By Michael Aulfrey
mikeaulf@tartarus.uwa.edu.au
 

Date: 10 Oct 1995
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: I may have taken some liberties with
certain theological points in this story.  Not to
mention some pretty gruesome situations, for which I
rate this story at least NC-17.

I should also add that this story does not necessarily
reflect my beliefs about the Catholic Church,
especially considering that I am Catholic myself.  If
I offend anyone with the content of this story, please
feel free to contact me and blast me out for being a
heretic...just be aware I said it's only a story! :)

If anyone has any corrections on these points (or my
bad Latin grammar :) :)) by all means e-mail
me...otherwise, all comments are welcome on this
story.  Enjoy!
------------------------------------------------------

Prologue:

EXTRACT:
COVERING LETTER:
ROME, 12/8/95

Your Holiness,
Greetings in haste.  It is with heaviness of heart
that I write to you with word of what has happened
here.  I realise that the last time we spoke, you had
expressed the most understandable hope that I should
not contact you again during your Pontificate.  Sadly,
that is not to be.  The files you will find contained
with this letter are most explicit.  I have consulted
with my fellows, and it would appear that there is no
other interpretation.
I await your reply with humblest faith.  Greetings in
Christ.

EXTRACT ENDS.

"We have need of you."

Five words.  The words the Saviour had asked of his
first disciples.  The circumstances had been very
different.  He had asked the question of a group of
fishermen in the afternoon, when their haul was
complete and their day done.  These words had come to
him in the middle of the night, soon after sleeping,
down a telephone line.  The words had meant nothing to
the fishermen.  They meant everything to him.

Yet there were some similarities.  In each case, the
words had sent both fisherman and sleeper down a path
they had no knowledge of.  As he packed his suitcase,
those words came back to him again.  He shook the
words and their implications away as he donned the
black coat, the last of his frugal attire.  He caught
a glimpse of himself in the small square mirror.  In
the darkness of his room, what little light there was
caught the white of the dog collar and shone forth as
though he had a star at his throat.

He breathed deeply, quelling the anxieties within, and
headed out the door into the night that lay beyond.

          *         *         *

EX ORIENTE LUX

It was a mess, mostly.

The wall decorations in this part of the room were
desperate; each picture screamed out its own message,
a series of overlapping commercials for their
particular concept.  Kirilian photographs.  Maps of
the Moon.  Wanted posters.  Memoranda.  The Loch Ness
Monster.  Underwater pictures of wrecked vessels.
Underwater pictures of wrecked Athenian temples.  A
dwarfed basketball ring for garbage three-pointers.
Miss July.  Pictures of skulls.  Presiding over this
artistic tumult was a long poster, of which one could
have been forgiven for thinking that it looked
bewildered.  I WANT TO BELIEVE, it proclaimed,
dangling there like the banner over a throne.

The throne it presided over was more rubbish heap than
seat of power.  The Desk, as she often called it, was
in twice as bad a state as the walls.  Coffee mugs
proliferated, though the desk had only one occupier.
Papers and Manila folders clamoured for attention at
the centre of the desk like refugees at an aid
station.  Pens had secreted themselves in every
conceivable orifice.  Fluorescent lamps shone down on
the chaos.  A chunky computer sat mournfully surveying
the entire scene with a sense of mechanical awe and
resignation.

Yet, mused Dana Scully, that terrible chaos hid one of
the most brilliant thinkers at the FBI.  Or at least
one of the more lateral ones.  Her own desk was what
Fox Mulder had called "shamefully neat" at one stage,
at which point she had lobbed a ball of wastepaper at
his head.  Lights glowed in the varnish of her
desktop.  The wood of Mulder's desktop--not to mention
that of the various benches around it--probably hadn't
seen the light of day since they were chopped down.

A shadow moved under the doorway of the office, and in
spite of herself her hand moved towards the shoulder-
holstered pistol.  Habit.  She calmed the reflex and
looked up as Mulder opened the door, the half-smile on
his face like it always was when he was half an hour
late to work.  She had learned to recognise that
particular smile of greeting, if not the 9 am start,
as trouble.  It meant he had something on his mind.
His whole manner suggested it; the dark grey suit
looked like it had been put on while he wasn't
thinking about it.  Confirming her suspicion was
another of the perpetually-multiplying Manila folders
in his left hand.

He crossed the room, absently avoiding cardboard boxes
on the floor, picking up one of the coffee mugs off
The Desk as he went, and put the file in front of her,
obscuring her latest report on his work.  "Got a new
one, Scully," he said as he passed her desk, on the
way to the ailing coffee percolator.  "Behavioural
Psychology sent it down.  You remember Jack Crawford?"
"Isn't he head of that section?"
"Yeah.  I was talking to him when I came in this
morning.  He was wondering if we'd like to work on
this file of his."
"Why doesn't his department look at it?  There's a
backlog here as well."
Mulder gave the coffee urn a practiced elbow in its
midsection.  It made a sound like a defective iron
lung and began to cough up the black liquid.  "Well,
they've got pretty well every agent they can spare out
looking for Hannibal Lecter since he escaped police
custody.  This file's been sitting on the backburner
for a while now, and he thought maybe we could look at
it, seeing as he's tied up at the moment."  Mulder
finished drawing out the coffee and turned back to
Scully with a wry grin.  "You usually don't argue with
the head of the maniacs' department.  Remember the
saying about there being no difference between the
doctors and the inmates?"
"What's the basis for sending it down to us?"  Scully
was looking at the covering pages, which were thin
papers of authorisation telling her little more than
what she already knew about the case.  She turned to
the first photograph in the file.
"Possible religious connection between murders.  You
preach it, we breach it."  He paused, noting her
expression at her view of the photograph and let the
playful tone in his voice vanish.  "Victims in all
cases appear to be Roman Catholic priests."

She tried hard to fight down the pins-and-needles
creeping through her stomach, but couldn't do so.  The
photograph was of the murdered priest in the position
in which he had been found.  The cause of death was
one of two obvious choices.  One choice was critical
blood loss, caused by massive injury to the throat
just above the point where it connected with the
torso.  It looked as though something had torn it out.

The second was asphyxiation.

Caused by crucifixion.

 Two fenceposts had been nailed down--followed by the
victim's wrists and feet--and then the cross thus
formed hoisted high onto a telephone pole and left
there.  The method by which such a feat had been
performed could not be discerned from the black-and-
white; nevertheless, depth perception told her that
the height had to be at least five metres off the
ground.  The priest's head was flopping forward onto
his chest.  She was glad she couldn't see the face.

She dropped the file onto the table, more to get away
from that image that was imprinting itself on her mind
than to look at Mulder again, though she did the
latter anyway.
"Pretty gruesome, I'll admit," said Mulder quietly.
"But you can see why it came to us.  The height to
which the latest victim was lifted would've been a
challenge for Schwarzenegger."
"Why--" she coughed into her hand, took a breath, then
looked at him again.  "Why didn't it cause an uproar?"
"The local police were pretty good about it.
Crawford's department moved in fast, kept it nice and
quiet.  It made the papers that a priest had been
murdered, but all that came out of the modus operandi
was a simple mugging."  Mulder was looking at her
closely.  "Scully, if you want, I can hand this case
back to Crawford.  It's just that you, well--ah--"

She swallowed, then cursed to herself for doing so.
She imagined the pale face Mulder would be so
concerned about.  She also knew he would be thinking
about the gold crucifix she wore beneath her suit, out
of sight.  Her faith was an unknown quantity to him.
Maybe, she thought, even to herself.  She was Roman
Catholic.  The image of the black suit splayed wide
like that, the head drooping down, the white dog
collar torn away--it crashed against the sides of her
mind, but was still something she could control, for
now.  She closed her eyes and silently breathed in the
austere, stale security of FBI headquarters.  Then
opened them and allowed her eyebrows to twitch in the
way Mulder knew so well.
"Let's see what's here," she said, and looked at the
folder again, spreading the photographs and other
files over the length and breadth of the table,
looking to one of the documents.

Mulder put the coffee mug down on the edge of the
table and picked up a typed sheet of paper.  She saw
his pleased expression out of the corner of her eye,
but chose to ignore it.
"I didn't have much time to look at this thing before
I brought it here," he said, "but it looks like three
killings so far, in the last six months. The priest
who was crucified was number seven.  He was found five
days ago."
She did some mental calculations.  "The murders are
increasing in frequency?"
"Looks that way.  Two murders in these two months
instead of one.  I think it's somewhere here--"  He
consulted another sheet.  "Here it is.  List of the
victims, in chronological order."  He handed it to
her.
She perused the paper.  "Well, at least they--"  She
stopped, staring at it.
"What?"  He walked around the table.
"Number four."
"Father Marcus Flanagan."  He saw her stiffen, and
looked sideways at her from his position just over her
shoulder.  She had the same sort of expression on her
face as when she'd seen the photographs.  At his
inquiring glance, she looked directly at him, and he
almost recoiled from the paleness of her face.
"Mulder, I know him.  He was a parish priest where I
lived when I was a child."

Mulder felt a chill go up his spine.  "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."  She leaned back in her chair.  He glanced
around for a box of tissues, but the cracking in her
voice that he'd expected wasn't there, though the
volume of it had decreased marginally.  "When I was
first given the sacrament of Holy Communion, the
wafers of bread you see them distribute at church, he
was the one who administered it.  He always had a
smiling face."  She was staring back at the photograph
again, regarding it as she would a King Cobra at this
distance.  He hesitated for a moment, then picked up
another page; the police report on the murder.
"He was killed in New York, Scully.  You're sure it's
the same man?"
He saw her shake herself and look at the police
report.  "It's him.  Priests can move around a lot
during their service.  I remember one or two leaving
my home town every few years because they'd been
transferred to other dioceses."
Mulder chewed the inside of his lip.  "All right.
What do you say to a couple of days in Romantic New
York?"
"I'm not going to be the one who tells Skinner that."
He was relieved to hear the jibe.
He thought about the consequences of his reply, but
couldn't resist.  "He'll love it.  'Agents Mulder and
Scully slip away on dirty weekend in the Big Apple'--"
He was forced to stop speaking as she yanked his tie hard.
===============================

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 2/10

Washington to New York by road took four or five
hours.  The New Jersey Turnpike ran up the eastern
seaboard directly to the city, exposed to the
coastline's turquoise blue and grey, imposing rock.
Scully had no time to admire the scenery.  By the time
they were within half an hour of New York, Scully had
read through the file three times and called ahead to
the FBI's field office in Newark.  Mulder didn't
disturb her.  Even as his cluttered office was a
hallmark of his character, and (so he considered)
necessary to clear thought, her ability to think on
the move was hers.

When at last she put the file down, Mulder had the
same implacable expression on his face.  He glanced at
her.
"So what do you think?"
Scully's gaze was speculative, directed downwards,
onto the file.  She exhaled heavily.  "Four murders
altogether.  Three are in a chronological pattern.
The fourth is a month and a half early.  The strange
thing is, the first three victims' bodies
weren't...desecrated...in the way Marcus Flanagan's
body was.  Their throats were cut, but the corpses
left otherwise intact."
"Any ideas as to why?"
"Well, it could be the murderer is starting to enjoy
what he's doing.  He's decided to start mocking the
police and his victims."
Mulder marvelled at her total control.  A few hours
ago, she was ready to drop the case because of her
proximity to the latest victim.  Now that iron will of
hers had taken hold again.  "I thought so too.  But
something's not quite right here.  Leave aside the
fact of where the victim was found--why now? Why draw
attention to himself before the media have taken
notice of him?"
"To get the media attention?"
"No, that still doesn't fit.  This guy's waging a
private war against the church.  He shouldn't be
drawing attention to himself until he gets a taste
from the media attention, which he hasn't gotten yet."
"Because?"
"The link between the murders hasn't been publicised.
Or rather, no journalists have picked up a possible
link between them yet."
"Well, that gives us a certain luxury of time."
Scully was suddenly thoughtful.  "You've got a
roadmap, haven't you?"
"Sure.  In the glove compartment.  You think I've
gotten us lost?"
"If we wind up in the Bronx, I'll worry about getting
lost," she replied and opened the compartment.  She
got the map out, then a pencil.  "The first priest was
killed in New Orleans."  She circled the city.
"Think he was Ku Klux Klan?  The killer, that is."
She couldn't help but smile at that.  "I doubt it.
There weren't any signs of Klan activity surrounding
his death.  No burning crosses.  And I think the
murder would've been more publicised if the priest was
an activist of some kind."
Dead end.  Mulder sighed.  "The second one was
murdered somewhere mid country, wasn't he?"
"Yes.  The Winston-Salem area."  She circled that
region as well.
"Those are both places which could be seen as anti-
church, or anti-Christian in general."
"Salem for the witch hunts?"
"And New Orleans for the overtones of voodoo.  Mojo
magic.  Was the third priest killed anywhere like
that?"
She briefly consulted the map, then shook her head.
"I can't see any religious significance to killing a
priest in Philadelphia."  Scully circled the city.
Then looked again.  "Wait a minute.  I think we've got
something."  She drew a single line connecting all
three cities.  It was as straight as the road before
them.  Then she extended the line to New York.

