TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (1 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

CLASSIFICATION: X

RATING: R (This story has scenes and descriptions offensive enough to
knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon)

SUMMARY: Scully and Doggett investigate strange events in New York
City. They get caught in a war between ancient mystics.

PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes.

DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" is the original property of Fox and 10-13.

Send feedback to ottercrk@sover.net

Website is located at http://members.dencity.com/hearne

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The line in the rating part was borrowed from Gary
Callahan. Callahan once did this cartoon showing priests gathered
around a huge cake. A distressed choirboy pops out of the cake. This
made me wince, I assure you.

I'm mentioning this because one of my characters here is a pederast. I
had a beta editor who dropped out because she was too uneasy about the
subject matter. I respect that, and I respect anyone who doesn't want
to read "The Times Square War" on the basis of that. However, I will
say that I've sparingly rendered details concerning this subject
matter. What's more, there is a fair amount of other stuff in this
story which could turn you off. Or not.

Speaking of beta editors, let me thank Andrea, Andrina, Ann, Jenni,
MJ, Rosemary, Sharon. I doff my hat to you all.

I would also like to acknowledge three books which helped to shape
this story -- Christian Parenti's "Lockdown America," Mitchell
Duenier's "Sidewalk," and Julian Stallabrass's "High Art Lite."
Stallabrass wrote something about "The Simpsons" which could also be
applied to "The X-Files" and maybe to "The Times Square War" as
well -- "[I]t offers some small and faintly glimpsed positive elements
to set against the dystopian vision, particularly in the feelings of
the main characters for each other."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

SOUNDTRACK

Some of these songs are mentioned in the story. Some aren't. So it's
kinda like a real movie soundtrack album (ha-ha.)

1. "Crane Fist" by Rancid
2. "Dirty Boulevard" by Lou Reed
3. "Underground" by Tom Waits
4. "Step Into the Realm" by The Roots
5. "Chant of a Poor Man" by Leftfield
6. "Superstition" by Stevie Wonder
7. "River Man" by Nick Drake
8. "End of Time" by Q-Tip and Korn
9. "Street Fighting Man" by Rage Against the Machine
10. "Revolution" by some English losers
11. "Fuel" by Ann DiFranco

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. FIRST STRIKE
2. A BIT OF THE PAST, A TASTE OF THE FUTURE
3. NEW PLAYERS, HIGH AND LOW
4. MORE BLASTS FROM THE PAST
5. NIGHTLY EXCURSIONS
6. THIS IS GONNA HURT
7. BROKEN WINDOWS
8. A CHANGE OF TACTICS
9. DINING, CRASHING, SLUMMING...
10. ...AND EXPLODING
11. THE NEXT STEPS TOWARDS HELL
12. THE FINE ART OF DAMNING YOURSELF
13. SNAPSHOTS
14. THE REALM OF THINGS UNSEEN
15. WITH BARE HANDS
16. SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND LISTEN
17. BACK ON THE STREET
18. HERE'S YER FUCKING BONFIRE
19. EVERYTHING'S GONNA BE ALL RIGHT

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ONE
FIRST STRIKE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Laurie Tower wanted her family dead. Her impossible-to-please,
hyperactive, shin-kicking eight-year-old son Dave -- she wanted him to
die. Her smug, intolerant, Broadway-star-wannabe, thirteen-year-old
daughter Annie -- she had to die as well. Her brainless, boring,
self-pitying, unable-to-give-his-wife-a-real-orgasm-in-a-year husband
Norman -- dead, dead, dead with maggots squirming out of his mouth and
weeds growing out of his ears.

She felt like the entire population of New York City was observing
every worthless aspect of her family. She wished that one of them
would share her disgust and do something about it. Maybe a drug addict
would smash a brick into her son's skull. Or a released inmate from an
overcrowded mental institute would drag her daughter into an alley.
While this went on, her husband could be dragged into a circle of gang
members as she watched and laughed.

However, those things didn't happen anymore, did they? Not as much as
they used to, anyway. New York City was different, now. It was safer.
Even the dirty men who offered to clean your windows with rags had
been pushed back from Times Square and Broadway. It had been rendered
safe for the tourists and struggling artists and businessmen with
cellular phones.

Like most Americans, Laurie Tower had applauded the clean-up efforts
performed on Times Square. She had visited the city a decade ago and
promised never to put up with its filth and scary Negroes again. Now
she was back again from the state of Connecticut, wanting to see if it
was true that the town was safe for decent American families.

It seemed to be true. Porno theaters had been replaced with wholesome
merchandise stores. Graffiti had been rubbed off the walls and window
displays were lit up to display their wares. Best of all, there were
plenty of police officers around, ready to intercept suspicious
characters. Times Square, once ridiculed as a symbol of decadence and
decay, was now as safe as any mall.

However, Laurie found herself wishing for a bit of that old urban
hell -- just enough to toast her family to cinders.

"I wanna sit down," Dave whined. "I wanna stop walking."

"You'll be able to sit down soon enough," Laurie told him.

"But I wanna sit down *now*. I'm tired."

*You're tired? Try lugging all the crap I bought for you from the
Disney store. Then you'll be tired.* That's what Laurie wanted to say.
Instead, she just tightened her fingers around the handles of her bags
and said, "We'll be at the restaurant soon."

"There's a restaurant right there," Dave admonished her with his
finger directed at two yellow arches in sight.

"We are NOT eating at McDonald's," Laurie said. "We are eating at
another restaurant." Her voice was stern enough to possibly silence
Dave. Then Annie chose to step in.

"This is a *real* restaurant we're going to," Annie informed her
brother in prim tones. "You're just not mature to appreciate it."

Agitated again, Dave Tower replied, "Eat my snot, you snot-eater!"

"Oh, very mature."

"Here, have some!" Dave began to stuff his finger up his nose.

"Mother, tell Dave to quit picking his nose." Annie made this request
sound like an order. It was as if she was saying, "Can't you control
your own child?"

Laurie wanted to smack both of her children on the head. Instead, she
turned to her husband with a look of desperation.

With a face stiff with protective neutrality, Mr. Tower said, "Just
let them go at it. They'll tire themselves out."

No, they won't, Laurie wanted to scream. You would know this if you
spent more time with them instead of just sitting in front of the
television to watch college basketball. But I can't say this to you
because then you'll put on that shocked, annoyed expression which is
supposed to remind me of the hard day you had at work and how you're
not appreciated enough in your home. Well, do you know what *is* going
on in your own home, Norman? I know enough to predict that if we
manage to get through this dinner without my children having a
screaming match in the restaurant, then we'll hardly survive
attendance at tonight's Broadway production (some godawful pop musical
about Joseph McCarthy). How long do you think it will take before Dave
starts to get bored and kicks the seat of the person in front of him?
And after that, how much longer until Annie starts wailing about how
her brother is ruining her cultural experience and maybe even her
chance to be a Broadway star? Well, a lot less time than it will take
before you fall asleep and leave me to play arbiter between the bratty
spawn of our loins. Oh, how I wish some evil resident of this city,
some local demon, some force of pure malice would descend upon you
and...

When the little green man in army fatigues jumped out of a manhole,
Mrs. Tower stopped. She neither moved or talked as the green man
grabbed her son with one hand and held a machete with the other.
Before she could even think of responding, a giant eagle swooped down
and plucked her daughter off the ground. Then one of the taxis grew
limbs and a mouth full of metal teeth. It pounced on her husband.

She still couldn't respond as the green man swiped at Dave's hand.
When the hand plopped to the ground,  mucus gleamed on the tip of the
forefinger. Up in the air, the eagle spread back its wings in order to
swing Annie against the side of a building. The car-monster was
pressing one of its tires against Norman's gut. Spinning black rubber
turned bright red. As her husband wailed and her son screamed and her
daughter slid down the front of the building like a damp rag, Laurie
Tower discovered the proper response.

She laughed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next day, something odd happened on the set of the country's most
popular daytime news show. The co-hosts of NBC's "The Today Show" --
Matt Lauer and Katie Couric -- were sitting on comfy furniture in the
studio along with their weatherman, Al Roker. As was their tendency,
they were having light conversation and making light jokes.

"Man, that's some kind of juice squeezer!" Roker commented as he held
up an object which resembled a miniaturized turbine.

"I know!" Couric chimed in. "Think of how much time I could spend with
that thing."

"Yeah, you would have more time to watch your soaps," Lauer said, his
handsome face adopting a roguish smile.

"Oh, you!" Couric replied, slapping him lightly on the shoulder.

"You're playin' with fire, Matt!" Roker warned and they all had a good
laugh.

"Well, while Katie here plots against me, I'd like to move on to a
more serious matter." The audience could tell that it was serious. He
was being given a close-up of his very serious expression. "A strange
affliction has been occurring with disturbing regularity here in New
York City. Over the past week, various people have been..."

Lauer squirmed. It was a brief motion -- nothing too dramatic. Yet it
was an unusually awkward movement for a man who tended to appear so
relaxed before the camera.

"...experiencing hallucinations. These hallucinations happen without
warning and convince people totally of their reality. What's
particularly strange is the consistent pattern of..."

He squirmed again. The viewers became puzzled. What was discomforting
the news show host?

Whatever it was, it seemed to be contagious. The director cut to a
two-shot of Couric and Lauer. She was also squirming on her seat.

"...these hallucinations. They are always graphic in their imagery..."

Roker lifted himself off the sofa, adjusted his pants, and sat back
down again. He looked at the couch in puzzlement.

"...and the only ones who have reported experiencing them
are...tourists."

Lauer glanced down at his pants. Then he quickly looked back up.

"Uh...no explanation has yet to be provided for
these...um...hallucinations..."

Couric tugged at her skirt, giving up the pretense of comfort.

"City health officials have not..." Lauer did a little hop. "...ruled
out the possibility of some kind of virus, but they stress that
there's no need to be overly concerned. Another possible explanation
points the finger of blame at...Al?"

Roker was standing up now. With his back to the camera, he lifted up
his coat and cried out, "What's going on? What's happening?" The
audience could see a stain spreading over his copious rump.

Lauer lifted up one buttock and saw another stain on the cushion
underneath him -- one to match his blemished pants. Neither he nor
Roker understood what was happening to them until Couric felt the
wetness in her panties stretch itself across the underside of her
legs. She touched the flood coming from her skirt and pulled back red
fingers. That's when the woman who had been referred to as "America's
sweetheart" jumped to her feet and hollered --

"Jesus fucking Christ, I'm bleeding from my ass!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Around the same time that Lauer, Couric and Roker were bleeding from
their asses, Dennis Bustamente was experiencing trouble of a more
prosaic kind. In his troublesome situation, he had both an advantage
and a disadvantage. The advantage came from the law -- it was on his
side. The disadvantage came from the person who was supposed to be
enforcing the law.

"It says so right here, officer," Dennis Bustamente insisted, holding
a piece of paper. "If I conduct my business within a specific
distance..."

"Look, don't make trouble."

"...then I am perfectly within my rights to sell my wares."

"Well, those people have got a business, too." The policeman pointed
with his thumb at the restaurant located twenty feet away. Through the
restaurant's window, a man in a blue dress suit watched with his arms
crossed over his chest.

"According to them, your business is interfering with theirs," the
policeman continued.

"I am within the boundaries set forth by the law. If you read this..."

"Come on, buddy. Don't bust my balls here. Just break it down and make
it easier for everybody, okay?"

"I'm only asking you to read this."

"And I'm only asking you to stop making trouble. What's so hard about
that?"

"Officer, this is a copy of the laws regulating street vendors. It
specifies what locations in which they may conduct their business..."

The policeman sighed.

"...and what distance they must keep from buildings, such as that
restaurant. If you want, we can measure just how far I am..."

"I am not getting down on the ground with a goddamn ruler," the
policeman snapped. He pointed at the fold-out table between him and
Bustamente. "Break it down. Take your books out of here."

"Sir, I am complying with the law..."

The policeman snatched the paper from Bustamente's hand. "Listen to
me, all right? I don't care about this. You break it down *now*."

Bustamente had two options. He could have done as ordered or stayed
his ground. The former option would wound his business and his pride.
The latter would send him to jail for the night and mark him as a
"trouble-maker."

He didn't get a chance to go either way. His conflict with the
policeman was interrupted by a voice saying, "Now you really don't
think that, do you?"

Bustamente and the policeman turned. They saw a black man whose
physical appearance belonged to man in his early twenties. His smile,
however, belonged to a child and his eyes belonged to an old man. He
kept his hands tucked away into the pockets of his tan trousers. The
rest of his outfit was made up of a candy-striped dress shirt, a
trench coat which extended to his knees, and very old sneakers.

"Excuse me?" the policeman said.

"You didn't really mean it when you said 'I don't care about this,'
did you? I mean, that's the law there. You care for nothing but the
law, correct?"

The policeman looked between the two black men -- one young and
smiling, the other old and grim of expression -- and thought, Great,
now I've got two smart-ass niggers to deal with.

The policeman decided to focus on the young man first, simply because
his smile was pissing him off. He took a step towards the young man
and said, "You keep on walking. This is not your business."

"I like to think that the law is everybody's business."

The police officer took another step. "My business is putting away
people who like to fuck with me," he snarled. "Now, move it."

Then the young man took a step towards *him*. The police officer
reached for his belt where a truncheon, a can of mace and a gun
awaited. Bustamente stiffened from his head to his toes.

The young man said, "This is what you really want to do."

The policeman's hand...

...slid down his pant's leg.

"You want to go into that restaurant and tell the manager that there's
nothing you can do. This man is perfectly within his rights to sell
used books on this street. Correct?"

"Correct," the policeman said. Bustamente heard this and his jaw
dropped.

"He will undoubtedly fuss and complain, but your hands are tied. You
are a representative of the law. It is your duty to enforce the law.
It is not your duty to make trouble for those who obey it. Right?"

"Right."

The young man stepped to the side. "Then go in there and be a cop."

The policeman nodded and headed for the restaurant. His expression
looked just a little sleepy, but there was nothing else strange about
him.

When the policeman entered the restaurant, Bustamente said,
"Brother...do you know what you've done?"

Looking at the restaurant, the young man said, "I've done what you
could have done." He turned to Bustamente, still smiling but with more
reserve. "Or so I've heard," he added.

Bustamente stared at the young man. His gaze was intense as if all of
his energy was focused on the act of looking. Every loose thread on
the man's clothing seemed to be getting his attention.

When he spoke, he said, "I don't know what you've heard. However, I
will tell you this -- there are certain things you shouldn't be doing
in public or doing them to certain people." Bustamente motioned
towards the restaurant. The window showed the man in the blue suit
waving his hands in the air. His face was stretched and red. The
policeman in front of him looked calm and distant.

"Once enough of them figure out what you're capable of doing,"
Bustamente said. "then you better grow eyes in your butt."

"I understand that. However, I didn't want you chased away or
arrested." The young man giggled. "Besides, it was good fun."

"What do you want with me?" Bustamente asked, tempted to break down
his table and get far, far away from this stranger.

The young man took his hands out of his pockets. He wore thin green
gloves. He placed his hands on Bustamente's table in front of copies
of "Invisible Man" and "The Wretched of the Earth."

"I've been told you sell more than books," the young man said, no
longer smiling. He didn't look mean -- just serious. "I've heard that
you traffic in certain...exotic items."

"I guess there's no point in telling you otherwise, huh?"

The young man shook his head.

"All right. Are you looking to buy something?"

"I'm willing to offer more money than you've probably seen all year
for one item in your possession."

Bustamente gave the other man another long, hard look. "Well," he
said. "I guess I would be a fool not to hear your offer."

The smile returned to the young man's face. "And no one ever said
Dennis Bustamente was a fool. So, where should we make the
transaction?"

"We'll have the *negotiation* tonight. I'll write the name and place
on a receipt. Buy something."

"I was planning to do so anyway. This book, in fact." The young man
pointed at a trade paperback. Collected inside it was the "Doll's
House" run of the "Sandman" comic book series.

"Neil Gaiman," the stranger sighed. "He changed my life, you know."

"That will be ten," Bustamente said as he wrote a receipt including
book title and directions to his apartment.

The young man pulled out a bill from his wallet. Bustamente put the
receipt in the paperback and extended them both to his customer.

"Keep the change," the young man said as he exchanged the bill for the
book. Bustamente looked at the money in his hand.

He was holding a hundred-dollar bill.

The young man walked away, thumbing through the paperback  He was
whistling a tune Bustamente didn't recognize.

As the sidewalk vendor folded the bill and tucked it in his pocket, he
thought about the young man, the strange recent events in New York
City, and the general feel in the air.

He decided to get out his umbrella.

'Cause there was one hell of a shitstorm coming.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (2 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWO
A BIT OF THE PAST, A TASTE OF THE FUTURE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"At the risk of sounding banal, Agent Doggett, this must be like
coming home for you."

"Yeah. It is. Of course, it's a home where dad drinks, mom's in the
asylum, the son has just robbed a gas station, and the daughter
charges ten dollars for a blowjob."

Agent Dana Scully lifted an eyebrow. "To know New York City is to hate
it. Is that what you're saying?"

John Doggett smiled. "Me, hate New York City? Never. Once you start
loving it, you never stop."

"So you accept it, genital warts and all?"

Doggett nearly winced. "Hey, I'm the one who is supposed to be
disgusting."

"I'm just trying to put it in your terms."

Doggett turned to a window. He could see a long metal wing. Past that,
buildings could be seen standing at the edge of a river. They were
packed closely together as if they were a group of people keeping a
secret.

"Yeah," Doggett said. "My terms. That's the reason I had to leave the
NYPD."

"Excuse me?"

Doggett turned back to Scully. "Since we're about to land, I suppose I
should tell you why I left New York."

"Is it all right for me to say 'uh-oh' at this point?"

"You might want to say other things after I'm done."

Scully sighed. "Okay. What is it?"

"When I was looking for a job at the FBI, I brought a glowing resume
from my lieutenant. It talked about what a great guy I was, what a
top-notch investigator I have proven to be, blah, blah, blah. It
failed to mentioned that if I wanted back-up, I wouldn't necessarily
get it."

"And just how did things end up like that?"

"I solved a crime. I found out who had been attacking the homeless in
a certain district. I found who had put a fifty-year-old wino in a
coma." Doggett paused, then said, "Three cops."

"Oh."

"Officers Ryder, Goyette, and Hall. Turned out they were contracting
themselves to a real estate dealer. All the victims had been living in
a building the realtor wanted. He had some deal with a movie company
which needed office space. Before the deal could be completed, he
needed the undesirables out of the building and off the street. That's
when he turned to these three policemen. Hence the beatings."

"Sounds like you plucked a few bad apples out of the barrel."

"I sent three cops to prison. A lot of people couldn't see it anyway
else. Other people agreed with what I did, but not in public. Anyway,
I started to get unsigned letters. You know, 'Rot in hell, you fucking
traitor.' 'Keep your doors locked, asshole.' There were phone callers
who would hang up right after I said 'hello.' When I found a bullet
placed on my desk, that was enough for me. I decided to leave."

"It must have been a difficult decision."

"Not really. Not then. I was in a 'fuck-you-too' mood. I had enough of
getting shit for doing my job right. The FBI seemed like a refuge at
the time."

"But, later...?"

"But, later, I would wonder if I should have stuck it out. Besides, I
understand why some people were angry."

"Are you serious?"

"Come on, Agent Scully. You know how it is. You need solidarity. You
have to depend on your partner, your unit, any fellow officer you meet
in the street. Everybody has to back up everybody else."

"And what happens when solidarity becomes an end and not a means?"

"Yeah, well...you're right. Of course, you've had a different career
than me. You and Mulder never got along too well with the rest of the
Bureau."

"No. But we could trust each other. We could speak openly and
honestly. That's why I should have heard this before we flew to New
York City and before we took on this case."

"Sorry. But would it have made any difference?"

Scully thought about it, then said, "Not really. I've tangled with
local law enforcement before. What about you, though?"

"I always figured that I would come back to the city one day." Doggett
looked out the window. "I wanted to come back. I missed this filthy,
pus-leaking town."

"Well, from what I've heard, there's been some changes."

"This city can't change. Not at its heart. It's got a rugged soul and
it holds nothing sacred."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Fuck the Beatles.

"Fuck all four of them. Fuck their worthless drummer. Fuck their lead
guitarist and his sitars. Fuck their bassist and his stupid catchy
melodies. I would like to stuff a hamburger up his vegetarian ass. And
fuck their rhythm guitarist and his stupid ideas. Bed-in for peace, my
ass.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Their music changed the world. Bullshit. They
didn't change anything. All they did was get stoned, and write tunes
to play on the soundtrack of car commercials. And don't start talking
about how innovative 'Sgt. Pepper' was. Yeah, put the sound of a fox
hunt on your album. That's gonna stop the fucking Vietnam war.

"Let me tell something. You can know all the words to 'I Am the
Walrus' and still be a racist, murderous asshole. In fact, if you know
all the words to 'I Am the Walrus,' you probably are a racist,
murderous asshole.

"This band is not walking in the path of The Beatles. We're chasing
after them. We're gonna knock 'em down and stomp 'em into the dirt.
We're gonna bury those English motherfuckers, then start a real
fucking revolution. Once we're done, it's gonna be a whole new world.
And, in this world, love is not all you need. What you need is a
fucking machine-gun."

The speaker of this rant was Ben Borrelli. The recipient of it was
Matthew Goldman, a writer for "City Corners" magazine. Goldman had
arranged an interview with both the lead singer and the bassist for a
band called Lockdown. He met them at a deli for the purposes of
talking about their music, their multi-ethic lineup, their message,
their influences...

When Goldman observed that one of Lockdown's songs -- "The Blues of
John Constantine" -- had "Beatlesque vocal harmonies," Borrelli went
into his rant. Up until then, Borrelli had been laid-back and
agreeable. Now he was pointing his finger at Goldman and giving the
impression that he would like to rip out the journalist's heart.
Goldman decided the best approach was to remain motionless and let
Borrelli finish.

After Lockdown's lead singer shut up and resumed stuffing the rest of
a turkey sandwich into his mouth, Goldman dared to open his mouth.
"I...see. So this song was not written with any set influences in
mind?"

Borrelli shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I didn't write it. Uriel
did. I think he got the idea after listening to 'Nowhere Man.'"

Goldman turned to the young black man sitting next to Borrelli. This
third person was sipping lemonade into a face of absolute neutrality.
The expression did not promise any divulgence of thoughts.

Among the third person's thoughts were "Why do I know so many
weirdoes?" One of the weirdoes was sitting right next to him. Ben
Borrelli was the ultimate mood swinger. Some times, he could look
relaxed almost to the point of death. Then something might come up in
conversation -- The Beatles, rock music in general, American foreign
policy, health care, public transportation, corporate power, race
relations, the Yankees, the Harry Potter series, that goddamn
pig-humping Jerry Seinfeld -- and he would howl at the moon. His
language became the words of a terrorist. He would curse and snarl and
spit until he had exhausted himself. Then he would lean back and act
like nothing had happened.

Being the bass-player for Lockdown had accustomed Ralph Nichols to
Borrelli's sudden explosions and insults. The journalist, on the other
hand, finished the interview soon after he had asked this question,
"This one song -- 'Rudy Giuliani Sucks My Cock' -- is that a political
song?"

"Nah, it's fucking autobiographical," Borrelli had snapped. "Don't you
know all us Italians love the taste of long penises and hot semen in
our mouths?"

Throughout the whole interview, Ralph hadn't said a word. Silence was
his usual approach in the face of a Borrelli rant. Still, he had to
wonder how the fuck he wound up in a band with Ben Borrelli.

The connection between Borrelli and Ralph was provided by their
guitarist. Ralph first met Uriel Poveda when they had been in the
Washington High School jazz band. Ralph had been a bass-player then as
well. Uriel seemed capable of playing anything -- saxophone, piano,
xylophone, drums, trumpet, violin. However, after graduating from high
school, he picked up the electric guitar and decided to form a rock
band.

This had always bewildered Ralph. Poveda could have gotten a
scholarship to any college imaginable. Instead, he was playing in
every shithole club located in New York City. Ralph was equally
bewildered by the fact that he was playing with him.

It was Poveda who had picked Borrelli out of auditioning singers. And
once you had heard the Italian-American's ear-piercing, jaw-dropping,
sinus-clearing version of "Kick Out the Jams, Motherfuckers," you knew
that Borrelli was destined to be a rock 'n roll singer. And Poveda
backed him up with the right kind of earth-shaking, floor-quaking,
bowel-loosening power chords needed for the band.

On the other hand,  it was difficult to imagine the two men in the
same room together, much less the same band. Poveda was just...serene.
He acted as if his head was attuned to the most soothing lullabies.
With his eyes focused on some faraway point, Poveda would say things
along the lines of "The god and the goddess long to be together
again," "Your heart must have doors within doors" and "Music, soul,
reality, redemption, nature...it's all the same." When asked to
explain why he picked Borrelli as the singer for Lockdown, he replied,
"I am attempting to link the molecules of fire with the molecules of
water."

Uriel Poveda was another one of the weirdoes in Ralph's life. A third
weirdo was Heather Cobb. She served as Lockdown's drummer. Like
Borrelli, she was prone to mood swings. However, Borrelli had never
hit anybody. (Not yet, anyway.) He didn't have to. His crazed eyes
were enough to make people back up.

In contrast, Heather would throw a punch in anger. It would be a very
effective punch, too. The white girl was also an amateur boxer as well
as a drummer. (And that was strange, as far as Ralph was concerned. He
didn't care that the current age allowed for "female aggression." He
had attended one of Heather's matches. Listening to a crowd scream for
two women to knock each other out...fuck that shit.) Outside of the
ring, the people she usually punched were her boyfriends. Ralph had
witnessed two of her romances end with blood spouting out of the
ex-boyfriend's nose.

What made this really strange was how much shit she would take
willingly before then. Both ex-boyfriends had proven to be more
asshole than man. They would order her around, call her names, treat
her like a pet dog. And Heather would take this with a meek smile and
downcast eyes. When anybody tried to defend her, she would tell them
not to worry.

Then, suddenly, she would take no more. One night, Heather, her
current boyfriend, and other members of the band were eating at a
deli. The boyfriend was actually behaving decently this time. When he
wanted ketchup, he said politely to Heather, "Honey, may I have the
ketchup?"

Heather lurched forward and the boyfriend fell out of his chair. After
picking himself up, he ran out of the deli with red dots appearing on
the floor in his wake. Heather went back to eating her salad. No one
else at the table dared to say a word.

When her next boyfriend started treating her badly, no one in Lockdown
complained. They knew what was coming. Ralph suspected that this was a
pattern in most of her relationships. (Except for one. That's another
story.) He didn't understand it, anymore than he could understand
Poveda's flakiness or Borrelli's sudden rants or why he hung around
with them. Ralph had an instinctual unease in regards to any kind of
eccentricity. Strange behavior offended his need for an orderly
universe. Yet he here was, playing loud music with three weirdoes.

Maybe I'm a weirdo, too, he thought.

"I think that went well," Borrelli said after Goldman had fled the
deli.

"I think so, too," Ralph replied in his practiced neutral voice.

"I don't know. Maybe I got a little strong about The Beatles..."

"Don't worry about it."

"I guess I shouldn't. Of course, I meant every last fucking...hey!"

Both Ralph and Borrelli saw the person enter the deli at the same
time. Borrelli's reaction was to stand up and wave at the man in the
tan trousers and candy-striped shirt. Ralph's reaction manifested
itself in a tightened hand around his cup of lemonade. When the man
smiled at him, he could only reply with a stiff and blank expression.

Because the man in tan trousers was the biggest weirdo he had ever
met.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Police Lieutenant Ed Cavanaugh had the smile and handshake of a
salesman. He seemed too determined to be everybody's friend.

"So, imagine my surprise when I heard that John was in the X-Files
division!"

"Imagine my surprise when I heard you made lieutenant," Doggett said.
"But you always wanted it bad, didn't you, Ed?"

The smile on Cavanaugh's face seemed more of a effort now. "Well...you
have to have ambition." He cleared his throat. "So, then, about this
case..."

"Is this officially a case? As far as I can tell, no crime has been
committed."

"And there's the rub, as the Bard once said. I mean, you've got people
hallucinating in the street..."

"And bleeding from their anuses," Scully commented.

Doggett and Cavanaugh both turned to the red-haired agent. When
Doggett had stepped into Cavanaugh's office, he had forgotten about
her. All of his attention had been focused on the smiling police
lieutenant. Cavanaugh had been Doggett's partner on the NYPD. Over the
years, Doggett had watched Cavanaugh practice the fine art of
ass-kissing. His partner was a good detective, but also insecure. He
couldn't just depend on his work to make him look good. He had to
repeatedly compliment his superiors for their judgment, the pounds
they had lost, the quality of their neckties. He had to send them
Christmas cards and buy them birthday presents. It got fairly
sickening.

What was even more sickening was that it worked. Ed Cavanaugh had been
promoted to lieutenant because he had proven himself to be no trouble
at all. Not only would he abstain from rocking the boat, but he would
tie himself to the steering wheel. When Doggett had gone after the
three hobo-beating cops, Cavanaugh made it clear to everyone that he
was an unwitting traveler on the ride. He had not contributed one iota
to Doggett's efforts.

Doggett knew there were a lot of other detectives who shared his
distaste for Cavanaugh. Yet, when Doggett had walked into the squad
room with Scully and walked past his former co-workers, he had felt
something harsher than distaste towars him. Look who's back, they had
been thinking. The rat has crawled out of his hole.

Scully was now pulling him back to the present. Her observation about
bleeding anuses had gotten a "Huh?" out of Cavanaugh.

"I'm referring to the incident on 'The Today Show,'" Scully said.
"Agent Doggett and I heard about it almost the moment we landed in the
airport."

"Oh, that. Yeah, that's been, uh, quite a topic around the water
cooler. But are you implying that it's connected to this, um, outbreak
of hallucinations?"

"I'm making a bit of a leap here," Scully replied, glancing at
Doggett. "However, the incident did happen in the vicinity of Times
Square. Like the hallucinations, it also has a...certain malicious
quality to it."

"Are you saying this was intentionally created?" Cavanaugh said, his
eyes widening.

"Well, that's what we're here to determine," Doggett said. "Right,
Ed?"

"Uh..." Cavanaugh cleared his throat. "Of course, of course."

Doggett looked at the man sitting behind his desk. "Agent Scully...I
would like to talk to Lieutenant Cavanaugh alone."

"Actually, I think *I* should talk to Lieutenant Cavanaugh alone," she
told him.

Doggett turned his gaze to Scully. She gave a look right back at him.

"Okay," he said, then walked out of the office.

Scully turned to Cavanaugh.

She smiled.

"I know why you called us," she said.

"Well...of course. I mean, you people are supposed to specialize
in..."

"We're here because the NYPD is getting pressure to handle this
situation before too many tourists get scared off. Since you don't
have the slightest idea of what to do, you're throwing the problem at
us."

"I wouldn't put..."

"That way, when the mayor starts complaining about the lack of
progress, the NYPD can blame it on us -- the crazy X-Files people."

"Now, wait..."

"But you know what? I don't care. The X-Files has been used like this
before. I'm accustomed to it. I could leave right now, but I won't do
it. You have a problem here. I would like to solve it."

Scully stepped forward and placed her fingertips on Cavanaugh's desk.
"But...these last few months haven't been good for me, lieutenant.
Don't give me and Agent Doggett too much shit. Or I'll see what that
grin of yours can eat."

Cavanaugh seemed to shrink inside his chair.

"Now...where are the case files?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Agent Doggett decided to wait in the stairwell next to the squad room.
He was getting too many sour looks from the detectives sitting at
their desks, questioning suspects, and typing reports. He counted the
tiles on the floor while Scully carefully ripped Cavanaugh's asshole.

It wasn't always like this, he thought. I used to get a lot more
respect. Hell, I had earned it. But, now, will anyone of these guys
give me the fucking time of day?

He heard the thumping of shoes as someone walked up the stairs to the
squad room. When the person stopped, Doggett instinctively looked down
the steps.

A woman with short blonde hair looked back at him. Her green eyes were
so focused on him that she seemed to be only inches away from his
face. The muscular body in her blue uniform swayed as it tried to pick
a direction for walking.

And once again, Doggett thought, my past bites me on the ass.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (3 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THREE
NEW PLAYERS, HIGH AND LOW

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Wow, Orb, where have you been?"

"Where haven't I been?" the man wearing tan trousers replied.

Oh, Lord, Ralph thought.

"Uh...okay," Borrelli said. "It's good to see you."

"And it's good to see you. Is the band still together?"

"Sure, man. We've got the same line-up. Me, Uriel, Ralph and...um,
well, everybody."

Orb nodded. "Well...I'm happy to see you, Ben. Right now, though, I
need to talk with Ralph. Alone."

Other people had made similar requests of Borrelli in the past and it
was not uncommon for him to reply, "Why? What are you, some kind of
fucking secret agent? You got something too precious for my guinea
ears? You want to say something to Ralph, you say it..."

That didn't happen here. Instead, Borrelli just nodded, picked up his
turkey sandwich, and moved to another table.

Orb settled into the chair Borrelli had left. "Hello, Ralph," he said.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"Whatever you want me to do, I don't want to do it."

Orb kept on smiling. "Oh, come on, give me a chance."

"I mean it. No."

"Why are you so suspicious?"

*Why? Because you scare me, Orb. You scare me with your innocent smile
and knowing eyes. You scare me with your unspoken promises of strange
events to come. You scare me as much as you did when we were younger.
You scare me because I don't know from where you came or where you're
going.*

Ralph didn't say any of these things. Instead, he said, "All right.
What do you want?"

"A place to stay."

Ralph looked at Orb. "That's it?"

"Just a room to keep me out of the rain for a few days."

"Is there any reason why you can't get that now?"

"Ah, right now, my funds are all tied up in a certain investment."

Ralph rolled his eyes. "Sheee-it..."

"This is important. Very important."

"It's always important with you, Orb."

The man in the tan trousers gave Ralph his best pitiable expression.
Ralph had seen this look soften the biggest of hard-asses. Orb had a
way of making you go against your better judgment, of making you trust
in his wonderful smile.

