Agent of Chaos (The X-Files: Origins #1)(19)

“I’d be impressed if Solano and Walker could find their way out of a paper bag.” Mulder kicked an empty brown bottle and watched it roll toward the parking lot.

“Maybe it’s a sign you should stay out of this.”

Usually nothing could quiet the constant storm that raged inside Mulder, but a sudden calm came over him.

“Or it’s a sign that I have to find her myself.”





CHAPTER 9

Mulder Residence

April 1, 11:02 A.M.



The next morning, Mulder’s bedroom resembled the scene of a burglary. He had spent most of the night drawing and flipping through the books and papers scattered all over the floor—books about serial murder; Washington, DC, street guides; and the secondhand psychology textbooks he’d used in his campaign to get rid of the shrinks his dad forced him to see after Samantha disappeared. He had tossed his desk drawers in search of a sketch pad, which he ended up finding under his bed, and he spent hours drawing the dead bird with the arrows sticking out of its body. It wasn’t the best drawing, but after several attempts, the bird didn’t look like a pear with wings anymore.

Mulder kicked through a pile of clothes, in search of a clean pair of jeans and his favorite red T-shirt with the white stripes on the sleeves. A box of cereal hidden under a sweatshirt flew across the floor, scattering stale marshmallows on the carpet. But he hardly noticed.

Everything Mulder did, or didn’t do, was to the extreme. He always had trouble sleeping, but often it turned into full-blown insomnia. After he watched his first Knicks game, he went to the library and read everything he could find about to the team. By the following week, he knew five seasons’ worth of statistics. His father called these tendencies obsessive.

Mulder preferred focused.

And right now he was focused on finding Sarah Lowe.

The elephant pajamas were the only clue, and Billy Christian had been the last person wearing them. After downing two cups of instant coffee, Mulder skimmed last week’s newspapers for details related to Billy Christian and the investigation, but he didn’t find much. It was strange, considering how much information he found about Sarah Lowe. Her mother had shared the important details during the newscast, and journalists had covered the rest, interviewing everyone from Sarah’s neighbors to her kindergarten teacher.

Why hadn’t they interviewed Billy’s teachers? Or his neighbors?

After digging through the pile of newspapers, Mulder finally found Billy’s address in a tiny article in the Washington Post. He recognized the name of the neighborhood, and the lack of information suddenly made sense.

*

Mulder checked the address on the piece of ripped newspaper in his hand as he drove through Blue Hill. When he spotted Billy’s house, he parked across the street. Blue Hill was one of the older neighborhoods in Northeast DC. The same Irish Catholic working-class families had lived here for generations—at least according to the guide on the Timeless Trolley Tour he’d taken right after he moved in with his dad. Mulder liked history, and he also liked knowing his way around.

Blue Hill was an insular community, and when a tragedy hit close to home, people in neighborhoods like that stuck together—and to one story. Mulder hadn’t learned any of that from the trolley tour. Those were things you learned firsthand from living in a community like Blue Hill or Martha’s Vineyard.

He stood on the sidewalk, looking at the Christians’ modest home from across the street. The white house had black shutters and a small front porch, with a skateboard leaning against the railing.

Was that Billy’s skateboard? Or did he have a sibling?

Mulder knew he couldn’t just knock on the door and start asking questions. Billy’s parents were probably still in shock.

But a little girl’s life is at stake.

A screen door squeaked open behind him. An old lady wearing a flowered housecoat and pink curlers in her hair stepped onto the porch, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said politely, hoping to put her at ease.

“That depends.” She settled into a white rocking chair, watching him. “If you’re a reporter, I don’t want you standing in front of my house. And don’t tell me that the sidewalk is public property, or I’ll turn my dog loose on you.”

Mulder liked the idea that he looked old enough to have a real job. Then again, maybe the old lady didn’t have the best vision.

“I’m not a reporter. I’m a senior in high school.”

She craned her neck to get a better look at him. “You don’t live around here. I’ve never seen you before, and I know everyone.”

He heard scratching on the other side of her screen door.

“I’m coming,” the lady hollered at whatever was on the other side. It took her a moment, but she opened the door and a tiny orange puffball trotted out.

A Pomeranian? That was the dog she’d threatened to sic on him?

Mulder raised an eyebrow.

“She’s meaner than she looks,” the woman said defensively.

The puffball ran down the porch steps and straight to Mulder, yipping and wagging her tail. He bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. The old lady seemed shocked.

“Do you have bacon in your pocket?” she asked, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to carry around.