Agent of Chaos (The X-Files: Origins #1)(46)
“I want to take a closer look.” Mulder parked, killed the headlights, and opened the door to step out, but Phoebe caught his arm.
“Are you sure about this? We could leave and go get the cops right now.”
Because they’ve been so helpful up until now? Mulder thought.
Going to the cops was the smartest and safest option for him, but what about for Sarah Lowe? What if she was in there right now and she was hurt? Mulder imagined getting closer to the house and hearing the little girl’s screams. He couldn’t fail her.
And he couldn’t walk away if there was a chance that Earl Roy had information about Samantha.
“I just want to take a look. What if the place is abandoned? Or he doesn’t live there anymore and we drag the cops all the way out here? And that’s assuming they’ll listen to us. We don’t have a lot to go on. I’ve already lost credibility with one police department.” Mulder got out and pulled the seat forward for Gimble to climb out.
“So we’re really doing this?” he asked.
“If you want to wait here, it’s okay,” Mulder told him.
Gimble noticed Phoebe getting out and stood straighter. “I’m cool.”
The three friends walked down the driveway together, following the dim yellow light as a beacon. Within a few yards, the house came into view. The porch light exposed bits and pieces of the dilapidated building. It resembled a shack more than a house.
“It’s dark inside, and there aren’t any cars out front.” Secretly, Mulder felt relieved. “He’s probably not home. Stay here while I check it out.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Phoebe reminded him.
“Look.” Mulder pointed at the darkened windows. “Nobody’s here. I just want to see what’s around back.”
“This is a bad idea.” Gimble glanced over his shoulder. “What if the guy comes home?”
“Whistle or something.”
“Isn’t that kind of obvious?” Gimble asked.
“Don’t worry.” Mulder turned around and walked toward the run-down house. He was wasting time. “I’ll be back in three minutes.”
“Fox—” Phoebe pleaded.
He cared about Phoebe more than anyone except his mom, but he couldn’t walk away from this, not even long enough to hunt down the backwoods police station in Craiger.
He stayed close to the trees that bordered the driveway and the edge of the yard—if a dirt patch edged with brambles qualified as a yard. As he moved toward the house and his eyes adjusted to the darkness, disturbing details revealed its condition. The porch slanted dangerously to one side, and the wooden railings were long gone. The planks that formed the exterior walls were in various stages of rot. It was the kind of house that usually had a CONDEMNED sign nailed to the front door.
The brush was thicker along the side of the house, and Mulder’s feet kept getting caught on tree roots and vines. When he finally reached the backyard, what little illumination the dim porch light had offered was gone. A sliver of moonlight cut through the trees, casting a pale glow on a pile of scrap metal like you’d find in a junkyard.
It was tall enough for Mulder to crouch behind, and it would offer him a clear view of the back door. He darted toward the scrap pile, hyperaware of how loud each step sounded. But inside, the house remained dark. He felt stupid for being scared of a run-down old house and creepy shrubbery.
Why was he letting Phoebe and Gimble’s paranoia rub off on him?
It was a straight shot to the back steps. It couldn’t hurt to take a peek through the window in the door. He probably wouldn’t see anything except an empty house and a dead end. Mulder moved around to the front of the scrap pile, and something hard jabbed his rib. He looked over, and it took him a second to realize what had poked him—the handlebar of a child’s bike.
A chill traveled up his spine. He squinted, examining the mound of metal. Metallic strips of plastic glinted in the moonlight. Streamers hanging from a different set of handlebars. He reached out and ran his hands over the metal. Vinyl seats not much bigger than his palm. Little tires. The curves of multiple sets of handlebars.
Dozens of tricycles and bikes—some old and rusty and others that looked brand-new—were haphazardly piled into a mountain of childhood memories.
Who did they belong to? Where are these kids now?
Billy Christian and Sarah Lowe hadn’t been riding their bikes when they were taken. Had that bastard kidnapped other kids who weren’t in the newspaper articles he’d found?
An image flashed through his mind. A chopper-style metallic blue tricycle with a white seat and matching white handlebars, and two steps in the back. Samantha had picked it out herself when she four years old. In the toy store, she’d walked past the pink tricycles and stopped in front of the flashy blue trike. “This one,” she’d said. Mulder remembered feeling like he spent the whole summer with one foot on the back of that thing while Samantha yelled, “Push me, Fox!”
A sudden wave of rage hit Mulder. He wanted to pull down every single one of the bikes and hurl them at Earl Roy’s decrepit house.
Mulder crossed the yard, walked up a few steps to the back door, and peered through the dirty window. He made out the shapes of the refrigerator and the oven, and, down the hall, the pale glow from the porch light seeping in. He tried the door without thinking about it. The latch clicked, and it swung open.