Thanks for all the feedback guys, I really appreciate it. Keep it coming as things are about to get a whole lot more intense as the story reaches its climax soon! Thanks! J
11:54 a.m., Sat. March 18th, 1996
The heavy door of the blue Taurus had barely shut with a heavy clacking sound when the questions began. In spite of all the waves of sound which were washing over him from the direction of his redheaded partner, Mulder refused to allow his conscious mind to dip into them. God, why did the woman always have to assume that he was up to something or that he had purposefully hidden a key fact from her? He hardly understood the meaning of what had just happened himself and yet Scully was already on his case about not leveling with her, not trusting her, the works. After three years of working with her he already knew the litany by heart and contented himself with merely muttering in the affirmative while he balanced trying to organize his thoughts regarding the case on the one hand and directions out of the neighborhood on the other. Both were proving to be fairly elusive. In the distance, a few blocks up, the black and red sign of a Texaco station cut through the gray sky. He wasn't sure if they needed gas or not (a quick glance to the gas gauge on the dashboard con firmed that the tanks was a little over half full), but he decided that now was a good a time as any to sort things out.
The gas station was mostly deserted when they pulled into the refueling lot. As the hard metallic sound of the car's undercarriage scraping up against a particularly steep entry-way added to the list of frustrations, he suddenly became aware that Scully had stopped talking. Instead, she seemed to be scrutinizing the cavity of her briefcase in search of some misplaced object. At the sound of the Taurus getting its belly scratched by an obliging concrete projection, she winced and looked up.
"What are we doing Mulder?" came the inevitable question. Her voice seemed calm and resigned. That was a good sign. Perhaps he had weathered the storm.
"Oh, I dunno," he replied, a crooked grim crawling up the side of his face. "I just decided I had a hankering for a Twinkie, coffee and some gas. What about yourself?"
"Mulder," she began, her voice that of a slightly exasperated nanny. "Are you telling me that you want MORE coffee after that ordeal?"
He shrugged. "Talk about being a glutton for punishment, huh?" Scully smiled, tried to force the corner of her lips back down, failed, and then attempted to convert the humor into a serious-looking stare as she continued to fish around in her briefcase. Mulder slowly guided the car into an empty space near the mini-mart and shut off the engine. Scully's eyebrows arched.
"Mulder, the pumps are back over that way." He nodded. "Ok, so we're not going to get gas?"
Mulder's voice assumed a slightly defensive tone. "Well Ms. Scully, I thought you were the one who wanted to know what was going on back there at the rectory. But of course if you're willing to just let me handle the details of the case while you take care of the important stuff like fueling the car, that's fine by me."
"If that will get us back to D.C. any sooner I'm game, but somehow I doubt it."
"Hardy-har-har, Scully."
"Mulder, give me a break. I didn't sleep well last night and for my body it's the middle of the weekend so if we could cut to the chase..." Scully's voice was irritated but her expression not overly so. Relaxing, Mulder rolled down his window and sat back in his seat. "Ok, Mulder, so...do you want to clue me in on what's going on?" Cracking his knuckles, Mulder launched into his story.
Under the circumstances it didn't take anywhere as long as Scully thought it might. Although she was very much aware of her partner's own foibles and faults, she could never quite shake the fact that somehow he always knew more about a case than she did. Whether it was his intuition, his comfort with the bizarre, or quite frankly, his tenacity, she couldn't be sure. Not for the first time she mused on the appropriateness of his nickname: "Spooky."
The tale began with Mulder's discovery of the case as it crossed the wire a week or two earlier. While it occupied only a very small bit of space on the newssheets (indeed, the Cleveland Plain Dealer had a two-inch article on the first death buried on page 18 and the Akron Beacon-Journal had ignored the story completely), he had been immediately intrigued. While the article had said that the cause of death was almost certainly accidental and natural (after all, people had been known to freeze to death in the wintertime), Mulder had been intrigued by the fact that it should happen indoors on a balmy 40-degree Fahrenheit night. A few quiet investigations on his part into the matter consisting of half a dozen phone calls to local journalists and police press agents had turned up precious few details but had whet his appetite. While it had greatly interested him, he had also realized that it would be hard to clear travel costs and reasonably expect to get approval to pursue such a case without much to go on or an official request from the CPD. However, all that had changed when news of the second murder had crossed the wire early on the morning of the 17th.