There was no angle between them.  "He's killing in a
straight line."  She briefly showed the map to Mulder,
who scrutinised it momentarily then focused on the
road again.
"He could be just following one road."
"No.  There's at least three major changes in
direction between those three centres.  No one road
connects them all, much less in a straight line."  She
shivered.  Somewhere in the United States, the killer
had a duplicate of the map she held before her, with
the same marks inscribed on it.
"Our friend thinks he's an artist," said Mulder
quietly, his gaze focused on something in the far
distance.  "If you're right, he wants to use the map
as his canvas.  Extend the line out and see what towns
it runs through.  When we get to Newark, we'll call
those places and see if they've had any unusual
homicides lately.  Maybe he's only just decided to
start killing clergy in the last six months."
Scully's phone rang, a thin trilling that contrasted
wildly with the steady thrum of the car screaming up
the road towards New York.  She answered it and had a
truncated conversation, then hung up.  "That was
Newark.  They've pulled the original file on the
fourth case and received faxes of the other homicides
from Philadelphia, Atlanta and New Orleans.  They
should have it waiting for us when we arrive."

     *         *         *

Loyola Seminary was just as he remembered it, though
the patronage had changed somewhat.  Instead of a nun
at the reception desk, there was instead a matronly
sort of woman with a flowery cardigan and a set of
thick-framed glasses perched on her nose.  So
different from the wire-rimmed things the young people
were wearing these days.

Which was, he reflected, half the problem.  When he
had first come here the air in this place would have
been humming with the movement of so many young,
intelligent men alive with the Spirit and prepared to
do battle for the souls of men.  Now the glow was
fading.  The men were here, but not in great numbers
now.  Fewer burning with such a fire within as he had
seen in some of his fellows.  A quieter voice
whispered to him, And fewer still prepared to travel
the dark roads you have, but he silenced it.

The receptionist was kind enough, despite his initial
impressions.  She smiled and ushered him immediately
into the office and presence of the Superior.  At
least he hadn't changed.  He still had that great
lion's-head brow and the eyes of the hawk that the
visitor remembered.  How could he forget.  He had
often been called into this office for far different
reasons than the one he was being called in for now.
How puny those infractions seemed by comparison!
"Thank you, Margaret," said the Superior as the
receptionist closed the door behind her.  Then he
walked across the room and embraced the visitor
warmly.  "Peter -- it's so good to see you again.  How
have you been?"
The warmth surprised a smile out of him.  "Fine,
Father.  The leg still pains me a little, but not that
often, thank God."
The Superior chuckled.  "Be proud.  You personally
saved the Jesuit Order from an awful disgrace at the
hands of the Dominicans.  We hadn't lost a soccer
match against St. Ildephonsus' in twenty years.
Thanks to you it stayed that way."
The visitor nodded, then breathed deeply.  "You know
why I'm here."
The Superior's smile faded like clouds covering the
sun.  "Yes.  I take it that you heard about Father
Marcus."
The visitor nodded again, the loss creeping into his
bones.  "How was his body found?"  He turned, looking
out the window onto the green quadrangle.  Though the
doubts had been largely removed in his mind, this
would be the final confirmation of his mission here.
The Superior was silent for a moment longer.
"Crucified."  The older priest watched as his
visitor's shoulders drooped visibly, as though the
weight of that chunk of tree had come onto his back.
"Christ's death for a Christ-like man," whispered the
visitor, and made the sign of the cross.  He turned
back to the Superior.  "I'd like to take my room now,
if that's all right."
"Yes, of course.  It's your old one, fourth down the
hall."
They shook hands, and the visitor went to his room.

He breathed deeply, taking in the air of the seminary.
Few places had felt so much like home to him.  He took
off the dark coat, and got his toothbrush out of the
small bag that went with him.  The bag was showing
signs of age as well.  He looked in the mirror.

To see a shape standing behind him.  He whirled
around.  Nothing there.  Spun back to the mirror.  The
silhouette resolved into colour as the figure walked
forward.  He turned once more, but still nothing moved
in the stillness of the room.  Then he heard low
chuckling, a sniggering, from the mirror.  He turned
once more to it.

It was once more a mere reflection of the empty room
behind him.  The laughter had faded off into
nothingness.

Father Peter Slattery, Jesuit priest, got down on his
knees and began to pray.

     *         *         *

The Newark office of the FBI was nothing if not
efficient.  On their arrival, a young agent had shown
them into an examination room where the complete files
on Marcus Flanagan and the other three priests were
being held.  Medical histories, past education and
coroners' reports were all placed neatly out on the
table, ready for perusal, as well as extensive
photography of the crime scene in each case.  Scully's
raised eyebrow sketched respect, and even Mulder had
to concede the quick responsiveness of the agents in
this city.

They got down to work quickly, ignoring the passing
time as the sun dipped lower in the sky and evening
stung the streets.
"All right.  Marcus Flanagan, parish priest, most
recently assigned to Saint Luke's in Greenwich
Village, New York.  Admitted in 1953.  Listing of
parishes that he served in isn't remarkable.  From the
looks of it, he never left the Eastern Seaboard much
at all."  Mulder was fairly dismissive.
"Where was he educated?" asked Scully.  "Did he take
his vows here?"
Mulder consulted the record again.  "Saint Ignatius
Loyola seminary, New York."

Something tweaked at Scully's memory, and she frowned,
searching back through the years to a time when she
had known the significance of such a name.  She
remembered.  One of her brothers had been invited to a
scholarship at Ignatius Loyola College, but had turned
it down.  Nevertheless, something else bothered her
about the name.  Something to do with the College...

Realisation gave her a thrill of curiosity.  "Marcus
Flanagan was a Jesuit?"
Mulder looked at her oddly.  "There's nothing in the
file to say that..."
"Ignatius Loyola was the founder of the Society of
Jesus, a religious order within the Catholic church,
what people call the Jesuits.  All the orders are able
to train priests, if I remember right.  And you can
usually tell which order it is by finding out the name
of the seminary they came from, because they name
their places after the founders of their orders."
Mulder considered her advice.  As an outsider, he
didn't know that much about the inner workings of the
church.  "Isn't the Jesuit order like the Catholic
CIA?"
Scully shrugged.  "From what I heard, they were mostly
a teaching order.  Some of them were theologians.
They emphasised logic in the religion."  She looked
back at the photographs.  "But what's important is
that there's no mention of Marcus Flanagan being a
Jesuit.  Their names are usually suffixed by the
letters SJ, for Society of Jesus.  The same tradition
applies to other orders, like OSB for Order of Saint
Benedict."
"Could it be a misprint of some kind?"
She looked at the record.  "I don't think so.  The
title's usually worn with honour.  And there's three
references to his title, without the SJ at the end."
She nodded to herself.  "I think we should look into
this, Mulder.  And check if the other murder victims
have the same omissions on particular religious
orders."
"I'll call Loyola Seminary, get an appointment with
whoever's in charge there.  Nice work."
She shrugged the compliment off and went back to
looking at the files.  "Did you check to see whether
the other murders had anything strange about them at
all?"
"Yeah.  Victim number one was Father Theodore
Madeira."  He produced a photograph of a tall, black
man stooped down in a playground, among a group of
attentive children, his dark face contrasting with the
intense gleam of his smile.  He was fairly young, but
still wore the traditional charcoal suit and white dog
collar.  Scully felt a moment's pity, then steeled
herself to the facts again.  "When New Orleans PD
found him, they dusted for fingerprints and came up
with a couple on his glasses."
"Did they find a match?"
"Uh huh.  Ran it through their computers and came up
with the name of Benjamin Carter."  Scully was about
to reach for her coat, but then stopped, as the
hunter's gleam hadn't entered Mulder's eye.
"And?" she prompted.
"Unfortunately for the investigation, Carter has the
perfect alibi.  He was convicted of aggravated sexual
assault and murder in 1991.  Life sentence.  He's
serving time in a maximum security compound in western
Mississippi.  He was at least a hundred miles from the
scene of the crime at the relevant time.  Duty watch
at the prison reported no unusual occurrences on the
night in question.  All prisoners secured.  Including
Carter."  Mulder let half his face creep into a grin.
"The police relegated the case to the 'too-hard'
basket, and it floated around until it went to the New
Orleans office of the FBI and Jack Crawford's boys."
Mulder put the file down.
"What about the second victim?  Were Carter' prints
found at the crime scene?"  Memories oozed up of
Eugene Toombs and small ventilation ducts.
"Father Damian Giotti.  Found dead in the presbytery
of Saint John's.  No sign of Carter' prints.  No sign
of any prints anywhere, bar one on the doorbell of the
presbytery which didn't match any records in police
files or the FBI computers.  And they were pretty
thorough, by the sounds of it.  I'll put a dollar down
that the place was thick with talc after the police
had gotten through it.  Classified unsolved and handed
on to the FBI."
"Was the third any different?"
"Father Simon Chan.  His murder was a little different
because he was originally from the Philippines and
practiced aikido even after he joined the priesthood.
Fifth-degree black belt.  He was pastor to a youth
group in central Philadelphia.  The police there
didn't consider his past in any great detail.  They
assumed it was another mugging, possibly a gang
killing."
"Why was it classified unsolved?"
"Not many gangs use their teeth to kill people.  Even
in Philadelphia."  He handed her a photograph.
Distinct tooth marks formed a gruesome necklace around
the unfortunate priest's throat.  "Never mind that he
should've been able to kill practically anything that
attacked him in the street with his skills.  But the
situation was the same.  No prints, or any prints they
did find were of people with airtight alibis or ones
they had no record of.  As usual, nobody saw anything
and nobody heard anything."
"Mulder, the chances of someone having the same
fingerprints as another person..."
"Make slipping out of a maximum security prison look
positively probable.  That's why I think we should
talk to Benjamin Carter.  If we can establish that he
did the first killing..." He left the implication
hanging.
"And if not?"
Mulder considered for a moment.  "Then we could have
cult activity here.  Satanism, witchcraft...either way
it fills in the gaps with more than one killer."  He
grinned.  "Of course, there's one other explanation."
"What?"
"It's the ghost of an old Lakers fan trying to
undermine the spiritual support of the Eastern
Conference."
She rolled her eyes as a knock came at the door.  This time
both of them reached for their guns, but forced down the
habit.  "Come in," said Scully.

===================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 3/10

The door opened, admitting a young woman with long,
wavy hair in a deep auburn.  Her cheeks were flushed
red, and her eyes a sparkling blue, contrasting wildly
with the rest of her face.  She wore a dark suit and
an FBI tag.  She walked up to each of them with a
proffered hand.  "Agents Scully and Mulder? I'm
Special Agent Juanita Kearns."
They each shook her hand, glancing at each other
apprehensively.  Their experiences in working with
other agents hadn't been especially helpful in the
past.  The last ersatz federal agent Mulder had worked
with had almost got both of them killed.
"Pleased to meet you," said Mulder tentatively, "What
can we do for you, Agent Kearns?"
"Actually, it's more something I could do for you."
"Which is?"  Scully particularly didn't like the
verbal chicanery.
"I'd like to work with you on the case you're on," she
said simply, and Scully's suspicions were confirmed.
"We're not very popular people to work with," said
Mulder carefully.  "And you'll have to talk to our
supervisor before we can even say yes or no."
"I already did," said Kearns.  "Walter Skinner says
it's up to you."
Mulder chewed his lip for a second.  "Got any
references?"
"I was working on this file," she replied.  "The NYPD
handed it down to me originally."
"Anything else?"
"I've worked in co-operative efforts with the DEA.
They transferred me to Violent Crimes eighteen months
ago."
"Anything else?"
She seemed so nonplussed by that expression of
indifference to a fine past that she said nothing.
Mulder glanced once at Scully, then walked over beside
Kearns.  "Agent Kearns, do you believe in
extraterrestrial intelligence?"
Scully hid a smile as she turned her back to look at
the photographs again, getting a justifiable sense of
deja-vu.
"Extraterrestrial--"
"UFOs, in the vernacular," said Mulder.  "Let me put
it another way.  Are you familiar with the X-Files?"
"I think so.  That's the generic name they give to the
FBI's unsolved case section, if memory serves."
"It's also the area that agent Scully and myself are
most frequently involved with."
"In what capacity?"
"Solving them."
He'd never quite expressed their work in that way
before, though Scully thought it sufficed as a general-
-if optimistic--definition.