Ralph was no exception. In fact, much to his regret, he had often
proven to be too fucking far away from being an exception.

"Okay, okay," he said. "You can stay with me at my mom's apartment."

"Wonderful. It'll be good to see her again."

Ralph grunted.

"Well, I hate to run off," Orb said as he stood up. "but I've got..."

Ralph grabbed on Orb's sleeve. "Whoa, whoa. Mind telling me what's so
damn important?"

Orb forgot his smile. It was replaced by a foreboding expression which
made Ralph pull back his hand.

Then the smile returned, larger than before. "It's bigger than you
are, Ralph," Orb said.

"Bigger than you are, too?"

"For the moment."

Orb strode out of the deli in a flash of tan and candy stripes. Ralph
shook his head and raised his lemonade to his lips.

Then he put it back down upon remembering Heather. She had to be told
that Orb was back in town.

That's going to be one hell of a reunion, Ralph thought and shook his
head again. Of course, that could become the least worrisome thing in
the future.

Ralph didn't know what was coming exactly. However, when Orb was
around, it was best to turn around 'cause a train was probably about
to collide with your butt.

Ralph also had this horrible suspicion that he was going to stay on
the tracks.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Agent Scully, what are you looking for?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

Doggett paused, then said, "With all due respect, that kind of
investigation technique bothers me a little."

"Just a little? It used to drive me up the wall."

"So why are you doing it now?"

Scully turned away from her examination of the "Today Show" set. She
and Agent Doggett had been allowed to examine it. So far, the only
noticeable thing were the stains on the furniture.

"Look," Scully said. "this is the way it worked. Mulder would throw a
dart up in the air and we would start from where it landed. I would
use the principles of science to keep us from wandering too far off
from the correct path, but it always started with one of Mulder's
instinctual leaps. He was...very good at it."

She looked around at the set. "Better than I am, I think," she
muttered.

Doggett saw her discouragement and said, "But you still think there's
a connection between what happened here and the hallucinations?"

"I can't...yes. I do. I just have this strong sense of it..."

Doggett nodded. He looked at the stained couch and a chuckle escaped
his mouth.

"What's so funny?" Scully asked.

"I know I shouldn't be amused, but...the idea of Matt Lauer and Katie
Couric bleeding out of their butts on live air..."

"Excuse me? That's supposed to be funny?"

Doggett sighed. "Look...they annoy me, okay? I don't like their cheery
smiles, their banter, or the way they kiss celebrity ass. They're like
that other mook here at NBC...what's his name...Stone..."

"Stone Phillips."

"Right. Christ, what a name. Everything about him is pre-packaged. He
reminds me of every smooth fuck I knew back in high school -- the guys
who got by because they had the right looks, the right voice, and the
knowledge of which emotional buttons to push. If Stone Phillips is a
journalist, then get me a funny hat 'cause I'm the Pope."

While Doggett was making his speech, Scully had been walking around
the set and carefully examining all within her sight. "This seems to
be an issue of some importance for you," Scully commented without
looking at him.

"Ah...well, not really, I guess."

"You sounded pretty worked-up there."

"Nah, it's not Couric or Phillips. It's..."

"The city?"

"Yeah. The city."

He turned to the big windows which allowed passer-bys to look into the
studio. In the morning, a bunch of schmucks would gather there to wave
at the famous news anchors. Now the schmucks had come to gawk at the
spot where the same anchors shat blood.

The whole of Times Square now seemed a means of exhibitionism and
voyeurism -- not the old kind of peep shows, but the desperate lunge
to make your face seen on a national television show or to make
contact with a celebrity. ABC and CBS had the same stupid set-up with
their cameramen roaming the New York streets in search of the next
idiot who wanted to be famous. Over at the MTV building, wide crowds
of screaming young 'uns were trying to catch the attention of 'N Sync
or Creed or whoever the hell was popular now.

They've changed the place into a movie lot, Doggett concluded. Yes, it
was nice to see a cleaner and more organized center, but something had
gotten lost in the clean-up. They had taken the real energy of the
city and exchanged it for a simulated vibrancy. Instead of funky
little stores, you had big-assed retailers. Instead of a deli where
you could sit down and talk about last night's game, you had sports
bars created by ESPN and that goddamn asinine WWF. Instead of plays,
you had Disney sideshows.

This is not my New York, Doggett thought.

He noticed a group of young men and women gaping through the window.
Judging from their backpacks and NYU sweaters, they had to be college
students.

Doggett give them a finger. They were shocked for a moment, then they
gave him fingers in return and left.

Now that's my New York, he thought with a grin.

"Agent Doggett!"

He spun towards Scully, thinking his unprofessional behavior had been
caught. His partner, however, wasn't looking at him. She was on bended
knee and examining the back of one of the couches.

"What is it?" he asked as he walked over to her.

She pointed at a mark on the couch. Doggett leaned in closer.

It resembled a circular maze. Lines formed jagged patterns inside of
the round border. It was no bigger than a quarter and drawn in red
ink.

"I've seen this before," Scully explained. She rummaged through a
folder in her hand. It contained information about the hallucinations.
After some searching, she came upon a photo of Mrs. Laurie Tower. It
had been taken by a news photographer who had stumbled across the
peculiar sight of a middle-aged tourist being restrained by police.
Mrs. Tower's face was stretched long in the act of laughter and her
arms swung out in abandon. One of her hands held a bag whose bottom
could be seen by the camera, thanks to her arm's upward arc.

Scully pulled out a pair of eyeglasses. She held them close to the
photo and magnified the bag.

"Right there," she said. "See it?"

He could. A red circular mark had been printed on the bag's bottom. An
exact match couldn't be determined through eyeglasses, but it had a
close resemblance to the mark on the studio couch.

"Is this our connection?" he asked.

"Maybe. Let's see if we can find this mark anywhere else."

The two of them stood up straight. "That's not the only connection I'm
curious about," Scully said.

"What do you mean?"

"Who was that policewoman with you at the station?"

Ah, shit, Doggett thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Having spent last night snorting cocaine, watching a death match
between two wild dogs, and sodomizing the butt of a fifteen-year-old
boy, Edmund Frost was ready to get some work done. Tomorrow night was
the schedule time for the 'Eye-Popper' collection at the Frost
Gallery. He needed to put the finishing touches on the exhibition.
This included making sure there was a large enough crowd of protesters
outside the gallery.

"Screw you, taxpayer. That's my motto. If Joe Bloke wants back his
share of the lucre spent on this exhibit, then I'm willing to pay him
in return for a blowjob."

The reporter from 'The New York Post' seemed ready to shit himself out
of pure joy. Frost was providing a tasty interview, one destined to
incense the protesters against tomorrow night's exhibit. Tomorrow's
edition of the 'Post' would almost certainly put the gallery owner's
arrogant face on its cover. He had to make sure his photo would make
him look suitably arrogant, suitably elitist, suitably English.

He certainly looked all three of those things as he sat in his leather
chair and dropped ashes from his cigarette onto his blazer jacket.
Perhaps his office would be a good place for the photo, he thought.
All the little statues of beautiful Greek boys in that room would
certainly raise a few eyebrows.

No, he decided. Best to have the photo in front of the 'Eye-Popper'
exhibit.

"Does that include the members of the Catholic community protesting
the exhibit?" the reporter asked, just begging for more.

"Oh, no. I think *they're* the chaps who need a good blow job or a
good buggering. The men, that is. The women can watch and learn a few
things."

"So the protests don't bother you?"

"Why should I give a toss about them? I've got my government funding.
I'm not giving one blessed cent back."

Actually, he could have. The relatively small amount given to the
gallery by the local government served mainly to attract private
business interests. 'Eye-Popper' was being mostly financed by an
advertising firm. Of course, in return for its investment in the
'arts' and other local entertainment venues, the ad agency expected
favors in return from city hall.

A lot of favors.

Frost never discussed these things in public. Instead, he concentrated
on playing the role of a pampered British decadent. It helped that he
*was* a pampered British decadent. Who did the pampering was hidden
from the public.

"Really, what has Christianity given the world anyway? A lot of boring
hymns and sodomized choirboys. There's Christmas, of course, but
without Santa Claus, it wouldn't be worth a pimple on Prince Williams'
round ass..."

A knocking on the door broke into the interview. The door opened to
allow entrance for a woman with long blonde hair, gray clothes, and
glasses.

"Oh, what is it now, you silly Nazi bitch?" Frost snapped.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir," the woman replied in an
unflappable, German-accented voice. "But I wanted to update you on a
certain matter."

"Aaaaaah," Frost said, curling up his hands. He turned to the
reporter. "I'll be back in a moment, love. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Mister Frost," the reporter replied. He was going to stay
for every last outrageous quote.

"Reporters make the best pets, I always say," Frost commented after he
had stepped into the hallway and closed the door. "So, Miss Grawitz, I
assume you're here to tell me..."

"Yes, sir. We've tracked down the location of the Heart. The right
city, at least."

"Ah, Miss Grawitz, you're my favorite little cunt, you know that? So
what's the city? Rome? Calcutta? London?" Frost lifted his arms and
stomped a tango step. "Buenos Aires?"

"Here, sir. In New York City."

"You're pulling my dick!"

"Never will happen, sir."

"Are you sure?"

"The Heart's journey over the world has been a long and convoluted
one. To sum our investigations up, we have learned its most recent
owner was one Ollie Vaughn who lives in this city."

"Well, why are you standing here, you uber-whore? Shouldn't you be
finding this Ollie fellow?"

"My team is doing that right now, sir. However, it's a bit difficult.
Mr. Vaughn doesn't have a...permanent address."

Frost wagged his finger. "I don't want to hear excuses."

"Neither do I, sir. I know how important it is to find the Heart."

"It is deadly important, Miss Grawitz. If we're looking for it, then
the other side is poking about for it as well. The consequences of
them obtaining are fucking disastrous."

"Correct, sir."

"Then why are you standing here? Go! March! Ein, zwei! Ein, zwei!"

After Miss Grawitz marched off, Frost brooded for a moment. Then he
flung open the office door.

"Now where were we? Ah, yes. Now, speaking of sodomized choirboys..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Whomp...whomp...pow...

"You tell her."

"Why don't you tell her?"

Pow...whomp...

"Come on, Ralph. You know I'm not always the most diplomatic kind of
guy..."

"Did you just suddenly realize this or is this the conclusion of a
five-year investigation?"

Borrelli frowned. "Oh, fuck you."

"You're right. That isn't the language of diplomacy."

Whomp...thud...

Before Borrelli could let loose with even more undiplomatic language,
Poveda intervened. "Please, my friends. Let us not increase the flow
of negative energy. Heather needs our support at this time."

Ralph and Borrelli turned to the Hispanic guitarist. "All right,"
Ralph said.

"*You* tell her," Borrelli suggested.

Uriel Poveda considered the suggestion for a few moments, then he
nodded. "All right. I will."

He opened the door which lead from an alley to the basement underneath
a motorcycle repair shop. Heather Cobb's uncle owned the shop. Not
only did he provide employment for his niece, but he allowed her band
to practice in the shop's basement.

Heather also used it for her workouts. When Poveda entered the
basement, she was hitting the heavy bag. The young woman's long,
muscular arms were causing the bag to sway noticeably.

She heard the door open and turned to see a benign face. "Hey, Uriel,"
she said, then noticed her other band members behind Poveda. "Hey,
guys. You three go ahead and set up. I'll be with you in a minute."

She turned back to the bag and slugged it hard enough to make Borrelli
and Ralph wince. Poveda's face, however, remained calm.

"Heather?" he said quietly.

Thud...pow, pow...

"Heather?"

"What is it?" Heather replied, still hitting the bag.

"I have something to tell you."

"Well, it's a free country." Whomp...pow... "Go ahead and say it."

"I'm afraid it will disturb your soul."

Heather stopped her punches. When she looked at Poveda, she noticed
that Ralph and Borrelli were lingering behind at the doorway.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Orb is back in town."

Sweat slid off Heather's brow and passed her unblinking eyes. "Are you
sure?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sure. Ralph and Ben saw him today."

Those unblinking eyes focused on the people in the doorway. "Really?"

"Uh, yeah," Borrelli said.

"We...we saw him," Ralph confirmed.

"He's going to be staying with Ralph and his mother," Poveda informed
Heather.

A pained expression tightened Ralph's face as he took a step
backwards.

"Huh," Heather commented. With her gloved hands on her hips, she spent
a few seconds in contemplation of the cement floor.

Then she lifted her gaze to her bandmates and said, "I'm going to the
bathroom. You guys set up."

"You're sure?" Borrelli said, daring to inch forward.

"That's what we came here to do, right?"

The three men looked at each other. Then Poveda turned to Heather and
said, "As ever, your observations are practical and wise."

Heather grunted and shoved her gloves off. "I'll be back in a minute,"
she told her band-members as they headed for their instruments in the
corner.

She was back in six minutes. During that time, she leaned against a
bathroom sink and sobbed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

During the after-work commute on the subway trains, people found
different ways to spend time waiting in the underground stations. They
shuffled their feet, checked their belongings, or stared at the empty
space of the tunnel.

Pete McGovern spent his time talking. He was conversing with a man
sitting on a bench with him.

However, if you listened for awhile, you would have realized that Pete
was doing all the talking. The other man had a fedora hat tilted over
his face while he leaned his head against the white tile wall behind
him. His hands were hiding inside the pockets of his rumpled brown
suit.

Despite this, Pete went on as if the other man was an active
participant in the conversation.

"This country was robbed. It was robbed of its strength, its pride,
its heritage. The people living here used to believe in honest work.
Now, if you're a honest guy, do you know what that counts for?"

The other man gave no reply. Oblivious to the silence, Pete snapped
the fingers of a dirty hand to illustrate a point.

"Nothing. Nothing to the people who run things. They rather take your
money and give it to people who rather just sit on their butts and
watch t.v. Or to some teenage girl too dumb not to say 'no' when a guy
asks for sex. You point this out and you get all this garbage about
people in hard times. Well, what about me? What do I look like? A
millionaire? I bust my balls -- 'scuse my language -- I work hard to
keep roads paved and to keep buildings secure. Do I get rewarded for
that? Do I get university professors and college kid demonstrators
telling the world about my grief?"

The other man made a brief, ambiguous noise under his hat.

"No way, no how. They rather speak a lot of nonsense about people
being oppressed. I mean, yeah, some people, their ancestors didn't
have it so good. Well, it wasn't a holiday for my ancestors. They had
to work hard just like me to keep this country running. People have to
stop dwelling on the past. They have to look to the future, because it
is grim, let me tell you."

Another ambiguous grunt was spoken through the hat.

"Besides, these guys, these people with the money and the connections,
they're doing lots for their own kind. Have you heard about this art
exhibit they've got going?"

The hat moved up and down to indicate a nod.

"It's a disgrace. Taxpayer money going to that. It used to be people
thought twice before desecrating Jesus like that. Now they do it and
call us 'fascist' if you tell them what's what." Scott shook his head.
"This is all just part of the same mess. It's the same kind of people
who are always behind it.  The ones who are ruining this country and
expecting decent Americans to just stand by and watch. Well, if they
think we're going to surrender, forget it. Forget it. Right when they
least expect it, the decent Americans in this country are going to
rise up and..."

The other man made a new sound and there was nothing ambiguous about
it. The hat over his face quivered as he laughed.

Pete stared at him in surprise, then narrowed his eyes. "You find
something funny about what I've been saying?"

The man kept on laughing.

"I said...do you find something funny about what I've been saying?"

"Yes," he said, then pushed back his hat. He was a man in his
mid-twenties with bright eyes and a long grin. He turned that grin
towards Pete.

"For one thing, you've been talking for the past five minutes without
interruption. Can you remember why you were talking to me in the first
place?"

Pete's frown changed to an uncertain expression.

"Secondly, I can't believe anybody still talks like that. I can't
believe someone is still spouting that old rant. It's so early
nineties."

Pete bristled again. "It's the truth."

"I'm not talking about truthfulness. I'm talking about effectiveness.
Haven't you been paying attention? For the past two decades, a bunch
of people took the words you've been speaking and put it to their own
usage. You know what they did?

The man in the fedora hat stood up. Looking down at Pete, he said,
"They bought up all the real estate they could. They took all their
big companies and made them into one really big company. They made
their own laws and made the police enforce them. Whenever someone
challenged their power, they took your rage and turned it against the
challengers. You were their insignia, their coat-of-arms, their
shield. They claimed to believe in the same things you did."

The man in the fedora hat shrugged.  "Maybe some of them did. However,
you eventually outlived your usefulness. Once they got what they
wanted, they tossed you aside, leaving no better than before. Are you
married, Pete?"

"Wha...how did you know my name?"

The man leaned forward until his face was close to Pete's.
"Are...you...married?" he asked.

Pete swallowed, then said, "No."

"You work in construction, right?" the man inquired, noting Pete's
frayed jeans and steel-tipped boots.

"Right."

"Saving up much for retirement? Or for the moment when you get a back
pain that won't go away?"

"I'm...trying. I've got an insurance policy..."

"But you'll have to fall off a high-riser to collect it, right?"

Pete turned away from the other man's bright eyes.

"What was the last fun thing you've done? I mean, that wasn't
alcohol-related? And does that dirt on your hand ever go away?"

Pete closed his eyes.

"So when are you 'decent Americans' going to rise up and storm the
Bastille, Pete?"

The sound of an approaching train could be heard. The other people at
the station positioned themselves to get on board. Pete and his
smiling tormentor remained unmoving.

"Perhaps 'decent American' is a good name for you, Pete," the man in
the fedora hat observed. "But 'guy who is going nowhere' is also a
good name. Do you want to change that?"

The train arrived and stopped its long metal form in front of the
station. Pete opened his eyes.

He stared at the smiling man for a few seconds, then edged around him
in order to head for the train's opening doors. His legs were stiff.
He kept looking over his shoulder at the other man.

The other man remained standing by the bench, still smiling.

Just as he was about to reach the train, Pete forced himself to stop
looking. He walked through the open doors, determined to forget the
stranger and his eerily precise words.

"Pete?"

Pete spun around and saw the stranger standing on the other side of
the doors. He had crossed the space between the bench and the train
without making a sound.

"If you ever want to be anything more," the stranger said. "then come
here."

He stuck out his arm. A business card was held lightly in the hand.

Pete didn't move. Neither did the stranger.

The warning buzzer sounded. Just as the doors began to close, Pete
snatched the card. The stranger unhurriedly pulled back his arm. The
doors brushed against his fingertips as they closed.

The stranger tipped his hat to Pete as the train left the station.
White walls were replaced with tighter, darker ones. Pete looked at
the card in his hand. An address had been typed onto the card. Above
the address was a yellow circular mark which resembled a tiny maze.

As he swayed slightly on his feet, Pete had the sensation that the
train was motionless and everything around him was moving.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (4 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOUR
MORE BLASTS FROM THE PAST

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Her name was Cindy Wildenstein.

"Before I left the NYPD, we were lovers. That went on for about two
years. I haven't heard or seen her since I went to D.C. Not until
today.

"So that's about it," Doggett concluded, then bit into a tuna
sandwich.

Scully didn't bite into her own sandwich. She just kept staring at her
partner until he swallowed and said, "Okay, there's more."

"Do tell."

"She was the partner of one of the cops I busted -- Ryder."

"Oh."

"She was never involved in the hobo-thrashings."

"Well..."

"I mean, there was never any proof."

"I'm..."

"And I knew the woman. She would never get involved with shit like
that."

"Well..."

"Of course I know there can be secrets between lovers. Husbands and
wives live together fine for years, then one of them finds out the
other has lovers in five different states or he's an ax murderer. But
I'm pretty confident that..."

Doggett saw the mixture of amusement and unease on Scully's face. He
tore off a crumb of bread and rubbed it between his fingers. "Yeah,
well...I'm pretty confident."

"You don't have to convince me, Agent Doggett."

"I know," Doggett sighed. "But the fact is that I'll always have a
little doubt in my brain. Cindy was his partner. If she wasn't
involved, maybe she knew about it and looked the other way." He shook
his head. "It was another good reason to get out of New York City."

"Did she ever know about your doubts?"

"I don't know. But just sleeping with the guy who busts cops would
have been too much for her. We managed to make the break civil,
though. Overall, she probably has the least hard feelings towards me
in the whole police force."

Doggett bit into his sandwich again. Sitting across from him at a deli
table, Scully reminisced about what she had seen upon leaving
Lieutenant Cavanaugh's office. She had spotted Doggett and Wildenstein
standing together in the stairwell. Seeing the two of them had
reminded Scully of something, but she wasn't sure of what at first.

Then she remembered.

Mulder and Diana Fowley...

Her current partner and the female police officer had that same
quality Scully had seen in Mulder and Fowley. They both appeared
familiar with the other. Only this time, there had been a deeper sense
of strain and unease.

Wildenstein had walked away before Scully could reach the stairwell.
Doggett had stood there and watched the policewoman leave. When Scully
had approached him, he had hoped that she hadn't seen Wildenstein. No
such luck.

In any case, Doggett gave his explanation over supper at a deli. He
didn't want to say anything more than that nor did Scully expect him
to do so. Both presumed the matter was closed.

No such luck there, either.

Doggett turned the subject back to the case. "So," he said. "we've
spent a good portion of this day looking for little red circles. What
have we proven?"

"Well, we've proven that they're common." This was true. A lengthy
inspection of Times Square had revealed an abundance of the circles.
They had been imprinted on sidewalk corners, the glass windows of
souvenir shops, the undersides of fast-food restaurant tables, the
insides of an occasional brochure, the styrofoam cups in coffeehouses,
and the foreheads of celebrities smiling from posters.

"We have found a whole lotta them," Doggett admitted. "But what does
it mean?"

"It could mean that whoever was behind these strange incidents has big
plans."

"Presuming there is some specific person causing them."

Scully smiled. "Give me a little leeway here, Agent Doggett."

"Okay. Would you mind telling me what would be the point of 'causing'
this shit?"

"This coming from the man who laughed at Katie Couric bleeding from
her ass?"

Doggett paused, then said, "So you're saying...what? Somebody out
there has it in for tourists and annoying news anchors?"

"I'm saying...why stop it there?"

Doggett turned to look through the front window of the deli. The last
bits of sunlight were fading away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ralph Nichols found himself in a suspiciously neat apartment. All five
rooms had been vacuumed and the meager amount of furniture had been
cleaned. Every loose item had been organized. It was odd. Mrs. Nichols
would have just gotten home from her job. How could she have
straightened things out so quickly?

The answer was helping her cook in the kitchen.

"Oh, I can't believe you haven't found some nice girl," Mrs. Nichols
cooed. "Such a nice-looking man like yourself..."

"No, I'm afraid not," Orb chuckled. "You know somebody?"

Mrs. Nichols laughed and her son rolled his eyes. Mrs. Nichols had
always been charmed by the young man in the tan trousers. No matter
how many strange stories her son would tell, no matter unnerving
incidents he would relate, no matter how much he warned not to be
taken in by his smile, she would always fall for Orb's gentlemanly
manners.

Of course, who I am to talk? Ralph thought. I was the guy who invited
him into the apartment.

Ralph sighed and plopped his butt onto a sofa. It had been a good band
practice, but exhausting. Heather had insisted on playing the fastest,
heaviest rhythm she could. Ralph's fingers had to work overtime on his
thick bass strings. He hoped that she wouldn't play so fast at the
show tomorrow night. He might not live through the night.

On second thought, it was better to have those tough hands around a
pair of drumsticks than in somebody's face. She hadn't said anything,
but everyone else in Lockdown could feel the pain in her gut. Just
knowing that Orb was in the same city...hell, the same state...could
twist her up into a knot.

Ralph couldn't blame her. Of all the things he had told his mother,
one of them wasn't about what went down between Orb and Heather. It
wasn't his business to spread around that kind of news. If she did
know, though, she wouldn't be considering which local girl to set up
with the smiling man in tan trousers.

These were not the thoughts Ralph wanted in his head. He needed to
close his eyes and shut out the whole world.

He tried to do that. However, one item in the world refused to let go
of his attention.

A grocery bag was sitting on the low table next to the couch. After
trying to ignore it, Ralph opened his eyes and studied the bag. Its
contents had a square shape, judging from the bulges against the brown
paper.

Ralph sat up on the couch. He examined the bag for a few seconds more
before deciding that he just had to peek inside.

The calm face of Andrew Jackson looked back at him.

Ralph pulled the bundle of twenties out of the bag. The band holding
the twenties together had been marked with the number "one-thousand."
Upon realizing there were even more bundles inside, Ralph trembled
slightly.

A tap on his shoulder made him yelp. The bundle fell to the table.
Ralph turned to see Orb. For one moment, Orb was not smiling.

Then the smile returned. He wagged his finger and said, "Uh-uh-uh. Are
we being tempted, young man?"

"Motherf..." Ralph glanced in the direction of the kitchen, then
lowered his voice to a hiss. "Orb, there are thousands of dollars in
that motherfucking bag!"

"Thirty-eight-thousand-and-fifty-eight dollars, to be exact."

"Where did you..."

"I emptied out all my accounts."

"What accounts?"

Orb picked up the bundle and returned it to the bag. "I've had an
account since I was eleven years old. I've been building up others
ever since."

"You've built thirty-eight-thousand dollars over a decade?"

Orb nodded.

"And you're going to tell me that's just interest?"

"Not all of it, no."

Ralph almost asked from where the rest of the money came -- almost,
but didn't. Instead, he asked, "So you just went into the bank and
took out your money."

"More than one bank, actually."

"And -- God forbid this would actually happen -- weren't the tellers a
little suspicious of a black man asking for so much money in
twenties?"

"They were."

"But they gave it to you anyway."

Orb's smile lengthened into a grin. "Of course they did."

"Then you just walked back to Harlem with a grocery sack full of
thousands of dollars?"

"Of course I did."

"And you weren't worried about being robbed?"

"Of course I wasn't."

No. He wouldn't be. Ralph recalled one of the golden rules from when
he was growing up -- no one fucks with Orb.

A person who had tried to do so was Paul Hale. Back in high school,
Paul's greatest ambition was to be a bank robber. He was working his
way up by shaking down the other students. Being a very large senior
(who had passed his way to twelfth grade simply because Washington
High School wanted to rid itself of his presence), intimidating the
younger and smaller was little challenge.

The ninth grader in the funny clothes certainly didn't seem a
challenge. One day, Paul stomped over to him and declared, "Yo, nigga,
gimme a dollar."

The ninth grader looked at Paul's stern face and said, "All right." He
reached into a pocket of his tan pants and pulled out a dollar bill.
Paul grabbed the other end and yanked on it. To his surprise, the
ninth grader was still holding onto it.

"I'm only giving this to you," he told Paul. "because I know you'll
give it back."

Paul stared at the ninth grader, not knowing whether to kick the other
person's ass or laugh in his face.

Then the ninth grader smiled and let go of the bill. Paul decided to
laugh. "You a funny little nigga," he informed the ninth grader.
However, he didn't laugh when the ninth grader visited him in the
hospital and asked for his
dollar back.

"Freak accident" were the official words used to describe the event
which broke both of Paul's legs. How else to describe a steam pocket
which catapulted a manhole cover? For awhile, the other students could
accept that terminology. And if Paul Hale went pussy and returned
Orb's money, then Paul was just an ignorant, superstitious thug.

Thugs came in various shapes and sizes at Washington High School. One
such thug had been Chuck Adams. He had served as the school's "head
security guard." He had been assigned by the board of education to
protect the students from the likes of Paul Hale. Most of them ended
up being even more harassed by Chuck.

A favorite pastime of Chuck's was surprise locker inspections. Any
moment of the day, a group of students could be ordered to stand by
their lockers and open them up for Chuck's perusal. As his meaty hands
dug into the locker, the smirk on his face seemed to say, "Here I
am -- a big white guy invading your privacy. Get used to it."

One day, it was Orb's turn. He was the fourth person in a line of
students getting their lockers inspected. The previous three complied
silently, trying to keep a blank face. A small hint of displeasure on
your features would reward you with Chuck's lecture on "attitude."

Chuck reached Paul. "Open it," he ordered.

"Nope."

The other students almost broke their necks as they turned fast to
Orb. Chuck glared at the tenth grader and said, "I didn't just hear
you say 'nope,' did I?"

"Yep."

Chuck had to laugh. "Oh, tough guy, huh? Trying to show me that you've
got a pair, right?"

"A pair of what, sir?"

The other students fought hard to restrain their gasps. Chuck studied
his opponent. He had encountered more than a few rebels during these
inspections, but the previous ones had been loud and angry. This one
just...smiled.

"Well," Chuck said. "you know what's going to happen now?"

"No, sir."

"My friend over here..." Chuck indicated the rock-faced security guard
next to him. "...is gonna pry your locker open. After I get done with
searching it, you, me and your ass are going to have a looooong talk."

"If you say so, sir." Then Orb stepped aside and waved his arm in the
direction of his locker.

Chuck snorted, then nodded to the security guard. The guard went up to
the locker and raised a crowbar.

Then he lowered the crowbar.

He raised it again.

He lowered it again.

"What's the matter?" Chuck grumbled.

The guard turned to Chuck with a face suddenly gone confused and
scared. "I...I...I can't do it."

"Well, why the hell...aw, give me the bar, dumbass."

Chuck grabbed the crowbar. He stepped up to Orb's locker and raised
the bar. Just as the metal was about to shove itself into the edge of
the locker's door, Chuck froze. Everybody watched his shaking arms and
tight jaw in amazement.

Except for Orb, of course.

Chuck stood there for many seconds, panting and trying to force
himself forward. Then he jumped back. The crowbar clattered on the
floor.

He turned to Orb. The student's smile hadn't changed.

The head of Washington High's security spun on his heel and strode
away. That's when Orb said, "Oh, now I get it."

Chuck halted as if Orb had just lassoed him.

"A pair of testicles," Orb said, nodding his head.

Chuck Adams resigned the next day. He was replaced by a man who was
less of a prick. This should have made Orb a folk hero among the
Washington High students. He should have been approached by people
asking for help with their own problems.

Neither of these things happened. Orb unnerved everybody, not just
schoolyard bullies and overbearing security guards. Nobody had known
what to make of him before these incidents. He had always been an odd
teenager with funny colors over his clothes, a smile hinting at an
unspoken irony, and a relentless enthusiasm for a strange comic book
series written by some Englishman. To top it all off, nobody knew
anything about him. No one knew where he lived or who his parents
were. Even his single-syllable name presented a mystery. Teachers
wanted to find out more about him, but they were afraid of what they
might learn.

After what happened to Paul and Chuck, Orb became a loner. No one
wanted to get near him. This seemed to suit him fine. He almost never
made an effort to make friends with anyone.

Almost.

His one friend was watching him right now, feeling as unsure about
Orb's next move as he had been years ago. He wondered about the
grocery bag. Racial prejudice aside, that much money in twenties
suggested illegal activity. However, Orb would never be involved in
drug-dealing or anything similar. That would be...too mundane for him.

Again, Ralph decided to ignore the mystery for now. Instead, he chose
to focus attention on more personal matters.

"Heather knows you're back in town," he told Orb.

The smile gradually faded off Orb's face. It was replaced by a neutral
expression to match Ralph's. "I see," Orb said.

"She's still kind of pissed, you know."

"I imagined she would be." Then the smile re-appeared with less size
than usual. "Are you still in that band?"

Ralph knew that it would be pointless to return to the subject of
Heather. Orb could skip over another person's hurt as if it was a
chalk line in a hopscotch game. "Yeah," he said, holding back a sigh.
"Lockdown still exists.  Same lineup."

"Well, that's great!" The smile was now back to its usual bright self.

"Yeah, I would prefer having a real job. I would prefer not having to
live with my mom..."

"Oh, your mom is a great woman."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just..." Ralph glanced at the bag. "I
wouldn't mind having a little of that for myself."

Orb placed his gloved hands on Ralph's shoulders. Ralph turned his
eyes back to the man in tan trousers. That smiling face seemed to
completely engulf his vision.

"You are my friend," Orb said in a matter-of-fact voice. "You have
always been my friend. I will never forget that. Once everything is
finished, I'm going to make life a lot easier for you and your
mother."

So many questions begged to be asked. Ralph could make none of them
leave his mouth.

"Boys, supper is ready!" Mrs. Nichols called out.

Orb turned and slid an arm over Ralph's shoulders. "Come on," he said.
"Let's go help her."

Ralph allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, hating the touch of
Orb's arm but never shaking it off.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Pete McGovern spent two hours in his apartment staring at the business
card. He examined it in hopes of finding some hidden clue. He also
drank an entire six-pack of beer.

Finally he said, "Ah, what the fuck do I have to lose?" On slightly
wobbling legs, he left his apartment for the subway.

Sixty-six floors of opaque windows and grey cement stood at the
address indicated by the card. Pete examined the building and felt a
bit puzzled. He had walked down this street a fair number of times,
but the building looked unfamiliar to him.

Then he repeated, "What the fuck do I have to lose?" He walked through
the revolving doors.

There was nothing exceptional about the lobby. Black spots freckled
the gray stone walls. Three elevators waited with closed doors at the
far end of the lobby. To reach them, you had to pass the guard sitting
at his desk. Nothing was exceptional about the desk guard -- not his
wide stomach, not his white hair and mustache, not the paperback
bestseller he was reading.

The desk guard didn't look up until Pete cleared his throat.

"Uh...I was asked to..." Pete showed the card in his hand.

"Take the elevator to the top," the desk guard told Pete in a bored
voice. Then he returned to his book.

The top, Pete thought. Fucking-aye.

He walked towards one of the elevators. On the way there, he felt
someone else watching him. He turned and saw a yellow dog.

The dog had been sitting down on all four legs next to the desk,
hidden from Pete's sight. He couldn't discern its breed, but it was as
big as a Doberman. Its sinewy body was motionless, but its green eyes
weren't. They followed Pete and promised that the fangs in the dog's
mouth were very sharp and the legs were very fast and the bark was
very loud.