"Wait," interjected Scully, raising her hand in protest. "You're telling me that until this morning all you had to go on was a hunch and two inches of newsprint?"
"Not to mention all my in-depth investigatory work and phone calls to journalists familiar with the first case."
"You mean that you were willing to disrupt my weekend plans and expect me to drop everything on a HUNCH?"
Mulder offered a timid, sickly sweet smile. "Aw, c'mon Scully, you can't tell me this hasn't gotten you intrigued, right?"
Scully felt a small wave of resentment rise in her and then let it cool. He was right, after all. The case certainly was peculiar. Not worth sacrificing her weekend for, but certainly peculiar. Besides, it wasn't like this was the first time he had pulled something like this. "Point taken Mulder. Drive on." With that, Mulder resumed his story.
Before leaving for Cleveland Friday morning, Mulder had called Detective Preston of the CPD. He was in charge of the case and long years of experience had taught Mulder that despite the fact that he was a federal agent, there was very little he would be able to accomplish if the local police officers decided to drag their feet. By locking out the feds, the CPD could very well have shut down his investigation if they had wanted to do so. Instead, Preston seemed relieved to have a second set of eyes and ears devoted to the case, although Mulder doubted that an old salt like Preston would ever admit to being baffled about anything.
After giving Scully the background of the case, he detailed to her what had transpired between him and the old denizen of the apartment building who had tried to crush his foot in the door. Relating the bizarre exchange, he then told her how he had followed up in all the other apartments and obtained virtually nothing that night.
"And..." he sighed, digging in his jacket pockets for a stick of gum or something to munch on, "...you know the rest."
A long silence followed during which Scully seemed to be lost in thought. At length she spoke.
"Ok, Mulder: Cassian the Unmerciful. What does it mean? Any thoughts?" Bracing herself for the ubiquitous crack-brained conspiracy theory that was sure to follow, Scully waited. The answer surprised her.
"To be honest, Scully, I'm not sure what I think. I have no clue who or what this guy Cassian is, that's actually what I was going to ask the machine-gun cleric back there. Unfortunately that doesn't exactly seem to be something he's super enthusiastic to discuss."
"I second that motion, Mulder. However," she continued, fiddling with a pen as she twirled it around in her hands, "that's not a whole hell of a lot to go on. Maybe Cassian is some kind of local gangster or tough guy in the Russian community. That would explain why no one wants to talk about what's going on."
"But it wouldn't explain how two guys, seemingly unrelated to each other except for their ethnicity, could be found murdered in their homes, frozen solid when the weather outside never dropped below freezing and the heating was working in the building."
"Wait," replied Scully, looking up from her pen, "who said they were murdered?"
Mulder chuckled. "C'mon Scully. Don't tell me that you actually think that there might be some sort of natural explanation for all this."
"And you suspect what exactly, Mulder? That this is the work of...an evil practitioner of nature magic or a neo-Satanist or some kind of..." Her voice trailed off at the sight of Mulder's gleaning eyes. "Good lord, don't tell me you're being serious Mulder. Because if I came all the way out here to Cleveland in order to find out how the modern day Harry Houdini manages to freeze his neighbors to death one at a time..."
"Geeze Scully, I never said anything about Satanists or Harry Houdini. Besides, hell is supposed to involve lakes of fire and boiling lead, not snow and ice."
"Unless of course you've read Dante's Inferno." At that Mulder's ears perked up.
"Hey now. I'd forgotten about good old Dante. Maybe it really is a neo-Satanist thing, although at this point I'm more inclined to believe that this may be the work of some practitioner of shamanism or Native American mysticism. After all, such religions while often termed "primitive" by closed-minded people are often closely tied in with natural forces and the weather. I mean, if it is maintained by many different belief systems that people with power over the natural world can summon rains or institute dry spells, why couldn't someone also have control over other aspects of the weather, like snow or ice?"
"Mulder, I'm sorry to burst your bubble," began Scully although to Mulder she didn't sound grieved in the slightest, "but not only is that scientifically implausible, the fact of the matter is that just because we live in an age of cultural pluralism and a respect for all belief systems doesn't mean that just because a religion says something can happen doesn't mean that it in fact can and will.
