NEW-Trust 4: Air (2/4) MSR by Parrotfish

[Parrotfish]

Trust 4: Air
by Parrotfish (parro...@ibm.net)
Part 2/4

The tiny morgue at Cape Alain Memorial Hospital was glaringly
white, the gleam of its tiled walls giving it the appearance of an
absurdly clean bathroom. Morgues are such hard places, I
mused, standing there in my starched, white lab coat. All
porcelain and steel and blank. The dead don't need soft pillows
or cheerful decorations.

An orderly wheeled in a gurney with a white sheet covering the
long, inanimate lump of a corpse. A chart was clipped at one
end. I picked it up and studied it carefully. It was obvious at a
glance that it contained little information of interest, but I spent a
long time looking at it anyway.

The moment I was waiting for refused to come. The knot in my
stomach would not dissolve. The pounding in my head would
not ease. I couldn't put it off any longer. I hung the chart in its
place and pulled back the sheet.

Male. About 35-40 years of age. Good physical condition.
White. Very white. Deathly white. Naked. Cold.

How long before another doctor in a starched, white lab coat
pulls back a sheet to reveal ... me?

I got on with it.

Mulder came in as I was cleaning up.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" he said,
gesturing toward the body on the table.

"Joseph Forrester. Age 37. White male. Police officer. Cause of
death, asphyxiation. No known allergies, but it looks exactly like
an allergic reaction. We'll know when we get the results from the
blood work."

I didn't look at Mulder as I spoke, busying myself instead
dumping instruments in the non-sterile bin and pulling the sheet
up over what was left of Officer Forrester.

When I'd finished, I sneaked a glance at Mulder. He was
watching me in that way he has -- trying to look like he's not
watching me at all.

"What's next?" I asked, the edge in my voice conveying a
different meaning. Back off. Don't ask. I'm fine.

"What say we pay a little visit to the Reverend Isaiah Kolella?"

Message received.

"Let's go."

_______________________

The Miracle Hand of God House of Worship and World
Broadcast Center was located some twenty miles outside Cape
Alain, in the town of Dowell. In fact, the modern, cement-and-
steel structure seemed to be the only non-residential building in
Dowell, conveying the sense that the town's main business was
piety.

We flashed our badges at the bright-eyed, clean-cut kid sitting
behind the reception desk.

"How can I be of service?" she asked in a tone of voice that
indicated she used the very same words at least fifty times a day.

"We'd like to speak with Reverend Kolella," Mulder said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"Oh, I see. Well, usually Reverend Isaiah is very busy, but I
imagine he might be able to squeeze in a few minutes for the
defenders of our great nation."

I considered disabusing her of the notion that FBI agents served
in wars, then thought better of it. If it got us some time with her
boss, I supposed I could play the part. Besides, she was already
on the phone.

"Jeannie? It's Fran. There are two FBI people down here who'd
like to speak to him. Any chance? ... That's great. Thanks so
much, honey. Bye."

Fran pointed us down the hall behind her. "Upstairs and to the
right," she said with a smile.

"Thank you."

As we headed for the stairs, we passed a row of tall, heavy oak
doors, one of which stood open. I stopped and looked in.

The Miracle Hand of God sanctuary was cavernous. It looked
like a cross between an old-fashioned movie palace, a cathedral
and the auditorium of a Fortune 500 company. Every seat in the
place -- and there must have been a thousand of them -- seemed
individually focused on one point -- an imposing, carved-wood,
Gothic-style pulpit that stood on a wide, empty stage. Behind the
stage was a twenty-square-foot bank of video screens, which at
the moment were coordinated to display one huge image of an
ornate, stained-glass window.

I hadn't realized how long I'd been standing there when I heard
Mulder walk up behind me.

"Looks like Jesus wants his MTV," he said softly.

I smiled.

"Let's go meet the star of the show," I said.

____________________________

Jeannie ushered us into a large, comfortably appointed office.

"Reverend Isaiah Kolella?" I asked, flashing the badge again.
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, and this is Special Agent Fox
Mulder. We'd like to ask you some questions about some recent
deaths."