Agent Kearns was on the brink of complete ignorance.
Mulder sighed.  "Look, I'll ask you one question.
Answer it right, and you're on the case with us.  Can
you work with situations for which there may be no
explanation, other than something which goes outside
the normal boundaries of what we call science?"
There was a few seconds' silence from the younger
agent.  "I'll believe what's presented to my eyes.
Whether or not it obeys the laws of science is
secondary."

Now it was Mulder's turn to be quiet.  Scully couldn't
see the expression on his face, but she heard a
slightly pleased tone in his voice as he stepped aside
and proffered a hand.  "Welcome aboard."

     *         *         *

Saint Ignatius Loyola Seminary was a red castle of
stone at the end of a curving driveway that ran
through glades of trees otherwise lost anywhere near
New York.  Black-garbed students walked in twos and
threes around the grounds, books in hand or open,
discussing their trade.

Despite a heroic attempt on her part to suppress it,
Scully couldn't help but feel an atmosphere of peace
descend over her, much like the kind that she once
felt in churches as a little girl.  Memories of her
father rose up, and even after an entire year she
still felt a knife of grief in her stomach as her mind
replayed his strong hands, large as oars to her infant
perspective, giving her the gold cross she wore around
her neck.  She breathed deeply as she brought the car
to a stop before the imposing towers of the place, and
turned her attention to the case.

She had dropped Mulder and Kearns off at the airport
early that morning, all of them dark-ringed under
their eyes.  Flight 983, Continental Airlines, would
be winging them to the Mississippi Delta at this
moment.  Mojo country.  She smiled.  They would be
back later in the afternoon, they hoped, after
interviewing Benjamin Carter.  Meanwhile, there were
dialogues that had to be conducted here.

She found her way to the reception desk by a series of
pointed fingers of kindly young men, more than happy
to show her a way.  The receptionist looked up
expectantly, and she flipped out the wallet containing
her badge and identification.
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, with the FBI.  I have
an appointment to see the Superior?"
The receptionist did not seem troubled by the black-
robed identification, but instead smiled.  "He'll be
right with you, Agent Scully.  Would you care to have
a seat?"

Scully nodded but did not sit down.  Instead, she
contented herself with admiring the artistry in the
lobby.  Regardless of her beliefs, the paintings by
inspired artists retained the mark of true
craftsmanship.  The category of artists who had
dabbled in religious art was as surprising as some of
their work.  Dali's "The Crucifixion" loomed on one
wall.  The hairs on the back of her hand stood on end,
and not merely because of Father Flanagan's mode of
death.  The colours and artistry of the picture
captured her, and she had to convince herself that the
man hanging on the cross with his head bowed was not
breathing.

"Agent Scully?"  She jumped a little, and turned
around to see the receptionist looking at her with a
note of concern.  "The Superior will see you now."

She walked into the office to see the Superior of the
seminary, Thomas Berne.  He was tall, white hair like
a lion's mane around his head.  His eyes a piercing
black.  But he smiled and took her hand.  "Agent
Scully.  Welcome.  What can I do for you?"
"Well..."  She produced her best disarming smile.  "I
was wondering in particular how to address you," she
said as they sat down.
"Ah, I see.  Well, I think that it would be best if
you addressed me as Monsignor Berne.  That is the lay
term and equivalent of my position.  Can I offer you
some tea, agent Scully?"
"Thank you, no.  Actually, I'm here to ask some
questions about a certain Marcus Flanagan."
He hesitated momentarily.  "The name is familiar."
"He was murdered about a week ago here in New York."
Berne nodded, and she saw genuine sorrow etch his
face.  "Yes, that would be it.  The priests here were
shocked to hear of the news.  A terrible thing,
indeed."
"Monsignor, the FBI is investigating the deaths of a
number of priests along the eastern seaboard.  As a
result, we had to investigate the past of each of the
victims.  We found out that Marcus Flanagan was
educated here, but nothing in his record says that he
was a Jesuit priest.  Why would there be an omission
such as that?"
A perplexed expression crossed the priest's face.
"There was an omission?"
"No reference to his name mentions the letters SJ.  As
I understood it, that usually is mandatory as part of
the priest's title."
Berne sighed and looked out the window.  "That is a
dying tradition, I'm afraid.  It was a small vanity
that the priesthood could afford when our numbers were
much larger.  Now the parishes need priests, not
philosophers.  They don't need to know that the men
who serve them are theologians.  Very sad."
"And are the orders themselves dying?"
He looked at her again with a more analytical gaze.
"Are you a Christian, agent Scully?"
She was tempted to say otherwise, but her father's
memory restrained her.  "Yes."
"A Catholic, by any chance?"
Well, admittance to belonging to the fold might help
negotiations.  "Yes."
He nodded.  "I was wondering how you knew of the
orders.  A lot of people outside the church haven't
heard of us."  He smiled.  "Perhaps that's a problem.
No, the orders aren't dying.  Though some of them,
like the Order of Saint Benedict, probably have fewer
members than they'd like.  But only priests or
suitable delegates can distribute communion, as I'm
sure you would know."
"Monsignor Berne...I knew Marcus Flanagan.  He was a
parish priest in my home town.  But I've scoured my
memory, and I can't ever remember him as doing
anything faintly like that of a theologian.  He
certainly didn't act like a Jesuit."
"Then he was doing the work of God far better than I
do," smiled the Monsignor.  "I once read a book called
'The Shoes of the Fisherman'. Morris West.  Have you
been fortunate enough to...?"
"No."
"Remarkable piece of fiction.  The fondest wish of one
of the cardinals in that book was to only have barely
enough theology to be able to hear confession and say
Mass, but be able to relieve a man's troubles and
understand what drives him.  That, to a certain
extent, is the wish of every Jesuit, agent Scully.  We
are trying to teach and reason what is fundamentally
beyond our understanding.  If Marcus Flanagan appeared
as a parish priest, I should say that he had been
blessed."
Stalemate.  Scully nodded.  "Thank you, Monsignor.
You've been most helpful."
"I'll escort you to your car, at least," smiled the
old man, and despite herself she smiled back.  They
walked together out of the office and down a long
hallway, decked with oaken panelling and more
paintings.

The faint murmur of Latin reached her ears, and she
turned towards its source.  Years ago, the Mass had
been translated to the vernacular, but the ancient
language still retained its flow and beauty, confined
though it was to religious, medical and
anthropological studies.  Through a glass-paned door,
she saw a class of young men, intently listening to a
speaker at the front of the class.  The speaker
continued, oblivious to their presence.  It was only
when she listened carefully that she realised the
lecture itself, and not the lesson, was in Latin.  The
man at the front was younger than she had expected.
Reasonably tall; maybe a couple of inches above her,
but not more than that.  His hair was close-cropped
straw for hair, and grey eyes that seemed to lock onto
each of the students, forcing knowledge into each of
them.  She was faintly aware of Monsignor Berne
stopping to look in beside her.
"He seems a little young.  Some of his students are
older than he is," she commented.
"There are few as gifted as Peter Slattery, I think
you'll find," said the Monsignor, though she caught a
hint of sadness in his voice.  "He came to us at the
age of 17 and graduated by 19.  One of our finest
alumni.  A brilliant and spiritual man."
"He's a priest?"
"Yes.  He teaches Latin--as you hear--and theology."
They turned back down the hall, and he grinned
mischievously.  "I understand the students call him
'The Hammer.'  But he loves each of them like they
were his sons."

They eventually got to her car.
"I'm sorry I couldn't help you any further, agent
Scully.  If you have anything else you want to ask,
please don't hesitate to call me again."
"I will.  Thank you once again."
The Monsignor watched the blue streak disappear up the
driveway.

==================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 4/10

The end of the period sounded, a thin brass bell.
Peter Slattery nodded.  "That's all for today,
gentlemen.  I'll expect the translations by tomorrow
afternoon.  Crux Sancta Sit Mihi Lux."
The ritual.  "Dominus Illuminatus Mea," they intoned
in reply, and filed out of the room.  He was still
gathering up his books as Monsignor Berne walked in.
"I noticed your visitor watching me today," said Peter
without looking up.
"Her name was Dana Scully."  He sat down in one of the
seats facing him, and sighed.  "She is an FBI agent.
They are investigating the deaths of the others."
Slattery said nothing for a moment.  "FBI.  That
complicates matters."
"Indeed.  The last thing we need are outsiders
involved.  It might well cause disaster."  Berne stood
up, walked over and clasped Slattery's shoulder.  "I
realise the strain you are under.  But time is fast
eluding us."
"If I am to do it,  I will have to do it with help.  I
think it's time we gathered the others."
The Monsignor was quiet.  "That could prove extremely
dangerous, given the situation."
"I cannot do it alone, Father.  As it is, without
Madeira and Giotti, the difficulty of the task will be
doubled.  And in the final analysis, you know that it
matters not where we gather."
Berne seemed to consider it for a moment.  Then he
nodded.  "Very well.  I'll make the arrangements."  He
looked closer at Slattery.  "Are you all right, Peter?
You look pale."
Slattery shook his head.  "I'm fine."  He breathed
deeply.  "My sleep has been interrupted lately."

     *         *         *

Mulder walked down the hallway of the prison, the
guard slightly ahead of him.  The lights were dimmed,
sunlight streaming through a solitary barred window at
the end of the corridor.  Eventually, they came to a
stop outside one of the cells.  The guard, a fat man,
his gut hanging over his belt, stuck his keys in the
lock.  "We keep him in here."

The door swung wide with a creak, and Mulder looked
into the cell, which was darker than outside.

The glowing end of a cigarette was one of the main
lights in the cell.  But it wasn't so dark as to make
it impossible to see.  Mulder steeled himself and
looked into the face of a killer.

CancerMan stared back at him.

Mulder blinked once, twice, trying to erase the image,
but the smoking man stared at him and took another
draw on his cigarette.  Mulder opened his mouth to
speak, but the man merely pointed at him.  Or, rather,
behind him.  Mulder spun around, suddenly realising
the guard was gone.

On the opposite wall of the passage was a cross, made
of two fenceposts and nailed to the wall.  Horror
froze Mulder's mind as he looked at the trails of
blood running down the arms of the person also nailed
there.  His shocked mind followed one gout down the
victim's small left arm to the chest and then up to
the face of the child there crucified, stained from
the crown of thorns on its head.

Samantha's face.

He screamed, and his scream echoed through the cell
and up the passage...

...and he woke up, his whole body coming forward, a
cry of fear escaping his lips.  The prison
disappeared; the world resolved itself into the back
of an aircraft seat, the crudely-knit material a haze
of multicoloured static.
"Fox?"  A woman's voice.  Not Scully's.  He looked
around in a blur, heart pounding, breathing fast, a
drop of cold sweat making him blink.

Juanita Kearns' face, concerned and perplexed, swam
before him.  Behind her, he saw several other faces
turning to look at him with his outburst.
Embarrassment and receding fear combined into an evil
mix in the pit of his stomach.  It was still the
airplane after all.  "Fox, are you all right?"
"Don't call me Fox," he snapped automatically, and was
immediately sorry.  He breathed in and out slowly.
"Had a nightmare.  Sorry," he said to her, and relaxed
slowly.

Around him, the passengers went back to what they were
doing before.  Kearns scrutinised him for another
moment, then settled back in her seat.  "You shouldn't
stay up so late," she said.  "No wonder you fell
asleep when we took off.  You've been awake for a good
eighteen hours."
"Thanks, Mom," said Mulder with a smile, though the
nightmare still ate at the pit of his stomach.  Kearns
sniffed.  "How long until we reach Mississippi?"
"About another twenty minutes," said Kearns.  "They
just announced they were about to start their
descent."
Mulder nodded and settled in his seat even as he felt
the aircraft change course.  Below, the Mississippi
Delta glowed in the sunlight like the gem Paul Simon
had sung about.  Graceland.