Mulder felt the urge to respond but bit his tongue. He knew the response that would have risen out of him would be inappropriate. For although Scully made it clear that her faith took a second row to her scientific skepticism, putting down Catholicism on the basis of transubstantiation or equating it with tribal superstition would be cruel and unnecessary. Perhaps guessing at what he was thinking, Scully quickly tried a different tack.
'Besides, Mulder, what on earth does Shamanism or Native American tribal beliefs have to do with Russia? I mean, we shouldn't overlook that fact either."
"I dunno Scully. Remember, Russia isn't exactly home to some of the most hospitable and mild climates in the world, as is demonstrated by their thick forests, tundra and presence on the polar circle. Also it's a little-known fact that until 1867 Alaska was a Russian colony, complete with administrators, villages, and their own churches and saints."
"All right," responded Scully, thoughtfully, sweeping a lock of auburn hair back behind her ear. "So you suspect that this may have something to do with magic or native religion or whatever. Fine. The question here is, how do we go about actually solving this thing? I somehow doubt we can come right out and share our interesting little theory with Detective Preston."
"Well, with only two deaths that we know of at our disposal, we're somewhat limited in our scope. In a way that's good as it gives us a more specific frame of reference to focus on."
"And you suspect...?"
At this Mulder popped the lock of the car door and unbuckled his seatbelt.
"One way or another Scully, there has to be some connection between these two dead men, Piotyr and Lev. So far we haven't heard of any link between these two, but that doesn't mean that there isn't one. Somehow, I find it extremely unlikely that whoever is responsible for these deaths just randomly picked those two men and killed them for the heck of it. There has to be some kind of connection between them and the killer which in turn links them to each other. The trick is just finding out what it is and who it's focused on."
"Where are you going Mulder?" asked Scully as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
"I, Agent Scully, am going to get some lunch at the Quick-Mart over there," he responded, vaguely gesticulating at the Subway Express which shared its premises with the Texaco station. "It's getting late and I haven't had lunch. You feel like joining me?"
A moment later the passenger side door of the Taurus slammed shut and a second set of footsteps joined with Mulder's as they headed in the direction of the garish neon light advertising great sandwiches a few feet away.
-- -- -- -- --
5:27 p.m.
Oleg's hands hurt. Specifically the right hand. As he stood over his sink letting the chilly, soothing ribbon of cold water cascade over his bruised and swollen knuckles he kicked himself for the sixth time that evening for once again underestimating the tenacity of some of the neighborhood old folks. By God that old man had put up a fight.
Reaching up and twisting the rounded faucet knob off, he groped for the hand towel he always kept by the side of the sink. Inadvertently bumping his slightly less bruised left hand against the towel rack, he let out a muted bellow of pain and threw the towel on the floor, taking out his frustration on the scrap of cloth. Biting his chapped, thin lips, Oleg opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom and into the living room of the only somewhat less dingy apartment he called his home.
Much like his physical appearance, Oleg's apartment was the quintessence of the contradiction which characterized his life. The apartment was seedy and messy, but he was a well-off man. Sure, he could never hold onto cash for very long, but fortunately for him working for Sasha Khostov was always a profitable endeavor. Had he put his mind to it he probably could have amassed a good deal of money. Likewise, although Oleg was not a physically imposing man with his bad teeth and slight build (at least once every single one of his acquaintances had thought of him as something of a weasel or ferret at some time or other), he was not a man to be trifled with. What he lacked in physicality he more than made up for in sheer violence and brutishness. If a skinny man crossed him, Oleg used his fists. If an ordinary man crossed him, he used a bat. If a big man crossed him, he used a gun. Such a violent predisposition had of course attracted the attention of his boss Sasha who was loath to allow such a promising young protégé go to waste. And so in the past five years Oleg, who had for much of his adult life never amounted to anything, found himself on the up and up. And yet, somehow, he just never really quite "got it" when it came to thinking ahead.
This had been aptly demonstrated a scant few hours earlier in a little rat hole of a shop on the corner of Walker Avenue and 31st Street. The owner of said shop had been tardy in his weekly payment to the Khostov Fire Insurance Corporation (as it was known locally) once too often and Oleg had been sent out to rectify the situation. While it would have been easy to simply burn down the shop, Sasha had decided to be merciful and let the old proprietor off with an old-fashioned Russian beating instead of burning his livelihood to the ground. Oleg, always eager to oblige but sometimes a little unrestrained in his enthusiasm had in his excitement forgotten that the old man had been a colonel in the Soviet special forces in Afghanistan back in the 80's. That had turned into a nasty surprise, but at least Oleg was nothing if not tenacious. Having exchanged bruised knuckles and a black eye for a broken arm and half a dozen missing teeth, Oleg felt accomplished, if a little angry at himself.