Pete quickly looked away. After he reached the elevator and pressed a
button, the few seconds spent waiting made his pulse quicken. He
slipped into the elevator quickly when the doors opened for him. Then
he jabbed the top floor button. He huddled in a corner of the elevator
until the doors shut.

*Something's fucked here*, he thought. *Oh, yeah, no shit, Sherlock.
It's been fucked ever since you met that guy in the subway station. So
why are you in this elevator going up to meet God-knows-who?*

Because the other option was to get drunk, go to sleep, and then do
another shift at a job he hated.

"I am not going to pussy out," he muttered for every floor he passed.
"I am not going to pussy out...I am not going to pussy out..."

He kept repeating this until he realized that the elevator had
stopped. It had been motionless for several seconds. A light was on
behind the number sixty-six.

Pete looked at the doors. They were closed and they stayed closed even
after another ten seconds of time died.

"Hello?" Pete called out. "Anybody there?"

The doors opened. Pete saw a room full of pipes.

Twisting and bending and turning around each other, the black metal
pipes almost engulfed the room. They had knotted themselves into a
pattern which blocked any attempts to see past them. Only enough space
was allowed for a person to walk five steps into the room and for a
single lightbulb to dangle on a wire over the fifth step.

Pete took those five steps -- cautiously. He looked around him and
noticed that many of the pipes' open ends were near his head. Their
sizes ranged from thin as a pencil to wide as a basketball.

"What is this shit?" he asked out-loud.

"We are this shit," a voice echoed from one of the pipes.

The doors slammed shut before Pete could even turn around.

"Who are you?" the voice asked. It was a deep man's voice coming from
a medium-sized pipe next to his right ear.

Pete's first response was stuttered into incomprehensibility.

"Who are you?" a new voice demanded to know. This belonged to a woman.
She spoke through a pipe located at his elbow.

"P-P-Pete McGovern..."

"Why did you come?" the man's voice inquired.

"I was..." Pete coughed. "I got a card."

"We already figured that out," a boy's voice informed him. That voice
emitted from a pipe located in front of his stomach. "But why have you
come?"

"Think carefully," a second woman's voice warned him.

Pete said, "Well...I guess I came...because I was going nowhere else."

The pipes fell silent. Pete didn't dare speak into that silence.

"You are afraid," a girl observed through a pipe directed at his neck.
"You are afraid and angry."

"You suspect many of being your enemy," the man's voice added. "But
you're still not sure where your enemy is."

"That's not true," Pete retorted, finding a bit of courage. "I know
who my enemies are."

"You don't," the boy assured him.

"We will tell you who they are," the girl added.

"I can see why you were brought to us." This was a new man's voice. It
was roughened with old age. Pete had to look straight up into a large
pipe directly over his head. "You shall help us find our enemies."

"I will?"

"Would you rather go back to your old life?" the second woman asked.

It was not a question Pete spent a lot of time pondering. He shook his
head.

"Then you shall help us," the first woman said quietly.

"How do I do that?"

Another voice spoke from Pete's left. This time, the voice had the
flat, computerized tones of the device used by cancer patients to
speak through their neck.

"Place...your...ear...against...this...pipe."

As if the pipe was hot, Pete slowly leaned over and touched the side
of his head to the pipe. In reality, the pipe was cold to the touch.
He waited with his eyes twitching left and right.

Then the pipe blew smoke through his head. The black gust jammed
itself into one ear and shot out the other. Pete's agonized expression
proved that he wanted to yank himself away from the pipe. Yet he
remained stuck to the pipe.

Only when the pipe stopped blowing was he able to pry his ear free. He
wrapped his arms around his head and bellowed his pain. He staggered
towards the elevator doors because there was nowhere else to go.

Fortunately, they opened. He tumbled into the elevator and crashed to
its floor. The elevator shut its doors to began a descent. Pete spent
half of the ride groaning and rolling around.

Then he noticed a pair of scuffed brown shoes. They were at the bottom
of a pair of wrinkled dress pants. Despite his saber-toothed migraine,
he managed to lift his head.

"Welcome to the team," the man in the fedora hat declared with a grin.
"You're now working for the Jeevatek. Let's go hunting."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (5 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIVE
NIGHTLY EXCURSIONS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After puking in the toilet, Scully readied for tomorrow. She had been
doing some internet searches on her portable laptop, consulting some
files taken from her office, going through Mulder's rolodex for any
possible sources in New York City. She hadn't found any new
information about the red mark, but she had found a few libraries and
shops which might turn up a lead.

And then what? she asked herself. Scully rested her body on her hotel
bed. This mystery over the red circles interested her, but no apparent
crime had been committed. She had been brought here simply to take the
heat off the NYPD. Doggett was going to feel some of that heat. Was it
right to subject himself to it?

Another worry nibbled at Scully's mind. The hallucinations, the
bleeding asses...if they were being purposely activated, then what
trick would the responsible party do next? Were those events merely a
prelude to increasingly malicious acts? Were they the first shots
fired in a...

...war?

Scully placed a hand on her abdomen. If there was a war, should she
flee from the battlefield? Or was it too late to run?

If the latter was true, then she better damn well find out who was
fighting whom.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"They call me The Salesman, by the way."

"Oooohhh..."

"I'm a hired gun for the Jeevatek. I handle...certain problems for
them."

"Uuuuh..."

"They've got a considerable problem right now. Someone is screwing
around with their territory, messing with their property."

"Eeeeeerg..."

"The right solution to this kind of problem is one that's clean,
concise and quiet. I mean, if the Jeevatek wanted to, they could stomp
all over NYC until they squashed the opposition. But...as you can
probably guess, that can wreak more havoc than necessary. And let us
not forget the possibilities of too much attention."

"Aaaah...."

The Salesman glanced at Pete McGovern who was pressing his forehead
against a car's passenger window. "Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang,"
The Salesman said as he drove the car. "Have you been paying attention
to anything I've said?"

"What was...what happened to me?"

"The Jeevatek did a readjustment on you. They took your inherent
paranoia and molded it into a heightened awareness. You see, whoever
these pricks are, they've been hiding themselves very well. Even the
Jeevatek can't find them and when you can hide yourself from them,
you're one sneaky..."

"I see things," Pete said. He stared at lights and people drifting by
his eyes. Little red circles popped across dark surfaces, only to be
seen by himself.

"You're picking up the scent," The Salesman explained. "Tell me where
the trail leads. But I only need to know where one of these pricks
are. For now."

"And...what are you going to do...when you find him?"

The Salesman reached up and tipped his fedora hat. "This hired gun is
loaded and cocked."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dennis Bustamente didn't have a gun.  He wondered if he should get
one, but decided that it wouldn't do much good in this case. What was
needed was some space between him and the battlefield.

Bustamente had always sensed an unnatural presence at work in New York
City. He had sensed it working in the cop who had dismissed the law.
He had seen it previously in the smiles of franchise owners, the cold
faces of landlords, the dazed eyes of tourists. The trick was not to
confront it directly. Use the earthly weapons of the law and the
street protest.

Someone was confronting it directly now, though. This required equal
amounts of ballsiness and stupidity. The attackers also needed the
right weapons. Unless Bustamente missed his guess, then he possessed
the right weapon.

What he couldn't guess was on which side this punk in the tan trousers
stood.

Maybe that's the whole point, he thought.

He also thought about the item kept in a box under his bed. That thing
should have been flushed down the toilet a long time ago. Hell, he
should have never bought it off Ollie in the beginning.

Ollie Vaughn...damn...

If this punk knew what Bustamente had in possession, then others could
find out as well. They could track down Ollie and Ollie would lead
them to Bustamente.

Just go to the bathroom down the hallway and flush the fucking thing,
Bustamente thought. Just flush it and...

Knuckles rapped on the door to Dennis Bustamente's apartment. The old
man sitting on the bed turned his head quickly. His alert eyes focused
on the dark wood of the door, seemingly looking past it.

"Mr. Bustamente, you know it's me," a voice said.

Bustamente sighed and hauled his body off the bed. He walked across
the minute distance of his one-room apartment and unlocked the door.

There the punk stood, his green gloves holding a paper bag. "Good
evening," he said with his ever-present grin. "Let's make a deal."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

To know New York City was to know it at nighttime. That's what John
Doggett believed. The city was fed by what people did in alleys and
clubs and abandoned tenements and theaters and all-night delis. The
deals brokered in city hall and law firms may have shaped the borders
of the city, but there was a core of activity never to be affected.

Maybe.

Doggett stood at the window of his hotel room. As se drank a glass of
ice-filled water, he wondered if money had won out over pride and
intelligence. He knew he shouldn't be surprised. Didn't money always
win?

What if it wasn't just money which had the victory, though? What if
there was some other force behind it all? He hated this kind of
speculation, but working on the X-Files had bent his once-hard
mindset. A few weeks in that division would make anyone wonder about
shadows and their secrets.

What kind of secrets was Agent Scully learning? Her investigation
techniques were getting closer to Mulder's everyday. Was this right
for her? Should he pull her back?

As if to answer his thoughts, the phone rang. Doggett was not
surprised to hear Scully's voice answer his "hello."

"Doggett, I need you to come down to the lobby. It's urgent."

"On my way."

A few seconds later, Doggett was out of his apartment and striding to
the elevator. Two men in gray suits were already waiting by the closed
doors. They were having an amiable discussion about sports. He faced
the doors, not paying attention to them.

"Well, if you ask me, the hands-down best catcher in the whole league
is...don't move, fuckface."

The final three words were accompanied by the feel of metal against
Doggett's cheek. The FBI agent obeyed his order as a hand relieved him
of his gun. Doggett's face was calm, but every profanity known to man
was echoing in his hand.

"This way," he was told. A hand pushed him in the right direction
while other hands gripped his arms.

Doggett was taken to the hotel's staircase. The sound of the metal
door's closing bounced against the pale walls of the stairwell. "We
got him," one of his captors called out.

A man climbed the steps from the floor below Doggett. At first, the
FBI agent saw the hand riding up the balustrade. Fluorescent light was
reflected on three rings and a gold watch.

Then the ascending man turned the corner. His clothes were as
expensive as his jewelry. The guy was even wearing an extra coat
draped over his shoulders with the sleeves dangling armless at his
sides. Doggett might have laughed at this "Mafia chic" in other
circumstances.

He couldn't laugh now. Nor could he keep his poker face intact.

"Hey, John," the man said as he walked up the stairs. "Remember me?"

Doggett certainly could. He had never forgotten the face of ex-officer
Milton Ryder.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (6 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIX
THIS IS GONNA HURT

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Stop."

"What?"

"Stop right here."

The Salesman pressed the brake. He had been driving the car over one
of the lesser-traveled streets in New York City when Pete had spoken.
His abrupt stop forced the car behind him to halt. When he heard a
horn blaring, The Salesman turned around and gave the car a special
look. The horn fell silent.

"This...this is the place," Pete said, pointing at a shop. Over the
shop's entrance was a sign reading "D.W.'S ADULT EMPORIUM." The
windows were painted black and a string of electric lights fizzled
around the doorway.

"A-ha," The Salesman said. "You wait right here, Petey."

The Salesman left his car in the middle of the street. So did the
driver of the car with the suddenly defective horn. "Move your car,
asshole!" he screamed, but was frozen by another one of The Salesman's
special looks.

"You're going to wait in your car," The Salesman said. "Right?"

"Right," the driver answered in a dead voice.

"And you're going to forget you ever saw me. Right?"

"Right."

"Because I'm guessing you don't want to die. Right?"

"Right."

"I thought so."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

His shiny black shoes squeaked as Milton Ryder took the last step up
the stairs. He was face-to-face with Doggett. Ryder seemed ready to
smile, but was too angry to do so.

"Just so you know," Ryder said. "you're not in D.C. anymore. This is
my town."

Doggett covered his shock with a hard, cool expression. "Threatening a
FBI agent in any town is a bad idea."

"Who's threatening anybody? We aren't here. Right, fellas?"

"Right, Mr. Ryder," the other two men confirmed.

"Witnesses will prove I was nowhere near the stairwell where you broke
all your fucking bones." Ryder leaned an inch closer to Doggett's
face. "This is the truth."

"You know what else is the truth, Ryder? You're still scum, no matter
what sweet connections you've gotten."

Ryder's eyes twitched up and down a few times. Then he said quietly,
"You're right, John. I have gotten some sweet connections. And I am
scum. I mean, that's what you proved in a court of law, right? Me,
Goyette, Hall...we were all scum. 'Were' being the right word for
Hall."

Doggett tightened his mouth.

"Oh, you didn't know about that. Well, prison is hard for anyone, but
it can be real hard for a cop. There are a lot of people in there who
like to fuck with a cop's wiring...not to mention the part where you
usually take a shit. Hall couldn't take it. He put his head right into
a license plate presser. Imagine that. As for Goyette...well, he's
still alive. Still in prison, though. They added a lot of extra years
to his sentence after he went bonkers and choked another inmate."

"But you're out."

"Yeah. I'm out. Now I'm here to tell you something." Ryder pointed a
ringed finger at Doggett. "Go back to D.C. Whatever you might have
found out here, forget about it. You and that red-haired cooze better
find some ghost in Idaho to bust or you're going to find out just how
pissed-off I am."

Ryder nodded to his men. They shoved Doggett back into the hallway.
One of them unloaded Doggett's gun, then kicked gun and catridge back
to him.

"There are other things as bad as prison, John," Ryder warned. "Stay
here in New York City and I'll tell you what they are."

The metal door slammed shut.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dan Williams (or D.W. as he preferred to be called) sold dirty movies.
He made no apology for this. As he would declare, "My video store is
full of titles like 'The Sex Sense,' 'How the Grinch Fist-Fucked
Christmas' and 'Citizen Cunnilingus' and I'm proud of it!" After all,
the market was all about satisfying desires. If a man wants to see a
movie called 'Sex Squad 4: The Return of the Tit Mafia,' then it was a
businessman's right -- nay, his duty -- to provide the desired
product.

A lot of people didn't see it that way. This was the reason why he had
to close down his old "Emporium" in Times Square and move to a less
visible corner of New York City. A porn shop would look mighty funny
next to the fucking Disney store, wouldn't it? Of course, they also
allowed the goddamn World Wrestling Federation to build a sports bar
there and they made a product which was almost as fucked-up as videos
like 'Edward Penishands.' However, the WWF had the money, though. And
D.W. was just another small businessman who got squeezed out.

It was time to squeeze back. A few months ago, D.W. had come across a
group of people who shared his resentment. They didn't all have the
same motivation, but they had the same enemy. They also had the right
weapons and means of hiding themselves.

Or so they had believed.

When The Salesman arrived at the "Emporium," D.W. had been in the
upstairs office. As his customers tried to decide between "Chocolate
Starfish Wars I: The Phantom Orgasm" and "Olga's Special Itch," D.W.
was doing what a lot of businessman do -- checking on inventory,
tallying up the sales, putting in orders for new merchandise. He was
reaching for a calculator when his arm stiffened.

In fact, his whole body had stiffened. His paralysis could have passed
him off as a statue if it weren't for the terror in his eyes.

The Salesman entered the room. He closed the door behind him. He made
a brief wave with his hand and D.W. laid back in his chair.

The Salesman bent over to place his arms and head on D.W.'s desk.
"It's just your bad luck," The Salesman observed as he looked into the
porn dealer's eyes. "Of all the people in your group...I had to find
you first."

D.W. couldn't move his eyes, so he was unable to watch the man in
rumpled clothes walk up to his chair. The Salesman helped him by
turning his office chair in the right direction.

"This is gonna hurt. A lot."

The Salesman leaned forward, opened his mouth, and bit into D.W.'s
forehead just about the eyes. As The Salesman tilted back his head and
peeled skin, D.W. screamed only in his thoughts.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After telling her about Ryder, Doggett sat on Scully's hotel bed. She
was leaning against a dresser. She studied his clenched jaw and
listened to the air whistling through his nostrils.

"It sounded just like me over the phone?" she asked him.

"Yep. I don't know how..."

"Well, there is technology which can be used to replicate a person's
voice. Of course, they would need a sample of my voice first. I don't
know how they..."

"We can find out later."

"I take it there's no point in going after Ryder now."

"If he said that he had an alibi, then he had one. I have to take my
time with him. I want to make sure he has nowhere to hide."

"I also assume we're not going back to Washington."

"Have you ever read any of those old detective stories, Scully? Stuff
like Chandler and Hammett?"

"A little bit."

"Chandler used to joke that whenever he couldn't decide what to do
next, he would send a thug into Philip Marlowe's office to threaten
him with a gun or something else."

"You mean, like Jack Nicholson getting his nose slit in 'Chinatown.'"

"Right. Of course, it always has the opposite effect. The detective
becomes more determined to learn the truth."

"Is that what's happened here?"

"Not exactly. You see, Ryder didn't do this to scare me away. He knows
me better than that. He knew it would get me so mad that I would stay
in the city. He wants me around in order to set me up for the big
crackdown."

"Did it work?"

"You can bet the pope's ass on it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Now boarding for Syracuse...the bus is leaving for Syracuse..."

Dennis Bustamente stood up from the bench and headed for the right
bus. He was carrying two suitcases. One held his clothes and
toothbrush. The other contained some amulets, a couple of books, and a
lot of cash. He was no more afraid to be carrying a large sum of money
than Orb had been.

He was eager to leave New York City, though. From one viewpoint, it
had been good to keep onto The Heart of Power. It had allowed him to
obtain enough funds for a getaway. He would be able to live in
Syracuse until the shitstorm blew over.

Of course, there was the strong possibility of the shitstorm burying
NYC for good. Bustamente felt sad and outraged at the possibility.
Whatever else the city had been, it had been his home. He would miss
his friends, his fellow street vendors, the human network used to
obtain more used books, the customers who genuinely appreciated his
services, the young people capable of making a better future.

*This war could kill any futures to come*, Bustamente thought. *Is
there any way of stopping it?*

*No. There's nothing you can have done. You're just an old black
street vendor who knows a few tricks. Save yourself.*

Bustamente kept telling these things to himself. However, as the bus
pulled away from the depot, he also cursed both sides fighting the
war.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Salesman's handiwork was discovered by an employee fifteen minutes
after The Salesman left the Emporium. One hour later, news of the
murder spread through various natural and supernatural channels to a
drug dealer named Adam Price. Less than a hour after that, a meeting
was convened with three other people. They met together in a small
church.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Price complained. "We were supposed
to be protected."

"True protection can only come from the Lord," one of the other
attendees declared. "We cannot rely on these pagan..."

"Shut the fuck up, Reverend."

Reverend Dean Landau made a cross expression, but he shut the fuck up.
Price pointed his finger at a man dressed in a black cloak. "You told
us we were safe," Price remonstrated him.

"I said we were well-protected against the Jeevatek's spies," the
cloaked man said. He was seated in one of the pews Only his mouth
could be seen in the shadows of his hood. "I never said we were fully
protected."

Price leaned against the pew. "Don't even fucking try to deny..."

The cloaked man lifted his head slightly. A glimpse of red made Price
step back. After lowering his head, the cloaked man said, "The enemy
has acquired a weapon -- one which enables him to pierce through the
veils of protection we have created."

"So what do we do?" Marcia Arbenz asked. She was a woman in her late
forties. With her fine clothes and careful makeup, she had the
appearance of a person who had just left a socialite party. This was
partially true. She had been overseeing an orgy involving some
businessmen, whores, and a tank of goldfish. She was now sitting in a
pew in front of the cloaked man. As she puffed on a cigarette, she
watched him with cool, guarded eyes.

Landau answered Arbenz's question. "We must continue to fight," he
shouted from behind the podium. "We must not be deterred by this
tragedy."

Price growled. "Reverend, I told you to..."

"Actually, Landau is correct," the cloaked man said. "This murder was
created to frighten us. I, for one, will not be frightened."

"Hey, I'll go up against any motherfucker in this world," Price
snapped. "But I'm not about to commit suicide, either."

"You knew what you were getting into," Arbenz reminded him.

"And if things are going to shit, I'm getting out."

"You cannot get out," the cloaked man told Price. "You have already
been marked. Once that is done, the Jeevatek will see you as an enemy
forever."

Price sat down in a pew and closed his eyes.

"I shall tighten our protection," the cloaked man said, his voice
neither urgent or comforting. "However, we must find the Heart of
Power."

"So you keep telling us," Arbenz said. "Are you sure this thing is
even in the city?"

The cloaked man touched the medallion hanging around his neck. The
medallion was red and inscribed with a maze-like design. "It is here,"
the cloaked man said. His voice was still quiet, but thick with
intensity. "We must get it. At any cost."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mrs. Nichols was getting more worried by the second. Orb had left the
apartment after dinner for vaguely stated reasons. Hours later, he was
still gone. She tried to read something or watch television or do any
other activity to relieve her nervousness. None of it worked.

Ralph, on the other hand, was sleeping contentedly. When she had
remonstrated him for his blithe attitude about Orb's disappearance, he
had replied, "I keep telling you, mom. He can take care of himself.
You throw shit at a fan and Orb will be the only person in the room
still clean."

"Don't curse," Mrs. Nichols had snapped.

Ralph had shrugged, kissed his mother on the cheek, and went to bed.

Mrs. Nichols could never understand why Ralph felt the way he did
about his friend. Nor could she believe in any of the more outlandish
tales being circulated about Orb. All she could see was a nice young
man who needed to settle down.

The turning of the door locks caught her attention. Orb had been given
a key before he left. The same man was now slowly opening the door. He
was a bit surprised to see Mrs. Nichols.

"Where have you been?" she demanded to know.

"You're still up?"

"Of course I am! I've been worried sick over you!"

"Yes...well...why don't you get some sleep?"

"Not until you tell...what's that in your pocket?"

Orb glanced down at his trenchcoat. One of his hands was conspicuously
clutched inside. He looked back at Mrs. Nichols and said, "Nothing."

"Young man, don't tell me you've been..."

"Mrs. Nichols." The firmness in Orb's voice silenced the middle-aged
woman.

"Go to bed," Orb commanded. "Go to bed and sleep until I wake you."

With her eyes already looking sleepy, Mrs. Nichols nodded, turned, and
walked stiffly to her bedroom. Orb followed her and made sure she got
under her covers.

Then he went into Ralph's bedroom. He leaned close to the sleeping
man's ear and whispered, "Sleep until I wake you."

"Yes," Ralph muttered with his eyes closed.

Orb stood up straight. "Okay, then," he sighed, then left to get a
knife from the kitchen. He entered the bathroom.

Cracks sliced up tiles on the floor. The faucets on the sink were
rusty and difficult to turn. A brown stain encircled the tub's
drainhole. Orb placed the knife on the sink and examined himself in
the mirror. He didn't look sure about the man he saw.

Then he removed a black medallion from his pocket. He studied the
maze-like design on the medallion before placing it on the sink
opposite from the knife. He also removed a spindle of thread and a
needle from his pockets. Those were also placed on the sink.

He draped his jacket over the rim of the tub. As he unbuttoned his
shirt, Orb said to himself, "This is gonna hurt."

He removed all of his clothes. After arranging them into a neat pile
by the tub, he picked up the knife. Words began to come from his
mouth -- words from a language known only to a few.

"Nopata qug l'rien...nopata chekkosaw..."

Orb closed his eyes as he chanted. Seemingly moving on their own, his
arms lifted and pointed the knife at his chest.

The sound of metal entering flesh was as low as a scratching match. It
was easily bested in volume by Orb's gasp. Except for involuntary
trembling, he didn't move for many seconds.

Then he coughed, "Nopata fei huban revprid..." He widened the cut to a
long slice. Blood slid down to the Orb's toes, but not as much as
would be expected. The vertical slice was followed by a horizontal one
through the former's middle.

Orb used his other hand to press through the flaps in his skin. He
carefully inserted the knife along the path being shaped by his hand.
The noises heard inside his chest resembled the sound of water-filled
balloons being squeezed.

It took Orb a minute to find the right spot. Then he began to saw with
his knife. When he finally pulled out his hands, he was now holding a
red, dripping, beating human heart. He opened his eyes and took a few
breaths before placing the knife back onto the sink. He placed the
heart under the faucet.

His hands were only shaking a little bit as he reached for the needle
and thread.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX






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From: "David Hearne" <ottercrk@sover.net>
Date: Wed, 14 Feb 2001 11:52:23 -0500
Subject: xfc: The Times Square War (7 of 19)
Source: xfc

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (7 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVEN
BROKEN WINDOWS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The comrades of D.W. stood by their decision. They launched another
attack on the day after the pornographer's death. It got the attention
of both Doggett and Scully.

Another thing was brought to their attention on that day. While
stopping for a morning cup of coffee at The Knicks-Lovers Deli, Cindy
Wildenstein met a young fellow officer -- Nicholas Engels. This
policeman had a thing going for Cindy. She knew about it, and he knew
she knew. Both of them left it unspoken with Engels always wondering
when would be a good time to just say it. Usually they would meet for
a short time in the deli before they went on their separate routes.
Engels would bring up any conversational topic which could possibly
lengthen their time together.

"I heard about this really fucked-up murder downtown," he said after
they each bought a cup of coffee.

"Aren't they all fucked-up?" she replied. The steam rose to her
nostrils as she sipped her coffee.

"Yeah, but this one has particularly fucked-up qualities."

"Such as?"

"Such as all the flesh and skin being removed from the victim's skull.
Completely. All the way down to the bone."

Cindy lowered the cup and had three thoughts. One was that this was a
funny way for Engels to keep her around. The second was that they
should discuss this away from other people. Engels was getting uneasy
looks from the other customers.

The third thought was "Hm, that is pretty fucked-up."

With a light hand on his shoulder, she guided Engels to an empty
corner of the deli. "So, uh...the flesh was removed after the victim's
death?"

"Nah," Engels said, very happy for Cindy's attention. "While the guy
was still alive. It was the shock that killed him."

"Jesus."

"And that's not the really weird part. What I've heard is that the guy
didn't move a muscle while it was happening."

"You're kidding."

"No shit. He just sat there in his office while the killer..."

"Wait a minute. In his office?"

"Yeah, the victim ran a porn store. In fact, the murder occurred
during business hours. While the guys with hairy palms were shopping
below, the victim was upstairs getting peeled like a banana."

"And he didn't make a sound?"

Engels shook his head, smiling.

"Well...maybe there was some kind of drug being used."

"Maybe. The detectives who are handling the case -- I hear they're
scratching their heads bloody over this one..."

"Nic, I've got to go. See you later."

"Oh, uh, sure. See you later."

Cindy left both the crestfallen policeman and the Knicks-Lovers Deli.
She needed to walk, be alone, and think. The story she heard had
unnerved for more than one reason.

She was thinking about Doggett. When she had seen him at the police
station, she couldn't decide whether to hug him, walk away, or break
his nose. (She could have done it, too. More on why later.) She had
compromised by talking with him.

"Hey, John."

Doggett had paused, then said, "Hey, Cindy."

"I heard you're working for the FBI now."

"I've been there for some time."

"So are you down here on a case?"

"Sort of. We're investigating this hallucinatory stuff."

"We?"

"Me and my partner. Dana Scully."

"I see. So why did they ask you to come down?"

Doggett had smiled a little. "I'm now working in a division called The
X-Files. Its job is to investigate crimes with an unusual nature. Or a
supernatural bent."

Now Cindy had to smile. "Get the fuck out of here."

"Nope. The fuck stays firmly in place."

"How did you get that job?"

"I'm the replacement for Scully's former partner."

"What happened to him? Did he get abducted by aliens?"

"It's...kind of hard to explain."

"All right. Whatever you say."

Doggett had looked at her, then said, ""We need to talk, Cindy."

"Maybe. But not now." She had walked away before Doggett could say
anything else.

After hearing the story of D.W.'s murder, she had to think, "Isn't
this the sort of thing Doggett investigates now?" She wasn't entirely
clear about his investigation's purpose, but this strange death might
just fall under his jurisdiction.

She decided there was a professional obligation here.

Was there a personal one as well?

That was yet to be decided.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Milton Ryder? That's a name I haven't heard in awhile."

"You hearing it now, Ed."

Lieutenant Cavanaugh focused on his cup of coffee and not Doggett's
tense face. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Where is he right now? We know he was released after doing four years
in prison, but the records show a big blank after that."

Cavanaugh shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he left town."

"Nope. He's still here."

"How do you know?"

Doggett glanced at Scully, then said, "Because I saw him last night."

"Well...okay, John, but what does this have to do with the price of
tea in China?"

"Mister Ryder might be useful to our investigation," Scully said. "Do
you know who might have information we need?"

"I, uh...I really don't know."

Scully looked at the windows between Cavanaugh's office and the larger
office area where the detectives worked at their desks. "What about
them? Would anybody on the force know?"

"Ah...well..."

"Maybe we should ask. Do you think so, Agent Doggett?"

"Yes," Doggett said. "I think so, Agent Scully."

Doggett and Scully left the office. Cavanaugh pursued them as if he
was a parent fretful over a child's destructive ways.

"Excuse me," Scully called out. "Excuse me, all of you? Could I have
your attention for just one second?"

Heads were turned. Typewriters became silent. Eyes threw their
mistrust at the two FBI agents standing in the office area's center.

"Do any of you know the current whereabouts of Milton Ryder?"

It could not have been more quiet in that room.

"Anyone?"

"Why is she talking for you, John?" one of the detectives asked.

"My partner just wants to know the same thing I want to know."

"How come? Do you want to kick Milton around some more?"

Before Doggett could reply, he heard footsteps. Upon turning, he saw
two detectives heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

Detectives Kahn and Monroe looked back at Doggett in annoyance. "We
don't have time for this bullshit," Kahn informed the FBI agents.

"I think you've time to answer a question," Doggett said, narrowing
his eyes. "Especially since you know the answer."

Kahn glared back at Doggett, then he smiled. "My answer can be found
right here," he responded as he grabbed his crotch. "You remember what
these are, right?"

The detectives laughed. Cavanaugh squirmed in the doorway of his
office. Kahn and Monroe continued on their way to the exit.

With a few quick strides, Scully ran up to the two detectives just as
they reached the outer door.  She snatched an object off a desk on the
way there.

Kahn and Monroe spun around, ready to bark or slap the bitch or
anything. However, they both froze when they saw the stapler in
Scully's hand.

Scully grabbed Kahn's tie and stapled it against a bulletin board.
Cavanaugh jumped and spilled coffee over his shoes. Monroe stepped
forward, but Doggett was right behind Scully. His stern expression
nailed Monroe's feet to the ground.

"If you know where we can find Ryder," Scully said, waving the
stapler. "then you have an obligation to tell us. Or I'm going to look
for the answer where you suggested."

With his tie stretched through the air, Kahn ground his teeth.

"Well?"

"He's...working for some security company now. It's called
Golden-something. He's been luring other cops to the place." Kahn
looked at Doggett. "I guess they get treated with more respect there."

Scully inserted her fingernail under the used staple and pulled. The
tie fell back to Kahn's chest. The staple made the tiniest ping on the
floor.

"Thank you for your help," Scully said, then she and Doggett left the
squad room.

"Well," Cavanaugh said. "let's all get back to work." He turned back
to his office.

"Lick my balls," a voice muttered.

Cavanaugh was stuck on his spot for many seconds. Then he closed the
door behind him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After he had completed his work, Orb had broken the spell placed on
Ralph and Mrs. Nichols. Then he had collapsed onto the sofa.

Ralph was the one who woke him up. It had taken some effort on the
bass-player's part -- a lot of shaking and yelling.

"Yo, Orb! Wake up!"

Orb twisted his head in Ralph's direction and hauled one eyelid open.

"Damn, you look like shit," Ralph commented. Orb felt grateful that he
had possessed enough self-awareness last night to put his clothes back
on, not to mention clean up the blood.

"What did you to yourself last night?" Ralph asked. "Did you get high
or something?"

"Of course not," Orb answered in a weak voice.

"Then what happened?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No, come on, man. If you're going to be staying here, you have to..."

"Don't...worry about it."

Ralph was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged and said, "Okay. Are
you going to just lay on that couch all day?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But you do plan to get up."

"Oh, yes. I have an engagement for tonight."

"Well, so do I. Lockdown is playing at Hellblazer tonight."

Orb smiled a little. "Good, good. Nice to hear the band is still
active."

"You know...it might be appreciated if you showed up."

Orb's smile melted away. "Would that be a good idea?"

"Probably not. But some things have to be faced, sooner or later."

The young man in tan trousers nodded. "You're right." Then he smiled
again. "Of course, you usually are right, Ralph."

Ralph blinked. "Uh, thanks. So...where are you going tonight?"

The smile on Orb's face was back to its usual considerable length.
"Where else? I'm going to a gallery opening."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The full name of Milton Ryder's security firm was Golden Chair
Protection. Here were some of the interesting facts learned by Doggett
and Scully after they spent a hour researching the firm --

1) It handled security for the film company connected to Ryder's
hobo-thrashings.

2) In fact, it handled security for many companies and business
interests which had prospered in New York City over the past ten
years.

3) A member of Golden Chair had testified at Ryder's parole hearing.
His input had been the deciding factor in Ryder's early release from
prison.

"The question is," Scully said. "why would a reputable firm send its
people to harass an FBI agent?"

"Maybe we didn't know its real reputation," Doggett suggested. "Or
maybe...Ryder wasn't acting on behalf of the firm."

"That's possible. Because right now I can't think of anything we're
doing which could threaten anyone."

"That we're aware of."

"Hm."

Scully's face suddenly tightened.

"What is it?" Doggett asked.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said, then quickly stood up.
Doggett watched her run out of the microfilm room of the New York
Public Library. "I told you not to drink the water around here," he
joked, even though he had a peculiar feeling in his gut.

Then his cellular phone rang. Other people in the library looked at
him in annoyance as he answered the phone.

"Agent Doggett," he said.

"It's me, John."

Doggett sat up straight in his chair. "Hey again. How did you get my
cell number?"

"I called up Ed Cavanaugh and he gave it to me."

"Lieutenant Cavanuagh, you mean."

"I know. Ain't that something? And here I am, still walking a beat."

"Because that's where you want to be."

"I guess so." Cindy paused, then said, "I'm calling you for two
reasons. One reason is to tell you about a murder which might interest
you."

