The X-Files: Antibodies (3 page)
She retrieved the battered target, studying her skill, and was pleased to see how well her sixteen shots had clustered around the center of the silhouetted chest.
Quantico instructors taught agents not to think of their mark as a person but as a “target.” She didn’t aim for the heart or the head or the side. She aimed for the
“center of mass.” She didn’t aim to shoot the bad guys—she simply “removed the target.”
Drawing her weapon and firing upon a suspect was the last possible resort of a good agent, not the proper way to end an investigation unless all other methods failed. Besides, the paperwork was horrendous. Once a federal agent fired her weapon, she had to account for every single shell casing expended—sometimes a difficult task during a heated running firefight.
Scully yanked the paper target from its binder clip and left the gunshot-spattered piece of support card-board hanging in place. She punched the computer controls to reset the target to its average point, and then looked up, startled to see her partner Mulder leaning against the wall in the observation gallery. She wondered how long he had been waiting for her.
“Good shooting, Scully,” he said. He didn’t ask whether she was simply doing target practice or somehow exorcising personal demons.
“Spying on me, Mulder?” she said lightly, trying to cover her surprise. After an awkward moment of silence she said, “All right, what is it?”
“A new case. And this one is going to capture your interest, no doubt about it.” He smiled.
She replaced her safety goggles on the proper hook and followed him. Even if they weren’t always believable, Mulder’s discoveries were always interesting and unusual.
Khe Sanh Khoffee Shoppe
Washington, D.C.
Monday, 8:44 A.M.
As Mulder led her out of the Hoover X Building, Scully wondered about the new case he had found almost as much as she dreaded the coffee shop where he planned to take her. Even his offhanded promise, “I’m buying,” hadn’t exactly won her over.
They walked together past the metal detector, out the door, and down the granite steps. At all corners of the big, box-like building, uniformed FBI security teams manned imposing-looking guard stations.
Mulder and Scully passed alongside the line of tourists that had already begun to form for the first FBI tour of the day. Though most of the pedestrians wore the formal business attire typical in the bureau-cratic environment of Washington, D.C., the knowing looks told Scully that the tourists recognized them as obvious federal agents.
Other federal buildings stood tall around them, ornate and majestic—the architecture in downtown Washington had to compete with itself. Upstairs in antibodies
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many of these buildings were numerous consulting firms, law offices, and high-powered lobbyist organizations. The bottom levels contained cafes, delis, and newsstands.
Mulder held the glass door of the Khe Sanh Khoffee Shoppe. “Mulder, why do you want to take me here so often?” she asked, scanning the meager clientele inside. Many immigrant Korean families had opened similar businesses in the federal district—usually delicious cafeterias, coffee shops, and restaurants.
But the proprietors of the Khe Sanh Khoffee Shoppe imitated mediocre American cuisine with a vengeance, with unfortunate results.
“I like the place,” Mulder said with a shrug. “They serve coffee in those nice big Styrofoam cups.”
Scully went inside without further argument. In her opinion, they had more important things to do . . .
and she wasn’t hungry.
Handwritten daily specials were listed on a white board propped on an easel near a large and dusty silk plant. A refrigerator filled with bottled water and soft drinks stood beside the cash register. An empty steam table occupied a large portion of the coffee shop; at lunchtime the proprietors served a cheap—and cheap-tasting—lunch buffet of various Americanized Oriental specialties.
Mulder set his briefcase on one of the cleared tables, then bolted for the cash register and coffee line as Scully took her seat. “Can I get you anything, Scully?” he called.
“Just coffee,” she said, against her better judgment.
He raised his eyebrows. “They’ve got a great fried egg and hash browns breakfast special.”
“Just coffee,” she repeated.
Mulder came back with two large Styrofoam cups.
Scully could smell the bitter aroma even before he set 16
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the cup in front of her. She held it in both hands, enjoying the warmth on her fingertips.
Getting down to business, Mulder snapped open his briefcase. “This one will interest you, I think.” He withdrew a manila folder. “Portland, Oregon,” he said. “This is DyMar Laboratory, a federally funded cancer research center.”
