sus-pected it wouldn't exactly do to mention that the list might also include professors of ancient lan-guages, archaeology, and who knew what else. Not to mention immigrants who had been schooled in Greece. Or nonacademic scholars of at least a dozen different disciplines, both scientific and otherwise. The man was excited about some-thing, and he didn't want to throw him off.
"I got to thinking," the agent continued, a fin-ger tapping the face of the closest filing cabinet. "You were right about the Greek part, and I've kicked myself a dozen times for not noticing it before. But I
nave to tell you I think you're wrong about the name."
Mulder sat up slowly, drawing in his legs, tilt-ing his head, eyes slightly narrowed. "How?"
"I was in a fraternity in college."
"A sorority would have been more fun."
Bournell glared at him in faint disgust until he lifted a hand in apology.
"Okay. So you were in a fraternity. What does that have to do with—"
"Alpha Chi Rho, it was." He held out his right hand; on it was an impressive signet ring, a faceted dark ruby centered in gold. He took a step closer so Mulder could see it more clearly. "On the rim, Mulder.
Check out the rim."
He did, saw the three raised letters, and held his breath.
The hand dropped away, "Chi Rho. The sym-bol for Christ, Mulder." There was glee in his voice, in the way his hand danced at his side. "That's what he carved: Chi Rho." A sharp nod, a slap of the hand against his thigh. "Those women aren't hookers, that would be too easy. But I'll bet the farm and farmhouse there's something about them, a connection, that a reli-gious fanatic might find to be . . . I don't know, sinful."
Mulder sat back, admiration clear. "I'll be damned."
Bournell smiled, rubbed Ms palms together, and glanced toward the vent. "Man, it's like an icebox in here. Your thermostat busted or what?" He headed for the door, grabbed the knob, and paused before leaving.
Mulder watched his shoulders tense, and relax.
"Hey, thanks, Mulder. No kidding. To be hon-est, I don't know if I really ever would have seen that Greek stuff. I've had this ring forever and hardly ever looked at it. But I just had it cleaned, and when I was putting it on this morning . . . well, it got me thinking, you know? And the next thing I knew I was looking at it like I'd never seen it before."
He hesitated, about to say something else, then nodded his thanks and closed the door behind him.
Mulder didn't move for a long time.
Sheriff Chuck Sparrow took off his hat, wiped a forearm over what was left of his hair, and slapped the hat back into place, yanking the brim down hard.
"What do you think?" the woman beside him asked, her voice tight with the effort not to lose her dinner Sparrow shook his head. The best he could fig-ure, either somebody was in sore desperate need to practice his tanning skills, or there was another one of those damn cults holed up in the hills again. Either way, it didn't take a brain surgeon to see that he was in for a hell of a lot more work than his inclination wanted.
They stood side by side near the mouth of a small cave, on the west side of a solitary low hill two miles west of the Hatch ranch. Sprawled in front of it was what was left of a steer, ants and flies now vying for the right to rid the dead ani-mal of whatever they could take.
"What do you think?"
"Donna," he said, "I wish to hell I knew."
She was a tall woman, her figure hidden in boots, baggy jeans, and a man's shirt about a size too large.
Her short brown hair was brushed back over her ears, and on her right hand she wore the biggest silver ring Sparrow had ever seen. Her Cherokee was parked on the shoulder, fifty yards away; his patrol car was behind it.
She jutted her chin toward the cave. "You look in there?"
"Yes," he answered with exaggerated patience. "Yes, I looked in there."
"And?"
"And fourteen different kinds of shit is all what I found, all right? Bones. Little bones," he added
"I got to thinking," the agent continued, a fin-ger tapping the face of the closest filing cabinet. "You were right about the Greek part, and I've kicked myself a dozen times for not noticing it before. But I
nave to tell you I think you're wrong about the name."
Mulder sat up slowly, drawing in his legs, tilt-ing his head, eyes slightly narrowed. "How?"
"I was in a fraternity in college."
"A sorority would have been more fun."
Bournell glared at him in faint disgust until he lifted a hand in apology.
"Okay. So you were in a fraternity. What does that have to do with—"
"Alpha Chi Rho, it was." He held out his right hand; on it was an impressive signet ring, a faceted dark ruby centered in gold. He took a step closer so Mulder could see it more clearly. "On the rim, Mulder.
Check out the rim."
He did, saw the three raised letters, and held his breath.
The hand dropped away, "Chi Rho. The sym-bol for Christ, Mulder." There was glee in his voice, in the way his hand danced at his side. "That's what he carved: Chi Rho." A sharp nod, a slap of the hand against his thigh. "Those women aren't hookers, that would be too easy. But I'll bet the farm and farmhouse there's something about them, a connection, that a reli-gious fanatic might find to be . . . I don't know, sinful."
Mulder sat back, admiration clear. "I'll be damned."
Bournell smiled, rubbed Ms palms together, and glanced toward the vent. "Man, it's like an icebox in here. Your thermostat busted or what?" He headed for the door, grabbed the knob, and paused before leaving.
Mulder watched his shoulders tense, and relax.
"Hey, thanks, Mulder. No kidding. To be hon-est, I don't know if I really ever would have seen that Greek stuff. I've had this ring forever and hardly ever looked at it. But I just had it cleaned, and when I was putting it on this morning . . . well, it got me thinking, you know? And the next thing I knew I was looking at it like I'd never seen it before."
He hesitated, about to say something else, then nodded his thanks and closed the door behind him.
Mulder didn't move for a long time.
Sheriff Chuck Sparrow took off his hat, wiped a forearm over what was left of his hair, and slapped the hat back into place, yanking the brim down hard.
"What do you think?" the woman beside him asked, her voice tight with the effort not to lose her dinner Sparrow shook his head. The best he could fig-ure, either somebody was in sore desperate need to practice his tanning skills, or there was another one of those damn cults holed up in the hills again. Either way, it didn't take a brain surgeon to see that he was in for a hell of a lot more work than his inclination wanted.
They stood side by side near the mouth of a small cave, on the west side of a solitary low hill two miles west of the Hatch ranch. Sprawled in front of it was what was left of a steer, ants and flies now vying for the right to rid the dead ani-mal of whatever they could take.
"What do you think?"
"Donna," he said, "I wish to hell I knew."
She was a tall woman, her figure hidden in boots, baggy jeans, and a man's shirt about a size too large.
Her short brown hair was brushed back over her ears, and on her right hand she wore the biggest silver ring Sparrow had ever seen. Her Cherokee was parked on the shoulder, fifty yards away; his patrol car was behind it.
She jutted her chin toward the cave. "You look in there?"
"Yes," he answered with exaggerated patience. "Yes, I looked in there."
"And?"
"And fourteen different kinds of shit is all what I found, all right? Bones. Little bones," he added
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