"How so?" Doggett asked and Cindy explained. Afterwards, he said,
"Huh. That is interesting."

"I don't know if it would have relevance to your own case..."

"On the surface evidence, I would say no. But my gut is telling me
that Scully and I should look into it."

"Your gut?" Cindy chuckled. "This coming from John Doggett? Mr.
Methodical? Mr. 'Trust-Your-Brain-And-Not-Your-Gut?'"

"Yeah, well...let's just say that the X-Files requires a little more
in the way of instinctual thinking."

"And a crystal ball?"

"Nah, I just rub the two I have."

Both Cindy and Doggett laughed. *God*, he thought. *When was the last
time we shared a laugh over anything?*

"Anyway, thanks for the tip," he said. "What was your second reason
for calling me?"

"I was thinking...we could meet tonight."

Doggett leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees. "For
dinner, you mean?"

"If you like. But mostly to just talk. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah. I'm okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They found Ollie Vaughn in a crackhouse. Dragging him back to the
Frost Gallery was no trouble at all. Ollie tried to resist with a few
disorientation spells. However, those wouldn't work on Miss Grawitz
and her team. As for physical resistance, Vaughn could never have
overcome Grawitz's strong men, even if it hadn't been weakened by
heroin.

They took him into the Gallery's basement. Among wrapped paintings and
boxed statues, they waited for their boss.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Vaughn," Edmund Frost declared upon entering
the basement. "I certainly hope this is the last time we ever meet."

"Wh-what the f-f-fuck do you want with me?" Vaughn said, trembling in
a chair.

"Do you recognize this?" Frost asked. He had pulled out a business
card. Vaughn looked at the yellow circular design on it. He did a
hopeless job of disguising his familiarity with it.

"Of course, I'm thinking of the same design in black," Frost noted.
"You know what I'm talking about."

"S-s-so what if I d-d-do?"

"S-s-s-so, you tiresome little fuck-up, I want to know where it is."

As can be already guessed, Ollie Vaughn had wasted his life. Heroin
addiction would have doomed him within a year. It may have been
awareness of his inevitable death which spurred his next action. Or it
may have been a desire to do something right. Dennis Bustamente, after
all, had been one of the few people who had given a damn about him.

Whatever his reasons, Ollie said, "Suck my d-d-dick."

Frost sighed. "Not exactly what I had in mind. Turn him over and tie
him down."

As Miss Grawitz's men complied with the order, she said, "Sir, we have
other means..."

"Yes, dear, but mine always work."

"Are you sure? There's the possibility of AIDS."

"Oh, I'm sure this little toerag is brimming with disease. No worry.
I've already cast a few protective spells on the proper region. My
main concern is...that's good, lads. Take his pants off, will
you?...My main concern is just getting it up. I mean, good Lord, look
at that arse. It's got more blue veins in it than my auntie's legs."
Frost sighed. "I'll just have to think about the boys from 'NSync
while I'm doing it..."

Ollie first felt the room temperature air of the basement on his ass.
Then his cheeks were spread apart by two smooth hands and a gob of
spit trickled down his rectum.

This was followed by the pain. It began in his buttocks, throbbing and
hot. Then it spread up to his stomach and twisted. As he closed his
eyes, he had this mental image of his nerves changing color from black
to red. He clenched his bound hands until the fingernails drew blood
from his palms. He couldn't imagine this agony getting worse.

It did. His ribs tightened. He could only breathe in choked gasps now.
The pain ground the bones in his shoulders. A few moments later, his
head felt swollen to the bursting point. A poison was literally
seeping into his brain. It sucked at the memories there and devoured
them.

"Aaaaah," Frost finally said. He pulled out his shrinking penis and
zipped up his pants. "Well, that wasn't terribly stimulating, but I
did get what I wanted. It turns out this yob sold the Heart to a man
named Dennis Bustamente. He's the bloke we want."

"I'll have our people find him immediately," Grawitz promised as she
dialed a cellular phone. "What should we do with Mr. Vaughn?"

"Throw him outside. We have no more use for him. No one does, for that
matter."

Grawitz's men removed Ollie to an alley far away from the Gallery. He
laid under a fire escape, drool leaking from his mouth and the slight
heaving in his chest being his only sign of life.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In another part of town, a separate piece of lower-class trash was
being treated with more respect. Of course, unlike Ollie Vaughn, this
piece of trash had a successful album.

"Please welcome back to TRL...Eminem!"

A young man strode into the studio. He had a short blonde haircut and
a surly expression on his pink face. It was that expression with which
he greeted the cheering audience. Nevertheless, he raised his fist to
them as well as to the crowd gathered outside the studio. Down below
on the street, young people waved their arms and held up signs reading
"I'm Slim Shady Too." They could be seen through the windows
comprising the studio walls.

"Good to see you, man," Carson Daly said as he shook Eminem's hand.

"Good to see you," Eminen replied. "How's Christina?"

Daly laughed. So did the audience. (There was an in-joke here which
doesn't bear repeating.)

"Oh, she's fine," Daly said with a smile, then started into the
questions expected to be asked by a television host. "Did you ever
expect an album performed by a white rapper to be this successful?"
"When is your next album coming out?" "How do you feel about the
controversy surrounding your music?" And on and on until they arrived
at the part when audience members got to ask questions.

Most of the questions resembled the ones asked by Daly. "What's it
like working Dr. Dre?" "What's the first thing you bought with all
your money?" One teen-ager with the same blonde haircut as Eminem
simply declared, "Yo, Slim, you the bomb!"

"We've got time for one more question," Daly warned the audience. Then
he pointed at a fourteen-year-old girl with her hand up. "Yes, you."

It wasn't surprising to see a girl this young in the audience. Quite a
few schoolgirls cut class to be on TRL and Eminem had quite a few fans
in this demographic, despite (or because of) his obscene lyrics.

What was surprising was the question asked by the teenage girl. With
an innocent smile on her face, she said, "Eminem, you have been
criticized for expressing violent urges against your mother, your
wife, and homosexuals. However, isn't the controversy centered more on
a marketable persona than any expressed philosophy?"

The word "huh?" was spoken all over that room, including by Daly and
Eminem. "What are you talking about?" Eminem said.

"Critics have said that you represent the anger and confusion of the
lower classes," the teenage girl replied in a cheery voice. "However,
you have never expressed any views on unemployment, worker safety,
poverty, the decline in wages -- important issues to the lower class.
Instead, you've merely created a cartoon of white trash life which
critics and young consumers can feel daring in viewing. Isn't that
true?"

Eminem turned to Daly in bewilderment and anger. "Ah, well," Daly
said. "that's a lot of questions to answer. Eminem doesn't have time
to answer..."

"I'm not through."

"I'm sorry, but we need to..."

"I said, I'm not through."

The smile remained on the teenage girl's face, but there was something
new in her voice. It hadn't become angry. It did, however, promise
serious consequences if the teenage girl was displeased. Up until now,
the audience had been merely annoyed and baffled by her questions.
They were now starting to edge away from her.

"I want this man to tell me why he is so eager to loan out his
rebellious image to media corporations," the teenage girl insisted.
"In fact, isn't his whole image merely a corporate product?"

"I don't have to put up with this bullshit," Eminem muttered as he
turned to the door.

"Don't you move a muscle, punk."

Eminem froze. The teenage girl was smaller than he was, but he was the
one with fear in his eyes. There was also fear in the eyes of the
people in the control booth. They were desperately trying to cut to a
commercial, but the control panel no longer obeyed their commands.

"Since you won't answer my questions," the teenage girl said. "let me
ask Mr. Daly a question."

"I, uh..." Daly said. His eyes pleaded to the security guard who was
slipping through the audience.

"Doesn't MTV only see young people as consumers? Since the eighties,
the number of..."

The security guard grabbed her on the shoulder. She spun around and
slugged him on the chin. Audience members screamed as his large
unconscious body fell on them. The teenage girl turned back to Daly as
if nothing had happened.

"The number of teenagers living in poverty has increased. Isn't this a
more pressing concern than what they're buying in record stores? Do
you think either your president Judy McGrath or your owner Sumner
Redstone gives a mouthful of cow manure for their plight?"

Daly and Eminem just stood there with their microphones stuck in their
hands.

"I see. It's obvious neither of you can answer these questions. In
that case, I've just one more thing to say..."

The teenage girl screamed. The sound of young female screams was a
familiar sound on TRL. This was different, though. This was the noise
expect from the souls being flayed in Hell. Everyone in the studio
felt the pain. The technicians had to rip off their headphones as
blood leaked from their ears. Nothing else could be heard -- nothing
except this impossible scream.

Finally, one sound penetrated the din. It was the sound of breaking
glass. Down on the streets, people knew some kind of weirdness was
happening upstairs, but they didn't know what. Then they became more
concerned with the bright shower cascading onto the sidewalks. Those
people ran for cover or they felt a burning across their upheld arms.

As the studio windows shattered, circuits sneezed sparks. The audience
watching at home no longer had to endure the scream because MTV
vanished off their tv screens.

Among those watching TRL on t.v. was The Salesman. He stared at the
static for a few moments.

Then he said, "Well, fuck you, too."


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHT
A CHANGE OF TACTICS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The incident at the MTV studio in Times Square did catch the notice of
Agents Doggett and Scully. Before then, they were interested in the
body of the late D.W. His body was taking up space in the city morgue.
Despite their familiarity with brutalized corpses, both agents had to
wince after the morgue attendant pulled the white blanket off D.W.'s
remains. The hard, white bone of the skull contradicted the intact
flesh over the rest of the body. The killer had also left the eyeballs
in the sockets where they seemed to preserve D.W. horrified
expression.

After adjusting herself to the sight, Scully examined the body. She
immediately noticed the tattoo on D.W.'s chest. "Look at that," she
said.

Doggett saw a red circular design between the two nipples. "Well," he
said. "That looks familiar. But what does it mean?"

"I think it means...we have found one of the people responsible for
the events in Times Square."

"Are you serious? This guy?"

"When we've encountered the symbol before, it's been in connection
with 'attacks' on people linked to the commerce center of New York
City. This man, however, was a pornographer. A lowlife." Scully looked
at Doggett, then said, "We might be witnessing the revenge of his kind
on the large business interests now controlling Times Square."

Doggett took a few moments to absorb this theory, then said, "If
that's true...then whoever did this to him might represent those same
interests."

"I think it's highly likely."

"You make it sound like a war."

"It might be just that."

Doggett and Scully became as quiet as D.W.

Then Scully said, "We should thank Officer Wildenstein. This may prove
to be a valuable clue for us."

"I'll thank her for both of us over dinner."

"Dinner?"

"M-hm."

"Thinking about reliving the past, Agent Doggett?"

"You can never relive the past. You can do something about the
present, though."

"And what are your plans for the present?"

"I haven't decided that, yet." Doggett looked at the corpse and said,
"This is a helluva place to be discussing this."

"You're right. Let's go."

"Where?"

"I haven't decided that, yet, either."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Come on, Pete. Get your damn ass out of bed."

Pete McGovern groaned and twisted in his sheets.

"Up, up, up. Before I put a real hurting on you."

Pete pressed his hand against the mattress and pushed his body to a
sitting position. His head wobbled as he stared at the impatient
Salesman.

He felt something on his cheek. He touched himself there and dirtied
his fingers. Soot had fallen out of his ears. A long dark spot had
been marked on the pillow.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered.

"Get used to it," The Salesman ordered him. "Now get dressed. You and
I have to go hunting."

Pete turned back to The Salesman. "How did you get in my apartment?"

"I know magic, asshole. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

His body was sluggish as Pete left his bed and picked up a pair of
jeans from the floor. "What happened?" he asked. "I thought we were
done."

"No. We're not. The goddamn opposition hasn't backed down. So we have
to find other members and teach them the same lesson I taught D.W.
last night."

"What did you do last night anyway?"

A humorless smile appeared on The Salesman's face. "Let's just say the
Jeevatek appreciate ruthlessness."

Pete studied The Salesman's expression. He wondered if he should be
scared. Instead, all he could really feel was his headache. As he
pulled the shirt over his head, he asked, "Who are the Jeevatek
supposed to be, anyway?"

"The Jeevatek are..." The Salesman suddenly looked uncomfortable.
"Well, they're just the Jeevatek."

"Yeah, but why..."

"Look, I didn't come here to answer questions. You work for me, okay?
And if you give me one more gram of shit, the pain in your head will
be nothing to one you'll feel in your balls."

Pete slipped on his shoes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doggett and Scully were getting information from D.W.'s former
co-workers at the "Adult Emporium" when they heard about the TRL
incident. It hadn't taken long before the news was relayed from the
local reporters to the ground-level grapevine. A customer at the
"Adult Emporium" was rather shocked to be approached by a female FBI
agent after she overheard him talking about the "crazy shit in the MTV
building."

"I'm going to check this out," she told Doggett. "You see about
finding this Mr. Price."

"Oh, wonderful," Doggett jibed. "You get to meet Carson Daly while I
go sniffing around Junkie Row."

"In a way, I think you'll be more comfortable there."

"Huh. You might be right."

"And if I continue to be right, Agent Doggett...then there might
nowhere safe in New York City."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When the cloaked man had appeared in his bedroom, Adam Price had known
this was some serious shit. And when the cloaked man had offered a
chance to claim Times Square as his personal territory, Price couldn't
resist taking it.

Now, as he stood in the doorway of an abandoned building, he was
having second doubts. A lot of second doubts. Magic had once been a
great thing to learn. Price's enjoyment in it  had died out, though.
All he had left was another thing to make him paranoid.

The Jeevatek...Price didn't know a lot about them. He hadn't been
*told* a lot about them. It was a fair guess that there were hard-core
motherfuckers, though. Price got the impression that what happened to
D.W. was the mildest thing they could do to a person.

I need to get out of this, he thought. I...

"Mr. Adam Price?"

Price quickly turned and saw a cop. Or someone like a cop. Whoever
this guy was, he had the cop feel all over him -- the purposeful
stride, the no-frills business suit, the direct expression.

"Yeah?" Price didn't think he was about to get busted. The cops didn't
care what about the drug dealers did in this part of the city. With
its weed-covered lots and empty stores, this street had been written
off. The junkies and homeless people wandered through the street as if
they were ghosts in limbo.

The man showed Price his ID. "John Doggett, FBI."

Price studied the man from inside the doorway. *A fed?* he wondered.
*What the hell does he want?*

In answer to his unspoken question, Doggett said, "I understand you
were acquaintances with Dan Williams."

"Not really," Price replied with a straight face.

"His employees tell me you were a regular visitor to his store."

Price shrugged. "Just looking for entertainment."

"I also heard you had a couple of private conversations with him. What
about?"

"Baseball. Restaurants. Where to get good pussy." Price's toes were
clenching inside his shoes. "Nothing big."

"Hm. Tell me, have you ever seen this?" Doggett pulled out a pencil
drawing of a circular design.

Price turned away. "Nope."

"You sure? You didn't look at it for long."

Price looked back at the drawing. "Nah, I've never seen that."

Now it was Price's turn to be studied. "Have you heard about what's
been happening around Times Square? The hallucinations? Katie Couric's
bleeding ass?"

"Of course, man."

"Have you heard about what happened at 'Total Request Live?'"

Price scratched the back of his neck. "No. I didn't."

"Well, you will. Eventually. Lots of strange things have been going
on."

"Hm."

"I'm not sure what to make of it."

"Hm."

"Mind if I look at your chest?"

Just as Price's eyes widened, Doggett smoothly said, "On second
thought, you don't have to. However...if you're in the mood to talk,
here's my number." He held out a business card.

Price hesitated, then accepted the card.

"I know you don't have much cause to trust an FBI agent," Doggett
said. "But who do you trust now?"

Doggett left Price alone in the doorway after saying that, but those
wouldn't be his last words exchanged with the drug-dealer. Those would
come later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully found the red circular mark on the back of a video monitor. A
wind came through the spaces vacated by broken windows and touched her
back.

"The girl can't remember a thing about what happened," an police
officer at the scene told her. "She can't talk much anyway. Her vocal
chords are shot. And there's a lot of people whose ears are still
ringing."

Scully nodded and looked through the empty spaces. She saw sidewalks
gleaming in the sunlight as if they were covered in frost.

"A lot of people had to be taken in for cuts and lacerations. Some
kind of fucking mess, I'm telling you."

"I'm assuming they have it all on tape," Scully said.

"Yeah. Want to look at it?"

A few minutes later, Scully and the police officer were watching a
video in the control room. They saw the girl ask her impertinent
questions, knock out the security guard, and scream until the windows
shattered and the screen was overcome by static.

"Goddamn," the police officer said. "God...damn. What the hell
happened?"

"Do you know what firm the security guard worked for?"

The police officer was puzzled by Scully's response (and he was
feeling puzzled enough already.) Nevertheless, he left the control
room to find out. When he came back, he said, "Golden Chair
Protection. Does that matter?"

Scully looked amused. "So far, it seems like everything does."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Miss Grawitz, I didn't just hear that."

"I'm afraid you did, sir."

Edmund Frost slammed a fist on his desk. "You stinking Aryan slut! I
refuse to accept that you can't find one darkie street vendor!"

"For the moment, we can't, sir. It seems Mister Bustamente has left
the city."

"Taking the bloody Heart with him, I suppose."

"Actually, sir...it is possible he sold it or passed it on."

"You mean, it still could be here in the city?"

"As I said, sir, it is possible."

Frost flung out his arms and knocked over one of his tiny Greek boy
statues. "Oh, that's just bloody super! We're back to square fucking
one! And with that thing floating around the city, anybody could pick
it up!"

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"Well, are you also aware that the Jeevatek do not tolerate failure?
And that I refuse to take the blame?"

With her face as inexpressive as ever, Miss Grawitz said, "I'm aware
of both these things, sir."

"Then find the Heart, Miss Hitler. I do not expect it to just walk
into my gallery."

Actually, that's just what would happen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After conducting their own separate investigations, Doggett and Scully
met at the same deli where they ate the night before. They compared
notes.

"You think Price is scared?" Scully asked.

"That's the feeling I got, yeah. It's as if he's caught up in
something too deep for him."

"Well, he is a drug-dealer."

"This was different. I had a..."

"Feeling?"

Doggett smiled. "Yeah. A feeling that he might be in something deeper
than the usual shit. I have another feeling that we might be hearing
from him soon." He shook his head. "You've been a rotten influence,
Agent Scully."

"Well, what's your feeling about Golden Chair?"

"I don't know. It's too much of a coincidence to have one of their
boys present at another weird incident. It still doesn't explain why
Ryder threatened me."

"Maybe it's just for the reason you said. To make sure you stay put in
town. To make sure you do something that will intimidate Ryder's
superiors."

"Which will give him the excuse to bust my chops." A smile spread over
Doggett's face. "Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It's ill-advised to approach an ex-lover while she is holding a monkey
wrench. Yet that was what Orb did. Heather Cobb was working on a cycle
engine in the back of her uncle's shop when she heard a throat
clearing.

She turned around and saw him there -- handsome, transcendent,
absolutely despicable.

"Hello, Heather," he said, trying to keep his smile intact. Next to
him, a female singer could be heard on a tape player. "Is he
different?" she asked. "Has he changed what he's about? Or is he just
a liar with nothing to lie about?"

The monkey wrench felt heavy in Heather's palm. "I can't believe you
came back," she replied quietly.

"I never said I wouldn't."

"I remember what you said."

"So do I." Orb paused, then said, "I apologize for it."

Heather turned her back and tightened a bolt on the engine. "Apology
accepted. Now get out."

"I didn't come back just to apologize. In fact...it wasn't the first
reason."

Heather snorted. "I'm supposed to be surprised by that?"

"I'm involved in something big..."

"You're always involved in something big, Orb. And the rest of us are
too small to see it. Including me, right? That's what you told me."

"My words then were...ill-chosen."

Heather slapped the wrench onto a table and spun towards Orb. "No,"
she spat. "They weren't. They were absolutely right. I'm nothing. I'm
just some girl from a poor neighborhood. I could never..."

"You're the woman I love."

Heather's eyes remained bitter, but sadness had entered them as well.
"And what do you do to the people you hate?"

"Heather..." Orb took one step forward and then his body slumped. He
had to grab onto a shelf to keep from hitting the floor. His weakness
happened so quickly that it shocked Heather into empathy.

"What is it?" she asked as she rushed to his side. "What's wrong?"

"I'll be fine."

"Don't shit me."

"Well...I'm holding on, all right?" He lifted his head in her
direction and smiled. "Trust me."

Heather looked at that smile -- the same one which had touched her
heart so many times. "You crazy little fuck," she whispered. "What
have you done to yourself?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Oh, don't start..."

"But I will tell you that I'm attending an art exhibition tonight. I
would appreciate the company of an attractive woman at that event."

Heather shook her head in disbelief. "I can't. My band is playing
tonight."

"So cancel it."

"I don't walk away from people." Heather went back to the engine and
picked up the wrench.

"Would you walk away from me?" Orb asked.

"You're the one who is always moving, Orb."

The man in tan trousers looked at Heather's back for several moments
before leaving. "There's a fire just waiting for fuel," the female
singer chanted. Heather concentrated on her work, telling herself
enough tears had been shed already.

It turned out she had more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The circle resembled perfectly the others, except for one thing. It
was yellow. It was also the first object in the room to catch Scully
and Doggett's attention. They had seen it upon entering the office of
Tony Urich. This time, the circle had come in the form of a
paperweight.

The two agents looked at each other. Scully showed her confidence in
their nearness to this mystery's solution. Doggett showed more
uncertainty, but silently admitted that something was up.

"Mr. Urich will be you with in a moment," the secretary assured them
after showing them in. She was speaking truthfully. Urich walked into
the office mere seconds after they had sat down in front of a desk.

"Agent Doggett," he said. "Agent Scully." He held out a big hand for
them to shake. It was attached to a big body suitable for playing
football. Golden Chair Protection had picked him well as a
representative. His sheer size would make people feel secure. Not in
Doggett and Scully's case, though.

"What may I do for you?" he asked as he sat down behind his desk.

Doggett said, "I assume you've heard about the incident at MTV
studios."

"Ah, yes, I have. One of our employees was involved in it."

"We have also noticed that you have several employees working for
companies around the same area."

Urich slowly nodded. "That is also true. Why did you bring it up?"

"Lately, Times Square seems to have been ground zero for several
strange incidents," Scully said. "We're investigating these incidents.
We were also hoping you could assist us."

"In what way?"

"A co-ordinated effort between Golden Chair and the FBI. Perhaps our
two groups can work together to prevent future incidents from
occurring."

The wariness in Urich's attitude started to ease away. "That could be
fruitful. We have worked in joint efforts with state and federal
agencies before."

"And the NYPD, too," Doggett said. "From what I understand."

"Oh, yes. In fact, some of their members are now working for us."

"You know, I used to work on the NYPD. Who do you have on your
payroll?"

"Well, our highest ranking employee is Milton Ryder..."

"Ryder...Ryder," Doggett said, his expression thoughtful. "I think I
have met him. Good man?"

"Very good."

"Well, he might be the very person we need working with us. Wouldn't
you say, Agent Scully?"

"I would say so, Agent Doggett."

"He might not be available," Urich warned.

"Could we meet him at least?" Doggett asked.

"I'll see if he's on the premises." Urich turned to the phone and
dialed a number. Doggett looked at Scully with raised eyebrows. She
raised hers back.

Urich's call was answered. "Ryder, it's Urich. Would you come to my
office?...Thank you." He hung up the phone. "He'll be here shortly."

"Good," Scully said. "By the way, that paperweight...where did you get
it?"

"Hm? This?"

"Yes. That design. It's interesting. Did you buy it yourself?"

"Ah, no. It's, uh...just something Golden Chair gives to all of its
employees."

"I see. Does it have any special meaning?"

Urich's huge shoulders went up and down. "Beats me."

"I know I've heard Ryder's name somewhere before," Doggett said. "I
just can't pin it down..."

The door opened. Milton Ryder walked in, rings glittering on his
fingers. "You wanted to see..." he said before he saw Doggett.

Doggett slapped his forehead. "Oh, now, I remember! I put this guy in
jail." Doggett stood up and held out a hand. "How's it going, Milt?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Zero. Zilch. Bumpkus. Jackshit. Big fucking doughnut hole. That's what
The Salesman found on his second run with Pete McGovern.

"Those bastards have strengthened their protection," The Salesman
growled as he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

"Does this mean we can't find them?" Pete mumbled.

The Salesman's right arm shot out and shoved Pete against the
passenger window. "We *will* find them," The Salesman insisted.

He pulled back his arm and allowed Pete's weak body to slump back into
a seat. "The question is," The Salesman said. "can we find them before
they...what is it?"

"Huh?"

"I'm not talking to you, dipshit. Sorry, Tony, I've got some load here
with me. What do you want?"

For a few moments, The Salesman seemed to be listening to another
person. As he did, his already-red face deepened in color.

"How the hell did they know Ryder was working for us?" After hearing
the answer, he slapped his hand on the wheel. "That goddamn prick! I
can't believe it! Does this mean we're gonna have to ice a couple of
feds?"

When he got the answer to that, his eyes widened. "She's a what?"

The answer was repeated. Then The Salesman stomped on the brake. Pete
lurched back and forth as if he was an inflatable punching bag. The
wheels screeched as did the wheels of all the cars behind him. "SHUT
THE FUCK UP!" The Salesman screamed at the horns complaining behind
him. As before, they all fell silent.

Pete squirmed against the door. The person sitting next to him was
leaking rage from his pores. After The Salesman sat fixed in his seat
for many, many seconds, he hit the gas pedal and took two hard rights.
Pete felt very grateful that The Salesman was mad at somebody else.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Salesman had received his communiqu� after Doggett and Scully had
left the offices of Golden Chair Protection. This was the conversation
they had after leaving.

"That was pretty sweet," Doggett had observed.

"I have to say Ryder did a fair amount of squirming," Scully had
replied.

"That's because he was caught exceeding his authority. Now we've got
him and his damn company where we want them. They have to look
co-operative now. Anything happens to us, they have to bear the
responsibility."

Doggett then chuckled. "What is it?" Scully had asked.

"Just thinking about the part where I said 'No hard feelings about
arresting you, huh?' to Ryder. If nothing else, I can always out-smart
that bastard."

Doggett had been wrong.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Milton Ryder waited in his own office. As he trembled in his chair and
looked at the expensive furnishings, he thought about losing them. And
everything else.

He had been sent here after Doggett left with his red-haired partner.
Ryder knew who was going to come through that door...

The Salesman burst into the office. He flicked his wrist and Ryder
flew out of his chair. His back slammed against wood paneling as he
was pinned against the ceiling.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" The Salesman hollered.

"I...I'm sorry..."

"I'm not your cellmate, Milt. You can't stick your dick up my ass. But
I will send you back to that same hellhole I rescued you from and you
can get your butt sodomized again."

Ryder gulped. The Salesman shook his head and looked away from the
ceiling. "You don't understand what you've done, haven't you? Not only
do you deliberately get the attention of a couple of feds, but you
picked two we can't touch."

Ryder dared to speak. "Uh...boss, I know this looks bad, but the fact
is those two were looking into Times Square..."

"I know that, asshole. Hell, Agent Scully has even found out about the
runes."

"Well, then...maybe we should...you know..."

The Salesman spun his finger in the air. Ryder's body spun accordingly
against the ceiling. After he had stopped, The Salesman said, "Listen
to me carefully, Milt. Even if we could get away with it, we still
couldn't whack Doggett and Scully. Or, to be more specific, we can't
kill Agent Scully."

"Why?"

"Well, obviously, you didn't read our goddamn files on her."

Ryder blinked. "We have files on Scully?"

"If you want to play this game, you need certain kinds of knowledge.
That includes knowing who is a Historical Nexus."

"A what?"

The Salesman let out a brief, harsh laugh. "Of course you don't know
what a Historical Nexus is! And you don't know Scully is one of them.
Would you like to know what that means?"

"Um..."

"It means she has a date with that cocksucker Destiny. Until then, any
attempts to kill her will fail. She cannot die until she accomplishes
that task which will alter the world."

"What's that?"

"How the fuck should I know? The fact is -- we can't kill her. She's
always going to find a way out of danger or just get lucky. This woman
survived cancer, for Christ's sake! Goddammit, Milt, you..."

The Salesman reared back his fist. Ryder closed his eyes, expecting to
feel his gut pop open.

Instead, he heard a sigh. His body lowered into the chair. "This is my
fault, really," The Salesman grumbled. "I recruited you because you're
a sadistic shit. I should have gotten a sadistic shit with some
brains."

This time, Ryder kept his mouth closed.

"For now, let's concentrate on this problem. We can't kill Scully. And
killing Doggett would just involve her deeper. So we can't hurt them
physically..."

The Salesman stared at the thick carpet with his fist on his hips. He
remained in that position for a long time.

Then he lifted his head and smiled for the first time all day. "But,"
he said. "we can fuck with their heads a little."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (9 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART NINE
DINING, CRASHING, SLUMMING...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doggett was surprised to find Cindy waiting for him at the hotel.
"Hey," she called out as he and Scully entered the lobby.

"Uh, hey," Doggett replied. "I thought we were going to meet at East."

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't forget." Cindy turned to Agent
Scully with cool evaluating eyes. Scully's face was cordial as if to
say, "I'm not here to compete with anyone."

"You must be Agent Scully," Cindy said.

"And you must be Officer Wildenstein," Scully answered. She extended a
hand. Cindy decided to shake it.

"I guess John has already told you about me," Cindy observed.

"Yes. So I guess you two are going out for dinner."

"Well, yeah," Doggett said. "I should have told..."

"No need. See you two later."

Scully went to the elevator. "All right," Doggett said. "Let's..."

"Pretty lady."

"You mean, Scully?"

"Don't you think she is?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"But you're not involved with her."

"No."

"Ever think about it?"

Doggett smiled. "I think she's already got somebody. Come on, Cindy."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Hellblazer was typical of the many clubs at which Lockdown had
played -- small in size, cheap of beer, dirty of toilet. Borrelli,
Poveda, and Ralph were doing a sound check when the first customers of
the evening entered. Among them were road workers looking for a drink,
retro punkers with red-spiked hair, neighborhood Hispanics, aged
mumbling eccentrics in bulky clothing, gregarious drug dealers, and
even a few dedicated fans of Lockdown.

Also present were the local artists with their black clothing,
goatees, and clove cigarettes. These people came from affluent
backgrounds, but had chosen to live in this poorer area. After the
landlords had driven out some of the more unsightly tenants, these
artists were able to buy apartments cheap. They were slummers, really.

Ben Borrelli hated slummers.

"Look at those motherfuckers," he muttered into Ralph's ear. "Sitting
over there in their stupid black turtlenecks and smoking those
candy-ass cigarettes and talking about Mickey Foucault..."

"Mitchell Foucault," Ralph said. He was trying to tune his bass
guitar.

"Fucking whatever. I ought to teach them a lesson."

"They paid at the door, Ben."

"Yeah? Well, I'm going to give them a little more bang for their
buck."

Ralph wondered if he should attempt to cool Ben down. Then he saw
Heather and became worried about something else. She had just entered
Hellblazer and walking towards the stage. She bumped into one of the
road workers who turned around, ready to pick a fight. Then he saw the
look in Heather's eye and could tell she was ready to finish a fight.
He turned back to his friends, trying not to feel too much like a
pussy.

Heather stepped onto the stage. "Where's Poveda?" she wanted to know.
"Let's get this shit started."

This is going to be one long gig, Ralph thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Just as he had intended, Edmund Frost's interview with "The New York
Post" increased the controversy over his gallery's exhibit. His
smirking face on the newspaper's cover along with the title "SCREW
YOU, TAXPAYER" rallied the troops. On the night of the private showing
for the "Eye-Popper" exhibit, a large crowd of protesters gathered
outside the Frost Gallery. They shouted at the members of the NYC
elite being taken by limo to the gallery. Posters bearing slogans such
as "NOT ONE CENT FOR INDECENCY" and "REPENT, EDMUND FROST"
were lofted over their heads along with small wooden crosses. They
shook their fists from behind the police barricade.

Among their number was a Reverend Dean Landau. His voice screeched
from a megaphone. "GOD IS JUDGING THIS CITY! IF WE ALLOW THIS FILTH
TO CONTINUE, THEN WE WILL SURELY FEEL HIS WRATH AND..." Blah,
blah, blah.

The doorman at the entrance to the Frost Gallery was not concerned
with divine retribution. Nor was he particularly concerned with the
young black man who was trying to pass him. He had already turned away
a few crashers and this weak-looking fellow in tan trousers didn't
look like any trouble at all, especially not for a Golden Chair
employee.

"Are you sure my name is not on the list?" the crasher asked.

"Friend, I don't even have to look. I can tell just by looking at you
that you're not invited."

"Please, just take a look."

"Move along, pal."

"Take...a look."

The doorman's face went blank for a few moments. Then he smiled and
leaned forward. "Do you think you're the first person to use magic to
crash a private affair?" he said. "Mr. Frost hired me specifically
because I don't fall for that voodoo shit."

A crestfallen expression overcame the crasher's face.

"I'm telling you for the last time -- beat it."

With his head hanging low, the crasher turned and walked away from the
door. The doorman smiled as he saw the crasher disappear behind the
protesters.

Behind him and the glass doors, someone else was smiling. The real Orb
grinned at the doorman's back, then turned and headed deeper into the
gallery.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When they had been both living in New York City, East in the West had
been the favorite restaurant of Doggett and Cindy. Going back to it
together felt significant. In what way, they weren't sure.

"I hope the rezala is as good as it was years ago," Doggett said.

"Me, too," Cindy replied.

"Why do you say that? When was the last time you ate here?"

Cindy gave him a look. Doggett didn't say anything and neither did
Cindy until they ordered. Then they stayed silent in the small Indian
restaurant for another few seconds.

"So how's the case going?" Cindy asked.

Doggett smiled a little.

"Yeah, okay. A goddamn obvious question. How about a goddamn answer?"

"Uh...with an X-File, it's little hard to tell if you're making
progress. By the way, that murder you told me about...it does have a
bearing on the investigation."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. Would you be kidding if you said you just wanted to talk
shop?"