"The Lord is merciful and just," said the man behind the
massive, imposing desk. He was an older man, probably in his
60s, with thick, white hair, a deeply lined face and piercing
brown eyes.

"Did you know a Joseph Forrester?" I asked.

"No. Has he gone to judgment?"

"He died two days ago."

"The Lord's will be done."

"What about any of the following people?" I consulted my
notebook. "Delores Stacker. Janet McFee. Carl Anderson.
Howard Limky."

"I do not know the names."

I found myself at a loss what to ask next. Why they had died
while watching him on TV? That didn't seem like a great idea.

Fortunately, Mulder jumped in.

"Reverend Kolella, is your show taped or broadcast live?"

"We bring the word of the Lord live to our cable television
viewers three mornings a week."

It was odd, the way he just answered our questions without
asking why we wanted to know.

Mulder, perhaps as much at a loss as I, went straight to the point.

"Do you have any explanation why the five people we
mentioned would have died in a similar manner, all while
watching your show?"

I examined Kolella closely. He didn't bat an eye.

"The Lord is just," he said.

"Well, if any additional information comes to mind, please give
us a call," Mulder said, the sarcastic edge in his tone obvious. He
handed over his card, and we walked out.

_________________________

Our evening meal was a diner affair, a typical one for Mulder
and me. I was picking at a Greek salad, lost in thought, until
Mulder's voice broke in.

"Scully? Is that okay?"

"Umm... Is what okay?"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last, Mulder
decided to repeat his question. I was grateful he chose not to ask
what I'd been thinking about.

"I said, why don't we split up tomorrow? I'll talk to friends and
relatives of the deceased, see if the victims have anything in
common. You can review the medical histories. Is that okay?"

"Sure. That's fine."

I didn't say anything for the rest of the meal, and afterward, I was
grateful to get back to my motel room despite its depressing,
softer-side-of-Sears decor.

After two hours, I accepted the fact that sleep would not come
and turned on the television. Minutes later, there was a knock on
the door.

"Come in."

Mulder entered and stretched out on the spare bed.

"You seem to be taking a page from my book," he said.

"Hmm?"

"Two AM Twilight Zone fix."

"Can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" I snapped. "I just can't."

Mulder gave me that look I hated -- his I'm-the-psychologist-
and-you're-the-patient once-over.

"Go back to bed, Mulder. I'm fine."

"If you were fine, you'd be sleeping."

"You never sleep."

"That's how I know."

I sighed. "Look, Mulder, it's going to drive me crazy if you
mother me. Can't you just let it go?"

"No! I can't just let it go." After the kid-gloves treatment I'd been
getting from him for weeks, his peevish reply came as a surprise.

I responded in kind, standing and facing him. "Well, either you
let it go, or you let me go! I won't have you treating me like an
invalid!"

This seemed to soften him. He reached out and gently cupped
my cheek in his hand.

"No, Scully," he said softly. "I won't let you treat yourself that
way."

I backed away and crossed my arms.

"I have got to get back to normal, Mulder," I said tightly. "I can't
do that with you hovering over me."

He sat down and patted the bed next to him. I sat. He reached for
the remote and turned off the TV.

"Tell me what you mean by 'normal,'" he said.

I swallowed. "I have to work. I have to concentrate and do my
job well."

"And what makes you think that will be a problem?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, thinking. Weighing.
Deciding.

"I'm afraid," I whispered, taking the plunge. "I barely made it
through the autopsy today."

I felt his hand take mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles.

"You are the most courageous person I know," he said. "You
will conquer your fears."

He said it with such conviction that I almost believed it. I opened
my eyes.

"Until then," he went on, "please let me help, if I can. Scully, I
can't even imagine what you've been through. They took you
twice, and they did things to you that you couldn't control. You
don't even know what the long-term effects will be, if any. How
can you expect to just pick up your life where you left off?"

"I did it last time."

"You did it by pretending nothing had happened."

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Quit my job and join an alien
abductee support group?"

"It's not for me to say what you should or shouldn't have done.
But it's different now. For one thing, we know a lot more about
what happened to you."

"I'm not so sure that's a good thing."

"Nothing about this is a good thing." His voice quivered,
betraying the emotions behind his concern.