He handed her a slick brochure showcasing a beautifully modern laboratory facility: a glass-and-steel framework trimmed with handsome wood deck-ing, support beams, and hardwood floors. The reception areas were heavily decorated with glowing golden wood and potted plants, while the laboratory areas were clean, white, and sterile.
“Nice place,” Scully said as she folded the pages together again. “I’ve read a lot about current cancer research, but I’m not aware of their work.”
“DyMar tried to keep a low profile,” Mulder said,
“until recently.”
“What changed?” Scully asked, setting the brochure down on the small table.
Mulder removed the next item, a black-and-white glossy photo of the same place. This time the building was destroyed, gutted by fire, barricaded by chain-link fences—an abandoned war zone.
“Presumably sabotage and arson,” Mulder said.
“The investigation is still pending. This happened a week and a half ago. A Portland newspaper received a letter from a protest group—Liberation Now—claiming responsibility for the destruction. But nobody’s ever heard of them. They were supposedly animal rights activists upset at some of the research the lead scientist, Dr. David Kennessy, was performing. High-tech research, and a lot of it was classified.”
“And the activists burned the place down?”
“Blew it up and burned it down, actually.”
“That’s rather extreme, Mulder—usually those antibodies
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groups are just content to make their statement and get some publicity.” Scully stared down at the charred building.
“Exactly, Scully. Somebody really wanted to stop the experimentation.”
“What was Kennessy’s research that got the group so excited?”
“The information on that is very vague,” Mulder said, his forehead creasing. His voice became troubled.
“New cancer therapy techniques—really cutting-edge stuff—he and his brother Darin worked together for years, in an unlikely combination of approaches. David was the biologist and medical chemist, while Darin came to the field from a background in electrical engineering.”
“Electrical engineering and cancer reseach?”
Scully asked. “Those two don’t usually go together.
Was he developing a new treatment apparatus or diagnostic equipment?”
“Unknown,” Mulder said. “Darin Kennessy apparently had a falling-out with his brother six months ago. He abandoned his work at DyMar and joined a fringe group of survivalists out in the Oregon wilderness. Needless to say, he isn’t reachable by phone.”
Scully looked again at the brochure, but found no mention of the specific team members. “So, did David Kennessy continue the work even without his brother?”
“Yes,” Mulder said. “He and their junior research partner, Jeremy Dorman. I’ve tried to locate their records and reports to determine the exact nature of their investigations, but most of the documents have been removed from the files. As far as I know, Kennessy concentrated on obscure techniques that have never been previously used in cancer research.”
Scully frowned. “Why would anyone be so upset about that? Did his research show any progress?”
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Mulder gulped his coffee. “Well, apparently the members of the mob were outraged at some supposedly cruel and unapproved animal tests Kennessy had performed. No details, but I suppose the good doctor strayed a bit from the rules of the Geneva Convention.” Mulder shrugged. “Most of the records were burned or destroyed, and it’s hard to get any concrete information.”
“Anyone hurt in the fire?” Scully asked.
“Kennessy and Dorman were both reported killed in the blaze, though the investigators had trouble identifying—or even accounting for—all the body parts.
Remember, the lab didn’t just burn, it exploded. There must have been some kind of bombs planted. That group meant business, Scully.”
“That’s all interesting, Mulder, but I’m not sure why it’s interesting to you.”
“I’m getting to that.”
Scully’s brow furrowed as she looked down at the glossy print of the burned lab. She handed the photo back to Mulder.
At other tables, people in business suits hunched over, continuing their own conversations, oblivious to anyone listening in. Scully kept her senses alert out of habit as a federal investigator. A group of men from NASA sat at one table, discussing proposals and mod-ifications to a new interplanetary probe, while other men at a different table talked in hushed tones about how best to cut the space program budget.
“Kennessy had apparently been threatened before,” Mulder said, “but this group came out of nowhere and drew a big crowd. I’ve found no record of any organization called Liberation Now before the DyMar incident, until the
Portland Oregonian
received the letter claiming responsibility.”
