t watch you punish yourself anymore, for something you can’t fix and you can’t change.”

  He stared at her with the kind of contempt reserved only for those you love. She’d spoken with an air of finality, and they both knew that what he said next would matter—his words would be the kind that can’t be taken back.

  Ever.

  He said, “Then don’t.”

  Mulder’s gaze moved past Scully toward the FBI agents, Whitney, Drummy, and the rest, halfway back to their vehicles. He gave a whistle as loud as Drummy’s had been, and their faces turned toward the couple.

  Mulder yelled, “Hold up!…I need your team back!”

  The figures, no doubt a bone-tired group glad to be on the way home, stood staring back at Mulder in disbelief. Then all eyes were on the person in charge: Whitney. It would be her call.

  Mulder didn’t wait for the answer. He began to stride after Father Joe.

  Scully, working to keep up, asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to ignore you.”

  “Because I’m right.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Talk about an obsession.”

  Finality or not, harsh words or no, they were still a couple, bickering the way only two people who’d been together forever could do.

  They quickly closed the distance between themselves and Father Joe. What had appeared from far away to be a rock outcropping became in closer proximity a sheer granite face with a blue ice fall, startlingly beautiful in the midst of this stark winter landscape.

  His hands outstretched, Father Joe moved slowly toward the base of the ice fall and abruptly stopped.

  Then he turned to Mulder and Scully, who were trudging up behind him. “Here it is,” the priest said. “This is it…this is it…”

  Father Joe dropped to his knees, as if to beg or perhaps pray; but then instead he started to dig in the snow.

  Mulder walked up beside the kneeling man, and he, too, fell to his knees and began frantically digging through the deep white.

  And Scully just stood there. Watching them. Wondering if both of them had gone mad. Wondering if the ex-priest was going through some phony melodramatics that Mulder, who after all these years should have known better, had got caught up in. Down on his knees, ready to take the Kool-Aid…

  She could hear the FBI team returning, footsteps in the snow mingling with some grumbling as ASAC Whitney marched her team back to their psychic and the X-Files legend who was their c
onsultant.

  The two men continued digging with their gloved hands at the snow around the base of the ice fall, thrashing through the snow with a fervor that the results, so far at least, did not justify. Still, the FBI team crowded around, watching this strange, possibly pitiful sight.

  Mulder glanced back at the watching crowd. “Feel free to join in,” he said. “We need shovels here.”

  Then Mulder got to his feet and pulled Father Joe up with him, the ex-priest looking dazed. Mulder moved him away and nodded toward the team to take their places. Like little kids hoping teacher won’t insist they take a spot quiz, the agents looked to ASAC Whitney for mercy. They didn’t find any.

  Shovels were brought over from the SUVs, and before long the agents got to work, moving snow away from the base of the ice fall. But they, too, found more of the same: nothing. Finally they started to hit ice and could dig no farther.

  Drummy, shovel in hand, approached Whitney, saying, “It’s solid ice.”

  “No,” Mulder said.

  All eyes went to him. Including Scully’s.

  “It’s dirty glass,” he said.

  Mulder took a flashlight from Drummy and moved in among the remaining shovelers, who were giving up. But Mulder wasn’t giving up, he was if anything energized, and he sent the beam down along the revealed ice. The beam searched. So did Mulder’s eyes.

  Finally Mulder called, “Here!”

  But for a moment, everyone froze, as if winter had finally had its way with them. Then the entire group thawed to rush forward and gather around where Mulder stood as he pointed the light down into the snow and where ice had been uncovered.

  They all saw it. Scully saw it. And it was horrible.

  A woman’s head, a severed head, was encased in the ice. Her eyes were open and she stared right at them.

  The dead woman was looking at them, Scully knew, just as they were looking at her: like through dirty glass…

  Scully said to Drummy, “Is it her? Is that Agent Bannan?”

  Drummy frowned. “It could be. Not sure. Impossible to tell…”

  The thickness of ice indeed distorted the face of the victim.

  Still, Mulder had found something; the psychic had led them to something. Yet this was no triumph, or at least Scully knew it wouldn’t be to Mulder. She could see in his posture, in his face, how deflated he felt.