Cindy smiled. "Your tolerance for bullshit is as low as ever." The
smile went away. "At least, when the bullshit comes from other
people."

"What does that mean?"

"Tell me why we broke up, John."

"We didn't break up..."

"And the bullshit already starts."

"I had to leave the city. It was the only thing I could do."

"I know that. But did you ever think about asking me to come with
you?"

"Oh, come on. I could never have asked you to leave the job and city
you loved."

"I said...did you ever *think* about it? Did you honestly want me to
come with you?"

Doggett opened his mouth, but the words took awhile to come out. "What
are you saying?" he finally asked.

"Back then, the hardest part wasn't finding out your partner was
crooked. It wasn't being the girlfriend of the detective who busted
cops. It was your doubt towards me. It was the way you questioned my
integrity. You never said it, but I could see it in your eyes." Cindy
folded her hands on the table. "I look in your eyes now and I don't
know what you're thinking. So, tell me -- do you doubt me any less
than before?"

Doggett didn't get to answer her question that night. What saved him
from answering was far from pleasant, though.

"My, my," a voice said. "do I smell the scent of rekindled love?"

Doggett and Cindy both turned. Milton Ryder smiled back at them, teeth
and rings gleaming.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

While Doggett and Cindy went to the restaurant, Scully typed up a
report back in her hotel room.

"While the full details remain unclear," the report went. "it is the
conclusion of this agent that the events in Times Square and the
murder of Dan Williams are shots exchanged in a battle. The kind of
weapons and the purpose behind the conflict have yet to be fully
determined. However, if a war is being fought, then how should the FBI
respond?"

"That's not the real question."

If you had struck Scully in the head with a lead pipe, you still could
not have produced a more stunned reaction on her face than she had at
that moment. Her skin was tingling and her muscles resisted her
commands. It took her several moments before she could face the
speaker.

So much about the speaker was familiar -- the brown color of his hair,
the fullness of his lips, the lanky athleticism of his body. What was
less familiar was the look in his hazel eyes. She had seen this man
regard her with love, fear, concern, exasperation, pity, weariness,
amusement.

This was the first time he had viewed her with contempt.

"The real question is -- just where did you get off involving yourself
in this?"

Shock hit Scully twice. The first was the effect of just seeing the
man. The other was in his words. She could find no words for a
response.

"You're pregnant, Scully. Yet you keep running into one dangerous
situation after another. Don't you have any sense of responsibility?
Is the work that important to you? Is your life so meaningless that
you need to keep playing FBI agent?"

Scully finally spoke, but her throat could only produce choked noises.

"If that is more important than your baby, then why bother to carry
one? Just abort it. Because I don't know if you're worthy of being a
mother."

A complete word finally burst from Scully's mouth. It was a name
screamed at...

...no one.

She felt the red marks against her forehead and the warmth of the
table on which she had been typing. She couldn't recall laying her
head down for sleep, yet she must have done it. Her visitor had only
been a dream.

That didn't make his words hurt any less, though.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Thus commences the head-fucking," The Salesman declared.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Up until the incident with the artists, Lockdown had been playing a
good set. Heather's anger was being fed into her drums again and got
regurgitated as high energy through the band. The crowd loved it.
Bodies pressed against each other without self-consciousness as people
danced. Short haircuts and dye jobs were bobbing with equal speed in
the air.

The only ones not paying attention to Lockdown were the artists. They
remained in their corner, managing a discussion about post-modernism
in the face of the thundering speakers.

This pissed Ben Borrelli off. Or, to be more exact, it heightened his
already-high level of pissivity. He tried to focus his rage into the
first five songs -- four originals ("By the Tunnel," "Power Outage,"
"Rudy Giuliani Sucks My Cock" and "Bloody Knuckles") and one cover
("Underground"). However, as he growled "There's a world going on
underground..." into his mike, his control slipped away. The moment
the song was finished, Borrelli threw out his hand as a command for
silence.

"I've got something to say..." He pointed. "...to you motherfuckers
over there."

The artists didn't notice Borrelli at first. For them, the music had
been nothing more than background noise for their conversation. "I
think the usage of skulls is meant to remind the viewer of the
fleeting quality of life..."

"Hey, you shitheads in black! I'm talking to you!"

Finally, the artists stopped talking and turned to the stage in
surprise.

"I want to know why you fuckers came here anyway? It's not to listen
to us! What are we, fucking elevator music to you?"

Ralph focused his eyes at the corner of the bar. Heather just sat
behind the drums, clutching her sticks and sweating and waiting for
things to start up again. Poveda, however, tried to calm Borrelli. "Be
at my peace, my friend..."

"I won't be at fucking peace! I'm tired of all these artsy assholes in
my neighborhood!"

A few voices in the crowd shouted their assent. The rest were just
amused or bewildered. As for the artists, their initial shock was
wearing off. They started to smile.

"All these goddamn fucking Picassos treating neighborhoods like ours
as if it was their own personal playground! They think they're getting
authenticity!" He turned back to the artists. "You ain't getting
shit!"

Now the artists began to laugh. They weren't threatened by this
belligerent punk singer. Belligerence was what they expected from
people like Borrelli. It was a sign of...well, authenticity.

"Oh, you think it's funny? You think it's funny that you can't see
yourself as you really are? You don't see a bunch of rich fucks who
are helping the city squeeze people like me out? When the city pushes
poor people further to the edge, who the hell do you think they're
working for? Do you think all your pretentious talk about Mickey
Foucault..."

"Mitchell," Ralph muttered.

"...changes any of that? You know what I think? I think you oughtta
die!"

The artists kept on laughing. One of them even applauded as if
Borrelli's rancor was an excellent piece of performance art.

"You think I'm kidding? I'm not! I want you all to fucking DIE!"

The final word roared out of the speakers. As it echoed against the
back walls, the artists stopped laughing. Their faces became stiff and
pale. Then all five of them collapsed to the floor.

Then the crowd laughed, thinking they had just witnessed a play put on
their benefit. Borrelli, however, wasn't moving. His hand was still
pointing at where the artists had been sitting. When his shock was
noticed, the crowd stopped laughing.

Ralph jumped off the stage and pushed his way through the crowd. After
he felt the cold necks of the artists, a single name immediately
appeared in his mind. He had no idea what has just happened. He did
have a good idea about who was responsible.

"Jesus Christ," Borrelli whispered. "What have I done?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (10 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TEN
...AND EXPLODING

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

If nothing else, the art at the "Eye-Popper" exhibit certainly caught
your attention. Among the collected items was "The Location of Injun
Joe," a statue of a naked man touching the ground as an arm extended
from his anus. Another statue featured a pink, fat man with a
wide-open mouth. A continuously running motor inside the statue
allowed a green slime to be pumped from the man's mouth so it could
run down his chest, get collected into a wide glass bowl, and then get
sucked back into the statue. Thus the statue was called "Vomit
Machine." "Two Skeletons Fucking" was...well, two skeletons arranged
in the described position. "Snot Collection" was also
self-explanatory. "Enjoyment" featured a glass case containing a dead
cat. Viewers could press a button on the case and watch a spike stab
the corpse.

Then there was the painting of Christ. In this work, priests dressed
in fast food uniforms were carving out pieces of a crucified Jesus and
serving them between sesame seed buns. The painting was called
"McSacrament." This was the one causing the most fuss.

As explicit as the art was, the real attention was focused on the
celebrities and various cognoscenti present at the gallery. Edmund
Frost was getting to know them all.

"Ah, Mr. Harrelson! Once again, your jacket looks good enough to
smoke!

"Hello, Mr. Hilfinger! Still trying to be African-American?

"Good evening to you, Miss Crawford! And don't you worry. I don't see
too many wrinkles.

"Oh, my dear Geffen. How is my favorite faggot billionaire?

"Well, your failure-to-success ratio is now three-to-one, Mr. Carter.
Are you now trying to make it four-to-one?

"My, my, what's a good Catholic girl like you doing in a place like
this? Do you expect to be married for long, Miss M?"

"Excuse me, Mister Frost?"

Frost blinked and turned around. He saw a young black man smiling at
him and waving a hand wrapped in a green glove.

"I don't know who you are," Frost said. "Because of that, I want you
to be gone by the time I look in this direction again." He turned back
to 'Miss M.'

"Oh, you don't want that, Mr. Frost," the young man cheerfully said.
"I've got something you want -- something that goes to the...heart of
your difficulties."

The gallery owner remained completely still for a moment. Then he
smiled at the woman and said, "Pardon me for a moment, dearie." He
touched the young man on the elbow and led him over to a large
sculpture entitled "All of My Favorite Abortions."

"I should kill you just for that joke," Frost whispered in the young
man's ear.

"Maybe. But you would lose something valuable."

Frost studied the party crasher, then said, "Let's say we go somewhere
more private so we can 'talk turkey.'"

"Mr. Frost, we can talk all the fowl you want."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doggett stood up, walked over to Ryder and said, "You get out of here
before I stuff you full of curry."

"Ah, come on, John. You were talking so nice earlier today."

Just as Doggett made a fist, Cindy said, "Easy, John. Milt, what do
you want?"

"To talk with you, Cindy," Ryder responded.

Doggett looked between Ryder's smug face and Cindy's cool expression.
He was surprised (or not so surprised) to hear Cindy say, "Okay."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Doggett told Cindy.

"There's no need to be worried," Cindy said in a flat voice. "About
anything."

Doggett stayed between Ryder and Cindy for another few seconds. Then
he walked out of the restaurant, passing by a nervous waitress. His
hand was still clenched.

From the sidewalk, Ryder and Cindy could be seen through a window. He
sat down at her table. The expression she held against his attempt to
ingratiate himself was blank.

And ambiguous.

Doggett hated not knowing what they were talking about, hated his
suspicion, hated even coming to this diner in the first place, hated
all the shit still yet to buried. As he fumed outside East in the
West, his cellular phone buzzed in his jacket. He closed his eyes. It
wasn't until the third ring that he answered it.

"Yeah?"

"Agent Doggett, this is Price."

"What do you want?"

"What do I want? What the fuck do you think I want?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Doggett said, keeping an eye on Cindy and
Ryder. Cindy was doing the talking now. Was it his imagination or did
she just say "I owe you?"

"I want to talk, stupid," Price snapped. "You want to know what the
fuck is going down? Well, I can tell you."

Doggett paused, then said, "Is that so?"

"Yeah. You want to hear it or not?"

"Okay. Where do we meet?"

Just as Price named the place and hung up, Ryder stood up and left the
restaurant. Just before he passed Doggett, he turned to the FBI agent
and said, "You know, she was a great partner."

Then he went on his way. Doggett watched the shadows of the street
spread over the ex-officer.

Cindy looked up as Doggett walked back to the table. Before she could
say a word, he said, "I have to go. There's been a break in the case."

"I see. Mind if I tag along?"

"Actually...it would be better if you stayed behind."

"Oh. All right."

"I'm sorry I have to run off..."

"I never tried to interfere with your work, John."

Doggett slowly nodded, then mumbled, "Good night."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She stayed in the chair, despite the ringing of her phone. Only by the
sixth ring did she answer it.

"Hello?"

"It's Doggett. Where were you? The phone was ringing forever."

"I...I'm sorry. What's happening?"

"Price wants to talk." Doggett gave her the meeting place.

"You want me to be there?"

"Hell, yes."

"All right."

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm...it's nothing. What about you? You sound a little tense."

"Yeah, well...I rather not think about that now. I'll see you in about
a half-hour."

"Right. See you."

Scully hung up the phone. With slow movements, she put on her gun
holster and coat. Then she plodded to the door, opened it, and looked
back at the room.

"I have to go," she whispered to the empty spaces.

Then she left.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Now, my dear boy," Frost said after he and Orb sat down in his
office. "explain to me why I shouldn't hold you over a pit of
scorpions until you tell me where the Heart is."

"Oh, I can tell you where the Heart of Power is right now. It wouldn't
do you any good, though."

"You sound so cheeky." Frost waved his cigarette in a circle. "All
right. Where is it?"

Orb touched his chest. "Here."

Frost raised an eyebrow. "Under your shirt?"

"Under my skin." Orb unbuttoned the top four buttons in his shirt and
exposed his chest. Black lines of thread had knit together a long
wound on the skin.

Frost laughed. "Oh, come now. What's to prevent me from slicing you
open and getting the Heart?"

"Ever hear of the Binding Spell of R'drunna?"

Frost stopped smiling. "Yes. I have."

"That's what I've done. I've bound my heart to the Heart of Power.
It's now part of me. It depends on my life now. Kill me or even remove
it from my body...then the Heart loses its magic. It becomes as
worthless as the art in your gallery."

"Oh, very droll."

"I know." Orb buttoned his shirt. "So...if you want to use the Heart
now, you have to co-operate with me."

"There are ways of ensuring *your* co-operation, darling. We are quite
skilled in the act of torture on our side. We know just how much pain
to inflict on a person without killing him. We could make life itself
hellish enough for you to obey us. Or maybe we could practice our art
on one of your loved ones?"

"I wouldn't push me that far. I might do something drastic." Orb
pressed his forefinger against his temple and twitched his thumb.
"Know what I'm saying?"

"You would really do that?"

"If worse came to worse. More likely, I would go to Whiteknife."

Frost sat up in his chair. "You know about him?"

"Why am I coming to you now? I know about the war between Whiteknife
and the Jeevatek. And I know the Heart of Power would make a valuable
weapon for either side."

"So you're willing to sell your services to the highest bidder."

Orb spread out his hands and grinned. "Whoomp, there it is."

Frost leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe we
should just take you out of the equation," he mused as he blew smoke
upwards. "Kill you and see that nobody possesses the Heart."

"That is an option," Orb replied without blinking. "And you might not
need it to defeat Whiteknife. But it's a big old world, Mr. Frost.
Someone else might come around -- someone more powerful than
Whiteknife or the Jeevatek. Wouldn't you want the Heart, then?"

"Hm. You are obviously a bright lad."

"'Cor, yes, guv'ner."

"So is there any time frame for a final bid here?"

"Not really. Just when I get really impatient." Orb lifted himself
from the chair. He paused before he was fully erect as if he was
summoning strength. Frost quickly glanced at him, then looked back at
the ceiling.

Then Orb stood up straight and said, "You start considering your
offer. Think lots of zeroes."

Orb left the office. "A bright lad," Frost repeated after the door
closed.

A smile spread over his face. "Bright enough to screw himself into an
early grave."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Adam Price's hackles went up when he saw Doggett and a mystery woman
enter the alley. He had been already on edge, stiffening at the sound
of every passing pedestrian and car. There was too much which could be
fantasized in the night and too many of those fantasies were real.

"Who the hell is she?" Price hissed, backing up.

"It's okay," Doggett assured him. "She's my partner."

Price examined the woman's face. She didn't strike him as being an FBI
agent. Right now, she looked more like a child whose dog had just
gotten shot. There was something sad and painful in her eyes.

Fuck it, Price thought. I've got my own problems. "All right," he
said. He looked around the dark alley one more time. "What I'm about
to tell you will sound too strange to be believed. But it's real. I'm
only telling you this because you seem capable of believing it. And
because I've got nowhere to go."

"I'm willing to listen, Mr. Price. Of course, Agent Scully here can do
better in believing strange things than me."

"Really?" Price looked at Scully and said, "Ever hear of Whiteknife?
And the Jeevatek?

"I..I can't say I have," Scully responded.

Price snorted. "No shit. Not a whole lot of people know about them.
But the Jeevatek are the ones who control the city now. And Whiteknife
is the guy trying to knock them from the throne."

"Control the city?" Doggett said.

"Through businesses, through city hall, through the cops...they've
taken hold of this town. They own the juiciest property and most of
the money flows through their channels. Their power isn't complete,
but they're sure enough getting to that point."

Doggett and Scully glanced briefly at each other. "They're supposed to
be what exactly?" Doggett asked.

"I'm not sure. All they know is that they're some bad motherfuckers.
And Whiteknife is their enemy. Always has been. There is a long
history between their two sides. I don't know all the details there
and I don't care to find out. What I do know is that he lost track of
the Jeevatek a couple of decades back. Now he's found them here
and...well, it's war." Price laughed. "Guess who was dumb enough to
enlist as a soldier?"

"Are you claiming responsibility for what's been happening in Times
Square?" Scully asked.

"Some of it, yeah." Price reached into his pocket and pulled out a
ring. The ring was white with a red seal imbedded in it. "Me and the
others have been marking our territory." He pressed the ring against
the wall, leaving a familiar red circle.

"Who are the others?" Doggett asked.

Price opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He now looked puzzled,
as if an invisible cat had brushed against his feet.

"What is it?"

Price pressed his hands against his chest. He stared at the spot
between his nipples.

Then he quickly raised his head and said, "Oh, sh..."

At first, Doggett and Scully could only see huge blotches of color --
brown and white and red. Then they could only see black as they shut
their eyes against the warm, lumpy substance which spread across their
faces and clothes. They spent a few moments gagging and spitting as
the echo of a loud pop dissipated.

Doggett wiped the gunk off his eyelids. He opened his eyes to see
Scully sprayed with human insides. Part of an intestine was draped
over her right shoulder.

He took a step back from her. Something squished under his shoe. He
lifted and saw a small pile of white ooze sticking against his heel.
He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have just stepped on Adam
Price's eye.

From on top of one of the buildings bordering the alley, a cloaked man
looked down with red eyes. Those eyes lingered briefly in the air as
the rest of him vanished.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (11 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ELEVEN
THE NEXT STEPS TOWARDS HELL

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning, things got worse. An interesting coincidence also
occurred in that day's early hours. Heather would usually arrive at
her uncle's shop to do a workout in the basement. A person who often
joined in was a police officer Heather had met at a gym. Over the past
few months, they had served as the other's sparring partner. No
punches had landed on flesh, though. One of them would put on the
glove pads and the other would hammer on them.

This changed on that morning. "You want to put on the gloves today?"
the police officer asked after arriving at the repair shop.

"Actually," Heather said. "I thought we would both put on the gloves
today."

The police officer looked at Heather carefully. "Are you sure you want
to do that?"

"Let's just say I'm in the mood."

"Huh," Cindy Wildenstein said. "So am I."

It was a fairly risky thing they were doing. There were no referees
and no ropes -- just a basement with two women throwing punches. Cindy
had a longer reach and a bit more experience. Heather was younger and
had a bit more power.

"So...what are...you upset about?" Cindy asked as she panted and
jabbed.

Heather caught the jab on her cheek, but didn't seem much affected by
it. "Old boyfriend," she answered and threw a hard left. Cindy weaved
around it, but barely.

"Huh," the policewoman replied. "Funny. I have..."

She threw a left-right combination. Heather raised her arms in time to
intercept them.

"...the same problem."

The two women each took a step back and circled around each other.
"Your ex acting...like a jerk, too?" Heather asked.

"There's a problem. He just...won't come out and...admit it."

"It's different for me."

Heather and Cindy charged at the same time. There was a brief flurry
of exchanged punches before they wound with their arms over the
other's shoulders. Heather pushed Cindy back and said, "He...doesn't
even see...the problem. Not really."

Cindy moved forward, feinted with the left, and got Heather on the
mouth with the right. Heather appeared a bit woozy as a cut formed on
her lip. Cindy decided not to follow up on her punch, stepped back and
said, "But you...still care for him."

"That's the biggest problem of all," Heather admitted, licking the
blood in her mouth.

"Same here."

The two women began to circle each other again. Cindy wondered if she
should stop the fight now, but Heather was still ready to go. Cindy
decided to continue.

"On top of that," Heather said. "I saw five people die...at once last
night."

"Huh?"

"In the...club where I was...playing with my band last night."

"What happened? They get shot?"

"Nah. Our lead singer told them...to die and...they did."

Cindy could see Heather was being absolutely serious. She was so
bewildered that she let her guard down. In a split second, Heather
cleared the distance between them. The power punch she delivered sent
Cindy stumbling. Thoughts jumbled through her brain. She was thinking,
"I have to find out what happened in that club." As she Heather came
after her for the follow-up punch, she was also thinking, "I better do
something before this chick knocks my brains out."

The punch Cindy threw was instinctual, quick and clumsy, but it landed
where it was needed -- right into Heather's kidneys. Heather snarled
her pain. The blow had halted her attack, but it had also pissed her
off. She might have inflicted some real damage, if Cindy hadn't
grabbed her on the head and forced Heather to look into her eyes.

"Tell me what happened," the policewoman demanded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Orb, Ralph thought. It had to be Orb's fault.

This had been the thought which had kept repeating through Ralph's
mind last night. As the medical team had hauled the bodies away and
Borrelli sat trembling on the stage, Ralph could only find one person
to blame for this. He couldn't figure out how, but he just knew that
Orb's voodoo had finally hit the fan.

When he had returned to his mother's apartment, Orb was not to be
found. Mrs. Nichols had already been in a state of worry. As the clock
headed for midnight, her concern had increased. Both mother and son
had eventually gone to bed. When the sun rose, Orb was still missing.

"Oh, something terrible has happened to him," Mrs. Nichols wept.

Ralph suspected something terrible had happened to everyone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The morning also saw The Salesman and Edmund Frost being reviewed by
their masters. They stood together in a dimly lit room, surrounded by
pipes.

"So this person...Orb...has bonded with the Heart?" a girl asked
through a pipe.

"That he has," Frost answered. "However, he has overestimated his
ability to hold its power. It's consuming him from the inside-out."

"Then we should keep a close eye on him," a middle-aged woman's voice
said. "We may get the Heart's power yet."

"Ah, yes, we *should* keep a close eye on him."

The pipes were silent for a few seconds. Then the old man speaking
from the large overhead pipe said, "Has something happened?"

"Well...I had Miss Grawitz and her people follow him from the gallery
last night, but...at a certain point...he just vanished."

"You lost him?"

"It wasn't me!" Frost asserted. "Herr Dresspants was supposed to..."

The computerized voice spoke. " We...cannot...risk...Orb...falling
...into...the...hands...of...the...enemy."

"Yes, I..."

"Salesman," a new male voice spoke from a pipe resting on the floor.
"how goes the search for the servants of Whiteknife?"

"Not well," The Salesman admitted, his hat in his hands. "I need to
run that little fuck Pete McGovern around some more. On the plus side,
one of them bought it last night."

"Yes," an old woman said from a pipe behind The Salesman's head. "The
one called Adam Price. Whiteknife killed him, did he not?"

"That's right. He was going to break secrecy to Doggett and Scully."

"And what about the Historical Nexus? Is she still a problem?"

The Salesman grinned. "Not any longer. Soon, Doggett will be taken
care of as well. In fact, I'm wondering if Whiteknife's troops are
falling apart, too."

"They are still dangerous," a young boy's voice warned them. "In fact,
they've struck again."

The Salesman stopped smiling. "Oh, great. What have they done this
time?"

"Murder."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy tried to reach Doggett on his cellular phone, but received only
an automatic message informing her "this line has been disconnected."
She headed for the station house, not knowing where else to find
Doggett.

Fortunately, he was there. Unfortunately, he was not in a good mood.
In fact, a dark cloud was blowing through the whole station. Police
officers were moody, detectives were surly, and the arrested were
afraid.

Doggett, however, was the surliest of them all. He was in Lieutenant
Cavanaugh's office. She could see him through the office windows,
pointing his finger and yelling. Cavanaugh just sat there in his
chair, looking bewildered and helpless. She could hear some of
Doggett's louder words. "--doing the same damn thing as Ryder--"
"--going to get killed--" "--can't trust anybody--"

When he was finally done, he stormed out of Cavanaugh's office. He saw
Cindy in the main office area. His eyes stared at her, but he didn't
slow down. He went right past her, ignoring her attempts to talk with
him.

She chased after him into the stairwell. "John, wait a second..."

Finally, he stopped and turned. "What do you want?"

His angry tone threw her off balance. "Well..."

"Is there something you want to say to me?"

Her shock was giving way to irritation. "I've got some more
information for you."

"Do you now?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah."

"You want to know what information I want? I want to know what you and
Ryder were talking about last night."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know. It's just that I had a meeting with a key informant
last night. I watched that informant die. He blew up right in front of
me." He snorted. "Luckily, I packed an extra suit."

"Well, I'm sorry. But what are you pissed of at me for?"

"Only two other people knew about this meeting -- Scully and you."

Cindy felt cold in her stomach and hot on her neck. "What are you
saying?" she whispered.

"Somebody knew about the meeting. I'm trying to figure out how."

"You...asshole," Cindy said, her voice slowly rising. "I can't believe
you that you would...you didn't even tell me where you were going!"

"I'm just trying to figure out what happened." Doggett's voice
remained firm and level. "And I'm still trying to figure out what's
between you and Ryder."

"Fuck Ryder. And fuck you, too."

"That's kind of the scenario being considered, isn't it?"

With that, Doggett went down the stairs. Cindy wanted to follow him,
only this time to grind his bones into a fine powder. She kept her
feet still, but trembled. Eventually, she realized her choices were
either to kill Doggett or find out what the hell was going on.

Cavanaugh was still seated in his chair with a gloomy expression when
he heard a new person stomp into his office. "Hey, Cindy," he said,
then he noticed the bruise on her face. "What happened to you?"

"Never mind," she responded, closing the door. "I want to know what's
wrong with John."

Cavanuagh shook his head. "I don't know. He's gone completely
paranoid. Do you know he's even turned off his cell phone? He says
that he doesn't know who might be listening in."

As did a lot of police officers, Cindy disliked Cavanaugh and his
obsequious manners. At that moment, though, she sympathized with him.
"Do you know where I can reach Agent Scully?"

"You can try, but it won't do you much good. She's gone back to D.C.
She removed herself from this case."

"Why?"

"I don't know that, either."

Cindy glanced at the detectives through the windows, then turned back
to Cavanaugh. "Can you tell me why everybody out there looks like the
entire Yankee team just died in a plane crash?"

Cavanaugh looked at Cindy and said, "I guess you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"A cop got killed last night."

Cindy could feel glass in her stomach. What's more, she could tell
this death had been something even nastier than getting shot by a car
thief. "What happened exactly?" she asked.

The police lieutenant told her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Officer Bill Thompson hadn't seen anything wrong in what he had been
doing. The people whom he had been abusing were garbage, scum, shit on
the heels of society. If an entrepreneur wanted to shove aside a bunch
of crackheads so decent people could move in, what was wrong with
that? And if a man could add a little to his pay for assisting in this
service, explain how that was a sin.

Thompson's nose had pinched as he had entered the basement. The mere
smell of the four derelicts living there had angered him. Couldn't
they take care of themselves? he had thought. Luckily, he had been
carrying some tough love with him.

He had taken his truncheon off his belt and walked over to a woman. As
were the other three bums, she had been sleeping. Her thin, dirty body
rested on an old mattress.

He had tapped her foot with the truncheon. "Hey. Wake up."

The dirty woman had twitched in her sleep. "Wake...up," Thompson had
repeated, tapping her foot just a little harder. He only got a murmur
in response.

"Wake the fuck up!" This time, he had whacked her on the buttocks. Her
eyes and mouth opened wide. She wailed in pain as she spilled off the
mattress.

"That's right. I'm here to renew your goddamn urban lifestyle. Get
going."

The woman had knelt on all fours, her face turned away from the police
officer.

"I don't like repeating myself, bitch. You and your friends here
better leave or I'll..."

She had spun in Thompson's direction. The expression on her face had
not been the withdrawn, defensive look common to homeless people. Her
eyes had been bright, her teeth bared, her skin tight. And she had
been growling.

Thompson had placed his hand on his gun. "Watch it, cunt," he had
warned.

Then he had heard the basement door slam. When he had turned, he saw a
red circle printed on his side of the door.

He had also seen seven other people with filthy clothes and weathered
skin. He hadn't known from where the other three people came. All he
had known was that he was trapped with eight people and they all had
the same fiery look in their eyes. They were converging on him. They
didn't move as weak drug addicts, but as slinking panthers.

"Fucking-aye" was all Thompson had time to say. Two shots were all he
had time to fire. Then he was pressed under a stinking mass of flesh.
He had felt no rage in their scabby palms.

Only hunger.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (12 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWELVE
THE FINE ART OF DAMNING YOURSELF

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Walter Skinner could understand her decision. He had been worried
himself about the risks she had been taking in the field. Of course,
he was worried about the risks any agents took. This was different,
though. Only he knew her secret. Others might see it as her deserting
an investigation, but Skinner understood her true motivation.

That didn't change the fact that she *was* deserting an investigation.
This fact was gnawing at him.

It was devouring Dana Scully whole.

The blood hadn't even been washed off their bodies when Scully told
Doggett about her planned return to D.C. "Why do you want to do that?"
he had asked in bewilderment.

"I...I don't think I should be involved in this case. And neither
should you."

The turning lights of police cars had swept over Doggett's red face.
Behind him, a forensics team had been scraping bits of Adam Price off
a wall.

"What the hell are you saying?" he had said.

"I'm saying this situation is getting too...dangerous. We can't
control it anymore."

She hadn't been able to face his eyes. She had to look down at her
soaked jacket.

"Since when have you ran away from anything?" Doggett had wanted to
know. "What makes this different?"

After realizing that he was getting no response, Doggett had said,
"Fine. Go back to D.C. But I'm not running away. Not after this."

His cold words could not be forgotten, not even within the walls of
her apartment. She sat on a sofa miles and miles away from the war.
The television gave her news of the next skirmish.

"New York City is already feeling the aftershock of the murder of
Officer Bill Thompson," a reporter told her. "The NYPD remains stunned
and angry. For one of their own to die is bad enough. To have the dead
officer be the victim of cannibalism..." The reporter had a little
trouble getting that word out. "...has only increased their anger.
Some have feared that police officers will take their outrage out on
the homeless population. One person who may have witnessed just that
was Kenneth Nordin, a homeless activist. Nordin attempted to intervene
in what may have been a police beating of a destitute man." The
reporter paused. "Nordin is now in the hospital with several
injuries..."

It was falling apart right in front of her eyes. Scully could do
nothing to stop it. This war was not her war. She couldn't participate
in it and couldn't risk the life of her baby.

Couldn't...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

If you were willing to listen, Reverend Dean Landau had a pretty novel
idea about what had caused the Great Depression. "America chose to
wallow in sin and was punished for it," he would insist. "The twenties
were a sinful time. Women were smoking, cursing, drinking, wearing
short skirts." Most people would laugh at the idea of correlating the
GNP with women's hemlines, but Landau could take the laughter. He had
warned them and they would inevitably see the rightness of his words.
Soon, very soon, God would spread poverty over a land which had turned
its back on God.

What concerned him was whether he would be among the punished. In his
pocket was a ring made from a lion's bone. On his chest was the mark
of pagan magic. He had adopted these tools because he had been
promised a chance to spread the Gospel among all of the unsaved in New
York City. If Whiteknife won, Landau would be given a chance to claim
the psychic territory vacated by the Jeevatek. It was not an
opportunity Landau could push aside.

Now he had given into temptation and he walked with an uneasy sense of
condemnation. He did not fear death (too much), but he did fear for
his soul. By siding with Whiteknife, had the reverend turned his back
on God?

If only this blasted city would accept Christ as its savior, he
thought. Thompson's death and Nordin's assault were signs screaming
"Repent now!" Yet this city's population continued with its adultery
and its sodomy and its bloodthirst and its godlessness. Landau prayed
that he did not damn himself along with them.

That's why he did in the morning as he had always done. He went to his
church. It was a small building. The congregation used folding chairs
for seating and a chalkboard for displaying hymn numbers. Yet it was
Landau's sanctuary and no demon would enter it as long as he lived.

When he unlocked the front door, someone was waiting for him. The man
was sitting in the front row of the congregation place. He stared at
the small cross nailed to the back wall. His head bobbed slightly.

"How did you get in here?" was the first question Landau asked.  When
the intruder made no response, Landau crept up to the front row. He
kept one hand around his crucifix hanging from his neck and his other
hand around the ring in his pocket.

When he stopped by the front row, he could now fully see the intruder.
His appearance make the reverend think of the homeless. The intruder's
rumpled, eccentric garb (candy-striped shirt and tan trousers) and
dreamy expression would have looked well on one of the city's
wandering mental cases.

"Who are you?" Landau asked.

The intruder blinked and his head swiveled towards Landau. "Oh, I'm
sorry," he said, smiling. "I seemed to have lost track of myself."

"May I...help you?"

"Actually, Reverend, I came here to help you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Marcia Arbenz had made her first big career move when she cut her
pimp's throat. That was how she promoted herself to "madam" over the
prostitutes on her block. Soon, other whores on other streets would
flock under her umbrella of protection. If life as a prostitute could
be safe anywhere, it could be safe working for Arbenz. She had hired
large men to look over her workers. If they couldn't finish the job,
Arbenz's razor could. (And it would have to, more than once.) The
women selling themselves for Arbenz respected her. They also feared
her. Arbenz would cut a fair deal on her percentage of the take, but
occasionally a prostitute would regard it as not being fair enough.
Arbenz would always find them out and punish them in her own way.

Eventually, Arbenz left the streets. She now ran her prostitutes out
of escort services. Her clientele were now exclusively upper-class. On
the morning after Adam Price exploded, Officer Thompson got eaten
alive, and Agent Scully flew back to D.C., one of her best customers
came to her apartment.

"Buenas dias! Just how is my little Mexican jumping bean?"

"I'm doing well. And just to remind you, my family was Guatemalan, not
Mexican."

Edmund Frost grinned and waved his cigarette-holding hand
dismissively. "Guatemala, Mexico, Taco Bell, it's all the same to me,
dearie. You're all one big spic stew."

Frost placed his hand on Arbenz's back. She placed her hand on his
back and did her best to smile back at him.

"Guess what?" he said.

"What?"

"I'm throwing a party. I need you to catch it."

"Is party being thrown for business or pleasure?"

"Oh, please, senorita! Don't you know by now I always mix the two?"

"Quite right."

"I need...you..." He touched her nose. "...to see that the best whores
are on the premises so that my guests may be molested, sucked, probed,
and flushed to their heart's content."

"I'll make sure of it."

"Bless you."