     *         *         *

Mulder had read about Buford Maximum Security Prison.
It had been touted as the finest 'rehabilitation'
centre in the country in all the usual literature.
And as they drove the rented car up the road to the
prison, he had to admit that it certainly looked
impressive.  The land it had been built on was
reclaimed land from the swamps around it, and then
built using white stone and brick, like teeth
projecting up from the gums of some oversized
alligator.  It sat there, seventy miles from any major
town, rail station or road, supreme in its domain.

Or so the flyer in "Law Enforcement Weekly" had said.

Whether that illustrious claim was true or not, the
security procedures left little to be desired.  Even
with their FBI identification, it took them ten
minutes to be processed and let into the main complex
itself.  Iron bars, checkpoints, electrified fences,
security cameras and watchtowers abounded.  During the
time he had been on assignment from Oxford, studying
criminal psychology, Mulder had visited the hospital
where Hannibal Lecter and other criminally insane
prisoners had been held.  This was the only place that
came up to that level of security.  With good reason.
Some of the most dangerous minds in the United States
resided within these walls.  For some, it was to be
their last home.  Death Row was only one block of the
prison.  However, the institution also held life
sentences and other assorted violent crimes.  It also
held E Section.

E Section was clinically superior to the other wings.
Here, the walls were whitewashed and sterile.  The
guards walked around with white shirts and pants, and
carried nightsticks rather than guns in most cases.
It was, as Kearns said when they entered the place,
where the monsters were kept.  More of the criminally
insane.  And, so the warden had told them, where
Benjamin Carter was now incarcerated.  He had been
helpful on the subject.
"The only explanation I can offer for his current
location is because he must have slipped through the
psychiatric tests when he was brought to trial.  For
the first five months, he was manageable and fairly
courteous.  Then, for no apparent reason, he went
completely off the rails.  He almost tore one of the
other prisoners apart at one stage, so we put him in E
Section."
"Can we talk to him?" asked Mulder apprehensively.
"Now, there's the interesting point," said the warden
with a glint in his eye.  "You can probably see for
yourself when you get down there."

The passage leading down the hallway was dark.
Mulder's stomach twisted unexpectedly as memories of
the dream came back abruptly.  The corridor was
exactly as it had been while he was asleep.
"Why aren't the lights on?" asked Mulder, fighting to
keep his voice under control.
"We're having problems with the power," said the
guard, flicking on a flashlight.  The beam lanced down
the hall, striking the place where the cross had been.
Mulder breathed deeply and followed Kearns and the
guard down the hall.

In front of the appointed door, they stopped, and
again Mulder was struck by deja-vu of the worst kind.
The guard motioned at the door.  "We keep him in here.
The lights are on in his cell; they're on a separate
circuit.  You can look in through the door if you
like."
Mulder steeled himself and looked through the wired,
double-glazed glass.  He had expected someone bouncing
off the walls at least, or with long hair and a beard.

The man before him was well-groomed.  His hair was
combed back carefully, his face shaven.  He was
sitting in the centre of the room, cross-legged, head
up, looking at one of the walls.  He showed no signs
of struggle with the strait-jacket he wore.  He had
the expression of a happy zombie.  Mulder raised an
eyebrow quizzically at the guard even as Kearns looked
in.  The guard shrugged.  "For the past seven months,
he's been like that.  Quiet as a mouse, no trouble
whatsoever.  We're still very careful.  But the
transformation came as a real shock.  One day,
screaming at the top of his voice and head butting the
door; the next, quiet as a lamb."
"Can we talk to him?"
"Warden says you can, so you can.  I'll be right here.
But I think he won't give you any trouble."  The guard
buzzed the lock open and allowed the two agents in.

The interior of the room was simple.  One mattress on
the floor.  Two benches, one on either side of the
room.  Mulder allowed Kearns to precede him, then sat
down beside her opposite the man.
"Benjamin Carter?"
The eyes ceased their staring into space and focused
on Mulder.  "If I said no, what would you do?"  The
voice was soft, gentle.
"Depends on who I'm talking to," replied Mulder
easily.
The eyes seemed to stare off into space again.  "I'm
Carter."
"Mr. Carter, we're with--"
"FBI.  Agents Fox Mulder and Juanita Kearns, out of
Washington and Newark."
"How did you--" began Kearns, but Mulder nudged her in
the shin.
"Your eyesight must be pretty good to read the writing
on our cards," said Mulder, looking down at the tags
issued to them.
"He told me who you are."
"Who?"
"Mr. Frost."
"Who's Mr. Frost?" asked Kearns.
"The guard," replied Carter dreamily.
"What else does Mr. Frost tell you?" asked Mulder,
leaning forward.
"What I need to know," said Carter.  He began humming
quietly, a disorganised tune Mulder didn't recognise.
"Ever heard of Theodore Madeira, Mr. Carter?"
He stopped humming.  "Yes."
"Ever met him?"
"I met a nice young gentleman once.  Dressed nicely.
Kept a good house.  Threw some superb parties.  A
shame."
"Was that Father Madeira, Mr. Carter?"
A look of shocked surprise crossed Carter's face.
"Good heavens, no!  His name was Manson.  Charles
Manson.  I'm surprised you didn't know right from the
start."
"Did you kill Father Madeira?"
The man had begun to hum again.  He stopped.  "Yes and
no."
Mulder sat back in his seat, reappraising the man
before him  The humming filled the cell again.  Mulder
chewed his lip, then tentatively said,  "Am I still
talking to Mr. Carter?"
"What do you think?"  The eyes focused on Mulder
again.  "This is my cell, isn't it?"
Mulder let a grin snatch the side of his mouth.
"Maybe, but I don't think you're Mr. Carter."
"Then you've obviously got the wrong cell," said
Carter, and stared off into space again.  The humming
stopped, and Carter went perfectly still.  Mulder
tried, but couldn't hear him breathing.

========================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 5/10

The guard opened the door and beckoned to the two
agents.  They got up and left.  "He'll be fine," said
the guard.
The door closed.  "What a fruitcake," said Kearns.
Mulder shrugged, then caught up with the guard.
"Excuse me.  I was wondering if you had anybody by the
name of Frost as a guard at this prison?"
"Frost?"  The guard stopped and considered.  "Yeah,
there's John Frost, but he works in B block.  He never
comes down this way."
Mulder nodded and waited for Kearns to catch up.  "Got
something?" she asked.
"Not exactly.  But I think we're at least a step
closer to finding out what's going on here.  Carter is
suffering from what we call multiple personality
disorder.  There's at least two distinct personalities
inside him vying for control."
"And the other one is Mr. Frost?"
Mulder shrugged.  "I don't know.  Usually, in these
cases, the personalities don't communicate with each
other."
Kearns was thoughtful.  "You know, maybe I ought to
stay here a day or two.  Just to interview him
further.  Maybe I can dig up something."  Mulder
shrugged.  "If that's what you want.  I'll get a motel
reservation for you."

     *         *         *

The confessional of Saint Andrew's Church was dark.
It was also slightly damp.  It didn't do much for
Father Anthony Kovoczik's cold, but he had stayed
there for almost the full hour that as offered for the
hearing of sins, so he patiently endured anyway.
Today had been quiet.  Nobody was feeling guilty, he
supposed, then mentally slapped himself on the wrist
for thinking that way.  The work of God was done in
many ways.

The door to the booth opposite him opened, and a heavy
figure settled into the booth.  "Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned.  It has been three weeks since my
last confession."
"Yes, my son."
"Father, I've been breaking commandments.  I've been
seeing another woman...and my wife doesn't know yet.
I met her at the bar, while I was drinking.  I have a
problem with that, Father...I'm getting counselling,
but it doesn't seem to be working..."  The sound of
weeping came from beyond the thin cloth veil
separating priest from penitent.
"It's all right, my friend.  God forgives us all our
sins.  Is there anything else?"
The crying tapered off, and the man spoke up again.
"Well, there is something else, Father.  Just a small
thing...I don't even know whether it's a sin or not.
I killed a priest, Father.  I tore his throat out with
my teeth and let the blood spray over me.  Just a
little thing."
The words were uttered so casually that Anthony didn't
even realise their meaning until the same moment as
the veil was torn away and a single powerful arm
slammed through the air into his neck, paralysing his
vocal chords.  In the last moments of his life, all
Anthony Kovoczik heard was the man's voice quoting a
poem he could remember from somewhere, but not place.
"'And what rude beast, its hour come round at last,
now slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?'"  Then
there was everything and nothing.

     *         *         *

The crowds milled around the church like so many lost
sheep, restrained only by the yellow police tape that
formed an all-too-familiar barricade around the place.
Fox Mulder shook his head as he pulled up in a taxi,
the driver's headlights forming pale moon circles on
the sides of cars and TV vans.  He paid the driver and
got out of the car, scanning for the least conspicuous
route into the place.

Unfortunately, the reporters and news crews saw him
scanning the place and were on their way to intercept,
like some pack of hunting hounds let off their leashes
at the tiring stag.  He cursed and started striding
for the tape, but they caught him halfway there.  The
questions were being fired at him in the usual
staccato fashion.
"Sir, can you tell us what happened in there?"
"Are you from the FBI?"
"Is it true a priest was killed--"
"Will the FBI be assuming jurisdiction over this case-
-"

He pushed his way through them, only absently
listening to their questions.  He caught the phrase
'connection between crimes' and stiffened for a
moment, but hurriedly walked on.  Now the guano was
about to hit the fan.  Mulder flashed his ID to the
cop waiting impassively in front of the church, and
the blue-uniformed man let him inside.

The place had more the feel of a cathedral than a
church.  The high stone ceiling of the place
contrasted with the candles burning brightly under a
statue of the Virgin Mary at the right of the
entrance.  However, most of the activity was centred
around the confessionals, off to the left.  Mulder
shivered slightly.  The church was cold.  In one of
the confessionals, lights flashed crazily as the
police photographers moved around in their grim dance.

Scully, in one of her light-coloured suits, slowly
walked over to him, brushing errant strands of hair
out of her eyes.  "Hi, Mulder."
"You told me over the phone that there was another
killing.  I wasn't expecting the Brady Bunch outside."
"Neither was I.  It's the location that stirred up
interest.  As soon as police cars started turning up
outside a church, the reporters turned up as well."
"Well, we've got problems on that front.  Some of them
are starting to look for connections."
"Wonderful.  Haven't you got anything bad to tell me?"
"I think we can discount the Lakers fan as a suspect."
Mulder saw her smile.  "So what happened here?"
"Charles Kovoczik, parish priest.  The janitor found
him dead in the confessional box about forty minutes
ago.  I was at the police station interviewing the
police who were on duty the night they found Marcus
Flanagan, and the call came in.  I called you on the
way here."
"What killed him?"
"Well, it's a similar method to the other killings.
Large laceration of tissue around the chest and
throat.  But this time it's slightly different again."
"How?"
Scully sucked in a breath of air.  "The killer took
the eyes."
Mulder looked in the direction of the confessional,
where two paramedics were dragging the body from the
small wooden box.  Another brought out the black bag.
He swallowed, the air suddenly a little too heavy in
the church.  "Let's go outside, Scully."
She nodded.  "Through the sacristy.  There aren't any
reporters around the back door."

The back door adjoined an alley which had also been
fenced with yellow tape.  Scully breathed in.  "So did
you find anything out from Carter?"
Mulder shook his head.  "Not much.  When I asked him
if he'd killed Theodore Madeira, he was ambivalent.  I
think prison got to him."  A gleam came into his eye.
"But there was one thing interesting about our friend
in Buford."
"Which was?"
"He's suffering from multiple personality disorder.
He said he knew Kearns and myself because a 'Mr.
Frost' told him.  Kearns suggested that Mr. Frost
might be one of his personalities."
"So?"
From one of the voluminous pockets of the trench coat
he produced a small paperback, heavily dog-eared, and
handed it to her.
"'Season of the Witch,'" she read.  "Interesting
choice for bedtime reading, Mulder."
"Read that book through and you won't sleep a wink,"
he agreed.  "I checked to see if the Newark office had
it before I came down here.  I'd read extracts of it
while I was minoring in anthropology at Oxford.  But
one phrase stuck in my mind and I didn't remember it
until now.  The book's about the experiences of a
witch who was part of a coven until she decided she
wanted to come back into normal society.  She was
killed in an accident two weeks before the book was
published, but they went ahead anyway.  She described
some of the ceremonies they performed, ceremonies of
her own coven and other Satanic ritualists she
encountered.  According to her, the Satanists never
referred to his infernal majesty by name outside their
ceremonies, but instead used the name 'Mr. Frost'.
Apparently, it's in pretty wide usage in that
respect."
Both Scully's eyebrows went up this time.  "You're
suggesting that Benjamin Carter is the Devil?"
"No.  Old Scratch definitely has taken form as Bill
Gates.  Just ask Frohike, Byers and Langley for their
opinion on Windows 95, and you'll come to the same
conclusion."  He took the book back from her
outstretched hand with a smile.  "But I think there is
a satanic cult involved here, Scully.  I'd theorise
that Carter was one of them.  It's a cult of pretty
large proportions, I'll admit, but the evidence is
here.  The method has been slightly different in all
cases.  No matching offenders have been apprehended.
Maybe Carter had friends on the inside who got him out
the night in question."  Mulder glanced back inside
the church.  "The choice of victims in each case seems
to fit cult activities."
"Mulder, you know as well as I do that the FBI hasn't
found any evidence of a large conspiracy of cultists
in the United States."
"So the cult's confined to the east coast."
For a moment or two, she had no answer to that.  "If
you're right, we'll need a lot of backup from the
Bureau on this one."
"Yeah...but let's not cry wolf until we're sure of
what we've got here," said Mulder.