Walking into the little kitchenette which served as nothing more than a storage facility for when his girlfriend Gabriella would come over and cook, Oleg opened the fridge and pulled out two beers. Checking his watch, he noted that it was a quarter of six. Perfect. He had arranged for a few friends of his who had in the past been business associated over for some drinks. He had also scored an angle on a dozen hot pistols off of a Mexican on the south side and was looking for potential buyers. The fact that they could sit around and eat pizza while alternately watching a game on the tube and discussing the finer points of swinging a lead pipe was as natural to Oleg as his fondness for gambling.
Plopping himself down in his easy chair, he popped the cap off of his brewski and clicked on the television. The winter sun had long set and as the sky faded to black, so grew the shadows cast in the room by the TV set. Oleg enjoyed watching TV in the dark and as such thought nothing of getting up to turn on some lights. If Gabri had been there she no doubt would have been on his case already about cleaning up his mess and taking better care of the place, but she wasn't and he didn't really care, even when she was around.
Oleg had finished off the first Molsen and was getting ready to start on the second one when the doorknob at the end of the corridor rattled.
"It's open," he shouted, checking his watch as he did so. It was 6:05 p.m. Damn. It looked like those lowlifes he called his friends might actually come close to being on time for once. When no response was forthcoming, Oleg decided to try again.
"I said it's OPEN," he echoed, raising his voice a few decibels, cutting through the cheers of the fans on the tube as the Lumberjacks slammed home a second goal to tie the game at 2-2.
For a few moments, Oleg was mired in uncertainty. Had he in fact heard the noise at all? It seemed like he had, but then again it might just have been the noise from the television set. The chair was comfortable and the beer was cold. Why should he bother to get up? Let those lazy bastards open the door themselves if they wanted to come in so bad (if indeed, they were there at all). It wasn't that hard.
With the roar of a 200-horsepower Ford truck engine and blaring guitars as a prologue, the TV cut to commercial. Popping his neck, Oleg set the bottle down by the side of the chair. As he did so, he could have sworn that intermingled with the sound of his neck popping like a chestnut in the flames, another sound had emanated from the doorway, as if someone was trying to turn the knob but found the door locked. Oleg thought about yelling his invitation again, but thought the better of it. If those good-for-nothings couldn't bother to knock or call him in advance, they were too stupid to deserve his friendship. However, the beers had taken their toll on Oleg and he had to use the bathroom. Sighing at the unfairness of his life, Oleg summoned all his will and raised himself out of his sagging, terminally comfortable La-Z-Boy and shuffled across the dark living room towards the bathroom door.
As he made his way into the corridor, Oleg was struck by how chilly his formerly cozy apartment now seemed. Of course, that could just be a side effect of two ice-cold beers on his system, but somehow, he didn't think so. Reaching towards the light switch in the corridor he clicked it on and immediately the corridor was filled with a dim, soft yellow light. Looking up, the first thing Oleg noticed was that the door was in fact locked. Clearly if someone had been at the door after all they wouldn't have been able to get in on their own. Unless of course they had their own set of keys Oleg chuckled to himself. Just the same, with all the crap going on around him, it was better safe than sorry. Passing down the long corridor, Oleg reached the door and slid the deadbolt shut after a quick glance through the peephole assuaged him that, yes indeed, the outside hallway was deserted. Fully satisfied that his door was now completely locked, he padded barefooted into the bathroom, wincing as his skin brushed against the icy cold tiles. Was it really all that cold in his apartment? Making a mental note to himself to check the thermostat as soon as he was done (and the next commercial break was on), Oleg snapped on the bathroom lights and closed the bathroom door, shutting it on the most peculiar scene which had now laid itself out in his living room. For while the TV still merrily extolled the values of MCI over ATT and the lights flickered over the brown easy chair, ice crystals had begun to form in the bottom of the Molsen bottle. And in the inky recesses of the den, all but obscured in a long black cloak and the shadows of the room, a gaunt figure waited.