"John Doggett, FBI, and this is my partner, Dana Scully. We're looking for Professor Fox."
The willowy secretary's eyes rose to gape at the male Special Agent. "FBI?" she repeated in a Kewpie-doll voice. "Um, Professor Fox is gone. Out, I mean. She's got class. That is, she's teaching a class." Flustered, the willowy blonde girl excused herself. "I'll go get her."
She barely glanced at the diminutive redhead at his side, other than a dim acknowledgment that the other woman carried a badge, too.
Moments later, she returned with another student, a young man with a mop of light brown hair that fell into his eyes. When he spoke, his British accent belied the comfort level in his stance. He was clearly in his element here, in this office. Sticking out his hand, he shook first Scully's hand, then Doggett's, his rapid-fire monologue almost too fast to follow. "We were expecting you. You're the FBI agents, aren't you? I'm Nigel Bailey, Sydney's assistant. It's incredible, really, to think that we may have found the actual sword of Attila the Hun!"
Doggett's head jerked up. "You found the sword?"
"Well – no. But we have a photograph, and while it's hardly incontrovertible evidence, it's certainly a compelling possibility."
Scully stepped forward, clearing her throat. "To be perfectly honest, we're less interested in the sword than we are in who has it. Are you aware that the FBI has been trying to track a mass murderer who uses the pseudonym 'Attila'? Whoever it is, they're convinced that they really are a reincarnation of the 5th century warrior, and he's doing his damnedest to prove it. Assuming he's male, if he sent the photo and letter to Sydney, he may be planning to make her his next victim.
All the excitement drained from the young man's face. He turned just as a tall, dark, voluptuous woman entered, her exotic features reflecting her Hawaiian roots.
"Professor Fox?" Scully's reaction was a smooth, businesslike transition into an introduction. It annoyed her to no end that the unflappable John Doggett had just gone agog. What was it about men and tall, leggy brunettes?
She resisted the urge to be catty, though, when Sydney gave her a genuine smile.
"Hi, you must be Scully. Mulder told me about you when I talked to him a couple of days ago. It must have been hell going through Quantico as a woman. God knows nobody wanted me to succeed in the grand halls of antiquities." Sydney's smile to Doggett was warm and professionally detached. Scully relaxed, instantly realizing that in Sydney Fox, she'd found more a kindred spirit than an enemy.
Besides, Scully realized guiltily, it wasn't like she had any claim on the man, anyway. She wasn't even his normal partner nowadays; she'd passed that torch on to Reyes, while she and Mulder had settled into their own odd version of domestic life.
She shook herself, dragging her attention back to the conversation that was beginning without her.
Young or not, Nigel Bailey was well-versed in history; at times, it seemed, more so than his boss. And while he yielded to Sydney's experience, the renowned Relic Hunter clearly respected and valued his input. It was clearly a symbiotic relationship, an easy camaraderie that promised to make things much easier for law enforcement. Sydney had been adamant that protective measures be expanded to include her assistant. She intimated that he'd once before been abducted as a means of manipulating her, and she wasn't about to let him fall prey to the monster who roamed the countryside at will.
"Will Fox be joining us?"
Scully blinked. Nobody called Mulder by his Christian name.
Nigel repeated patiently, "I suppose I should say, when will Fox be joining us? I thought he'd be with you now. I haven't seen him in forever." He caught the bewildered stares of the FBI agents and his boss. "He stayed at our house for a bit over the holidays, while he was at Oxford. He was an upperclassman and my brother Preston was a lowly freshman, but Preston told Fox about me, about my incessant quest for the inexplicable." Nigel shrugged. "Next thing I knew, we were discussing aliens and ancient powers and things that go bump in the night. We still meet for coffee once in a while, to compare notes. We've gone out to get up close to more crop circles and …" his voice trailed off and he ducked his head, confessing sheepishly, "Well, it wasn't always about the supernatural. He was a lot older than I was, of course, but women of all ages seemed to find him fascinating. And if some of that rubbed off on me, I wasn't complaining."