The crash of metal on metal behind them made the two
of them whirl, Mulder dropping to one knee to get out
of Scully's line of fire.  Both of their guns were out
even before they had fully turned.  But nothing leapt
from the shadows at them.  A garbage can lid rocked
from one side to the other.  The wail of a stray cat
drifted from the dark, and a pair of gleaming yellow
eyes regarded them with feline contempt before it
flitted away, a night shadow at one with its element.
Mulder breathed out and relaxed.  Behind him, he heard
Scully ease the hammer down onto the bullet.  She
offered a hand to him, which he accepted, and they
walked back inside the church.

Around the corner of the church, in the direction they
had their guns pointed in, the priest slowly let his
breath out.  Frustration and self-criticism for the
careless noise made the hairs stand up on the back of
his neck.  He had hoped to get into the church this
way, without attracting attention, but the two FBI
agents had blocked his path.  Now the body of Kovoczik
would be in their hands, thanks to the delay he had
suffered.  He pursed his lips briefly, but turned his
head and looked for a quiet, quick path back to the
crowd where he would be able to see them leave.

"You won't find anything, you know," a voice intoned
from the shadows.  The priest froze, scanning the
darkened alley with his eyes.  Nothing moved.  Yet the
voice was close enough for the speaker to be standing
next to him or behind him.  His back was to the wall
of the church, and nothing stood beside him.  But the
air seemed to have grown heavier, and the reflected
light a little dimmer.
"Vade retro, Satana," he whispered.  There was a
chuckle from the shadows.
"You are not in the lofty position of the original
speaker, priest."
"Numquam suade mihi vana..."
"I will find it, though, Peter.  You cannot do
anything to stop it."
"Sunt mala quae libas..."
"Your puny faith cannot harm me."
"Ipse venena bibas," concluded the priest, and closed
his eyes.  There seemed to be a moment's hesitation,
and the air diluted to its original thinness around
him.  Peter Slattery breathed deeply.  All was as it
should be.  At least in this alley.  The priest looked
around for a way out.

===================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 6/10

EXTRACT:
AUDIO TAPE, AUTOPSY REPORT, FILE 873452-X
DR. DANA SCULLY, 20/8/95

SCULLY: Subject of autopsy is a male Caucasian, forty-
two years of age, in relatively good physical shape.
Time of death was estimated at 4 pm., twentieth of
August or thereabouts.  Autopsy begun at 9:30 pm.,
same day.  Cause of death is either critical blood
loss or asphyxiation caused by rupturing of the
trachea.  Tissue around throat area was severely
traumatised, consistent with tearing action of a large
animal's feeding.  Said animal was either carnivorous
or more probably omnivorous, given the shapes of tooth
marks as both triangular and square.  Heavy bruising
was also found on the left and right sides of the
neck, indicating the victim was held in some way prior
to death.  Vocal chords also suffered serious trauma
as well, thus explaining the lack of aural witnesses
to the struggle.
[Pause]
SCULLY: Victim's eyes were also removed.  Lack of
blood suggests this was done after victim was
deceased.  The significance of this act in context of
the other murders is unknown as yet.
[Pause]
SCULLY: Under the hairline was found a design of some
kind, a blue flower imprinted as some kind of
indelible ink on the scalp.  Speaking from personal
experience, the presence of this mark is unprecedented
in any other autopsy I have worked on.  I will have to
look at the other reports to see if similar marks have
eventuated.

EXTRACT ENDS.

     *         *         *

It was her second time in the cell.  She liked it even
less with more familiarity.  But it was the only way
to interview Carter, and so she bore up and walked
into the killer's presence again.  The guard closed
the door again.

But this time, it was Carter who made the first move.
"Well, well.  Another visit from the FBI.  To what do
I owe this singular pleasure?"
She sat down.  "I'm just here to ask you some more
questions."
"Indeed.  Ask and ye shall receive.  Knock and the
door will be opened.  I trust you read the classics?"
"You seem voluble today, Mr. Carter."
"Oh, yes.  It was the presence of your friend, you
see.  He wants to believe, and yet he won't believe.
You, on the other hand?  You believe what you see.
Isn't that what you told him?"
She suppressed the desire to ask him how he knew.  "Am
I speaking to Mr. Carter now?"
Carter leaned back on his bench.  "Multiple
personality disorder.  It's an intriguing concept.
Quite frankly, it even escapes me sometimes.  I prefer
the simpler explanations.  Ah, but I see you grow
angry.  Very well.  Far be it from me to be
inhospitable.  No.  I am not Carter."
She leaned forward.  "Am I speaking to Mr. Frost,
then?"
Carter laughed, a long sniggering sound that bit at
her ears.  "Have you been doing your homework, agent
Kearns?  I know agent Mulder has.  I am not Mr.
Frost."
"Is Mr. Frost there as well?"
"Obviously you haven't.  Or you fail to understand.
Mr. Frost isn't here.  He's everywhere."
"Then who are you?"
"Ebott naw iohw."
"I'm sorry?"
"Isn't there something else you want to ask about,
agent Kearns?  Something a little more personal than
this game of Name That Face?"
Kearns chewed her lip momentarily.  "Did you kill
Theodore Madeira?"
"Oh, now, that's no fun at all.  You'll have to be a
lot cleverer than that.  I'm a lunatic, aren't I?
Credit me with something a bit more incisory than
that.  Perhaps if I begin.  You screwed Johnny Nisbett
in the back of his father's car, didn't you?"
She felt the colour drain away from her face.  She
tried to make words come, but that voice had almost
wire trapped her mouth shut.
"It was your first time, wasn't it?  At the tender age
of...ahhh, sixteen.  He had all the poetry, didn't he?
Like a fresh, red rose."  Carter smiled and opened his
mouth again; but the voice that emerged was from
another place, far away.  Johnny's voice.  "Like the
red rose that blooms in the daylight, you are to me."
Carter grinned at her, his teeth those of a shark.
"And only three weeks later he screwed Patty Johnson
from across the creek.  She had her head on his lap
when his car went off the road--"
"Stop it," she whispered, meaning the sound to come
out as a shout, her heart aching.
"It was beautiful to watch, Juanita.  I watched it.
The fireball went fifteen feet into the air."  Then
Johnny's voice.  "Like the red rose that blooms in the
daylight, you are to me--"
"STOP IT!" she screamed.  One corner of her mind told
her the guard would come running, but nothing moved
beyond the door.  And Carter kept talking.
"He had the biggest smile on his face.  They had to
wire his jaw down, he was smiling that much.  Even
made the undertaker lose his lunch."
She was at the door to the cell, pounding on it.
"Open this goddamn door! Now!"  She spun around to
look at Carter, who was watching her with amused eyes.
And eyes that held something which had plucked her
memories from her mind and shown them back to her.

The door swung open and she half-fell into the
corridor.  As she ran along the corridor, away from
that darkness, Carter's voice followed her.  "He's
down here with us, Juanita! JOHNNY'S DOWN HERE BURNING
LIKE A FUCKING PIECE OF PAPER!!"

     *         *         *

Mulder regarded the newshounds with irritation,
feeling not for the first time like a man under siege.
They were in the hospital lobby, drinking their coffee
and hunching down in their coats like refugees from
Valley Forge, or more precisely like sharks around a
single leaky raft.  He knew there were back doors;
just as he knew there were police on every door into
the morgue; but still he felt that he, as much as the
body of Anthony Kovoczik, was under a mute assault.

He would have to talk to them sometime, if only to
save the Bureau from the bad publicity.  One part of
him laughed at that--saving the institution that had
given him this idiot assignment.  The automatic credo
of the FBI kicked in subconsciously; good relations
with the media were necessary to ensure public trust
in law enforcement.  Still the doubts and irony
remained, as they always had.  He was only waiting for
Scully to finish up and meet him here before he
ventured out.

The telephone trilled, and he rummaged in his coat
pocket to find and answer it.  "Mulder."
"Agent Mulder?  This is agent Michael Dyson, at the
Newark office.  Remember those background checks you
wanted run on the other murder victims?"
"Yeah.  How did it pan out?"
"Well, I checked Madeira's records, and there's some
missing time in his background.  From about 1970 to
1972, there's no record of him having served at any
parish on the eastern seaboard.  I called the parish
he was supposed to have been in, but they don't have
any record of him being there."
"He had a passport, didn't he?"
"Yeah.  Stamps on it list him as having travelled out
of the country in 1969.  But there's no record of his
having returned at any time during '70 to '72.  And it
doesn't say where it went."
Mulder digested the advice, possibilities opening up.
"Did you check on their records the way I told you?"
"Yes.  You were right.  In all three cases prior to
Marcus Flanagan, the victims were all educated at
various seminaries around the country and overseas.
Each seminary belonged to certain religious orders --
the Dominicans, the Franciscans and even the Order of
Saint Benedict -- they're monks.  But in each case,
there's no listing of those men as having belonged to
those religious orders."
"Okay.  Thanks, Dyson.  Oh--one more thing.  What were
the locations of those seminaries?"  Mulder scratched
around for a pen and paper, cradling the phone under
his chin.

Dyson told him, then rang off.  Mulder looked at the
places, considering them.  He glanced around and
spotted a waiting room where a map of the world had
been put up to give worried eyes something to look at.
He put mental spots on the location of each killing,
and then the rough location of each seminary, and a
shape resolved itself, casting a shadow across the
American map.  Focusing on New York.

He was still considering it when Scully surprised him.
"Geography?"
"I got the location of each of the priests'
seminaries, Scully.  Newark just called with them.  If
you put them on the same map as the killings, it forms
a cross.  And the centre of that cross," he thumped a
finger on the map, "is bang on the Big Apple."  He
handed her the notepaper, which she scrutinised.  He
could see her agree with his view.
"Well, that gives us a pattern.  The question is, how
will he develop it next?" said Scully.
"I don't know, but I do know this: there's something
special about each of these priests.  They were all
like Marcus Flanagan--no recognised religious order,
but all of them trained as priests in a religious
order."
He saw her nodding and knew she had seen something.
"What is it?"
"What it is, is a small blue ink mark below the
hairline.  The shape of a flower.  And no priest I
ever knew ever carried that mark, or any mark like
it."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that I think we have to talk to Monsignor
Berne and whoever Father Kovoczik's superior was.  I
think they know why the killings are occurring."
"That's very hypothetical, Scully.  Got anything to
back it up?"
"Call it a hunch.  Woman's intuition."
"Leap of faith?"
The look she gave him in reply was enough for him to
know the answer.  "Okay, okay.  We'll see them about
it.  Meantime, we've got the press to front up to."
They walked out of the waiting room and started for
the door, when Mulder caught a glimpse of a black coat
headed in the direction of the wards.  It disappeared
around a corner.
"Scully, isn't this outside visiting hours?"
She glanced at her watch.  "10:30 pm.  I'd say so."
Mulder bolted for the nearest police officer at the
door.  "Get the word out.  Seal off the building.
Now."
"...Sir?"
"You heard me.  Nobody gets in or out.  Did you see a
man in a black coat pass here?"
"A priest? Yes, sir.  He said he was here to--"

But Mulder was already running into the wards, Scully
trying valiantly to catch up with him.  He ducked down
the corridor he had seen the coat heading in,
realising with a sinking feeling that he was headed in
the direction of the morgue.  He pulled the gun from
its holster, almost bowling over a graveyard-shift
nurse who came out of one of the private rooms without
looking first.

