Vegas Blues: I See a Darkness5
"Certainly you didn't intend things to go as badly as they did. Things just don't always go the way we plan."
The heat is impenetrable. Suffocating. A dry, desert heat. But this isn't the Mojave. This is Afghanistan. Nothing but sand for miles. Nothing but heat, waves and waves not only from the sun but from the still spinning blades of the helicopter. From the two that are still left intact, that is, after being shot down by an ground-to-air missile. A shot that should have blown the machine apart if not for John's quick maneuvering.
Still he couldn't avoid the crash. Couldn't control the bird as it spiraled, spiraled, then hit the sand hard. Splintering and shuddering in agony. Much as everyone on board did. And he couldn't avoid the tiny settlement under him. Hit tents and ropes and careened into a group of people who were trying to run out of the way. But they didn't make it in time. Not all of them. Not eight of them. A few were children.
The four soldiers are flung out of the helicopter as it skids to a halt at last, churning up dirt and sand and bodies in its wake. Guns are being shot. One of the soldiers is a woman, a medic and she is perilously close to the spinning, spinning blades. John calls out a warning but a shot makes him duck, tumble harmlessly out of the cockpit and into the sand. Into the trench beneath the aircraft. He struggles, swimming almost as he climbs out of the hole. He will be buried alive if he doesn't move. As the machine whines and shifts above him. He is plunged into darkness and feels a chill. A presentiment of death. But not his own.
There are screams. Shouts. Pleadings. Gunfire. A rapid language that John identifies as Arabic. Then more gunfire. Machine guns. American voices. Rescue! He grabs the sand, fighting, hauling himself out of the trench. Straining every muscle as at last he reaches the lip of the hole and rolls over it, out of it. The helicopter falls into the rift. Sputtering. The blades are still at last. Black smoke rises into the pale, pale sky. John rests a moment. Only a moment. Then he is up on his feet, gun in his hand as he lurches along the path of destruction.
Nothing to this point had prepared him for this. Not even the murder of his mother.
The sight that greets his eyes is something out of a nightmare. Bodies strewn along the path like so much garbage. Civilians. Soldiers. Blood and body parts leaving a terrible trail for him to follow. Men shouting, gesturing, but he ignores them. Stumbling along, in shock as he sees her. Prone on the sand. Body a wreck, bent unnaturally. Head almost severed but her expression, her expression is almost serene. Not one of shock or fear or anger, but at peace. He feels the urge to vomit when a massive explosion flares at his back. Knocks him forcefully to the ground. A fireball burning behind him as the helicopter explodes.
His last sight is of her. Then darkness swallows him.
John woke with a start. Tense, jerking upright on the couch. Heart thudding so fast he expected it to pop right out of his chest. He was sweating, delirious with fear, anger, guilt. A lump in his throat, tears in his eyes as he had vividly relived every second of that last mission. Defying direct orders to rescue her, to rescue them all. Only to end up killing them all. Killing her.
John wiped his eyes. The room was plunged into darkness. It was late. He licked his dry lips. Swallowed past the lump in his throat. He reached across the table for the half empty bottle of beer. Drank it in long swallows although the liquid was flat, warm. He reached into his pocket to feel the odd reassurance of the sabertooth. He grabbed his phone to see if he had missed Moira's call when it rang. "Yeah?" he snapped. Forcing down all emotion, all memory.
"Hey, Mulder, we got another one."
"Huh? Phillips, cut the crap! Another what?"
"Murder, what else? Edge of the Strip. Sending you the address now."
"On my way." John stood. Eyed his watch. It was nearly midnight. The witching hour. He grabbed his jacket, his badge, his gun. Left his apartment, shaking off the vestiges of his nightmare. Of his memory. Of his past.
Vegas was lit up like a Christmas tree at all hours so you never really knew what time it was unless you looked at a clock. Even the far end of the Strip was full of neon-colored lights and garish sings. Casinos. Bars. Wedding chapels. Stores. All open at all hours. The city never slept. Tourists lined the streets. Cabs and shuttles running along the road.