That did me in. Tears came to my eyes, and I felt my face twist
into an expression of the grief and fear I'd been trying so hard to
deny.

"I'm so tired," I said as I collapsed toward him.

"I know." His arms came around me and held me tightly as I
shook with sobs that forced their way around the painful lump in
my throat. He stroked my hair and my back, rocking me gently
and murmuring words of comfort.

"Shhh. Don't cry. It'll be all right. You're okay now. I'm so
sorry."

He slid back onto the bed, pulling me along with him until we
lay side by side. He wrapped himself around me, creating a
cocoon of warmth with his long arms and legs, my face buried in
his T-shirt. I felt as though I would fly apart into a million pieces
if he let go.

He didn't. Eventually, I must have fallen asleep.

I don't know if Mulder slept at all that night, because when I
woke up, his eyes were open and watching me. I tried to squirm
away, suddenly uncomfortable at the memory of the weakness
I'd displayed the night before.

He reached for me and pulled me to him almost roughly. Pinned
up next to him, I went stiff.

"Scully," he whispered. "It's just us here. Don't you trust me?"

I raised my head and looked him in the eye.

"You know I do."

"Then why run away?"

"I don't know. Habit, I guess."

He smiled, and I found to my surprise that I was smiling, too.

"Okay," I said. "I'll try to break it." I wrapped my arms around
him and buried my face in his neck, smelling the salt and
warmth of him.

"Thank you, Mulder," I whispered.

"Don't ever thank me, Scully," he replied.

And then he got up and left.

_______________________

I didn't see Mulder again until evening. It was just as well. I
spent the day immersed in work I understood, work I knew I was
good at. And I was able to think. Clear my mind. Make some
decisions.

"So what did you get, Scully?" Mulder asked as he slid into the
booth across from me.

"Cheeseburger."

"I meant from the medical records."

"Oh. Not much."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I couldn't find anything in any of those people's
records that might explain sudden, severe airway edema. The
blood work didn't turn up anything, either -- no allergies, no
toxins, nothing. There was just a random assortment of stuff
you'd expect to find in any five people from this socioeconomic
group."

"Such as?"

"Well, one of the victims had recently had an abortion. One of
the males had been treated for syphilis. And one of the females
had a number of relatively minor conditions usually associated
with alcoholism."

"Hmm." Mulder didn't volunteer any more than that. He just
eyed his menu thoughtfully.

"So what did you come up with?" I asked after the waiter had
taken his order.

"Well, they're a mixed bag. One was a waitress, single, age 37,
three kids."

I nodded. "She's the alcoholic."

"Then there's a male, 26, single. Works in an automotive parts
factory. Another male, 44, is a truck driver with a wife and two
kids. They say he's never home much."

"That's the syphilis case," I said around a mouthful of the
cheeseburger that had appeared before me.

"Charming," Mulder said. "Maybe someone ought to tell his
wife."

"What else?"

"Well, there was a seventeen-year-old, female stripper."

"Abortion."

"And a 32-year-old cop. Male."

"My autopsy. And they had nothing in common?"

"I didn't say that."

"You mean you found something?"

Mulder smiled his most smug smile, the one that was equal part
annoying and endearing.

"They all met Kolella within a week before their deaths."

"You think Kolella was lying when he said he didn't know
them?"

"Kolella didn't say that. He said he didn't know their names."

Trust Mulder to remember the details, I thought.

He went on. "Kolella meets a lot of people every day. They line
up after the service to shake his hand, maybe exchange a few
words. That's how he met each one of these people. But he was
probably telling the truth when he said he didn't know their
names."

I thought this over as I ate the last of my burger.

"Granted, it's a strange coincidence," I began.

"Strange coincidence? Scully, five people died watching the guy
on TV, and it turns out he'd just met each of them. That goes
well beyond a 'strange coincidence.'"

"Okay, maybe it does. But it doesn't implicate him in any way.
We don't even have any evidence that foul play was involved at
all."

I waited for the outburst to come. Mulder was about to ask me
how I could deny the obvious connection. Pitch me some crazy
theory about God knows what.

He didn't.

________________________

END 2/4