He turned the last stretch off carpeted floor and onto
linoleum, his leather-shoed feet clacking on the floor
with the harsh bite of white noise, shouldering
through the heavy swinging door.  A shadow slipped
away from a frosted-glass door like quicksilver.
Mulder kicked open the door to the morgue itself and
raised the gun, panning it left and right over the
body of Anthony Kovoczik.  Nothing.  The swinging door
creaked on its hinges at the end of the room.  The
sound of running footsteps dimly sang in the cool,
dead air.  Mulder cursed and vaulted a chair in that
direction, taking a second to balance himself as he
slipped on a damp spot on the floor.

Then he was through the other doors and looking down a
flight of stairs marked FIRE ESCAPE on the wall, an
chrome railing beneath it, where a figure was taking
two steps at a time--in a black coat.
"Federal agent! Freeze!" he hollered.  The figure took
no notice.  Mulder didn't hesitate.  The gun's sight
dropped to a point above the figure.  He pulled the
trigger, the noise of the shot echoing a thousand
times in the narrow passageway.

The bullet ricocheted off the concrete and spat sparks
by the figure's right hand on the railing, but missed.
However, the figure made a reflex action of taking his
hand from the railing and lost his balance, one foot
tripping the other and the black coat tumbling down
the last five steps to hit the far wall, stunning
himself.

Mulder hopped onto the railing, sliding down it with
one arm outstretched to keep his balance.  He reached
the bottom just as the figure began to catch his
breath and reached out a hand to get himself off the
floor.  Mulder thrust the gun forward.  "Don't move."

For a second he thought the figure, momentarily tensed
like a coiled spring on the floor, would make a lunge
for him.  But then the air seemed to deflate from him
and he relaxed. Piercing grey eyes looked up at
Mulder, unafraid of the pistol.  The white square
below his throat confirmed him as a priest.

=====================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 7/10

He heard more clacking heels, and glanced quickly to
see Scully coming sideways down the steps, her own gun
drawn but pointed upwards.  She slowed as she reached
the bottom of the stairs.
"Mulder--"
"He was in the morgue, Scully.  With Father Kovoczik's
body."  He turned back to the priest.  "What were you
doing there?"
Scully bent down beside the priest and scrutinised the
man as he gave no response.  "Mulder, I recognise this
man.  You're Father Slattery, aren't you?"
"You know him?"
"I saw him at Loyola seminary."
"The Jesuit seminary? Kovoczik wasn't a Jesuit."
"Neither were the other priests, according to their
records.  Father Slattery, we're with the FBI.  What
were you doing in the morgue?"
He refused to look at her.  "Administering the last
rites."
Scully's lips thinned.  "I don't think so.  That's
done before death, not after.  I'm a Catholic as
well."  He seemed to deflate even further.  "Father
Slattery, we only want to try and find whoever did
this to Father Anthony.  That's all.  We don't want to
expose your faith to inspection."
He looked at them one after the other.  "That is not
my fear.  The church has never sought to prevent
inspection.  But I tell you this, for your own safety:
do not try to find Anthony Kovoczik's murderer."
"Is that a threat?" asked Mulder, holstering his gun.
"No.  You have to believe me.  The church's
involvement here is of an entirely different nature."
"Is the murderer a priest, Father Slattery?"
He looked at Mulder with shocked eyes, as though she
had punched him.  "No!  God forbid!  Do you think the
church is hunting down one of its own renegades?"  The
haunted look returned to his eyes.  "In a way, I wish
it were so."
"Father, we only want to help.  Don't make us arrest
you.  You don't need that and the church doesn't
either.  Why don't you try telling us what you know?"
Scully got up and offered him a hand.
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes whirling and his
thoughts muddled, then sighed and took her hand,
pulling himself up to his feet.  "Very well.  Since
you offer no alternative."  He looked around.  "But
what I have to tell you, I cannot tell you here.  We
must be on holy ground."
"Oh, for..." Mulder looked away in disgust.
"This is not for my safety, Mr. Mulder, but yours.  If
you want to know the truth, you must be prepared to
hear it on my terms."
Scully looked at Mulder, who shrugged.

     *         *         *

This church was primarily made of wood, but Father
Slattery's genuflection was no shallower than any
other he had performed at any other church.  He slowly
walked over to the statue of the Virgin Mary and lit
four votive candles there, then bowed and walked back
to Scully and Mulder, who waited in the front pew.

They had driven for a mile or two before Slattery had
indicated the church of Saint John of Patmos.  They
had walked inside, and Slattery invited them to sit
down as he slowly went through the process of
remembrance.  For Scully, it brought back a number of
emotions, including the grief of her father's death,
when she had last been at a church.  Then, she had
ignored the statue and left.

Peter Slattery sat down next to them and breathed out.
"As you know by now, all of the priests were members
of various religious orders.  You also know, I take
it, that their membership was never chronicled."
"Yes," said Mulder, "And for Father Madeira, he had
some time missing from his record."
Slattery nodded.  "There was a reason for this.  But
to understand it, you must know what the priests of
religious orders are trained in.  Miss Scully--what do
you remember?"
"They were theologians and teachers," she said.
"Yes.  But there was another function that the
religious orders, and in particular the Jesuits,
fulfilled.  Some of them were specifically instructed
in the rite of exorcism."
"The casting out of demons?" said Mulder.
"Unclean spirits, as they are called, Mr. Mulder.
They have existed since the beginning of time.
Aquinas wrote that they were the angels that chose to
follow Lucifer on his road to darkness."

     *         *         *

Kearns did not get to sleep easily.  The memories of
that day's encounter with Carter kept crashing through
her mind like a misplaced cymbal.  The worst of it was
that it was the truth.

How she had loved the boy.

He had been a dream in her eyes, strong, good and
kind.  Until she found out three weeks later that
Johnny had crashed his car off a bridge, and they had
found Patty Johnson's body in the car as well, her
head crushed against his abdomen.  The funerals had
been quiet, but the rumours had run wild.  It was not
more than two months before she packed up and left the
town, heading for New York and a college far, far away
from the small place she had come from.  But she
hadn't ever found anyone like Johnny.  Except for that
Washington agent, Fox Mulder.  He at least had
Johnny's eyes, if not his remembered (and exaggerated)
physique.

At long last, she drifted off to a world of dreams.

     *         *         *

"No doubt you've seen films like 'The Exorcist'", said
Slattery quietly.  "All I can say about exorcism is
that I have attended at least twelve over the past ten
years, and the film pales in comparison to the actual
event."  Suddenly he looked much older to Scully.  "I
was only nineteen when I attended the first of them.
A devout young man from Italy.  That was one of the
failures.  Even though the spirit was exorcised, it
made his heart burst and he died soon afterwards."
"Wait a minute, Father," interrupted Mulder, "If I'm
right, they usually only allow older priests at
exorcisms.  Why were you allowed there at such a young
age?"
"Because I had a special gift.  A gift so precious the
church was prepared to sacrifice a nineteen-year-old
boy for the sake of the lives it would save."
"What gift?"
"In 1968, in the wake of the Second Vatican Council,
it was decided that the church should look into the
new sciences emerging out of the popular culture, for
its possible impact on the church's following.  The
church secretly conducted studies of several hitherto
unexplained phenomenon such as tarot reading, rune
lore and crystal energy.  Most of it was dismissed as
either heresy or mere superstition, as opposed to
being of faith.  However, the study of psychic ability
was found to have no theological flaws, as it was an
inherent human gift from God, and had too high a
success rate for it to be mere chance.  In the highest
offices of the church, psychic ability was admitted as
being a true phenomenon.  It was also decided that the
best use for such an ability would be in the detection
and removal of inhabiting spirits -- cases of
possession.  The exorcist is shrouded in mystery by
his very nature.  A perfect place to deploy these
abilities until they were recognised by the wider
community.  And so the Brotherhood of the Eye was
formed among exorcists, across all countries and
religious orders, to assist in expunging inhabiting
spirits."  He rolled up the forearm of his coat, where
a faded blue flower's imprint could be seen.  "The
blue lily is the mark of our fraternity."  He smiled
as he looked at the mark.  "It is a mark indicating
the highest level of training in the church, and yet
no mention is ever made of it, and it never goes with
a priest to his grave."  He looked back at them.  "I
was in the morgue to try and remove the mark before
the autopsy, and also to establish who or what had
killed him."
"You could do that?" asked Mulder, with more than a
note of disbelief.
"Any of us could do it," replied Slattery evenly.
"Was Madeira's membership in the Brotherhood the
reason why he has time missing on his records?" asked
Scully.
"No.  You may assume that all the murdered priests
thus far were members of our group.  But that is not
the only reason why they are being murdered."
"Then what is the reason?" pressed Mulder.

Now Slattery looked particularly like a man on a knife-
point.  Mulder could almost see his thought processes,
weighing the two of them up and balancing the
potential risks.  Finally, though, he seemed to nod to
himself.  "Agent Mulder, have you ever heard of a
place called Fatima?"

     *         *         *

The dream was strange, and for a moment she debated
pinching herself awake, but decided against it.

She was walking down a long corridor, light glimmering
off the steel walls and floor.  It was clear she was
in the wing of a prison.  She passed white sets of
bars.  Oddly, though, there were no inmates in any of
them.  But her feet still seemed to be taking her
somewhere.  Kearns let the dream flow, and she walked
to the cell at the end of the wing and turned to face
it.

Benjamin Carter's face leered out at her from behind
the bars.  "Hello, agent Kearns.  I was wondering when
we'd meet again."
She knew she should have felt repulsed by that, but
the dream's muddy feeling continued to overbear her.
"I thought you'd still be in E Section," she said,
stupidly.
"I am," he replied.  "At least in body.  But then,
nothing keeps out the night, after all.  In dreams, I
am free to walk through the walls of my prison."
"You don't seem very free here," she said.
Carter's grin grew wider.  "Well, that depends on how
you look at it."
"Why are you here?"
"In your dream?"  Carter's eyebrows went up.  "Why, to
show you this," he said.

His face suddenly changed; his whole body seemed to
snap into another form entirely.  To her horror, Patty
Johnson now stood in the cell, still dressed in
Carter's prison fatigues.  Blood dripped from a spot
above her eye.  Patty spat, and a thick gobbet of
something milky white splashed over Kearns' face.
"Hi, Juanita.  Long time no see."

     *         *         *

"Fatima?" echoed Scully.  "It's been cited by every
doom crier since the turn of the century.  Three
children claimed that they had seen a vision of the
Virgin Mary, and twenty thousand people supposedly saw
the sun moving around in the sky at midday.  It's one
of the few visions the Catholic church actually
accepted as true."
"You remember rightly, agent Scully.  But do you
remember the other half of the Fatima story?"
"I think I do," said Mulder.  "The sun moving around
was an authentication for three messages that Mary
gave the children.  The first was that only one of
them would survive beyond 1950.  The second was a
prediction that if people didn't repent their sins,
the world would be visited with another great war,
even worse than World War One had been.  And the third
was to stand unrevealed until 1960."  He frowned in
memory.  "Pope John XXIII opened the third revelation,
which the last child had written down, in 1960 and
publicly announced that it didn't concern his time."
He glanced significantly at Scully.  "And
unofficially, it's said he fainted with shock when he
read it."
Slattery nodded.  "I don't know about His Holiness
fainting, but the content of the message was enough to
provoke that reaction in anyone."
"You've read it?" asked Scully.
"I know what it contains.  That is enough," replied
Slattery stiffly.
"How does Fatima relate to the murders so far?" asked
Mulder, his patience growing thin.  He suddenly had a
thought, and stared at Slattery, who could only look
back at him with haunted eyes.  "Oh my God--the third
message concerns you, doesn't it? That's it, isn't it?
It's about the Brotherhood!"
"Yes.  The foundation of the order was a command to
the church.  That was one part of the third message.
The other parts were a list of thirteen names.  Twelve
men, from all parts of the world, and one woman."
"And...your name was on that list, wasn't it? As well
as all the priests who have been murdered so far?"
Scully was pale.
"Yes.  Seven of us remain, now that Anthony Kovoczik
is gone."
"Why were your names on the list?" asked Mulder.
"The final part of the command was that each of us,
when we eventually came into the Brotherhood, would be
told the name of the one woman on the list.  And told
to protect that woman at all costs."
"Why?" asked Mulder.  The question hung in the air.
Scully thought she knew why, her father in her knew
why, but the sceptic within her refused to believe it.
She could almost feel Mulder's regret in even asking
the question.
Slattery took a breath.  "There was a final warning.  The Virgin
said the time of trial for the Brotherhood would come when they
began to fall to the hands of their prey."