Within the hour, Mulder had indeed joined their ranks, as had Monica Reyes. The little blonde secretary, who Sydney introduced as Claudia, kept the entire group supplied with a steady stream of coffee and tea as they pieced together history and current events, trying to incorporate the old in hopes of stopping a new horror.
"If this guy really believes he's Attila, we might have hope. The real king of the Huns hammered out peace treaties, collecting a pretty impressive tribute from Rome rather than continuing to pillage. Before his death, Attila began to question the senseless, seemingly endless destruction. I don't think he would ever have qualified for a good neighbor award, but we might appeal to that aspect when dealing with the modern-day counterpart." Sydney tapped a finger over a textbook, one of several books spread over the top of her heavy mahogany desk.
"So what, you think we should bribe our killer into not killing any more?" Mulder retorted skeptically.
"No, I'm talking about a trap. Isn't the plan to bring your Attila out into the open?"
Doggett pursed his lips. His arms were crossed in front of him. "We already suspect that this guy is building himself an army. What's to stop him from sending one of his toadies along to collect any bait we set?"
"Maybe nothing, but I'd bet that toady could lead us back to his fearless leader," Reyes pointed out. "Willingly or not."
"What's your take on this?" Scully interjected, her question aimed at Reyes. "Mulder's not in the Bureau any more. Officially he's not here, remember?"
"True, but even FBI agents are allowed to have their sources, aren't they?" drawled Doggett, grinning. "We've profiled this guy up one side and down the other, and everybody agrees. He's certifiable. We suspect he's also extremely charismatic, probably along the lines of Charles Manson or your average psycho cult leader. We find him, we still gotta be careful or we'll make him into a martyr."
Mulder mused, "Sydney, were you able to find out where the sword turned up, or any leads on how our suspect might have acquired it?"
"Only rumors," Nigel interjected. "And the rumors have been floating about for decades. The only reason I'd give any credence at all to the current ones is the photograph, and it could be a fake, though I don't think it is."
Sydney cocked her head to one side. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Obviously, the killer is nuts, he thinks he's Attila the Hun reincarnated. So if our 5th century warrior were plopped into 21st century America, the question is, where would he go? What would he need to survive? Would he be in a population center, out in the country, what? There are arguments for both sides of that scenario. We know that the Huns were accomplished riders. Some accounts actually credit the real Attila with the invention of the stirrup, which gave the Mongol army tactical advantage sixteen hundred years ago. We know it first appeared during his reign. It seems minor now, but back then it permitted them power, speed, and accuracy with bow and arrow and spears while on horseback. Does our modern-day Attila ride a horse or drive a Mustang?"
"There's another possibility," Mulder said quietly. "What if our killer really IS the reincarnation of Attila the king of the Huns?"
Predictably, Doggett rolled his eyes. Reyes glanced at Scully, who shrugged. Nigel smothered a grin. "Still at it, eh?" he remarked to Mulder. "Well, I for one won't automatically dismiss the possibility, though I'd be more inclined to say he's possessed by the spirit of the warrior."
"Either way, he's deadly and he's out to get you." Reyes's comment halted all other conversation. The dark-haired FBI agent had picked up the letter from the killer, the one addressed to the historian. "He wants you, Sydney. I also don't think he has the sword, not yet. I think he WANTS it, and he expects you to find it for him." Her fingers trailed over the page protector, tracing the large print. "He will do anything to get it, including killing someone close to you. Whoever he is, he knows you well, or knows a lot about you. You weren't a random choice."
A year later, Mulder still wasn't used to being 'naked'. Sans badge, he felt a little like a child, though the pistol tucked into its ankle holster went a long way toward reassuring him of his competence. In or out of the Bureau, he still carried FBI training. He'd been approached by a couple of law enforcement agencies, and he had been tempted by their respective offers. In the end, a tiny little detail had changed his mind.
William.
The little boy was now eleven months old and jabbering wildly, his hazel eyes and shock of red hair enough to make him stand out in any crowd. Scully had pointed out that if she was going to remain with the Bureau, William needed at least one parent to have a "safe" job.
It turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Mulder. Once he decided to walk away from law enforcement, he discovered a whole new avenue for pursuing his passion.
He became a reporter for a national magazine, one which had a reputation for integrity while exploring governmental abuses and underhanded agendas. They also, as it turned out, had a virtual library of records on extraterrestrials, paranormal events, and governmental coverups of the same.
Working from home three days out of five, he kept his son with him, in the same apartment where the child had been conceived. While Scully never pressed him about marriage and he didn't bring it up, there had never been any question about the child's paternity, not after William was born. They maintained their separate residences, though for Mulder, his apartment had become little more than an office.
Scully's mother was keeping the baby for the duration of this 'project'. Once Mulder realized who was involved – he knew Sydney by reputation and Nigel personally – the former FBI agent jumped in and demanded to be a part of the case, citing a list of reasons which were at least partly legitimate.
Now, he watched as the dark-haired history teacher paced the floor of the motel room. He could sympathize. There was a certain injustice to the fact that the victim was effectively imprisoned for her own safety while a psychotic killer roamed free. Nigel was in the adjoining room, the door ajar so the six people could talk back and forth.
When the phone rang to the room, everyone tensed. All calls from both Sydney's and Nigel's homes, and from Nigel's cell phone, had been routed to this line. A DAT system was now attached to record any calls, and a set of headphones ran from the Digital Audio Tape machine. Mulder clamped the headset over his ears and nodded for Sydney to pick up the phone.
The voice at the other end of the line was low and hypnotic and decidedly masculine. "Sydney, I'm impressed. The New Ritz? Very classy. Very expensive. Hello, Mulder; your son is really handsome. So is Scully's mother."
The click on the other end of the line hit less than fifteen seconds after the call was connected. The dial tone assured that there had been nowhere near enough time to trace it back to its source.
All hell broke loose inside the dual rooms. Mulder's face had gone stark white, alerting his former partner and colleagues and the historians that something was dreadfully wrong. A phone call to Margaret Scully echoed in Mulder's ear, the ring unanswered. Touching base with Skinner confirmed their worst fears.
Both Mrs. Scully and the baby were missing, and all signs pointed toward a double kidnapping.
Scully was ashen and trembling. Doggett snarled orders into the phone, and Reyes attempted to comfort the bereaved parents.
Glancing around her at the havoc wrought so swiftly, Sydney made a decision. She collected Nigel's cell phone and ducked out the door. It had been knocked free of its connection and rang once, and only once. In the aftermath of the bad news, she was assured that no one would notice she was gone until she was well beyond reach. With one hand she dialed an order to end the call forwarding altogether; with the other, she grabbed the doorknob to the stairwell.
Gut instinct told her that their killer wasn't going to be easily found by high tech means. He wanted a return to the past. That didn't mean that he wouldn't employ a little technology to suit himself.
Thumbing a small plastic wheel set into the side of the cell phone, she murmured, "Bingo!" There on the display was the phone number for the last call. It was an unfamiliar number and the time stamp was unmistakable. A quick dial and she recognized the same modulated voice. She half-ran, half walked down the stairs, glad at least that she was carrying a fair amount of cash and was wearing flat, rubber-soled shoes that would mask the sounds of her departure.
"Very good, Sydney. I knew you wouldn't fail me."
"Where's the baby and the woman?" she demanded. "You send them home safely, I help you. Otherwise I assume they're already dead and you get nothing."
The chuckle at the other end of the line set her teeth on edge. "Don't patronize me. We both know the rules to this little game. You give me what I want, you get the woman and the baby. You fail, they die. They die badly, I might add."
Poker playing was nothing compared to the bluff she threw back at him. "Not a prayer, buster. You kill them, you get squat. How about a trade? I come with you, and I stay with you, until you get what you want. You have my word, and you have me."
She wasn't naïve enough to believe it would be that simple. She was merely buying time.
But she didn't notice the shadow that trailed her into the parking garage. The figure slipped silently in behind her, folding out of sight behind the driver's seat of her jeep as she pulled away.