"But I'll bring no one under eighteen. You'll have to take care of
that yourself."

Frost sighed. "Oh, Marcia, Marcia. We need to rid you of those last
vestiges of Catholicism."

"My parents never raised me Catholic. They never raised me at all."

"Doesn't matter. All you wetbacks have traces of holy water in your
veins." Frost leaned forward and rubbed his chin against Marcia's.
"Don't worry. I still trust you. In fact, you're just about the only
person I do trust."

"I know."

Frost and Arbenz heard a chirping noise. "Pardon me," she said, then
went to answer a curved phone.

"Hello?"

"I have found it!"

Arbenz winced and not just because of the volume of the caller's
voice. Edmund Frost was standing only fifteen feet away as Reverend
Landau yelled through her phone. She turned her face away from Frost's
view.

"I told you never to call me here," she muttered.

"God has delivered it into my possession! He has not forsaken me! Oh,
glory..."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

After getting an explanation, Arbenz said, "Okay. Hold it there. You
know who to go see."

She hung up the phone. "Problem?" Frost inquired.

Arbenz turned to Frost with a calm face. "Nothing I can't handle. Just
an idiot I have to deal with."

Frost laughed. "Oh, do I know about those! Might I deal with him for
you?"

"No, it's all right..."

"It would give me a pleasure..."

Arbenz smiled. "I have few pleasures of my own. Allow me this one."

"Very well. However, I do hope this won't interfere with your
arrangements for tonight."

"I assure you, Edmund...nothing in the world will interfere with
that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Seeing Heather Cobb on his doorstep was not much of a surprise to
Ralph. The policewoman at her side was a surprise, though.

"Ralph Nichols, I'm Officer Wildenstein. I want to talk to you about
what happened in the Hellblazer."

Ralph looked at Heather. "It's okay," Heather said. "I know her. She's
my sparring partner."

Ralph saw Heather's puffy lip and the policewoman's shiner. "Did you
two just fight each other?"

"Yes," Cindy said. "Could we come inside?"

The bass-player stepped aside. "Is your mom at work?" Heather asked as
the two women entered the apartment.

"She is," Ralph answered.

Heather paused, then said, "What about Orb?"

"He's...not here. In fact, he didn't come in last night. It was all I
could do to make mom go to work. She's worried sick." He tucked his
hands into his pockets. "I'm pretty worried myself."

"Mister Nichols," Cindy said. "you may have noticed that a lot of
strange things have been happening in this city of late."

"Yep."

"I was wondering if you could give me any details about the strange
thing you witnessed."

Ralph considered his response for a few seconds, then asked, "Do you
want to hear the evasive, watered-down version or the entire thing in
all of its weirdness?"

"I was expecting the latter."

"I've already told another police officer about Orb's disappearance.
He got the short version. Why are you here to get the long one?"

"Because I want to show a mulehead just how fucking professional I
am."

Ralph considered that response, then nodded and said, "Take a seat."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In Harlem, a passing squad car was showered with bricks. In a subway
station, a thirteen-year-old girl lost a tooth after she "mouthed off"
to a police officer. Incidents such as these were not surprising --
not after what had recently happened. They weren't even unprecedented.

However, certain other events occurred that day which seemed a bit
more inexplicable. An actress in a matinee performance of "The Phantom
of the Opera" started crying on-stage for no reason. A traffic light
exploded on Forty-Fourth Street in an impressive shower of sparks.
Shelves tumbled in the New York Public Library. From the window of his
apartment, a professional baseball player urinated on the pedestrians.
In an emergency room, a doctor accused a patient of "faking" his
gushing ax wound. A cab driver suddenly went blind and drove into the
back of a garbage truck. Speaking of garbage, two dumpsters had gone
missing. So had a large number of the city's dogs.

John Doggett heard about most of this weirdness on his car radio. When
he had enough of it, he twisted the radio knob to a different station.
"Whole damn city has gone crazy except for me," he muttered. If
somebody had been in the car with Doggett, that person might have
questioned that statement's accuracy. A person might have wondered why
Doggett was driving all over the city. A person might have also
wondered why Doggett kept muttering, "Damn Cindy...damn Scully...can't
trust anybody...can't trust anybody." What would have that person made
of the ring in Doggett's pocket -- a ring which had belonged to a drug
dealer? If the person had heard Doggett's belief that the "ring will
lead me right to those motherfuckers," that person would have jumped
out of the car.

Coming from the radio, a song with a sharp rhythm filled the car.
"Very superstitious...nothin' more to say...very superstitious...the
devil's on his way..."

"I don't trust you, either, Stevie," Doggett said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"That's all...pretty weird."

"I thought you would say that."

"You really think your friend Orb had something to do with those
deaths?"

Ralph glanced at Heather, then said, "Yes, officer. I do."

Heather said nothing as she held her arms against her chest.

"Well," Cindy said. "maybe we ought to go find him. Where would you
start looking?"

An idea sparkled in Ralph's eyes, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Mister Nichols? You wanted to say something?"

Ralph sighed. "Yeah, well...Orb liked to hang around in real poor
areas."

Heather looked around the apartment. "Uh, no offense, but..."

"I'm talking *real* poor. I'm talking about people who would view this
apartment as the fucking Hilton. People living in the park, in alleys,
in subway tunnels."

"I remember that," Heather said. "He called those places 'The Realm of
Things Unseen.'"

"Your friend," Cindy said. "sounds weirder by the minute."

"That's kind of the reason why I'm not eager to go look for him,"
Ralph explained.

Cindy stood up. Heather stood up. Sighing again, Ralph stood up. "I
need to leave a note for my mother."

"And I need to make a call," Cindy said. "A long-distance one. I'll
pay for it."

"Fine." Ralph led Cindy to the kitchen. "I appreciate your
co-operation on this," she told Ralph as she dialed. "Not too many
young black men trust cops nowadays."

"Neither do I. So don't make a big fucking deal out of it."

"Okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reverend Landau was being confronted by a call-girl madam and a
centuries-old mystic. He didn't know which intimidated him more.

"What the fuck do you mean, he's gone?" Arbenz said. Her voice was
just a notch louder than normal. She never yelled when she got angry.
All of her fury could be seen in her eyes.

"I just turned my back for one second and then..."

"Don't give me that shit, Reverend." Arbenz reached into her pocket --
the pocket where she kept her razor.

Landau backed away and held up his Bible in front of him. "You can't
hurt me!" he screamed. "Not in the house of the Lord!"

"Enough," Whiteknife said, then turned his hooded face to Landau.
"What did this young man tell you about the Heart?"

Landau cleared his throat. "He said that he had...bonded it to
himself. He mentioned something called the Binding Spell of
Red...Red..."

"R'drunna. I have heard of it. Tell me...did he look sickly to you?"

"Come to think of it, he did not look well at all."

Whiteknife smiled. It was the first time Arbenz and Landau had ever
seen him smile. It didn't make them feel all warm inside. "He had
overestimated himself, this Orb," Whiteknife said. "The Heart of Power
is draining him of life."

"Wait a minute. He said that if he dies, then the Heart of Power dies
with him."

"That was the idea behind the Binding Spell."

"Then why are you smiling? If this young man is dying..."

"He's not dying. The Heart is simply taking over his body. At this
rate, he will become as the Heart itself -- a powerful object, but
with no will of its own. We can use him without having to deal with
him."

"So can the Jeevatek," Arbenz reminded Whiteknife.

Whiteknife stopped smiling. "We must track down this Orb immediately.
Reverend, you and I..."

The door to the church was kicked open. Everyone turned to face a man
holding a gun. "Up against the wall, all of you!" he commanded. His
eyes were bloodshot and sweat dripped off his forehead.

"Who are you?!" Landau yelled back. "How dare you intrude into this
holy place?!"

"A preacher's ass bleeds like anybody else's, pal. Up against the
wall! That includes the monk!"

"No," Whiteknife said. "I think not."

His eyes flashed red. The door slammed shut. The man with the gun
glanced at the door, then turned back to Whiteknife. He was trembling,
but he wouldn't lower the gun.

"You're behind everything," he snarled. "I don't know how, but..."

"No. You don't know, do you? You don't know anything right now."
Whiteknife's eyes flashed red again. The face of the intruder
stiffened as if he had been injected with novocaine.

"Just...relax," Whiteknife suggested.

The intruder lowered his gun. He became motionless with his arms
sagging at his sides.

"Who is this asshole?" Arbenz asked as she and Whiteknife walked
towards the intruder. (She walked, anyway. Whiteknife kind
of...glided.)

"He is one of the FBI agents Price was speaking with last night.,"
Whiteknife explained.

"But how did he find us?"

"I suspect..." Whiteknife reached into Agent Doggett's pocket and
pulled out a ring. "...this guided him here. It was Price's."

"Just that?"

"No. It couldn't have been merely this." Whiteknife looked into
Doggett's wide eyes. "Hmmm. Ah, I see. The Jeevatek have tampered with
this man's mind. They have increased his suspicion and paranoia."

"You mean, he's working for them?"

"Not this one. He just found us out by accident."

Arbenz reached into her pocket. "Then maybe I should..."

"No. No need for that." Whiteknife turned fluidly in Landau's
direction. "Reverend...make preparations. We are going to hunt for
Orb."

Landau nodded and slipped out of the congregation place.

As if he was standing on a merry-go-round, Whiteknife twisted towards
Arbenz. "As for you, you have your own preparations to make for
tonight."

"I do. I just hope you remember that this is it for me. After tonight,
I am out of town and out of this war."

"That was our bargain. I will stand by it. It is good that Adam Price
never knew of our bargain."

"And it's good the Reverend doesn't know, either." Arbenz looked at
Doggett. "So just what are you going to do with this guy, anyway?"

The smile returned to Whiteknife's face. "I have special plans for
him."

Fear shined briefly in Doggett's eyes, then was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (13 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THIRTEEN
SNAPSHOTS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A highly-paid lawyer grabbed a "THE END IS NEAR" sign away from a
street-corner preacher. "Don't you see it, people?" he yelled with
honest fervor as he raised the sign. "This is it! This is the big
time! We're all going down and there are no goddamn lifeboats! Kiss
your asses good-bye!"

The preacher looked both offended and impressed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She hid under her blankets, trying to ignore the ringing phone. On the
fifth ring, she finally extended a hand, plucked the receiver off its
hook, and pulled it under the blanket.

"Hello?"

"Agent Scully, it's me. Officer Wildenstein."

"How...how did you get my home number?"

"Well, first, I called the FBI. You weren't there. Then your A.D. told
me..."

"Skinner told you?"

"I guess I sounded pretty urgent. And I am. Kind of."

"Well...what do you want?"

"I have some new information for you."

"Um, you should be talking to Agent Doggett."

"Agent Doggett is part of the problem. Now, you want to listen or
what?"

Scully paused, then said, "All right."

Wildenstein related what she had learned about the Hellblazer club and
Orb. After she was done, Wildenstein said, "So what do you think about
that?"

"Maybe...maybe Orb has some kind of power. And that power spreads
through whatever close connections he has. It went from him to Heather
and Ralph to Borrelli. That's why when Borrelli wished somebody dead,
it happened."

"O...kay. Look, you seem to be a little less confused about this than
I am. Why don't you..."

"No, no, no. I can't. I can't go back. I can't..." Scully cut her
mewling off. For many seconds, she listened to the other woman's
silence.

"You know," Cindy said. "I met you very briefly, but you didn't strike
me as the kind of person who would shit her panties and run away in
the face of danger." Cindy paused, then said, "Then, again, I didn't
think John Doggett could be this big of an asshole."

"What do you mean?"

"He's completely shut me out. He's even accused me of having something
to do with that drug dealer's murder. See what I mean by asshole?"

"Yeah," Scully said slowly. "I do."

"But you know what? I don't have time to deal with either one of you.
Something fucked is happening in my town. I'm going to find out what
it is. Help me or don't help me. Your choice, Agent."

Cindy hung up. Scully kept her ear pressed against the receiver until
an automated voice told her to hang up. She placed the receiver back
onto the hook and then huddled under the blankets.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At a welfare office, a social worker put her mouth against the water
cooler's spout and tried to drain the cooler in one gulp. When her
fellow workers tried to restrain her, the cooler was knocked over.
Water was spread over the floor tiles. The social worker slipped out
of the restraining arms and lapped at the puddle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Heather knocked on the door to Poveda's apartment until he answered.
The guitarist was wearing a long brown robe and a medallion in the
shape of the sun. The scent of incense drifted over shoulder.

"Hello, Heather."

"Get dressed. I mean, get some pants on."

"What for?"

"We need to find Orb."

"I wasn't aware he was missing."

"He is. Now I need you to help me find him."

Poveda glanced behind him, then turned to Heather. "I'm afraid I can't
come with you. Ben and I are at an important stage..."

"Ben? He's in there with you?"

Poveda stepped aside. Heather entered the apartment and followed the
smell of incense to the main room. Nearly every religion imaginable
was represented here -- a cross for Christianity, a fat little statue
for Buddhism, a Star of David for Judaism, a prayer mat for Islam, and
on and on. Ben Borrelli was kneeling on the floor, also dressed in a
brown robe. Lit candles were arranged before his knees. He kept his
eyes closed as he breathed slowly in and out.

"What the hell are you doing, Ben?"

Borrelli jerked his head towards Heather. "Please, Heather, don't
disturb my concentration," he complained.

"I repeat -- what the hell are you doing?"

"We are performing a cleansing ritual," Poveda explained. "Ben wants
to control his negative emotions."

"Huh?"

"I have to do this," Borrelli asserted. "My anger killed those
people."

"Oh, for Christ's...Ben, you didn't have anything to do with that."

"You're wrong." Borrelli's eyes were very sad. "I did not understand
the power of my anger until now. I must harness it before someone else
gets hurt."

"So you turned to Uriel?"

"Uriel has a strong sense of inner peace. I want to have that."

"I cannot give you inner peace, my friend," Poveda said. "You can
always give yourself that."

"I'm talking with a pair of fortune cookies," Cindy grumbled. "Okay,
okay. Stay here. Meditate or chant or suck each other's cock. I'll go
look for Orb."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Poveda asked.

"Well, why not?"

"Heather...there is a bad aura hovering over this city now. Can't you
feel it?"

To be honest, Heather could feel it. There was a growing sense of
insanity in New York City. You could almost hear the ticking of a time
bomb. However, she just said, "I need to find Orb."

"This place is a sanctuary. Outside, however, the winds of madness are
blowing through the steel canyons. What will you do when the wind
touches you?"

"Kick it in the nuts."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A junkie died in a public bathroom stall. As the life left his body
like the blood dripping from his arm's puncture wounds, he thought he
could see ghosts drifting through pipes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Whiteknife stood on top of a building and coveted the city. He did not
want the city for itself. There was much grandness in it, but he had
controlled grander cities in the past. He wanted it because the
Jeevatek owned it.

When he thought about the Jeevatek, his heart contained as much
admiration as anger. It was a clever thing his old enemy had done --
using this city's inner conflicts, appealing to the fears and vanities
of the rich, directing the suspicion of those under foot away from the
foot's owner, reducing law to a mere squabble over borders. Had he not
been involved in other concerns, Whiteknife would have done the same
thing. He had gnashed his teeth when he learned of the Jeevatek's
accomplishment. Whiteknife had believed that their last battle had
driven his foe back to the netherworld. Not only had he been wrong,
but the Jeevatek had gained enormous power.

Whiteknife needed his own soldiers. Since the Jeevatek had the city's
rulers and their enforcers on his side, Whiteknife had to cull his
army from less reputable areas. His lieutenants were unscrupulous
dealers of one kind or another, except for Reverend Landau who was
just blindly self-righteous. His soldiers were the dispossessed and
the discarded; the vilified and the victimized; the forgotten and the
fucked-up. Whiteknife could sense their raw emotions, their
discontent, their hunger, their borderline insanity. It would be the
force of their anger which would drive the Jeevatek from the city. The
first attacks had been on the thoughtless visitors who saw the city as
a simple market. Then Whiteknife had gone after the glib servants of
the city's order, whether they be cheerful boosters or faux-rebels.

The murder of Officer Thompson had been the next step. It had been a
deliberate blow against his opponent's enforcers. Tonight would see a
major offense launched on the elite who had benefited the most from
the Jeevatek. Whiteknife would continue to escalate his attacks until
a victor was declared.

At least, that was the idea. As he watched the city, he felt a
little...concerned. Little pockets of madness were forming in every
burrough. This has been an intended effect. Whiteknife had also
anticipated some of this insanity to be spontaneous reactions to his
own efforts. Yet, he wasn't sure that all of the extra madness was
just the product of untouched minds. What if there was another force
at work -- a third player with his own agenda?

Whiteknife briefly considered this notion before dismissing it. These
people belong to either the Jeevatek or myself, he told himself. They
can go nowhere else.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A Barnes & Noble bookstore was burning. All the customers and cashiers
had fled the building, except for the college student who had started
the fire. He was laughing and dancing around the flames.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were not smiling in the photo. Both of them were concentrating on
the details of a crime scene. The photo had been taken by a member of
the forensic team present at the time. It was the only photo she had
of him and the only photo of them together. Every other image had been
claimed in the fire which had torched the basement office.

She studied that photo and wondered what that woman would be doing in
her situation. She also speculated about what the man might have done.

"Don't even think about it."

She didn't reply to the voice. She just stared at the photo.

"You finally did the right thing. Don't go back on it. Don't put your
child in danger again."

Still, she didn't answer, but the voice acted as if she had.

"Their problem is not your problem. If you risk yourself in their
conflict, you'll be committing a sin."

Finally, she turned to the speaker and said, "And what am I doing
right now?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Eight people simultaneously spewed purple vomit in a Japanese
restaurant. Their sickness has nothing to do with the food.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

*Fuck this traffic. Fuck this city. Fuck the Jeevatek. Fuck everybody
and everything.*

These were the thoughts in Milton Ryder's head as his Porsche remained
wedged in a traffic jam. He could see the jam's cause a few blocks
ahead of him. A car had overturned and now laid broken in the middle
of the street.

*How the hell did that happen?* he wondered. *No, stupid question.
It's this goddamn war. All kinds of fucked-up things are happening
because of it. Why am I in the middle of it? I should get out of this
town, find some way of getting out of the Jeevatek's range...*

The thump on his roof made his body clench. The second thump was less
surprising, but the third and fourth were just as unnerving. Ryder
realized that someone was jumping on the roof. There was also a person
bouncing on the trunk and another had just leapt on the hood.

His Porsche had just been surrounded by black boys who couldn't have
been any older than twelve. They were laughing and denting the
Porsche's metal and rocking the car. Ryder swayed inside as he
screamed, "You motherfucking punk niggers get away from my car!" He
reached for the glove compartment where a .44 Magnum waited for his
twitching fingers.

Then, as one, the black boys hoisted buckets. And they poured.

Ryder's view of the world became clogged with a brown mush. It was
partly solid, but soft and runny. As it slithered across the windows,
Ryder caught a whiff through the air vents. Judging from the forceful
aroma, his Porsche had just been doused with ten gallons of moist
shit.

He heard the black boys running away and laughing. His first thought
was -- how did they get so much of this stuff?

His second thought was much angrier. In this baptism of feces, Ryder
found a purpose. He no longer cared about the Jeevatek or Whiteknife.
He simply wanted to hurt whomever the black boys represented. He was
going to strike back with all of his wrath. He was going to make them
eat the shit splashed over his car. However, to do that, he would need
more than just his own resources. A genuine army was needed.

As the windshield wipers pushed at the brown gunk, Ryder figured out
where he had to go, what he had to do, and whose ass he had to fry.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lights went out in the mayor's office and would stay out through
the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Back to New York City," Scully said as she put on her gun holster.
"Back to help Doggett."

"So you would really do it. You would risk the life of your..."

Scully spun towards the man berating her. "Don't tell me my
responsibilities, you piece-of-shit. God knows I don't want to lose my
child. But I wouldn't be able to look my child in the eye if I
abandoned my partner."

The man's handsome face changed from stern to abashed. "But...don't I
get a say in this?"

"Mulder would agree with me. I don't know who the hell *you* are."

She pulled the coat over her shoulders. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm
in a bitchy mood and I don't want to waste it on you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In an abandoned subway tunnel, an album spun on a record player. A man
in tan trousers was huddled next to it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOURTEEN
THE REALM OF THINGS UNSEEN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Some of them sat on the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes or drinking or
inhaling from a glass pipe. Others sauntered back and forth on the
street. Occasionally they stopped to talk with somebody. They weren't
really going anywhere. They were just stretching their legs. Blacks
and Hispanics made a large percentage of their number, but whites
could also be seen. The youngest were in their late twenties, the
oldest were in their sixties. Surrounding them were empty lots, frayed
posters for movies released years ago and small, forgotten buildings.

Cindy looked over this street's lazy activity and said, "Your friend
used to hang out around here?"

Ralph shrugged. "Come on. Let's ask around."

The policewoman followed Ralph to one small gathering of men. They
were passing around a bottle of vodka. A fortyish black man dressed in
a trucker's cap and dirty T-shirt saw the visitors. "Hey, Ralph!" he
called out.

The other men turned to Ralph and also greeted him in their rough
voices. "Hey, guys," he replied politely.

The black man in the trucker's cap then noticed Wildenstein. "Who's
your friend there?" he asked, half-amused and half-wary.

"This is Officer Wildenstein," Ralph explained. "We're both looking
for Orb."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. You have any idea where he is, Bert?"

"Nah. But I did see him around here a few days ago."

"What was he doing?"

"Beats me, man."

A pudgy white man with remnants of curly hair encircling his bald pate
spoke up. "I saw him talking with Ollie."

Cindy saw Ralph's back straighten. "Who's Ollie?" she asked.

The pudgy white man chuckled. "He's the magic man, officer. He can do
anything 'cept get off the pipe."

"What does that mean?"

"Ollie be a street magician," Bert said. "Like that David Blaine
motherfucker."

"So he does card tricks?"

The men in the gathering smiled at each other. "Somethin' like that,
yeah," the pudgy man said.

Cindy turned to Ralph. "Why do you look so nervous all of a sudden?"

"I don't know," he said. "Having Ollie and Orb together..." He turned
to the pudgy man. "Any idea on what they were doing, George?"

George took a drag off the cigarette, then said, "What's it worth
knowing?"

Cindy stepped forward. With a smile on her face, she said, "What's it
worth not telling us?"

"Whooo-aaa!" the other men declared. George just grinned with a
tooth-deficient mouth. "A lady cop getting rough...I think I saw this
in a porno once."

"Think gay porno. As in you in a cell with a very large man who stinks
worse than you do. Now are you going to..."

Ralph stepped between Cindy and George. He held out a five-dollar
bill. "Look, this is all I can give."

George examined the bill, shrugged and accepted it with his dirty
fingers. He stuck it in his pocket, then said, "He was looking for
something Ollie had. Only Ollie didn't have it no more."

"Is that it?"

"You know...I asked him why he wanted this thing so bad. He told me,
'I'm doing it for Ralph.'"

Surprise wiped away the firmness on Ralph's expression.

"I'm tellin' you...your friend, he's all right, but he's one strange
fucker."

Ralph set his face back into its protective blankness. "Yeah," he
said. "He is. Thanks."

Cindy followed Ralph as they walked away from the street full of winos
and junkies. "Ralph," she said. "the next time that happens, just let
me..."

Ralph stopped and turned to the policewoman. "No," he said in a low
voice. "You don't ever threaten anybody when I'm around."

"I wasn't threatening him..."

"Yes, you were. You were pulling cop shit on George. I hate cop shit.
As long as you're with me, keep it out of sight."

Cindy faced the young black man in silence for a few moments. Then she
said, "Okay, Ralph. I promise."

Ralph nodded. "Come on. I know a few places where Ollie hangs out."

They continued walking. Cindy asked, "So...what do you think Orb
meant? About what he said about you?"

"I don't know."

"Want to find out?"

"I don't know that, either."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"This country just doesn't want to know the truth about Allah. That
includes my sister. All the time I was in the hospital, she kept
saying, 'Theresa, you're a Roman Catholic, not a Muslim!' Well, if she
read my book, then she would know better..."

"Did Orb ever read your book?"

Theresa Dobson blinked. "I'm...not sure. Of course, he was always very
nice to me. He would always play chess with me and talk with me, even
after the policeman told him, 'Don't talk with that woman. You'll get
thrown into jail.' He was never afraid of the people who wanted to
suppress my book. You see, my book tells all about..."

Heather tuned out Theresa's ramblings about her book. Theresa Dobson
was a woman usually to be found in Central Park. Dressed in a red
beret and baggy jacket, she would sit at one of the little stone
tables and wait for a fellow chess-player. Today, her opponent was
Heather. The younger woman sat in receptive silence, occasionally
moving a piece and waiting for an opportunity to ask a question.

"...can't get a publisher in this country to read it. People are just
so close-minded nowadays. Except for Orb. Such a nice young man..."

"Have you seen him lately?"

"Hm? Who?"

"Orb. Have you seen him?"

"Uh, no, I haven't."

"You have any idea where he might be?"

Theresa's eyes -- dreamy yet observant -- examined Heather. Then
Theresa leaned forward and whispered, "Orb told me about a place...a
secret place. He said that he went there wherever he felt too confused
by life."

"And where is that?"

With an unsmiling face, Theresa said, "I'll tell you when the game is
over. And you better play for real."

Heather fought an urge to sweep the pieces off the table and strangle
Theresa. She managed to do so, barely. "All right," she said.

Theresa nodded, then said, "Now, back to Allah..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy and Ralph did find Ollie Vaughn. It was at a homeless shelter
where he was known to stay. They met one of the workers there -- one
Jake Isham. They asked him if he had seen Ollie.

"Yeah, I know where he is," Isham said grimly. "This way."

He led them to a back room. A cot had been arranged among the cleaning
equipment. Stretched over the cot was Ollie Vaughn. His eyes were
open, but his body was motionless.

"What the hell happened to him?" Cindy wanted to know.

"We already had a doctor look at him," Isham said. "And he's just
scratching his fucking head over it."

Ralph leaned closer to Ollie's face. Then he suddenly jerked his head
back. "His eyes..." he whispered.

"What is it?" Cindy asked.

"They're...black."

Cindy took a look herself. It wasn't quite true that Ollie's eyes were
black. To be precise,  they were extremely bloodshot and the veins in
the eyeballs were black instead of red.

"Great," she muttered. "More weird shit."

"And nowhere closer to an answer," Ralph added.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Step into the realm
"You're bound to get caught
"And from this worldly life
"You'll so depart..."

The song could be heard by Heather Cobb as she passed a grate. The
grate was over her head. Through the metal slats, she could also hear
footsteps and the hum of engines along with loud radios.

She had gone underground. It hadn't been too difficult to slip past
the initial ring of subway guards and construction workers. The hard
part was being in this labyrinth of tunnels networked under the city.
She had brought a flashlight and Theresa Dobson's instructions had
been surprisingly precise, but still...

It was dark and it was dirty. The light falling through grates and
beaming from her flashlight only emphasized the larger blackness. When
her flashlight glanced over the stone wall, she saw the usual
scratched obscenities and dated signatures. However, there were also
words she had never seen before. Symbols had been written in white
chalk, adding up to a message she couldn't comprehend.

This is definitely Orb's kind of place, she decided. It was easy to
see him excavating this underworld for its knowledge. He had
undoubtedly spent hours trying to understand these words and symbols.
This kind of arcane data was his specialty, his expertise, his private
domain.

It had been so private that she had been unable to understand it. And
she never would. He had said so on the day he had left her. "Only
those with a special mind can go where I'm going. And, to be honest,
Heather...you just don't have that kind of mind. You won't be able to
keep up."

Well, Orb, here I am now, she thought. Right behind you. I shouldn't
be here. I should just leave you to wallow in your own shit. I should
turn around and forget your name.

She went on. Occasionally, she would have to scrape a candy wrapper or
a wet condom from her shoe. Her ears became accustomed to the
scurrying of rats. She followed Dobson's directions until she turned a
corner and found herself in a tunnel with no grates to the outside.
Her flashlight revealed rusty iron girders to her left and a line of
alcoves to her right.

One of those alcoves had a light of its own. Music was playing from
it. Against a backdrop of violins, a voice sang low enough to almost
be a buzz.

"Gonna see the river man...gonna tell him all I can..."

She took a deep breath, then she walked towards the alcove. Inside the
alcove, a record player was providing the music. Light came from a
kerosene lamp. On the walls was the same symbol scratched over and
over again -- a circle with a maze pattern inside.

Orb was pressed into a corner. He was holding up a trade paperback and
reading it. His expression suggested a man asleep.

"'And we do not manipulate them,'" he said out-loud. "'If anything,
they manipulate us. We are their toys. Their dolls, if you will.'"

Heather said, "You know...I never could see what you liked in that
comic book."

Orb slowly looked up. He smiled. "I never held it against you."

"Yes, you did."

Orb thought about it, then nodded. "Yes. I did. I'm sorry."

"Maybe we're beyond the point of apology, Orb."

"I think...we're beyond a lot of things now."

The trade paperback slipped from Orb's hands. Heather could now see
his chest. Orb had unbuttoned his candy-stripped shirt to reveal a
huge lesion extending from his neck to his stomach. It was as thick as
a rope and darker than his skin.

Heather almost dropped her flashlight. "Jesus Christ," she whispered
as she climbed into the alcove. "What the fuck did you do to
yourself?"

"I did it...for Ralph..."

Heather was at Orb's side, touching his cold cheek. "You did this for
Ralph?"

Orb nodded. "And for you."

As Heather struggled for words, he added, "It was...a chance to
get...great power. I wanted it...for you...and Ralph. You, my lover.
And Ralph, my...steadfast friend." He smiled. "I owed you especially.
For the...hurt I caused you."

"So you hurt yourself?"

"I never...intended for it...to be this bad."

"But what did you do?"

Orb slumped until his head was pressed against Heather's shoulder.
"Something... irreversible," he mumbled. "I think."

Heather felt a strong urge to leave. She wanted to push Orb away and
leave him to his pain. This was another trap which had to be avoided.
Her life with Orb had to end right there.

Instead, she laid her hand on the back of his neck. "It's okay," she
said. "You'll be fine. I'll take care of you."

"Actually, that will be my job."

Heather spun towards the voice with a funny accent. She saw a
bespectacled woman with long blonde hair. There was no flashlight in
her hand, but she seemed to have no trouble seeing in the tunnel. "You
leave now, young lady," she said quietly. "Leave and don't look back."

Orb began to mutter strange words. Whatever he was trying to do,
Heather wasn't waiting. She could tell this German broad meant
trouble. She lashed out with her leg and kicked the woman right in the
face.

Miss Grawitz didn't appear the least bit fazed by the kick. Instead,
she grabbed Heather by the ankle and yanked her from the alcove. Orb
slumped against the alcove's wall. Heather was sent rolling across the
dirty ground.

Miss Grawitz turned back to Orb. "Kaday...cuvigu..." he said in a weak
voice.

"No, little man," she replied. "Your spells will not work on me. Not
in your state." She reached for Orb.

Then Miss Grawitz heard Heather charging back at the alcove. Miss
Grawitz turned and got a punch in the gut. Heather then unloaded an
uppercut to her jaw.

Again, the blows had no affect on the German woman. Not even her
glasses were knocked off. However, when she gave a back-handed slap to
Heather, the latter woman was sent reeling to the ground. Then Miss
Grawitz reached back into the alcove and picked up Orb as if he was a
puppy. She took a few steps towards the tunnel's entrance when she
heard --

"Put him down, bitch."

Miss Grawitz stopped, remained motionless for a few seconds, then
sighed. She placed Orb on the ground and turned around. She saw
Heather standing in the light of the kerosene lamp. Heather was
favoring one leg, but her face was even more defiant than before.

"I'm going to have to kill you, aren't I?" Miss Grawitz observed.

Apparently so. It wasn't just the rushing blood in her head which
fueled Heather's anger. She had now realized just how much she cared
for Orb, despite everything he had done. Nothing was going to make her
back down.

Unfortunately, mere will was not enough. Miss Grawitz strode up to
her, batted aside a punch, and grabbed Heather by the neck. As the
pressure increased on her veins, Heather saw a darkness not belonging
to the tunnel.

Then she saw light -- brilliant, white light which wiped out every
shadow in the tunnel.

Miss Grawitz dropped Heather and spun towards the light's source. From
her lopsided angle on the ground, Heather could see the light emitting
from the hand of a man standing at the tunnel's far end. The light's
intensity rendered him nothing more than a dim outline to her eyes.

It did more than that to Miss Grawitz. She held her hands against the
light and screamed. As if she was a scarecrow in a hurricane, pieces
of herself tore off. There was no blood. The shorn pieces merely
dissolved in the light until Miss Grawitz was no more.

The light vanished, bringing back the tunnel's original darkness.
Heather still remained incapable of standing up. She could vaguely
discern the man as he walked up to Orb. The man bent over Orb,
examined him, and shook his head.

Then he walked up to Heather. She could now see a black man in his
mid-fifties.

"You all right, girl?" he asked.

"I'm...okay," she managed to say. "Who are you?"

Dennis Bustamente said, "Someone with too much of a goddamn
conscience."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (15 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIFTEEN
WITH BARE HANDS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Something was going wrong. The Salesman could feel it. A madness was
bubbling in the city's cauldron and threatening to spill over. He had
voiced his fears to Edmund Frost, but that goddamned pedophile just
scoffed.

"This city has always been insane. Delightfully insane."

"Listen to me, you fucking dilettante. This is different. Something
has gotten loose..."

"Then you go out and cage it. That's your job, isn't it? Or should I
tell the Jeevatek you can't handle your responsibilities?"

When The Salesman made no reply, Frost said, "Now this has all been
very boring, but I must be going. I have an orgy to plan!"

The Salesman cursed Frost as he drove through the streets of New York
City. He was back to locating Whiteknife's allies with the
increasingly unwilling aid of Pete McGovern. In the beginning, The
Salesman had believed that Whiteknife represented the sole problem. He
now sensed a new problem. When he saw a Hassidic Jew tearing hair from
his beard in public or all four tires suddenly explode on a taxi or
blood on the window of a pizza parlor, he interpreted them as signs of
something else besides the influence of Whiteknife or the Jeevatek.