================================

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 8/10

"I was really enjoying it," said Patty.  "He has the
biggest--well, you probably figured that out anyway."
Kearns had backed against the far wall, shaking her
head slowly, wiping the white liquid off her face
almost absently.  She had already told herself to wake
up, and had been rejected each time.
"Don't you understand?" said Patty, her face twisting
up in frustration.  "This isn't a dream.  It's a
chance for you.  You wanna take a shot at me?  Here's
your chance."  She leaned against the bars.  "Unless
you're afraid."
Something broke inside Kearns.  She snarled with
anger, and whipped out the key to the cell which had
mysteriously appeared in her pocket.  She slammed it
into the lock, turned it and swung the door wide.
Patty Johnson stood before her, calm and passive, with
that same, smug smile Kearns had always despised as a
child.

Juanita Kearns put her hands around that elegantly
sculptured neck and squeezed, even as she bore Patty
to the floor with her.  She straddled the woman and
squeezed madly, the muscles standing out on her arms.
Through a haze of sweat, she stared at Patty's face--
which suddenly changed into Johnny's face, dying, half-
smashed in the way it had been after the crash, a
horrified expression on his face.  And then it
changed, right there in front of her, into Carter's
face again.

Her hands had suddenly gone from his neck, and his
sneer and glittering, triumphant eyes told her she had
made an awful mistake.
"Well," said Carter pleasantly, as he put his hands on
her throat and rolled her over until she was beneath
him, "Isn't this cosy?"

Juanita Kearns began to scream again in her dream, and
was unable to stop.

     *         *         *

"Wait a minute, Father," said Mulder, "What was the
spirit's name again?"
"He goes by many names," said Slattery with a grim set
to his mouth.  "It seems every time the church has
encountered this abomination, he has a new title for
himself.  But the name by which he is known was the
name he gave to Christ.  Legion is his name.  For he
is many."
"And this 'Legion' is killing the priests one by one,
using a different host each time?"
"Yes.  But more than that, he seeks the name of the
woman from each of them.  The fact that he is still
killing them is the only indicator we have to suggest
that he does not know the name yet."
Mulder glanced at Scully.  He didn't know whether to
believe what the priest was saying.  Her own
expression was different from its usual unreadable
features; it seemed half-twisted between fear and
disbelief.
"Why are you telling us all of this?" asked Scully
suddenly.  "These are secrets of the church which even
Popes haven't revealed.  We could go to the public
about this ourselves."
Slattery smiled, a bleak thing on a face etched with
trials.  "You could.  But I think you won't.  Who
would believe you, when you scarcely believe the thing
yourself?"  He sighed.  "And more than that, I need
your help.  Now that Father Madeira, Flanagan and
Giotti are gone, the twelve's collective psychic
strength is greatly depleted.  We cannot find Legion
without the help of the authorities.  In particular,
the FBI."
"Why should we help you?" asked Mulder.
"Because you want to find the murderer of these
priests.  And because you will."
"What do you mean?" asked Mulder, a sinking sensation
in the pit of his stomach.
Slattery looked evenly at Mulder, then at his feet for
a second.  "I pick up things from people.  It's
something I can't control, but it's also a weak
ability.  But there is one thing I know about you,
agent Mulder.  This evil knows you from before."
A chill went up Mulder's spine as memories came back
of little children throwing grown men around like so
many leaves.  Dark rooms, and black-robed men known
only as Calusari.  And a warning from those men...'You
must be careful now.  It knows you.'  He looked back
at the priest, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

But he couldn't make a decision without his partner's
agreement.  He looked at her.  She was still looking
at the priest, but she shook herself and glanced at
Mulder.  "All right," she said.  They got up and
prepared to leave.
"Father, if we manage to track this spirit down in its
host, how do we stop it?"  asked Mulder as he put his
coat on.

Slattery genuflected and stood again.  "There are only
two ways a spirit will relinquish its hold on a host.
One is by death.  The other is by exorcism.
Unfortunately, death will not help us against this
spirit.  It simply seeks another host.  Exorcism casts
the spirit out completely."
"But it's a difficult process."  It was a statement
from Scully.
"Yes.  And often dangerous for exorcist, assistant and
victim.  Some demons go quietly before the power of
God.  Others...choose to fight."
Slattery led them outside.  "I called the rest of the
twelve to New York yesterday.  By now they should all
be gathered at Loyola Seminary."
Scully had a thought.  "Monsignor Berne - he's one of
you, isn't he?"
"Yes.  He was left as Superior here in New York to
give us some sort of permanent base when we needed
it."

They walked out of the church and towards Mulder's
car.  His phone trilled, and he quickly answered it.
"Mulder."
"Agent Kearns.  I'm coming back to New York.  There's
something important I have to show you."
"You learned something from Carter? Can't you tell me
over the phone?"
"I'm already on my way back.  I'll show you when I get
there."
"All right.  We'll be at Ignatius Loyola seminary.
You know the place?"
"Yes.  Thanks, Mulder.  I really appreciate having
worked with you."
"Me, too."  He rang off.  "Kearns is coming back.
Apparently, she got something out of Carter."
"Who is Carter?" asked Slattery, one foot in the car.
"He's a man whose fingerprints we found at the scene
of Father Madeira's death.  Kearns was interviewing
him to see if he knew anything about the killings."
Slattery had gone pale.  "Did he show signs of
possession?"
"What--"
Irritated, Slattery amplified the question.  "Did he
show signs of there being voices within him?"
It clicked.  "Yes." said Mulder.  "And he said a Mr.
Frost had told him."
"Good God," whispered Slattery.  "Is he in custody?"
"He's in the psychiatric ward of Buford Prison in
Mississippi."
Slattery was in the car.  "Let's get back to Loyola as
fast as we can.  I think you have the host in
custody."

     *         *         *

Mulder let Slattery call ahead.  Seven men awaited
them outside the front of the seminary, all in clothes
of slightly differing design.  Two were negroes, both
wearing the full black cassocks of Benedictine monks :
"Father Edward Salins and Father Michael Jones, from
Africa," as Slattery introduced them.  Three more wore
black suits; Franciscan priests "Peter, Jerome and
Adrian Dupres," they were introduced as, three
brothers who had all joined the church and had shown
equally psychic abilities. "And of course, you know
Monsignor Berne."
"A pleasure to see you again, agent Scully," said
Berne, shaking their hands.  "A pity it has to be
under such circumstances."  He looked at the others.
"Well, we had best be about our task.  There's a
conference room I have set aside that we can use.  If
the two of you would care to follow us?"

The room was surprisingly comfortable; a heater glowed
a cheery red in the corner.  Mulder and Scully related
everything they had learned of Carter.  The telling
took a full two hours.
At the end of it, Berne leaned back in his chair.
"Well, my brothers, he sounds like he is the one."
Edward Salins scratched the beginnings of his beard.
"Perhaps.  But we must be sure of it."  He glanced at
the two FBI agents and smiled apologetically.  "We
cannot risk exposing ourselves unless we are
absolutely sure."
"True," said Peter Slattery.  "So perhaps we should
combine our abilities and see what we may learn of
this Benjamin Carter."
There seemed to be general assent.  The priests each
closed their eyes and joined hands.  Haphazardly,
Scully thought of a seance, but the look of utter
concentration on each cleric's face was intensely
directed towards something other than contacting the
dead.

They stayed that way for a full three hours, the night
growing old.  A light rain began to fall, obscuring
the view from the windows.  Mulder rubbed his eyes,
feeling with distaste the forerunners of stubble on
his face.  Next to the heater, Scully dozed in a
chair.  At the table, none of the priests had moved.
Mulder shook his head and glanced outside.

He saw the twin cones of light reaching up the
driveway even as he heard the sound of the engine and
the soft hissing of the tyres on the wet driveway.
Not wanting to disturb Scully or the priests, he
tiptoed out of the room to try and find his way down
to the carpark.  The place was a maze, but he found
his way down to the park  by means of the stairwell.
All was quiet inside the seminary; on the way up,
Berne had explained that the students were staying in
houses away from the main buildings of the seminary.
Only the senior staff remained, and of those only
Slattery chose to sleep in the seminary itself.

He walked over to the car, the rain falling heavily on
his hair.  The lights were on, the engine turned off.
The door had been left open, and a purse lay on the
seat, the sickly yellow overhead light casting it a
purple tinge.  Mulder peered closer, recognised
Kearns' handbag.

He was just wondering where she was when something hit
him over the head, propelling him into darkness.

     *         *         *

The first crash of thunder coincided with the lights
going out.  Scully snapped out of her sleep, her eyes
madly trying to adjust to the sudden darkness.  She
heard the priests as well.
Slattery.  "What's wrong with the lights?"
One of the Dupres brothers.  "It must be the storm."
Berne.  "The electricity is underground here."
A few seconds' silence.  Scully began to feel the
hairs rise on the back of her palms.
Slattery.  "Christ have mercy."
Salins.  "It's here--inside this building!"
Berne.  "Gather your things, gentlemen.  We are
leaving this place."
She heard one or two of them reciting the Lord's
Prayer.  A hand dropped onto her arm, and she jumped.
Berne.  "Miss Scully, we must go.   Do you
understand?"
She nodded dumbly.  "You lead the way.  I'll cover
you."  She drew the pistol.  In the darkness, she
could almost feel Berne's sad disapproval, then his
movement to the door and out into the passageway.

The thunder crashed again.

================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 9/10

Half of them were out when it seemed the thunder broke
again.  But something small and quick darted past
Scully's cheek, and she felt the hot slipstream of air
behind the bullet.  The flash of the gun behind her
reflected off the paintings on the wall, casting
agonised figures about the room.  The gun roared
again, and she heard with a sick feeling the scream of
one of the priests and the final thud as he hit the
ground.
"Get down!" she yelled and spun, the pistol coming up
to eye level even as the third bullet whined off a
vase and imbedded itself in a painting nearby.  The
priests were dropping, some shouting in confusion.
She could hardly see anything, but her instincts
tracked the location of the last flash and she fired
at the source.  The gun's roar was loud in her ears.

The shot missed, but the flash lit up a nightmarish
figure in a bizarre strobe.  She only saw it for a
second before darkness descended, but it was
unmistakable.

Juanita Kearns' face, contorted into rage, an FBI
service pistol raised.

The shock didn't translate to her nervous system,
though, and Scully pulled the trigger again.  And once
more.  But nothing appeared in her sights, and nothing
lay on the ground in front of her field of vision.
Running footsteps echoed down the corridor.  She
started towards their source, but remembered the
fallen priest even as a steely hand grabbed her arm.
"Don't!" Slattery's voice was a harsh whisper.
"Follow him, and that will be the end of you.  He will
have the cover of darkness and supernatural strength
to draw upon.  There are the dying to attend to here."
The priests were gathered around a fallen form.
Scully rummaged in a pocket for a torch and found it,
though the combat-sense in her, so drilled in from FBI
training, was warning her that she would lose her
night vision that everyone acquired after even half an
hour in the dark.  She relentlessly pushed the voice
down and snapped the light on.

Monsignor Berne lay in a pool of blood in the middle
of the passageway.  She could see where the bullet had
sickeningly smashed into his chest and made chowder of
it.  She pressed her lips together and squeezed her
eyes shut, forcing down the nausea.  Then clinically
felt for pulse and breath.  Around her, the priests
were whispering the last rites.  Tears ran down some
of their faces.  One of them was holding the
Monsignor's hand.  He coughed hollowly, then opened
his eyes and smiled up at Scully.  For a moment, she
thought he would say something; but instead, he just
lay his head back and...

...died.

The priests were silent for a moment or two, then made
signs of the cross over Berne's body.  Scully forced
down the tear that brimmed at her eye and looked
around, hand going to her gun again.  She swung the
torch up with her other hand, resting the shooting arm
over the torch arm.  Nothing moved.  But she knew --
against all her scepticism -- that something waited in
the shadows.
"Slattery, get your people out of here.  Do it now!"
she said.  Slattery nodded to the others, and they
began to lift Berne's body.
"No time for that," she snapped.  Slattery swung
around, his eyes flashing.
"We don't leave our brethren to be defiled, agent
Scully!"
Scully stood there for a second or two, the torch
shining into Slattery's chest, staring at him.  He did
not turn away.  Finally, she thinned her lips and
glanced around again.  "All right.  Hurry."  Every
shadow held death now.  Where the hell was Mulder?