John was forced to park a few blocks away from the scene of the crime. He sprinted across the street, narrowly avoided being hit by a shuttle full of drunken tourists. He pushed past onlookers and witnesses, past the line of policemen trying to maintain some semblance of order. He ducked under the crime scene tape and stood looking down at the body. "Looks like GSW to the head. Robbery?" he asked. He eyed the victim.
A middle-aged man in a nicely tailored suit was sprawled on the sidewalk. He had a receding hairline. Foreign-looking features. He looked vaguely familiar but John couldn't quite place him. "Yes," the policeman squatting hear him answered, carefully checking the man's pockets. "His wallet is gone. His watch is gone as well. ME is on the way, but this looks recent. We got the call about an hour ago."
"Open his shirt," John instructed. Glancing up to see the crowd of onlookers was growing. To see the cops canvassing the area. He looked back to see the man staring at him, quizzical expression on his face. "Just do it. And why am I here again, Phillips?"
"What, need your beauty sleep, Shep? Oh, I guess you do since you are the internet star of the month, aren't you?" Phillips jested, nevertheless opening the starched white shirt on the victim.
"Shut up, Phillips! Well?"
"What the hell is that?"
John stared. There were distinctive marks on the victim's chest. Circular indentations on the skin. Except for the fact that they weren't very deep. Except for the fact that the victim wasn't drained of any fluids. Only the blood seeping from the back of his skull. Except for the fact that the victim hadn't visibly aged. It wasn't the same, but was made to appear the same.
"Wow...what is that? The Vegas Vampire is on the prowl again?" Chuck Campbell had forced his way to the body, flashing his press badge like a banner. He snapped a picture.
"What the hell are you doing here?" John flared, furious.
"Wait, those aren't the same, are they? The body's not drained like the others. A copycat! It must be. But why? What's the motive? How was he killed? Is this connected to the other–"
"Enough! Aren't you up past your bedtime, Chuck?" He forcibly grabbed the reporter, shoved him back towards the policemen. "Get him out of here! This is a crime scene!"
"This is news, Sheppard!"
"It's a robbery gone bad, nothing more! Now get lost!"
"I figured something was up because they called you!"
"Only my temper! Now get lost or I will arrest you for obstruction!" He shoved.
Chuck nearly fell, caught himself. "I'm only doing my job, Sheppard! You can't muzzle the press!" he shouted, as he was dragged away from the scene.
John glared. Turned back to the body. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. He squatted. Saw it. A business card on the sidewalk near the victim's outstretched hand. He grabbed it. Saw it was his. "This?"
"Did you know him?" Phillips asked, closing the shirt and moving to his feet.
John shook his head. "No. I..." A flash of memory, quick as the blink of an eye. The man seated at a computer. In a room full of them. With McKay and Woolsey. "I've no idea who he is." Something else caught his eye. He slid his fingers under the man's leg. Something had fallen out of his pocket. A small device. Smashed. A tracking device, John realized.
"Then how did he get your card?" Phillips asked.
John shrugged. Looked around suddenly, half expecting to see Caldwell. The crowd was anonymous. Gawkers and tourists and lowlifes all mixed. All straining to see past the cops and the forensic team as they finally reached the street. All eager to see a real dead body. Blood trickling in a stream across the sidewalk. The neon lights were shining on the crimson liquid. "Any witnesses?"
"No. Gunshots reported being heard. Found the guy like this. No one saw the shooter. What was he doing here? He doesn't look like the gambling type."
"No, he doesn't." John watched DeMouy and her team as they swarmed around the victim. One taking the man's hand, pressing his finger to a small electronic device. Keying in his fingerprint to find a match, a record if it existed.
"John, did you see–"
"Yes. The marks. But they're not like the others," he informed. Met her puzzled gaze. "Looks like we have a copycat, after all."