But what was it?

"I can't do this anymore," Pete complained.

"Shut up."

"No, I just can't do it..."

"Shut the fuck up."

"You can't treat me like this! I'm an American!"

"Fuck you and fuck America!"

"America is the greatest country in the world! America is founded on
the belief that we are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness! Americans love freedom and love their nation..."

The Salesman stared at Pete. The ex-construction worker was writhing
in his seat, rolling his eyes, and babbling about his county. *He's
burning out*, The Salesman thought. *I should toss his ass into the
gutter. I still need him, though. I have to keep looking for
Whiteknife's people. Maybe they're the real problem after all. Maybe
once they're gone, all this shit will go away.*

"Stand up, America! Stand up and fight for what's right!"

"Yeah," The Salesman muttered. "Stand up so I can take your damn head
off."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy and Ralph gave up their search for Orb around five o'clock.
However, when they returned to Ralph's apartment, they found Orb
waiting for them. They also found Heather and an elderly black man.

"All right, I'll bite," Ralph said. "Who the hell are you?"

"The name is Dennis Bustamente. And speak kindly to your elders, young
man, especially when they are helping you out against their better
judgment."

Ralph looked sideways at Heather. "It's true," she said. "He is
helping."

"How did you get those?" Cindy asked, pointing at the fresh bruises on
Heather's neck and face.

"Don't worry about me. Worry about him." She indicated Orb whose
unconscious body was lying on the sofa. Ralph walked up to him, then
halted upon seeing the lesion. "God...damn," he said. "What's happened
to him?"

"Something he did to himself," Bustamente said. "The idiot."

"You're acting an awful lot like the only person who understands
what's going on," Cindy observed.

"Because I am that person."

"All right. Explain it to me."

Naturally, just as Bustamente was about to speak, someone knocked on
the front door. Ralph walked up to the door and said, "Who is it?"

"Agent Doggett, FBI."

Cindy jerked her head towards the door. "John?"

"You know this guy?" Ralph asked Cindy.

"Yeah, let him in."

Ralph opened the door to reveal someone with a strange, grim
expression on his face. Doggett walked past Ralph and straight towards
Cindy.

"John, I don't know what you're doing here, but I hope you're more
willing to listen to me."

Doggett pulled out his gun and pressed it against Cindy's face.

There was a long moment of silence before Ralph said --

"Guess he ain't."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"God bless America! God bless her fruitful plains! God bless her
hard-working people who raise their families with love and care!"

The Salesman was seriously considering horrible things to do to Pete
when the ex-construction worker's raving stopped. "What is it?" he
asked.

Pete was staring at a small church.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After relieving Cindy of her gun, Doggett said, "Everybody against the
wall."

"What is this shit, John?" Cindy hissed.

"Everybody against the wall. Now."

"Do something!" Heather ordered Bustamente.

"I can't," he said, his eyes studying Doggett. "This man is not acting
on his own. I can't risk harming him."

"I don't know what you're talking about, old man," Doggett said. "But
if you try anything, I'll shoot you where you stand."

"Yes, well...that's my other reason for staying put."

"This is the last time I'm going to say this," Doggett declared.
"Everybody...against the wall."

The others finally did as told. "John," Cindy said in a low voice. "I
swear I'm going to beat you..."

Doggett shoved her in the back and flattened her against the wall.
"Shut up. I don't have to take any shit from a crooked cop."

"Agent Doggett, listen to me," Bustamente said. "You are under the
influence of a powerful mystic force. You're not thinking..."

"Close your fucking mouth. Everybody." Doggett turned to the prone
figure on the couch. For a brief moment, he appeared dizzy. Then he
shook himself and declared, "I'm taking this young man in for
questioning."

"The hell you are," Heather snarled.

"You're being controlled!" Bustamente insisted. "Someone is using you
to take..."

"NOT ONE MORE GODDAMNED WORD!" Doggett yelled. "ANYBODY
WHO SPEAKS GETS A BULLET IN THEIR FUCKING HEAD!"

"Does that include me?"

Doggett turned to the door. Agent Dana Scully was standing there. He
pointed his gun at her.

Scully looked at the gun and said, "Deja fucking vu."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Goooo tell it on the Moooouu-taiiinnn..."

Reverend Dean Landau was leading his congregation in a hymn. On this
night, his congregation was made up of homeless people who were there
for the food offered at service's end. As usual, they were wondering
how many fucking hymns they would have to sing before they got to the
grub.

Landau had other concerns besides his congregation's hunger.
Whiteknife had told him to proceed with his usual schedule. "I have a
special plan for you," the ancient mystic had said.

"What is that?"

"You'll know it when you see it."

Landau's doubts were resurfacing. Just what was Whiteknife planning?
And what did the Lord really think of the Reverend for associating
with...

The door to the church was kicked in. A man in a rumpled suit stood in
the doorway.

"Get out," he told the homeless people. That's just what they did and
quickly, too. They knew trouble when they saw it. After they had gone,
The Salesman closed the doors behind him and said, "I'm a man with a
lot of anxiety right now, Reverend. You're going to feel all of it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What the hell are you doing here?" Doggett spat at Scully.

"You're my partner," she said, taking that first cautious step into
the apartment. "Where else should I be except with you?"

"Some partner. You ran back to D.C."

"That was a mistake. But not as big as the one you're making."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Really?" Scully took another step closer to Doggett. She could see
the black hole of his gun barrel. A voice yelled in the back of her
head about her child. She ignored it.

"Tell me -- how did you get here?"

Confusion tinged Doggett's face. "I...I followed Officer
Wildenstein..."

"And why did you do that?"

"Because she's a bad cop. Because she's in with Ryder..."

"No. You're being used."

The uncertainty Doggett felt was swamped in another wave of anger.
"Everybody keeps saying that! I'm not being used! I know..."

"Listen...something was done to you. Something was done to me, too. It
has increased our fears and doubts. But you know better. You know who
you can trust."

Doggett aimed his gun at Scully's forehead. "Not you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Landau held up a crucifix. "Oh, Lord, protect me from evil. Protect me
from the demon which..."

The Salesman slapped the crucifix from the preacher's hand. "Get that
weak-ass shit out of my face! What do you think I am, a fucking
vampire?"

The Salesman grabbed Landau by the shirt. "You are one doomed
son-of-a-bitch."

Then the eyes of Reverend Landau turned a sharp red. "Yes," he said in
a voice not his own. "But so are you."

Both Landau and the Salesman were surprised. They were also surprised
when a pair of hands reached out of Landau's mouth.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I could have shot you when your back was turned," Scully told
Doggett, getting closer to him. "What makes you think you can't trust
me?"

Doggett's eyes were fixed on the calm expression of Dana Scully.
Looking over their shoulders, the others in the room watched this
scene and sweated.

"You don't know why, do you?" Scully observed. "You've been watching
yourself hold a gun on a woman you once loved...whom you still love, I
daresay...and you don't understand any of it."

"No," Doggett whispered. "Cindy betrayed me. I saw..."

"You saw what they wanted you to see. Think about it. Think about
Cindy. Do you really believe she could be in league with Ryder?"

Doggett slowly turned his head in Cindy's direction. She looked back
at him with sad eyes.

The gun in his hand trembled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sensation was akin to vomiting, but only much more intense.
Instead of regurgitated food, two cloaked arms were emerging from
Landau's insides. Then the process went into reverse as the arms
grabbed The Salesman by the throat, pulled him into Landau's mouth and
dragged him into the new depths of the preacher's body. As his
internal organs and bones were mashed against his skin, Reverend
Landau realized a certain fact. He wasn't dying because he had used
pagan magic or because the Lord was condemning him.

He was dying because he had been a damn idiot.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What you're doing doesn't make any sense. Don't you see that?"

Doggett looked back to Scully. "I...I guess."

"So put the gun down. And let's start making sense."

Doggett kept his arm raised, but it hovered uncertainly as if it was a
feather in the wind. Scully gazed upon him with the kindest, most
understanding expression he had ever seen.

Slowly, the arm descended. Doggett now had the disoriented appearance
of a man with a bad case of sunstroke.

"Good," Scully said. "Very good."

Then she balled up her hand and struck Doggett in the chin. He
collapsed to the floor. As Cindy rushed to his side and removed the
gun from his hand, she said, "Nice punch."

Through grinding teeth, Scully said, "Yeah, well, if it was so nice,
why did I just break two of my fingers?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (16 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIXTEEN
SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND LISTEN

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The madness was spreading. Fewer people were riding on the subways.
More private security was visible on the wealthier streets. Everybody
who had a gun was keeping it within reach. In a situation like this,
Edmund Frost had one catch-all approach -- throw a party.

Before the party, however, he had to see the Jeevatek. They had news
for him.

"Miss Grawitz is dead. So is The Salesman."

"Hm," Frost said, lighting up a cigarette. "Really?"

"That leaves only you."

"You don't say."

"Does this not concern you?"

"Oh, sweet fuck, no. My security is too good to leave me vulnerable."

"Very well. Let's move on to the question of the Heart..."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing."

"Excuse me?"

"We shall handle this problem ourselves."

Frost stared at the pipes surrounding himself. "Uh...are you sure you
want to do that?"

"Quite sure. You may leave now, Mister Frost. Go to your party and
enjoy yourself."

Frost wasn't sure if he could do that now. The whole point of his
efforts and the Salesman's efforts and Miss Grawitz's efforts was to
make sure the Jeevatek did *not* become directly involved. Of course,
if the Jeevatek were becoming involved, then that might mean the
situation was coming to an end.

Or was about to enter a new and dangerous level.

Whatever concerns he might have had were forgotten upon returning to
his two-story penthouse. Marcia Arbenz was waiting for him in the
midst of the plush furniture, gilded lamps, and pissing bronze
cherubs. "Oh, my sweet little curacha!" he sang. "What goodies have
you brought me?"

She led him to another of the penthouse's enormous rooms. Ten
prostitutes -- five male, five female, all in their early twenties --
were waiting for inspection.

"Lovely," Frost cooed as he pinched one prostitute on his cheek. "It
looks very promising. You did give them the speech, right?"

"Of course. Everyone of them knows that there will be certain people
in attendance tonight. Certain people who are famous for other things,
but who don't want to be famous for being here."

"And if anyone of you darlings tattle-tale, you'll be in so much
horrible pain. Correct?"

The prostitutes nodded.

"Very promising, senorita. This might be an evening I'll never forget
and I've forgotten quite a few."

"Oh, you won't forget this," Arbenz assured him. "You'll remember it
for the rest of your life."

"Splendid! Now, let's look at the drug supply..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lieutenant Ed Cavanaugh felt beat. This has been a long day for him --
all kinds of craziness, big and small. Strange deaths had occurred. A
cab driver had sucked gas out of his cab's engine until he had turned
green and bloated. A dealer in bootleg records was discovered with his
brain missing, but with no incisions made in his head. Two gay lovers
died in each other's arms, a strange slime welding their two bodies
together.

Then there was the general mood of the force. Patrolmen and detectives
were joined in their anger over Officer Thompson's death. They wanted
someone to pay, preferably in big chunks of his or her ass.

On top of all that, John Doggett had gone nuts. Cavanaugh had always
admired Doggett and envied his courage. The police lieutenant knew he
himself came up short in integrity when compared to his former
partner. When confronted with the ugly face of internal politics,
Cavanaugh had backed down. He hated himself for it, but he was now
wondering if he was witnessing the price for Doggett's integrity.
Doggett had become spiteful, paranoid, angry at even Cindy. Is this
what happens if you stick your neck out? Cavanaugh wondered.

He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to sit in his living
room, drink a beer, and forget all about work. He tried watching t.v.,
but he stopped upon hearing a story about a priest who was discovered
with his internal organs crushed inside his body. Cavanaugh pressed
the cold bottle of beer against his head and prayed for the craziness
to stop.

At first, he ignored the doorbell. However, when he heard John Doggett
say "Ed, it's me," he had to answer the door.

He put down his beer, stood up, walked to the front door of his
apartment, and opened it.

With his rings gleaming, Milton Ryder stood at his doorway.

Cavanaugh stuttered. "Milton...but..."

"It's a trick I learned," Ryder explained as he strode forward into
the apartment. Cavanaugh backed up.

"What do you mean, a trick?"

"Maybe I'll teach it to you. I could teach you a lot of things."

Cavanaugh shook his head to clear away the fuzziness. "What do you
want?"

Ryder closed the door. "I've got a proposition for you."

Cavanaugh felt as cold as the beer he had been drinking. "No, Milton.
I don't...I don't work with people like you."

"I think you'll want to. So would the boys on the force. Especially
now."

"And why now?"

Ryder snorted. "Oh, come on, Ed! This city is set to blow its shit sky
high. If you and the force expect to survive, you're gonna need help.
That's where my people can assist."

"You mean, Golden Chair Protection?"

"We can link up. Get out there on the street with you. If anybody
messes with the police, they'll have Golden Chair to deal with as
well. We can be the biggest bad-asses in the city."

"So...you watch my back and I'll watch yours?"

"Oh, more than that, Ed." Ryder smiled. "We can take the offensive. We
can send out a message. Get our own back for Thompson. We can let
everybody -- *everybody* -- know who's in charge of this city."

"In other words, get them before they get us."

"It's a war out there. I say, we go out there and fight it. Don't you
agree?"

Cavanaugh made no answer.

"Do you agree or not?"

Cavanaugh took a long breath, then said, "No, I don't agree. In fact,
I don't want to have anything to do with this."

Ryder's smile slowly faded away. "Are you sure about that?"

"Protect and serve. That's the motto. Not ambush and conquer. What's
more -- you're a bad man, Milton. I should have said so years ago..."

"Yeah, maybe you should have. But people like you...well, you have to
be pressed into a corner before you really stand by your values."
Ryder shrugged. "I kind of figured you would say no."

"Then there's nothing more to say."

"You're absolutely right."

Ryder opened the door. Instead of leaving, though, he stepped aside
and said, "Get him."

Two men rushed through the door and quickly subdued Cavanaugh. They
tied rope around his wrists and stuffed a gag in his mouth.

Without looking at Cavanaugh, Ryder closed the door. He reached into
his pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife. When he finally looked
at Cavanaugh, his eyes could have been made of glass for all the
emotion they showed.

Outside, the sun was red and bloated, preparing to exit the sky.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first person John Doggett saw upon waking up was Agent Scully. She
looked into his hazy eyes and said, "Another familiar situation for
me."

"You hit me," Doggett muttered to her from a bed.

"I once shot Mulder. Consider yourself lucky."

Doggett touched his jaw. "And you knocked me out. You can't be that
strong."

Scully held up a hand. The two fingers in the middle were wrapped and
bandaged together. "Well, I paid for it. But you're right. It wasn't
so much I was strong enough, but you were in a weakened state."

"Hm. In that case, I'm glad you did it and not Cindy. She could have
killed..." Doggett's mouth slackened. "Oh, God, what did I do?"

"It looks like the spell has worn off."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

Scully looked Doggett straight in the eye and said, "A spell was
placed on us both. It turned our fears against us. In your case, your
suspicion about Cindy."

Doggett covered his face. "Oh, Christ..."

"It's over now. You're in control again."

Doggett laid still with a covered face for a long time. Then he
removed his hands and said, "I came here for that...that kid..."

"Orb."

"I don't know why. I don't even know where I was taking him."

"This might be the answer to those questions." Scully held up a ring.

"That's Price's ring."

"You were holding onto it. Mister Bustamente says..."

"Who?"

"Hm. Maybe I should let him explain things." Scully went to the door
of the bedroom where Doggett was resting. "Mister Bustamente? Doggett
is awake."

Dennis Bustamente entered the room. "Well, Agent Doggett," he said.
"you understand what's been happening to you?"

"Not really, no."

"Well, from what Scully has told me, you're aware of the war occurring
in this city."

"I've been...told about it."

"It seems that you have been the victim of both sides. First, one side
put a Spell of Delusion upon you. Then the other side used you as a
tracking hound."

"What?"

"When you were under that spell, your doubt was heightened into
paranoia. You found your way to the other side, they saw what happened
to you, then twisted you to their own purposes. And that purpose was
to find the Heart of Power."

"All right. I'm lost again. No, I mean, I'm still lost. What the hell
is the Heart of Power?"

Bustamente sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "As I said before,
there is a war happening in this city. The opponents are mystics --
magicians and wizards. One way to win this war is to get the right
weapon. The Heart of Power can be such a weapon."

Doggett looked at Scully. Her face was calm and unflappable. He turned
back to Bustamente. "And this thing, it's what? A magic talisman?"

"That's exactly what it is. Only it's not magical in of itself."

"I'm lost, Mister Bustamente. Way lost."

"It has no real power of its own. But it can attract power. Pull it in
like a magnet. If you were to possess this item, you could draw all of
the mystical forces in this city to yourself and that includes the
power of your enemy. Nobody could do a magic trick without you knowing
about it."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Because I used to own it."

Doggett paused, then said, "You don't say."

"I bought it off...an associate of mine. He didn't really understand
the Heart's potential. I did."

"Have you tried to use it yourself?"

"Hell, no! I could never handle that level of power."

"Then why did you buy it?"

"To make sure my sorry-ass associate didn't have it anymore. To make
sure no one had it." Bustamente shook his head. "I should have gotten
rid of it. Buried it. Try to destroy it. Or something."

"What did you do instead?"

"I...sold it. To that crazy young bastard outside. I have no excuse to
make. I was scared at the time. I had already known something was
brewing, but I hoped it would blow over. When I met that punk, I knew
the war was in full-swing."

"What do you mean?"

"I knew what was up just by looking at him. He was going to sell the
Heart to the highest bidder. Try to play both sides."

"And so you gave it to him."

"If he knew I had it, then the big boys would be on my ass soon. I
thought -- pass it on. Get out of town and let the crazy young bastard
take the shit."

"But you came back."

"Yeah, well...what can I say? I couldn't escape the smell of my own
shit. I returned and tracked Orb down. Luckily, I had possessed the
Heart long enough to sense its presence. I got to him just in time.
Saved his ass and his girlfriend's. Took him back here. Then *your*
girlfriend and some other young fella -- "

Doggett was about to protest Bustamente's usage of the word
'girlfriend,' but decided not to do so.

" -- showed up. Then *you* showed up with a gun. Then *she* showed
up -- " He indicated Scully " -- to clobber your ass. So here we all
are. This place must be Grand fucking Station."

Doggett pulled himself up to a sitting position. He exhaled a long
sigh.

"Any of this getting through, son?" Bustamente said.

"I think I've gotten the gist of it. This guy has something everybody
wants."

"Right."

"Are you going to take it away from him?"

"I wish it was that easy. But this crazy young bastard is even crazier
than I thought. Come into the other room and I'll show you. Can you
get up?"

Doggett nodded, placed both feet on the floor, and stood up in one
smooth movement. He followed the street vendor along with Scully.

The first person he noticed in the living room was Cindy. "You okay
now, John?" she asked quietly.

"I'm fine," he said. "Are you?"

She nodded. Doggett looked into her green eyes for one more moment,
then turned away. He saw Heather sitting by the couch. She was holding
Orb's hand. Ralph was standing near the couch with his arms folded
over his chest.

Then Doggett saw the lesion on Orb's chest. "What the hell is that?"

"Funny you should mention it..." Bustamente started to say, then
everybody heard a gasp and turned.

Mrs. Nichols stood in the doorway, just returned from her dishwasher
job. She said, "Who are you people and what are you doing in my
apartment?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The walls and floors were their pathways through the city. They moved
in forms as insubstantial as air. However, their effects were hard and
measurable. They had spent the last two decades strengthening the
darkness of the city's heart -- strengthening, but not creating. Fear
and bigotry and greed had existed in large quantities before they had
arrived. However, their efforts had solidified the hold of the
darkness and cemented their own control with it.

One thing they had never done was act on their own. They had used
human proxies, some of whom had been dupes and others willing
servants. If they had struck a direct blow, they could have risked
exposing themselves. It could have also meant endangering their own
possessions. They had lost much in such direct combat with Whiteknife
over the millennia. Whole cities had been incinerated when the
Jeevatek and Whiteknife had locked hands.

However, they had to make a move. The Heart of Power was too grand of
a prize to miss. That's why they sailed through the pipes until they
tracked down the last known location of Miss Grawitz. They sniffed a
tunnel for her presence. They caught her scent as well as the scent of
their desired object. It would take time to find the right trail, but
the Jeevatek would not be thwarted. Orb would be theirs. The Heart
would be theirs. The city would be theirs.

The city and all of its darkness.

A darkness which they had grievously underestimated.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The conversation Ralph Nichols had with his mother perhaps does not
have to be transcribed. The main thing to be known was that he had
convinced her to stay with a friend for the time being. After she had
reluctantly left, Ralph turned to the others and said, "Now what do we
do?"

"We have to remove the Heart from Orb's body," Bustamente said.

"But you said..." Heather started to stay before Doggett interrupted.

"Excuse me? It's in his body?"

"Connected to his own heart," Bustamente explained. "His own
life-force and the Heart's power are intertwined. It was his guarantee
that it wouldn't be stolen from him."

"That's what you said before," Heather snapped. "You also said that if
it's removed, Orb will die."

"He *may* die," Bustamente corrected. "However, there is a way of
removing it without killing him. Possibly."

"Don't tell me 'possibly,' old man. Not with Orb's life at stake."

"Heather," Ralph said quietly. "he's dying anyway."

Heather turned to the man lying on the sofa. She looked at his sweaty
skin, felt his cold touch, listened to his muted breathing, smelled
the decay.

"Christ," she whispered.

"Okay," Bustamente said. "I'll need everybody's help..."

"You won't have mine," Doggett said.

The others regarded Doggett with shock and irritation. "Agent
Doggett," Scully said, trying to keep her voice level. "I know it's
hard to understand what's going on, but we have to help Mister
Bustamente do..."

"You're right. I don't understand it. But I'm not saying Bustamente
here is doing the wrong thing."

"What are you saying?"

"Agent Scully, this is your territory. Or you seem more ready for this
 than I am. I feel...kind of helpless. But here's something I do
understand. This city is about to have one long night. Am I right?"

"You're right," Bustamente said. "The psychic effects of this war are
becoming very bloody. I felt it the moment I got back to town."

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that, but I've been feeling the same
thing. Now I could stay here and help you. Or I could go outside and
help the people who are going to get hurt." He pointed at the window.
"That's *my* territory out there. I know these streets. Frankly, I
think I could do a lot more good out there than here."

Bustamente considered this, then nodded. "You're right. I don't think
we'll need your help, anyway."

"What about mine?" Cindy asked.

Doggett looked at Cindy. Her face gave very little away.

"Hmmm. No. No, I think it'll be all right for you to leave."

"Are you two ready?" Scully asked.

"I think we are," Cindy said, then turned to Doggett. "I think we
should go now."

"Yes," he said. "Let's go."

They headed for the door. "Good luck out there," Scully said.

"Good luck in here," Doggett replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Jeevatek traveled through the walls. Whiteknife moved through the
open air. He brushed past humans as an invisible presence, giving
those with sensitive natures a brief chill.

Doggett was no longer under his control. Whiteknife had sensed a tear
in the connection. It didn't matter, though. There was a trail to
follow -- one which could lead him to the Heart.

On the way there, Whiteknife passed a man kneeling on all fours in the
street. Blood rained from his mouth to the dirty pavement. Something
about the man gave Whiteknife a moment of doubt. There had been traces
of an unusual influence on the bloody man. Once again, Whiteknife
wondered if his war with the Jeevatek was having an effect
unanticipated by both sides. Once again, he ignored his own doubts.

Dumb bastard.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It took some time before Cindy and Doggett made it to the police
department. More than one speeding car almost ran them over. More than
one person threw heavy objects at them from a window. More than one
street had to be avoided because it had been barricaded. Eventually,
they did arrive at Ed Cavanaugh's district headquarters.

Instead of finding Cavanaugh in charge, though, they found Milton
Ryder. The Golden Chair representative was holding court in the main
squad room. Detectives and police officers were gathered around him.
He was addressing them and they were nodding at what he was saying.

"I say, if they fuck with you, fuck them up twice. It's time we stop
taking shit and start dealing...well, hey there, John."

"What are you doing here, Milton?"

"Well, that idea you had -- you know, the one about the police and
Golden Chair working together? I realized that it was a great..." Then
Ryder noticed Cindy standing next to Doggett. He also noticed that she
was looking at him in the same way as Doggett.

"Cindy," he said.

"That's Officer Wildenstein to you," she replied.

Ryder stared at Cindy, then shook his head. "You know, I had always
hoped you would understand me."

"I do understand. That's the problem."

Doggett said, "What I want to understand is what you're doing here."

"He's talking sense," Detective Kahn said.

"Is that so? Sounds like he's talking the same self-serving bullshit
he's always talked."

"No, John," Detective Monroe said. "What he's telling us is that we
have to take control again. Or else this city is going down and taking
us with it. Two of us have fallen already."

"Two?"

"Ed Cavanaugh's dead," Ryder informed Doggett, keeping a solemn
expression on his face. "The bastards cut him down in his own
apartment."

Doggett started to feel dizzy. He couldn't find the words needed to be
spoken. For the first time, he felt powerless before Milton Ryder.

He turned to Cindy. Without speaking out-loud, they had a quick
conversation.

I don't know what to do, he said.

Yes, you do, she said. Right now, you're just about the only person
who does.

He slowly nodded, then spoke to everybody in the room. "Things ended
badly between me and Ed. I even hated him for awhile. Everybody keeps
looking at me as if I'm the traitor. But Ed was the one who betrayed
me...he turned his back away from the truth just because he was afraid
to face it." Doggett paused. "I'm gonna find out who killed him,
though. I'll put the bastards away personally."

"That's just what I'm talking about..." Ryder started to say.

"No. You're trying to tell us who the bastards are, but not on the
basis of the truth. I don't know who killed Ed yet. Until then, I'm
not going to treat certain people as the enemy just because I'm pissed
off."

"Whatever," Monroe said. "But we are beyond the point of simple
investigation. It's now us versus them."

"Who is 'them?'"

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me. Who is this 'them' people keep talking about? For that
matter, who is 'us?' Didn't I used to be one of 'us?'"

"You used to be. Until you..."

"Until I what? Until I put three cops away for doing something I would
never do? Or you would do?"

"That's not the point..."

"No, that *is* the fucking point." Doggett aimed his finger at Ryder.
"When are you going to stop treating this guy like he's the victim? He
got busted for doing wrong. For being a coward."

"Don't forget about Goyette and Hall," Ryder said in a low voice.

"Screw them."

Doggett's words caused a ripple of malice through the room. "That's
right," he said. "Screw them. Did they think they would be above the
law? Do any of you think you're above the law?"

"So you would do the same thing to me?" Kahn asked.

Doggett walked right up to Kahn and said, "I would. Because I have
principles, even though I'm being treated like I have none. You know
what, though? I wouldn't have to. Because you wouldn't have been
involved in the same shit. Right?"

Kahn and Doggett looked straight into each other's eyes.

Kahn was the first to look away. Doggett turned to the rest of the
people. "You know where I stand. And you know I'm willing to die for
my beliefs. But, Ryder over there...well, you know where he stands.
Wherever the hell suits him."

"I'm a friend to these people," Ryder snapped. "You're not."

Doggett laughed.

"What's so goddamn funny?"

"I think you actually believe that, Milton. Sort of. You think that by
fucking everything a cop should stand for, you're actually helping
them."

"And what should we stand for, John?" Monroe asked quietly.

"We stand for everybody. If somebody gets hurt, we help them. If a
crime is committed, we catch whoever did it. This city is not ours to
own. It's ours to protect and we protect it to our very last breath."

"Well, that's what I believe, too. But what happens if you don't get
respect for that? What happens if the people turn against you?"

"And just what the hell were you ever expecting?" Doggett smiled.
"Respect? I don't care if any of you schmucks respect me. What I
expect from you is for you to do what's right. Throwing down with
Ryder...that's not right by a long shot."

Doggett surveyed the faces in the room. He could see doubt, guilt,
maybe even a bit of admiration. "What's it going to be, fellas?" he
asked. "Are you going to act like some shithead gang defending their
turf? Or are you going to act like cops?"

He waited for a reply.

Then Kahn said, "Fucking-aye. John's right."

"Yeah," Monroe said. "He is."

The other detectives and the officers nodded in agreement. "I can't
fucking believe this," Ryder declared. "You would turn against one of
your own kind?"

"I would," Cindy said.

Heads turned to the policewoman as she walked up to Ryder. The man's
face reddened as she spoke.

"I was so young when I started out. And scared. But you took me under
your wing, Milton. You showed me how to work the streets and how to
hang tough. I had so much respect for you. That's why I'm glad John
came along." She paused, then said, "I never knew about your
activities. I was that naive. But if you had asked me to join up...and
if I had never met John...I would have."

She turned to Doggett. "That's what bothered you, wasn't it?"

"I guess it was. But it's not a problem anymore."

"Right." Cindy looked back at Ryder. "You're the problem now. And if
you ever get in John's face again, I'll squash you."

Through trembling lips, Ryder said, "You goddamned cunt, I should..."

He balled up his hands. Cindy raised an eyebrow.

Slowly, Ryder unclenched his hands. He saw the amused and contemptuous
expressions around him.

"Fuck all of you," he growled. "I gave you all a chance. Now go to
hell."

After Ryder stomped out of the room, Detective Kahn said, "All right,
John, you've convinced us. Now what do we do?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (17 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Elizabeth got a chance to read this before it was
posted. She pointed out a mistake I missed in the original posted on
my website. Let's just say that I tend to get the names of my
characters mixed up.

In fact, I've seen quite a few mistakes pass me by on the way to
posting. When I first posted "The Seventh Age," I accidentally sent
three parts without spelling corrections. In "Healers and Warriors," a
male character is introduced as a female character, thanks to a
misplaced 's.' And you probably remember the "Calgary/Calvary" mistake
in "Everyday Crucifixions."

One of the nice things about fanfiction, though, is that the readers
tend to be tolerant of such things. Of course, these problems would
probably be avoided if I was more patient and less eager to post. For
better or worse, though, I like to damn the torpodoes and plow ahead.

Speaking of which...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVENTEEN
BACK ON THE STREET

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sky had gone black. Very few stars could be seen and only a sliver
of the moon was visible past the shadow of the earth.

Down below in the city, the population was being divided between those
looking for trouble and those trying to escape it. Among the former
were two groups of people walking in different directions on opposite
sides of the street. One was made up of white skinheads and the other
was comprised of Puerto Ricans gang members.

Who threw the bottle at whom? It was hard to determine later.
Nevertheless, with the crashing of an airborne bottle against a
curbside, a fight exploded in the middle of the street. Boots cracked
ribcages, wires choked necks, knives slashed skin. It was not an
atypical event for New York City, but it served as the unofficial
beginning of Crazy Night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"All right," Bustamente said. "First, Agent Scully, I have to ask
you -- do you have any medical experience?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"Good. Ralph, I need a sharp knife and a monkey wrench."

Ralph stared at Bustamente.

"Get it, boy."

Ralph glanced at Orb, then headed for the kitchen.

"What the hell are you going to do?" Heather said.

"I can make it possible for the Heart to be removed without killing
Orb. But the actual removal needs to be done by someone with medical
skills."

Scully said, "Um, I'm not sure if I can..."

"Don't get queasy on me now."

"I was thinking more about this." Scully held up her broken fingers.

"Oh. Right. Let me see that."

Bustamente gently folded his hand around Scully's busted fingers. He
closed his eyes and spoke words under his breath. Scully felt a
pleasant warmth.

Ralph came back with a steak knife and a monkey wrench. He saw
Bustamente release Scully's hand. She looked at her fingers, wiggled
them, and then removed the bandages. "Well," she said. "Thank you very
much."

"Now that's some hot shit," Ralph observed. "You could go far with
that kind of skill."

"Maybe," Bustamente said. "But I don't need the trouble which comes
with that kind of fame. Magic doesn't make things better. It just
makes them more complicated."

"Ain't it the truth," a voice croaked.

Everybody turned to Orb. With his eyes half-open, he smiled weakly.
"Hello, Heather. Ralph. Mister Bustamente." His eyes stopped on
Scully. "You, I don't know."

"This is Agent Dana Scully," Bustamente explained. "She's going to
help me get the Heart out of your chest."

"Ah." Orb was quiet for several moments, then said, "I made something
of a mistake, didn't I?"

Heather didn't know whether to cry or beat Orb senseless. "You fucking
idiot..." she said in a quavering voice.

"That's me," he said softly. "The fucking idiot."

Heather laid her head against Orb's chest. He rubbed her hair as he
looked at Bustamente. "I'm sorry for involving you in this, sir," he
told the old man.

"This is as much my fault as yours. Unfortunately, you're going to..."

A shot was fired on the street outside. Another shot answered it. This
conversation of metal and fire went on until there was one final shot.
Then there was silence.

"We need to do this," Bustamente said grimly. "As in yesterday."

Orb nodded. He touched Heather on the forehead and eased her off his
chest. "You don't have to be here," he said to her. "You don't have
to..."

"Shut up, Orb. Just shut up."

In an apartment beneath them, a woman screamed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Edmund Frost watched a car burn in the street. As the red light
flashed against glass windows and the shadows of the firestarters
bounced off the buildings, Frost said, "Well, there it goes. Looks
like the natives are restless."

Watching with him was the lead actor of a popular sitcom. "Are you
sure we're safe up here, Mister Frost?" the actor asked.

"Of course I'm sure, my boy! This is the safest place in all of New
York City now!"

"But..."

"Pay it no mind. Here." Frost turned the actor around and the actor's
penis was caught in the mouth of a kneeling prostitute.

"Enjoy yourself," Frost said as the actor moaned. "Everybody enjoy
themselves!"

Except for the coolly professional prostitutes, everybody seemed to be
doing just that. A powerful union leader was indulging in a threesome
on the couch. The lawyer who had successfully defended no less than
nine companies for breaking environmental laws was getting heroin
injected into her buttocks. Technology was represented by the
president of a search engine service who was sticking his tongue into
a man's nostril. Leather slapped against the skin of a Presidential
cabinet member.