They picked the body up and started towards the main
stairway that would lead to the seminary's lobby.
Scully slowly walked backwards, torch moving from one
place to the next.  First, a painting.  Then a vase.
An agonised face.  Her finger nearly tightened on the
trigger then, but she relaxed when it didn't move and
fleetingly considered the implications of accidentally
putting a bullet through the face of Christ crucified.

The thunder crashed again.  They were nearly to the
main stairwell now, a grand staircase that looked as
though it belonged in "Gone With The Wind."

They were just about to turn down the staircase when
another gunshot roared, and big Father Jerome Dupres
lurched back against the rest of them with a hoarse
cry, letting go of the body.  They collapsed against
one another as the body fell and tumbled towards the
bottom of the stairs, along with Father Jerome's body
and most of the remaining priests.  At the other end
of the landing, Kearns stood outlined in the light of
a window, in side profile, gun smoking.  Her smile was
of the Reaper as she pulled the trigger again.  Peter
Dupres cried out and joined his brother in death.

Scully was on one knee and she fired, three shots in
quick succession, her gun now out of ammunition.  She
had her target clearly outlined.  Her hand did not
waver.  Three shots of leaden death screamed towards
their target.

Yet none of them seemed to connect.  She heard the
ricochet of the bullets.  And did not see Kearns move.

Kearns adjusted her aim slightly.  And fired again.

Scully felt an explosion of agony burst in the leg she
was kneeling on.  The world seemed to slow down as the
leg collapsed under her.  Her pistol fell from her
hand, rattling down the stairs.  Disjointedly, she
thought it a miracle it did not go off by itself.  She
heard the cries of the disoriented, confused priests.
She couldn't see them.  The world was a sea of blood-
encrusted pain.  She clutched at her leg, her teeth
clenched.  Then the sound of a hammer cocking made her
look up, and there was Kearns, eyes burning with a
feverish fire, the muzzle of the gun smiling into
Scully's face.
"Kearns -- it's agent Scully!"
Kearns made no reply, but aimed straighter.

Two shots rang out.  For a second, Scully thought they
were entering her.  The pain was too intense to know.
But Kearns howled with a voice that could not have
been her own and fell aside, her shoulder and hip
ruptured with sprays of blood.
"Scully!" yelled Mulder from the bottom of the stairs.
She heard footsteps, many footsteps, coming up the
staircase.  She smiled, then passed out.

Mulder was three steps ahead of Slattery and the two
African priests.  He turned the top of the landing,
saw Kearns reaching for the pistol, her face a raging
light, and kicked it away.  Then the priests were on
her, Salins and Jones grabbing her arms as Slattery
fumbled for holy water and a crucifix.  Mulder skidded
to Scully's side, his heart leaping in fear at her
closed eyes.

But he heard the sounds of struggle, and he looked in
spite of himself.  And froze in spite of himself.

Kearns had Salins by the throat with one arm.  The arm
that blood coloured an evil red in the dim light.  The
priest coughed, even as Jones fought to contain the
power in the other arm.  Slattery sprinkled the holy
water across Kearns' face, muttering Latin.  Smoke
rose from the spots where it landed, and an inhuman
scream issued from Kearns' mouth.  The arm holding
Salins surged with power, and a harsh crackling bit
into Mulder's ears.  Kearns tossed the form aside, and
it sailed out over the banister a limp form, to land
somewhere in the lobby with a sickening thud.  Then
the female agent smashed that freed arm into Jones'
face, who slumped.  She leapt to her feet and grabbed
Slattery by the front of his shirt.  The young priest
was petrified.

Kearns smiled.  "No, I won't kill you, Slattery.  Our
game isn't over yet.  Instead, I will honour you with
a kiss."  She grabbed his face and rammed her lips
against his, her tongue probing his mouth eagerly.
His eyes were wild with fear and shame.

Then she broke off, staring into his eyes.
"NO!!!" he screamed, but she began to laugh even as he
cried out in denial.
"At last!" Kearns screamed.  "At last, her name!"  She
brought her face close to his again.  "And now the
bitch dies, Slattery!  Because of you.  Think about
that while I reach down her throat and pull her heart
out!"

She pushed the priest aside, then leapt over the
railing.  Mulder gasped; it was at least a fifteen-
foot drop.  But she landed on her feet and was off and
racing for the door.  Belatedly, Mulder whipped his
gun up and fired, but missed.  He sat there for a
second, heart pumping wildly, sweat pouring from him.
Then remembered Scully.  He felt for a pulse.  It was
still there.  He breathed a sigh of relief and looked
at Slattery, who had collapsed against the wall, pale
as a ghost, sorrow, shame, anger, guilt and despair
making his face look twenty years older.  "Slattery."
No response.  He yelled.  "Slattery!"
The face snapped around to him.  Mulder lowered his
tone slightly.  "What did she mean?"
"He knows."  Slattery was barely above a whisper.  "He
knows the woman's name.  Now he will find her.  And
kill her."  He stared at Mulder.  "I have failed."  He
put his face in his hands and wept.

At long last, Father Adrian Dupres ran up the stairs,
his eyes awash with tears.  Mulder's pity suddenly was
huge.  Both his brothers now lay dead at the bottom of
the stairs.  But the priest bore up and ran over to
Jones, checking to see if she was alive.  Mulder
looked back at Scully.  Her leg wound wasn't too bad;
the bullet had gone straight through.  Relief surged
through him.  He ripped a part of his shirt off and
tied it around the wound, a makeshift tourniquet.
Then got up and grabbed Dupres by the arm.  "Are you
all right?"
"Yes."  The priest's voice was lowered.
"Good.  Take care of agent Scully.  Call for an
ambulance.  I'm going after her."
Now Dupres seized Mulder by the arm.  "You'll never
stop him on your own."
Mulder chewed his lip.  "Maybe I can slow him down."
Dupres regarded him with a piercing look.  "The
woman's name is Emma Westerman.  Her Indian name is
Rain Cloud."
Mulder stopped to look at Dupres, who shrugged.  "All
right.  Where does she live?"
Dupres told him.

"Stop."
Slattery's voice.  Mulder turned.  The priest was
standing proudly.  "I am going with you."
Mulder said nothing, merely turned and headed down the
stairs, through the charnel house there and for the
door, the young priest beside him.

     *         *         *

The FBI car screamed down the dark city streets.

The shock of what he had seen had finally hit Mulder.
Over and over the dark images flashed across his mind.
"I don't understand...how could she do that?"
"You must not think in those terms," said Slattery,
his voice a broken whisper, beside Mulder in the car,
his head leaning back, his eyes closed.  "This Juanita
Kearns, whoever she was, has been possessed by Legion.
Kearns is not in charge of her own body anymore."  He
opened his eyes.  They were filled with darkness.
"But I can feel her pain.  The demon is putting her
body through stresses any normal human being should be
dying from."
Mulder glanced at Slattery.  "If that's so, the
possession may be the only reason she's still alive.
You want to take the chance of killing her?"
Slattery's gaze flashed over to Mulder.  "We have to exorcise it.
If not, the demon will return with a new host.  We have no choice,
now that--"  He clamped his mouth shut and sat back in the seat.
"Just get us there, quickly."

================================
 

Ex Oriente Lux
by Michael Aulfrey
Part 10/10

Triumph surged through its veins.
Close now.
Getting closer.
Unfortunately, the flesh bag was beginning to show
signs of deterioration.  The bullet wounds from the
man's gun had reopened, the blood trickling down the
arm.  And amazingly, the host was fighting back.  A
new experience to the spirit.  Inside the seminary, it
seemed as though the host's hand had jarred its aim
once or twice.

Not that it mattered.
Now it knew the woman's name, her presence sang to the
creature like a beacon in the night.  And amazingly,
she was close by.  Very close.  Exultation rang again
in its minds.  Practically all the Brothers killed or
rendered helpless, and the woman, all in the same
place!  And there was only the vacillating young one
to worry about

[no leave her alone you bastard]

The demon clenched the host's teeth and forced the
woman's voice down with a curse, and wished for the
eminently more pliable body of Benjamin Carter.

But then he turned down one of the streets, and
exultation again rang out.  One house rang out to him,
shining in the vision granted to him like one of the
stars.  He grinned, and turned to park the car.  Got
out and carefully loaded the pistol.  No sense using
the theatrical approach when the humans' methods of
killing were far more commonplace and useful.

[NO!  oh god dont let him do it]
*Silence, worm.  Your puny god does not frighten me.*

He walked up the front steps of the house.  It was a
plain residence; white weatherboard with the
occasional flowerpot or two.  Born in stables, the
creature mused with a surge of contempt, and pushed
the doorbell.  It chimed hollowly, the door of a tomb.

[jesus oh please im sorry dont let her die its not her
fault]
This time he clenched his eyes shut and brought the
full force of his will to bear upon the insistent
voice in his mind, and with a hollow cry of pain, it
quietened.

The door opened, and the demon turned with a smile of
its face.

To see the exorcist before him, in the full vestments
of the church.  Crucifixes burned on white cloth.
ALPHA and OMEGA were inscribed, words of power.  And
to the demon's sight, the faith and will of the priest
shone brighter than any light it had ever endured.

And for the first time in its existence, the demon
knew fear.

     *         *         *

Mulder heard the cries of rage and the crash of bodies
impacting on the flimsy wooden walls, and tried to
hurry his pace.  But supporting a nine-months pregnant
mother as she slowly limped down the stairs, with the
support of her husband, was no easy task.

They'd gotten there only minutes before Kearns had
arrived, only giving them enough time for the couple
to hurriedly dress and pack while Slattery put on his
vestments.  The couple were ordinary enough.  Keith
"Lost Eagle" Westerman was tall, well-built, with long
black hair in the style of the Indians.  Emma
Westerman was beautiful, her face sculpted in
something that even Mulder thought might come from a
painting.  And as soon as she saw Peter Slattery, she
had known that the time was over.  It seemed she had
known ever since the Brotherhood had come and informed
her.

And now they slowly limped down the stairs from the
second storey, listening to the sounds of curses and
prayers and impact of heavy bodies hitting walls
coming from the front of the house.

There was a sudden crash, and then an unholy cry that
shook the windows of the house.  "WHERE ARE YOU,
WHORE?"  Mulder took one hand and drew his pistol,
pointed it in the direction of the living room, but as
a flailing hand came around the door, covered in
blood, another hand caught it and brought it back
inside.  Another cry of rage issued forth  Perhaps it
was a trick of the light, but Mulder could have sworn
he saw the hand glowing.  Then he was bearing Emma's
weight again as they struggled for the back door.

Inside the living room, Slattery had Kearns down,
holding her by some miracle of strength he knew not
where it came from.
Abruptly, the snarling features of the demon changed.
"Father!! Father, help me!  I can't stop it--"
He quickly changed his voice.  "Hold on, my child.
Have faith!"
"Oh G-g-g-g-g-"  and suddenly the snarling features of
the demon had returned, contorting her face into an
alien mask of fury.  "Fucking bastard priest!  I'll
fucking tear your heart out!"
Slattery closed his eyes.  "Vade retro, Satana.  I
cast thee out in the name of the Father--"
"I'll have you in hell, Slattery!"
"--the Son--"
"All right.  Come with me to death, then, Slattery!"
"and the Holy Spirit--"
The room burst into flame.  Chairs caught fire.  The
roof was awash with flame.  The walls had streams of
fire ripping along them like missiles seeking some
target.  And the sound of the fire bursting into
existence counterpointed the anguished cry of
something that howled beyond the world.

Mulder, Keith and Emma had just gotten out the back
door as the roof of the house exploded.  Mulder
instinctively threw himself between the blast and the
two people, but the splinters of wood whirred past
them.  He felt heat against his back
"That was the water heater!" said Keith in awe,
looking at the burning mass of flame that had been his
house.  They limped away further, as far as possible.

Mulder turned back towards the house.  The back door
was a circle of flame.  He couldn't see past the
smoke.

Something moved inside the flames.  Mulder reached for
the gun, but then saw that it was something too big to
be a human.

Peter Slattery, his robes afire, his hair singed,
crying out with the pain of his blackening burns,
staggered from the inferno, carrying Junaita Kearns'
form over his shoulder.  He fell and tumbled down the
back stairs as the whole house collapsed into a
blazing pyre.

Mulder spotted a garden hose, ran to it and turned it
on with a quick twist, and directed the stream of
water at the two forms.  The fire flickered on them
then went out, leaving