“Why would Kennessy have kept working under such conditions?” Scully picked up the colorful brochure and antibodies
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unfolded it again, skimming down the predictable propa-ganda statements about “new cancer breakthroughs,” “remarkable treatment alternatives,” and “a cure is just around the corner.” She took a deep breath; the words struck a chord with her. Oncologists had been using those same phrases since the 1950s.
Mulder withdrew another photo of a boy eleven or twelve years old. The boy was smiling for the camera, but looked skeletal and weak, his face gaunt, his skin gray and papery, much of his hair gone.
“This is his twelve-year-old son Jody, terminally ill with cancer—acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Kennessy was desperate to find a cure, and he certainly wasn’t going to let a few protesters delay his work.
Not for a minute.”
She rested her chin in her hands. “I still don’t see how an arson and property-destruction case would capture your interest.”
Mulder removed the last photo from the folder. A man in a security guard’s uniform lay sprawled in the burned debris, his face twisted in a mask of agony, his skin blotched and swollen with sinuous lumps, arms and legs bent at strange angles. He looked like a spider that had been dosed with bug spray.
“This man was found at the burned lab just last night,” Mulder said. “Look at those symptoms. No one has figured it out yet.”
Scully snatched the photo and looked intently at it. Her eyes showed her alarm. “He appears to be dead from some fast-acting and exceedingly virulent pathogen.”
Mulder waited for her to absorb the gruesome details, then said, “I wonder if something in Kennessy’s research could be responsible? Something that didn’t entirely perish in the fire . . .”
Scully frowned slightly as she concentrated.
“Well, we don’t know what exactly the arsonists did 20
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before they destroyed the lab. Maybe they liberated some of the experimental animals . . . maybe something very dangerous got loose.”
Mulder took another sip of his coffee, then retrieved the papers from the folder. He waited for her to draw her own conclusions.
Scully let her interest show plainly as she continued to study the photo. “Look at those tumors . . .
How fast did the symptoms appear?”
“The victim was apparently normal and healthy when he reported to work a few hours earlier.” He leaned forward intently. “What do you think this guard stumbled upon?”
Scully pursed her lips in concern. “I can’t really say without seeing it myself. Is this man’s body being held in quarantine?”
“Yes. I thought you might want to come with me to take a look.”
Scully took her first sip of the coffee, and it did indeed taste as awful as she had feared. “Let’s go, Mulder,” she said, standing up from the table. She handed him back the colorful brochure with its optimistic proclamations.
Kennessy must have performed some radical and unorthodox tests on his lab animals, she thought. It was possible that after the violent destruction of the facility, and with this possible disease outbreak, some of the animals had escaped. And perhaps they carried something deadly.
State Highway 22
Coast Range, Oregon
Monday, 10:00 P.M.
The dog stopped in the middle of the road, X distracted on his way to the forest. The ditch smelled damp and spicy with fallen leaves. Roadside reflectors poked out of the ditches beside gravel driveways and rural mailboxes. Unlike the rich spruce and cedar forest, the road smelled of vehicles, tires, hot engines, and belch-ing exhaust.
The twin headlights of the approaching car looked like bright coins. The image fixated the dog, imprint-ing spots on his dark-adapted eyes. He could hear the car dominating the night noises of insects and stirring branches in the trees around him.
The car sounded loud. The car sounded angry.
The road was wet and dark, shrouded by thick trees.
The kids were cranky after a long day of traveling . . .
and at this point the impromptu vacation didn’t seem like such a good idea after all.
The rugged and scenic coast was still a dozen 22
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miles away, and then it would be another unknown number of miles up the highway until they encountered one of the clustered tourist havens filled with cafes, art galleries, souvenir shops, and places to stay—each one called an “inn” or a “lodge,” never a simple motel.
Ten miles back, they had driven past a lonely crossroads occupied by a gas station, a hamburger joint, and a rundown fifties-era motel with a pink neon NO flickering next to the VACANCY sign.