These activities were so absorbing that only Frost noticed the
gunshots. He looked outside and was pleased to note that the
car-burners were being dealt with by Golden Chair's finest. Something
is afoot in this city tonight, he thought. But none of it concerns me.
Right now, there's a middle-schooler waiting for me with his arms tied
to a bedpost.

Frost waded through the orgy taking up most of his penthouse. Only
Marcia Arbenz sitting in a corner watched his movements.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Don't bother to wait for calls," Doggett had warned the police. "Just
get out on the streets. You'll find trouble soon enough."

He had been right. There was plenty of business for the police that
night, plenty of trouble to contain. It wasn't just the usual looting
and fighting and shooting. Some of the events which occurred on Crazy
Night were...strange.

A man killed himself by throwing himself through a window. That
wouldn't be odd, except that the man jumped through the third story
window from the *ground*. He died when a piece of glass lodged in his
throat.

The entire crew of a movie production disappeared, never to be seen
again.

A law professor stripped herself to her underwear and began to hunt
students on the campus with a boomerang

All the vehicles on a single street began honking and flashing their
lights at once. This would continue for a half-hour.

The family in one house painted their windows black. Neighbors heard
strange noises. When the police investigated, they found two adults
and two children performing a kind of mass on an altar built from
their living room table. Their own urine served as sacramental wine.

Horses from a children's farm burst from their confines and trampled
anyone in their path.

A baby was hurled from the top of a building. Luckily for the baby, it
landed on someone. Unfortunately for the human landing pad, the baby's
weight broke his neck. The baby crawled on a corpse and looked at this
world with mildly puzzled eyes.

As for Doggett and Cindy...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Where the hell did all this fish come from?"

That was the question asked by Doggett as he and Cindy waded through a
three foot pile of fish. The pile blocked one end of a street and
another pile of fish blocked the other. It was an interesting
question, but another dilemma had to be addressed. In the center of
the street was a movie theater. The patrons had been taken hostage by
a man with a machine gun.

"What are his demands?" Doggett asked a police officer at the scene.

The police officer told him.

"I can't fucking believe this..."

"Let me talk with him," Cindy asked, then headed for the theater.
Doggett grabbed her on the arm.

"You can't just go in..."

"Trust me, John."

He examined her confident face, then let go of her arm.

A very agitated man pointed his machine gun at Cindy as she entered
the theater. "What are you fucking doing here?!" he screamed.

"Whoa, whoa," Cindy said. "I'm on your side."

"Bullshit!"

"No. I am. I hate compact discs, too."

The hostage-taker blinked. "You do?"

"Hell, yeah. I want to get rid of them, too. Bring back vinyl, that's
what I say."

The hostage-taker looked at Cindy closely, then sighed. "I'm glad
somebody understands."

"That's right," Cindy said, moving casually towards the hostage-taker.
She kept her eyes on him and not on the frightened patrons. "The 70's.
That was a time for music. I don't care what anybody says."

"Damn right. It was the age of Led Zeppelin, goddammit."

"Uh-huh. 'Communication Breakdown.'"

"'Kashmir!'"

"'Going to California.'"

"Fucking 'Black Dog!'"

"'Since I've Been Loving You.'"

"Fucking 'Gallows Pole!"

"'Mama Said Knock You Out,'" Cindy said, now inches within the man.

"Huh? That isn't a Led Zeppelin..."

The hostage-taker saw a fist, then blackness. After he was handcuffed
and the hostages released, Cindy asked Doggett, "So where do we go
now?"

Doggett smiled a little at her, then looked around him. He pointed and
said, "That way."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bustamente had completed his ritual with a chant, the lighting of a
few candles, and a circle drawn in front of the couch. He turned to
Scully and said, "Stand in the circle."

She did so. Bustamente handed her the knife and monkey wrench. She
looked at the instruments, then at Orb. His eyes were just barely open
and his chest only moved slightly with his whispered breath.

"And I'm supposed to believe this won't hurt him?"

"Most of it will be painless. Only when the Heart is severed from him
will he feel pain."

"How much?"

"More than you can imagine."

In a corner, Heather sucked in a breath. Bustamente turned to her and
Ralph. "You two don't have to stay for this."

"I think we have to," Ralph said. "I think we have to see this through
to the end." He touched Heather's hand and she held his hand tightly
in return.

Bustamente nodded. "All right, Agent Scully. Get to it."

Scully closed her eyes for many seconds. Then she opened them and
knelt in the circle. With one finger pressed against the handle's top,
she lowered a knife.

The point slipped into the skin.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doggett was feeling something which he had thought would never come
his way again. This city had been separated from him for a long time.
Doubt had plagued him over whether he could take it on again. However,
as he ran up one street after another, a sense of belonging enveloped
him. All the old instincts and knowledge flooded his brain once more.
He understood this city, even in its madness. He knew how to survive
it and even save parts of it.

Of course, it helped to have Cindy at his side. In the midst of
everything going wrong, Doggett had his oasis of rightness. As he and
Cindy journeyed the streets, there didn't seem any problem which they
couldn't handle. No thief, no psychotic, no weirdness couldn't be put
down by them.

For instance, when they ran into a crowd of vigilantes, Doggett knew
just what to do. The number of the crowd was about fifteen. Judging
from their clothing, they were all middle-class professionals --
bankers, lawyers, accountants and what-not. They were all carrying
blunt instruments.

He and Cindy stopped right in front of them. His eyes focused on one
woman in front. She seemed to be the leader. "What are you doing?" he
asked.

"We're taking back the city!" the woman declared.

Doggett shot her in the foot. That stopped the crowd.

"You bastard!" a man shouted. "You shot a woman!"

"It's okay," Doggett said. "I shoot men, too." He demonstrated this by
shooting the man in the foot. As the two wounded people moaned and
bled, Doggett said, "I did this because I've already explained to one
group of people why they were doing the wrong thing. I don't have time
to make a second speech. Now, all of you go back to your homes except
for the ones who will take these two to the hospital."

After the crowd dispersed, Doggett turned to Cindy and said, "Did I do
okay?"

"Yeah. You did okay. So where next?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frost felt unpleasant. He couldn't understand why. The feel of a boy
would normally send him floating on pink clouds of ecstasy. Instead,
his pulse was beating hard in his temples and his arms tingled.

He rolled off the boy who had kept his eyes closed through it all.
Frost sat down on the floor and rubbed his head. What in the name of
Dame Edna is wrong? he thought.

Then he noticed a sole of the boy's foot. Pressed into the skin was a
red, circular...

"Great mother of shit," he cried out, then stumbled to the door. He
found his guests in a similar state. They were all sick and barely
able to move. The prostitutes all looked unaware of the minor epidemic
and continue to fondle their tricks' limp flesh. Frost didn't need to
look at their feet to know what was there.

He turned to the door.

One hand grabbed him by the shoulder. Another pressed a razor against
his throat.

"Marcia..." he croaked.

"This way."

She pushed him towards the bathroom. Only her hands kept him from
falling to the white tiles. "You're...one of them," Frost coughed.
"One of Whiteknife's people. But..."

"You want to know why I did it?"

"I...just..."

"Because I was never one of your crowd. I would never be one of your
crowd."

"Don't...understand..."

"You don't need to understand anything. Except this."

Marcia Arbenz stuck out her foot and lifted up the lid of the toilet.
It was full of brown, unflushed water.

Frost rallied his last bit of anger. "You dirty, traitorous,
taco-loving Mexican cunt!" he snarled.

"Guatemalan," Arbenz said quietly. "Not Mexican."

Arbenz shoved Frost's head into the toilet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ralph had understood the purpose of the knife, but not the wrench.
Then he realized that Scully needed something to spread the ribs
apart. Outside there were sirens and breaking glass and howling at the
moon, but the only sound he and Heather could hear was the creaking of
Orb's ribs.

"They're killing him!" Heather hissed in Ralph's ears.

"They're doing the only thing they can."

"But...look..."

Scully twisted the adjustment on the wrench one more time. It was
stuck between two ribs and being widened to clear a path. She heard
Heather puke, but focused on her operation. The skin and the muscles
had been peeled back. The ribs had been spread. She could now see
Orb's heart.

It quivered at an irregular beat as if it was a man with the hiccups.
Only a small part of its surface was red now. Most of it had turned as
black as the disc sewed to the soft tissue. Scully recognized the
disc's markings as the same as Whiteknife's and the Jeevatek's.

Do it now, Scully said. Don't look at Orb. Just stick the knife in and
cut at...

"Wait," Bustamente said.

"What the fuck is it?" Scully snapped without looking up.

"We've got a new problem."

"And what's that?"

"Me," Whiteknife said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy and Doggett discovered three guys kicking another man on the
ground. "Stop it," Cindy ordered.

"Back off, bitch," one of the men said. "This fucker was violating
private property. We are in our rights."

Cindy studied the men and said, "Are you people with Golden Chair
Protection?"

"Yeah, we are."

"Goodie," Cindy said and did a field-goal kick in the man's balls.
Doggett wanted to say, "Hey, we have guns, Cindy." Then, again, these
were Golden Chair's people...

He tripped up another of the security guards. When the guard tried to
get up, Doggett grabbed him by the collar and rammed his head into an
iron fence. The third man threw a punch at Cindy. She side-stepped the
punch and whipped her truncheon off her belt. She hooked the truncheon
around her attacker's arm and then pulled the arm in a direction where
it didn't belong. Snap, it said. Yeoowch, the man said. The one with
the sore balls tried to leave, but Doggett shoved him to the ground.

*All in all,* he thought, we're doing well. *This situation is bad,
but we're on top of it. It couldn't get any worse.*

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"It's gotten worse," Bustamente said.

"For you, yes," Whiteknife said. He had suddenly appeared in the
apartment, gazing at Orb. "But I have what I want."

"That's not what I'm talking about, you red-eyed motherfucker,"
Bustamente shot back, then pointed at a spot behind Whiteknife.

Whiteknife turned and saw a white mist. It had leaked out of the
toilet and sink drains to gather in the living room.

"We meet again," The Jeevatek said in many voices.

"And we shall fight again. The Heart is mine."

With the mystics' attention seemingly on each other, Scully prepared
to sever the disc from Orb's heart in one swoop -- no time to be neat.
Then an unseen force swept Scully all the way to the far side of the
room. She saw red behind her eyelids as the wall struck her head.

"No one shall stop me," Whiteknife said. "Not even you, Agent Scully."

Not *even* me? she managed to think through her pain. What the hell is
he talking about?

"We shall stop you," The Jeevatek insisted. "The Heart is ours to
own."

"Let us see who is right." Whiteknife turned his attention to the
opened chest of Orb.

"No, no, no, wait," Bustamente cried out. There was something
particularly anxious about his voice -- even more than you might
expect. "You don't know what you're doing..."

"This is not your fight," The Jeevatek warned as the mist swarmed to
Orb.

"You are just a lowly magician," Whiteknife said. "You have no idea
what real power is."

"Neither do you, asshole!" Bustamente shouted. "I just realized what's
going on here! You're being..."

"SILENCE!" both Whiteknife and the Jeevatek ordered. The mere sound of
their combined voices dropped every standing mortal in that apartment
to the floor.

The mist crawled across Orb's skin. "Let us engage once again,"
Whiteknife declared. His own body dissolved into a mist, only
black-colored. The two different mists intermingled and entered the
hole Scully had carved. As if they were being inhaled, the mists were
sucked inside the body of Orb. His expression didn't change at all. He
remained as ever, barely awake.

The humans picked themselves up. Heather stared at Orb with wide eyes.
Ralph just whispered, "Damn." As she touched her bleeding head, Scully
said to Bustamente, "What did you mean, you 'just realized what's
going on here?'"

"It's not about Whiteknife and the Jeevatek anymore," Bustamente said
grimly. "Fuck me, but I didn't see this coming until it was too late."

"What's too late?"

Bustamente turned to Scully and said, "Get out your gun."

At first, Scully didn't move. When Bustamente repeated his order with
even more sternness of voice, she pulled out her weapon.

"What...what is this?" Heather asked. "What are you..."

Then they all heard screaming -- not from the streets or another
apartment this time. The screams echoed from Orb's rib cage. The
Jeevatek and Whiteknife were howling in pain. For a brief moment, the
top of Whiteknife's head appeared out of the body, but then was sucked
down again.

"What the fuck...?" Ralph wondered.

"Shoot Orb," Bustamente commanded. "Shoot him dead."

"The hell you will!" Heather screamed. She charged at Scully.
Bustamente blocked her. For one brief moment, Ralph had no idea what
to do. Then he grabbed Heather from behind.

Scully had just one moment to act. This strong young woman would only
need that long to free herself. Scully had to decide quickly whether
or not to shoot a defenseless man. She was stuck between her
conscience and the authority in Bustamente's voice.

"Do it!" Bustamente demanded. "Do..." Then Heather pushed him away and
elbowed Ralph. She threw herself at the federal agent.

Scully fired. Just as Heather crashed into her and both women tumbled
to the ground, a huge chunk of Orb's head shattered. The couch and
wall was marred by a wide red spot.

Heather kneed Scully in the stomach. The pain loosened Scully's grip
and Heather grabbed her gun. She leapt to her feet and waved the gun
around as if she couldn't decide who to shoot.

"You killed him!" she wailed. "You all fucking killed him!"

"Let me explain..." Bustamente said.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Then let me explain," Orb requested.

Everyone felt a chill which had nothing to do with the air. The gun
dangled loosely in Heather's fingers as she turned around. The others
just backed up.

Orb sat up with two fist-sized holes in his skull and a monkey wrench
stuck between his ribs. One eye was left in his head. It had a sad
expression.

"You're right, Mister Bustamente," he said, making the visible tendons
in his face stretch. "Things have gotten worse."

The lights went out.

Everywhere.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (18 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHTEEN
HERE'S YER FUCKING BONFIRE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Imagine yourself locked in a basement with a tiger and then the lights
suddenly go out. That was the feeling experienced by New Yorkers when
every lightbulb, lamppost, and electric sign went out. They were boxed
in dark stone canyons with a hundred enemies. The only source of light
were the fires.

So more fires were created.

And where there was no light, madness swallowed itself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Stay with me," Doggett ordered Cindy. He scrambled inside his jacket
for his pocket flashlight as he pressed a knee into the back of a
fallen security guard.

Cindy made no response. The moans of the Golden Chair guards were the
only thing Doggett could hear on the dark street. "Cindy? Are you..."

Then he heard new sounds.

Screams.

Charging feet.

The clang of metal.

He looked behind him and saw light. A crowd had turned the corner.
They wielded lit torches that stood out with red vibrancy in the
darkness. Those who didn't carry torches held pipes and garbage can
lids on which they beat a ragged military tempo. Their number was
close to fifty. Their pace approximated a hundred-meter dash. And they
weren't going to stop if their leader got shot. No leader was
available. In their screams, Doggett could hear a rage which was
immune to both threats and reason.

He could only get out of their way. In the light of the torches, he
could see a doorway. He jumped and pressed his back tightly against
that door.

The Golden Chair guards had been too damaged to move fast enough. One
of them was snatched up as easily as a fish being bitten by a passing
shark. The other two were ground into the street and struck with blows
almost casual in their viciousness.

Doggett prayed none would choose him for a target. He noticed that the
crowd was highly mixed -- old and young, black and white and Hispanic
and Asian, upper class and dirt poor. It was a multicultural,
multi-class insanity.

God bless America, Doggett thought.

As quickly as it had arrived, the crowd left. Doggett spent a few
moments waiting for his heart to slow to an acceptable speed. Then he
realized that he had dropped his flashlight. After feeling his way
across the street, he found its broken remains.

"Cindy!" he called out. "Cindy!"

In the rest of the dark city, there was a tumult of noise. On this
street, there was only silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

With the light of the candles, the other people in the apartment could
see Orb. They could watch his twice-mutilated body -- once by knife,
once by gunfire -- stand up. They could see him pull the monkey wrench
out of his ribcage, then drop it to the floor. They also saw how his
body healed itself. The long gash in his chest folded up and his head
reformed itself.

Orb looked at Ralph and said, "I think it's time you said something
ironic."

Ralph's mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

"Can't think of anything to say? A shame. I have always depended on
your laconic attitude." Orb sighed. "Not that it can do a lot now."

"Just...what happened here?" Scully asked.

"Should I tell them or should you?" Orb asked Bustamente.

"You go ahead," the street vendor answered in a hoarse voice.

"Okay. It's like this -- the Heart of Power has been absorbing the
mystic forces of this city on its own. The power of the Jeevatek and
Whiteknife are in me now. As for them...they are no more. Their
conflict has ended with no winner."

"So you have their power now," Scully said.

"No. I have nothing. The power merely flows through me now...and it is
now washing over the city." He pointed at the window. The howl of a
metropolis gone crazy could be heard.

"It has unleashed a violence which will surely destroy everyone," Orb
explained. "I can do nothing to stop it. In fact...I may be causing
it."

"Causing it?" Heather said in a shaky voice.

Orb looked at her with a sadness which seemed to belong to both a
lover and a distant god. "You know my dark side as well as anyone,
Heather. What I once did to your own heart, I could be doing to this
city."

Heather closed her eyes and lowered her head.

"Or...it could be the natural cause of so much uncontrolled power. It
doesn't matter."

"Of course, it matters," Ralph snapped. "How the hell did this happen
in the first place?"

"Again, I'm not sure. Perhaps when it fed off my life-force, the Heart
took on a life of its own. It began to do what it was created to do --
absorb magic. It could also be that my own desires for power
unconsciously stared this." Orb shook his head. "Again, it doesn't
matter how. In the end, this all stems from my decision to bind the
Heart to myself."

Across the street, a fire broke out in a building.

"How can this be stopped?" Scully asked.

"Hm. That's the big question, isn't it?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He ran through darkness and past fire. He pointed his gun at anybody
who got in his way. John Doggett didn't care about the riots or
Whiteknife or the Jeevatek or any of the other shit which had been
going on. All of his concerns had narrowed down to one person.

"CINDY!! CINDY!!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Obviously, death is not the solution," Orb said in a dreamy voice. "I
can't be physically harmed now."

"Maybe you and I can control the power together," Bustamente
suggested.

Orb shook his head. "No, Mister Bustamente. Face it -- we're skilled
amateurs, but nowhere powerful enough to control this force."

Then a smile picked up on Orb's face. "Luckily, we have someone else
here who can help us."

"Who?"

Orb lifted a finger and pointed at Agent Dana Katherine Scully.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"John! Over here!"

Doggett almost tripped over his feet as he came to a halt. His eyes
had become better adjusted to the darkness. He peered in the direction
of the female voice he had heard.

He had been running down another dark street when he had heard the
voice. It had spoken to him from an alley.

"Cindy?" he whispered.

"In here, honey! I'm safe!"

Doggett rushed to the alley. However, just as he reached the alley's
mouth, he realized something...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Me?" Scully said. "What are you talking about?"

"You can help me stop this," Orb informed her.

"But...I don't know anything about this crap. I'm just a federal
employee..."

"You are much more than that. You are destined to be something much
larger." Orb tapped his forehead. "When I absorbed the Jeevatek and
Whiteknife, I learned much about you."

"What?"

Orb sighed. "I wish I could tell you. But now we have this matter to
deal with. The question is -- will you help me?"

Scully looked at the fire crawling up the opposite building. "I guess
I don't have a choice, do I?" she observed.

"Of course you do. We always have a choice." Orb turned to the others.
"Now I'm asking you to choose to leave."

Heather opened her eyes. The candlelight was reflected in her tears.
"Fuck that. I'm not leaving..."

Orb walked up to her. He pressed his hands against her cheeks. The
touch of his skin was cold, but she didn't pull away.

"Heather, my love," Orb said. "I once turned away from you because I
thought you were too common to understand me. Now I'm asking you to
turn away from me. You must do it to save your life."

Heather placed her hands on Orb's face. The two of them stayed in that
position for almost a minute.

Then, without saying good-bye, she released him and walked out of the
apartment.

Orb turned to Ralph. "And you...my steadfast friend..."

"Tell me something," Ralph said, his voice managing to be steady. "I
was told that all this shit was done for me. Is that right?"

"That's right. For you and for Heather. I wanted to give you...so
much. Show you so many wonders."

"You know better now, don't you?"

"Too late, I'm afraid. But yes, I do."

Ralph nodded, then held out his fist. Orb pressed his knuckles against
it.

Then Ralph left the apartment. "Mister Bustamente," Orb said. "I
apologize for dragging you into this."

"I said it before, son. This is as much my fault as yours. I ignored
my responsibilities."

Orb pointed at the door. "Those two...make them your responsibility."

"I will. Good luck to you, Orb. And good luck to you, Agent Scully."

Bustamente walked out of the apartment. He closed the door behind him.

Orb turned to Scully. "Well...just you and me now."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy Wildenstein had called John Doggett a lot of things. "John" and
"Johnny" were the usual names. She once called him "J," but he put a
stop to that. Other times, she had affectionately call him "John-Boy"
or "the Big Dawg." In less-that-affectionate moments, she had
pronounced him "asshole" and "fuckhead."

But "honey?" Would Officer Cindy Wildenstein call any man by that
name?

Still it was her voice calling from the alley. Who else could it be?

And who else could it have been on the other end of the phone when
Doggett had received a call from someone sounding just like Dana
Scully?

Doggett answered that question in his mind, then dived to the ground.
The moment he did that, a flashlight clicked on and hurled light at
the spot where he had been standing. It could have blinded him. The
bullet that screeched over his head could have done worse.

From the ground, Doggett shot three times at the person behind the
flashlight. There was a heavy thud not made by the dropping
flashlight. Doggett was briefly blinded when the flashlight hit ground
level. He jumped to a kneeling position, blinking away the spots in
his vision and praying he had correctly guessed the identity of the
flashlight holder.

"John!"

Doggett let out a long, long breath, then called out, "Over here!"

Cindy rushed to the alleyway with her flashlight guiding the way. She
found Doggett and the body of Milton Ryder. Doggett watched her as she
stared at the body.

"Rest in peace, partner," she said. "Rest in peace and rot in hell."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"All right," Scully said. "What do you want me to do?"

Orb said, "There is one way of stopping this. I must dissipate the
mystic forces through a conduit -- direct them away from the city."

"A conduit?"

"Yes. You."

Scully swallowed and said, "But why me?"

"Bustamente could never withstand that much power flowing through his
body. A tenth of it could kill him. And Heather and Ralph would be
dead in seconds. You, on the other hand, can withstand it."

"How can that be?"

"Because you are not meant to die here. You have a destiny to fulfill.
You...and Mulder...and your child."

Scully's lips trembled. "What do you know about that?"

"Think of this." Orb waved his fingers across Scully's face and she
saw...

...a man with yellow eyes ripping into her stomach...

...herself  pressing a gun to her own feverish head as snow pressed
against a window...

...a heart monitor going flatline...

...a man washing the hair of her pale body...

...Mulder being told to shoot Scully and doing so...

...Mulder weeping by an empty hospital bed...

...a row of frozen containers never to be disturbed...

"These are but a few of the many events which could have killed you,"
Orb reminded her. "They didn't."

"I..." Scully took a few moments to recover her senses. "I have
been...very lucky."

"You have been chosen. A battle is coming which will make what you
have witnessed in this city seem mild and piddling. Luck, on the other
hand, has given me a chance to correct my mistakes."

Orb held out his hands. "This won't hurt my child?" Scully asked,
studying his palms.

"It won't. I promise."

She looked in his eyes. "Will it hurt us?"

"It will be...an unusual experience."

Down the hallway, a heavy object crashed.

"Come on, Agent Scully. We have very little time."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Back in the alley, Cindy said, "Well...we've got to keep moving."

"No."

"What's that?"

Doggett slumped against the wall and slid down to the ground. "We've
done all we can. It's beyond our control."

"You mean, you're giving up?"

"I'm saying we've reached our limit. It's up to Scully and the rest
now, whatever the hell they're doing."

Cindy looked away and listened to the city. She heard the shooting and
the crashing cars. She could smell smoke from a distant fire.

"You're right." She sat down in front of Doggett. "So what do we do?
Just sit here?"

Her flashlight caught an unusual expression on Doggett's face. She
studied it for a moment, then unbuttoned her blue shirt.

With a dead body at their side and a city crashing around them, two
people relived their past.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bustamente lit up a candle in the narrow hallway. He could see Ralph
and Heather leaning against a wall. They were holding each other's
hands.

"Just what's going on in there?" Ralph asked, indicating his
apartment.

"I don't know," Bustamente said. "I just hope they're able to..."

A man wearing only underwear jumped out of the shadows. He was
carrying a machete and screaming, "I am the prophet! I am the bringer
of doom! I am..."

Heather slapped the machete from the man's hand, then wrapped both of
her hands around his throat. "You have some bad fucking timing, pal,"
she snarled.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At first, the hands were cold.

Then Scully felt a tingling in her skin, followed by a pleasant
energetic sensation. Her weariness and uncertainty were dissolved. Her
body was strengthened. She was up to doing anything now -- running a
four-minute mile, climbing a mountain, surfing on high waves. As for
the riots in New York City...pfft. No problem. She could handle them
easily now.

She basked in this aura for the few seconds it lasted. This was before
her skin became tight as if she was a wet shirt being twisted. It
became difficult to breathe. She started to sway, but Orb kept her
balanced.

She wasn't ready to give up yet. After all, Orb had warned her about
the pain. How much worse could it...

And then a sun exploded inside her brain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dennis Bustamente fell to his knees and clutched his head. Heather
looked up from the man she had just thrashed and said, "What? What is
it?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Marcia Arbenz looked down from the helicopter which was flying her out
of New York City. She shivered.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cindy Wildenstein and John Doggett stopped their lovemaking. "Did you
hear that?" Cindy asked.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A hundred people in New York City screamed louder.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I can't do this, Scully thought. I can't, I can't, I can't, it's too
much, it hurts, please no more no more no more...

"You can do it."

Even in her agony, Scully was able to see a handsome, big-nosed man.

"I know you can do this," he assured her. When he saw the doubt in her
eye, he smiled and said, "Don't worry. I'm the real deal. And I'm
always closer than you think."

He laid his hands on her shoulders and whispered, "Now...kick out the
motherfucking jams."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She was the whole city. She was Orb and Heather and Bustamente and
Doggett and Cindy and Ralph. She was a vendor selling pretzels and a
commodity dealer. She was a porn actress and a Broadway singer. She
lived in the alleys and the penthouses. Her skin was white and black
and yellow and brown.

The accumulation of a million nightmares and a million hopes stacked
inside of Scully's brain. She saw the possibility of nirvana, the
promise of the inferno, the costs of daily indifference. She touched
upon the web which held soul to soul. It would have been so easy to
claim this power for her own and to shape the city in her image.

The city did not belong to her, though. It did not belong to any
single person.

She cut the web.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bustamente slowly raised his head.

"Are you all right?" Ralph asked.

"I..."

The lights came back on in the hallway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

From her high viewpoint, Marcia Arbenz watched the buildings and
streets light up as if a sunlight had touched a vein of gold.

For a moment, her eyes widened. Then she smiled and looked away. She
would never come back to New York City.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The glare of the lamppost was bluntly intrusive. Doggett saw Cindy's
sweaty breasts and she could see his stretched penis. They could also
see the cooling meat of Milton Ryder.

Doggett coughed.

Cindy said, "Well..."

They both put their clothes back on. "I guess it's over," Cindy
observed.

"Yeah," Doggett responded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It wasn't quite over. There were still fires to douse and maniacs to
subdue. When the lights came back on, though, everyone knew that the
madness had started to die. Gradually, people returned indoors. Or
they sat on street curbs and wondered what had happened to their
minds. Some fell asleep out of exhaustion. Others waited for the dawn,
hesitant to see what daylight would reveal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They found Scully kneeling on the floor. She was pale and breathing
hard, but she seemed all right.

She was also alone.

Heather knelt in front of her and said, "Where is he? What happened to
Orb?"

Black circles were thick around Scully's eyes. She looked at Heather
as if the younger woman was miles away. "He's gone" was her answer.

"Dead?" Heather whispered.

"No. Not exactly. Just...gone." Scully waved her hands to indicate the
air around them.

There was nothing more to add. Bustamente and Ralph led Scully to the
couch. She fell into sleep immediately where she dreamt of bright
lights and an infant resting in her arms.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: THE TIMES SQUARE WAR (19 of 19)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART NINETEEN
EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Years later, sociologists and scientists would still be trying to
explain Crazy Night. They couldn't blame it on the blackout -- the
madness had begun way before then. They tried theories about mass
psychological breakdown or a mind-altering virus. However, they could
get no further than the basic facts which included over a million
dollars in property damage, over six hundred people injured, and over
a hundred people dead.

The people of New York City would spend some time experiencing
shell-shock. They hid in their beds. They prayed in church. They
wondered just what the fuck had happened.

Some of them quickly tried to get back into their regular routines.
Others tended to the wounded, mentally and physically. Life had to go
on, even after the shit had splattered everyone standing in front of
the fan.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dennis Bustamente set up his table on the sidewalk. Further down the
street, glass was being swept away and blood was being cleaned off the
pavement. He readied himself for a new day.

First of all, he needed to sell some books. He had given Orb's money
to Heather and Ralph.

"You really want to do this?" Ralph had asked.

"Hell, no. But it's what Orb would have wanted. You two can divide it
up or fight over it or whatever."

"Ah, I think Heather and I will divide it up."

"How is she doing, by the way?"

"As well as you can expect." Ralph had shrugged. "I guess we'll just
have to take it one day at a time. Maybe she'll forget about him."

"Don't be stupid."

"Hm. You're right."

*Forgetting is a chump tactic,* Bustamente thought. *We can't push
aside who we are or what we've done in the past. And we can't just
walk away from others. Take Ollie Vaughn, for example...*

Bustamente was thinking about his visit to the homeless shelter where
Ollie now laid in his coma. Looking into Ollie's black eyes had made
him wish he had done more for the man. That's when he had promised
himself never to turn away from the city again.

"Excuse me?"

Bustamente's thoughts were interrupted by a man with rumpled clothes
and a timid expression. "Help you?" Bustamente asked.

"Um...I...I'm not sure." The man sighed. "I just don't know where I
should be now. I've been walking around...all night...it was so
strange..."

The sidewalk vendor examined the man with his special sight. He
realized that the man's mind had been screwed by the Jeevatek. With
the Jeevatek gone, this man was little more than human trash blowing
in the wind.

Yet he was still human.

"What's your name?" Bustamente asked. "Do you know that?"

"Yes, it's...it's Pete. I think."

"Sit down, Pete," Bustamente requested and indicated a crate next to
the table.

Pete nodded and did as he was told.

"Know anything about selling books, Pete?"

"No."

"Well, I'm gonna teach you."

Pete considered that proposal, then said, "I would like that. I would
like that very much."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doggett wanted to visit Central Park before he left the city. The park
had been scorched and damaged like most of the city, but he still
enjoyed his stroll through it. Scully walked with him.

"So," Doggett said. "what happens next?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well...the Jeevatek and Whiteknife are gone, right?"

"Yes, they are."

"And...according to what you've told me...they were the ones screwing
with everybody's heads, including ours."

"M-hm."

"So what happens to the city, now that they're gone?"

"You mean, without the Jeevatek and Whiteknife influencing them, will
the people of New York start holding hands and sing 'Get Together?'"

"That's not exactly what I wanted to ask, but..."

"I wouldn't be too hopeful, Agent Doggett. The Jeevatek had a base
material to use when they came to this city. They took advantage of
this city's dark side, but they never created it."

"Still...the city is better off without them."

"I would say that the city has an opportunity here. It had better take
it."

They walked in silence for a few hundred feet. Then Scully asked, "How
is Officer Wildenstein?"

"She's doing okay. We're both doing okay." Doggett paused, then said,
"But not much more than that."

"Really?"

"She and I have settled the past. But it still remains the past. Too
much time has gone by for us to reclaim it." He smiled. "It was nice
to visit it, though."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"It means...whatever you think it means. So how are you doing?"

"Me? I'm doing well."

"I would say you're doing a little better than well. You seem
almost...upbeat."

"Really?" Now it was Scully's turn to smile. "Imagine that."

As they continued walking, they approached two men sitting by the side
of a park road. One was an Asian playing a guitar. The other was
dressed in a robe with the words "BEN -- MUSICIAN OF LOVE" embroided
in it. "But if you want money for people with minds that hate," he
sang joyfully. "All I can tell you, brother, is you have to wait."

Doggett tossed a quarter into an empty guitar case. The two musicians
nodded their gratitude. Scully and Doggett went on their way, hearing
"Don't you know everything's going to be...all right?"

"God bless those fucking hippies," Doggett said. "God bless this
fucking town."

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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Onward...

Right now, I'm working on my next long story. It's called "She's My
Heroine." The story is set between "Fight the Future" and "Two
Fathers/ One Son." I've written two long stories involving Doggett and
I've enjoyed it. Now I would like to get back to Mulder. "She's My
Heroine" is told from the viewpoint of a hitwoman recruited by CSM. It
should also be my first story to use Jeffrey Spender. Pray for me...

I mentioned a story called "The Final Heart." That may be next. For
those who don't remember, it's supposed to be set after "Closure" and
details Mulder's attempts to discover the final victim of John Lee
Roche. I'm waiting for any revelations from the upcoming two-parter
before I start into that. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this
whole "Mulder-was-dying-in-season-seven" idea. David Duchovny must be
pissed about that new development. And he's pissed already.

Another story floating in my head is "Guilt." Prisoners are
disapearing from a female corrections institute. Scully goes
undercover as a prisoner to discover the truth. Ew, you must be
thinking. A Scully-in-chains story? Don't worry. If I write the story,
I won't be using "prison chick" movies as inspiration. My main
inspiration is to write a story which confronts the issues raised by
"Orison." Oh, *that*. Yeah, that. Remember that little episode, Mr.
Carter? When the hell are we going to get some follow-up on that?
Whoops, wrong guy to ask.

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