Kadaitcha By Michael Aulfrey ------------------------------------------------------------- Author's Note: this is actually a crossover with something else, but it would spoil the story to say what. Anyway, all rights reserved to them and Chris Carter and 10-13 productions. All except the characters of Robert Crawford and Charles Duggan, who are soon to be released in an action doll line. :) :) :) I'd rate this story NC-17 for the occasional violence in it. It doesn't have any sex scenes. It's also an attempt at an international X-File, and actually the first I tried to write. All kinds of feedback are welcome. Tell me if you'd like to see more of the characters or the international setting! Other than that, enjoy, everyone!!! :) :) -------------------------------------------------------------- Prologue: Frank Mereweather finished up at 11:00 pm. He called for last drinks and put the beer away as the regulars staggered outside to their dust-laden trucks. He said goodnight to Christine as she picked up her purse and left the pub. The flyscreen door banged loudly in her wake. A fine girl, Christine. Sure as hell deserved more than what was available to her in this town. He'd seen her mother a couple of days ago--apparently Christine was doing well at school; her reports had been close to straight-As. Which was pretty good for a kid who had only ever been to school twice in her life. That was for her Year 11 exams, down in the city. Rest of the time, she studied with an ear close to the radio; the School of the Air was very efficient. Frank wasn't like her. Not that he didn't understand the advantages of getting a better education. But Frank had lived in this town for thirty years. It was as much a part of him as the sand and dirt of his home. He sighed. No, he wouldn't have given this away for the world. He turned off the lights and locked the door. It creaked closed. It was in need of a repaint. Like most of the wooden and asbestos houses in the town. But it was home. The night was warm but clear; the stars twinkled brightly on a carpet of ebony above. Frank went to his car--an old station- wagon showing more dents and scratches than a car of its age ought to have. The engine roared to life quickly, despite the hours of standing in the day. He peeled out of the carpark and out onto the gravel road, dust misting behind him and the headlights cones of brilliance reaching down the road. Frank didn't live "in town"; he had a small shack about ten miles out, near Starkey's Creek. Which was a misnomer. It was a light watercourse, only flowing in the wet season and then only with a heavy fall of rain. The last time he'd seen rain had been when he was almost flooded out. The memories of that time returned as he reached the place. He'd had to move up onto higher ground. Onto what the Aboriginals of the area called Yurrina, but the rest of the world called Beazley's Hill. That had been a bad time. In amongst the rock paintings left there by former residents, he'd shivered, and waited for the rain to stop. Surprisingly, the shack had stayed, and the water had taken nothing except the old outhouse down by the creek.... He got out of the pickup, breathing in the clear air. Even the town, as it was, had an aura of pollution over it that the mass of human bodies concentrated together in the same place generated. Some young man had come up from the city one time for some reason, and over a drink he got to talking with Frank. Eventually, the multiple beers took effect, and when the doctor had heard Frank's story, he'd called it agoraphobia. Fear of crowds, or something like that. Another reason for not living in town. He breathed again, the rushing of air loud in his ears. He stopped, curious. It was quiet. Really quiet. No crickets. No frogs. He couldn't even hear a dingo howl in the distance, and tonight was a full moon. Strange. Frank slammed the door of the car, the sound unnaturally loud in the heavy stillness. He walked towards the house. His shoes crunched heavily on the remains of the gravel driveway. Reached the front porch. Wooden floorboards creaked under him. The door was in front of him, a beaten, weather-torn thing. The doorknob creaked under his hand, and he thrust open the door towards whatever lay within. The door banged against the wall of the house. Nothing. Nothing materialised from the shadows. No burglar, no wolf, no razorback- --what a joke of a movie that was, he chuckled to himself. Frank grunted and closed the door behind him, switching on the lights. He scrounged in a pocket for the day's takings and tossed it onto the table. Still that quiet. He would have expected the animals to resume their chatter once he'd gone out of their territory, but inside the house it was quiet as the proverbial tomb. For a moment. Then the squeal came. It was a high-pitched, guttural screech, little better than an animal's, really, and it sounded close enough for Frank to spin around as if it was behind him. Nothing. The house was quiet, dark. Frank headed for the closet, threw it open. Standing inside was the .22. The most chances at hunting the locals got around here was the occasional rabbit or fox--a legacy from their colonial ancestors--but everyone hung onto some sort of weapon. Deaths from hitchhikers had happened around here. Man and woman knew to keep guns and use them. Frank grabbed the gun, chambered a round and stalked over to the front door. He switched on the outside light, then threw open the door, his body retracting into an aiming posture. Nothing. No movement. He panned the muzzle of the gun around a bit. So what the---? He saw it at the edge of the pool of light generated by the lamp above him. It was big and furry. Not moving. Frank's finger almost tightened on the trigger, but he spotted the dark stain spreading from its midsection. Blood. Frank took a cautious step down off the verandah, closer to the thing. Now he saw it, and his finger eased off the trigger. Speak of the devil. A razorback. Feral pig. Big as the boars those little guys ate in Asterix comics. Hadn't been too many around, since the government declared them vermin. Still less, with the hunting population of the town. He heard something behind him. From the house itself. He spun around again, finger back on the trigger. But he didn't fire. The sheer sight of it precluded that. And its eyes were almost hypnotic. Like pools of phosphorus in the air. He was looking into those eyes and they came at him and oh God something smashed into his abdomen but he couldn't even scream because the scream was lost in those eyes and he thought he'd spin into infinity with them and all of a sudden he was falling red rain around him and those eyes those eyes those eyes.... His last sensation was hearing the crickets quietly resume their song. * * * KADAITCHA Fox Mulder, special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, had had enough. He'd seen a lot of blood in his time, but the scene in the hotel reception area was beyond anyone's comprehension. It just showed that the child pornography industry was getting better- armed all the time. And, it seemed, better-informed. Of course the bust had gone bad. The two officers coming in the front door had run straight into a hail of bullets from the receptionist herself when she swung an Uzi into view and sprayed the room from left to right. One of them was caught in the head and shoulders; the other's Kevlar had left him with enough strength to squeeze off a couple of wild shots as he fell. He got lucky; the receptionist's chest was a spray of gore even as they went down. The other officers crashed through the door as the hired toughs came in with pistols loaded, and the place had erupted into bedlam. Meanwhile, Mulder, Scully and the others had gone through the back. A lack of chivalry had saved his life. They'd gotten their evidence. The photographs of pale, young bodies in various circumstances were still drying in the darkrooms. Invasion of further rooms revealed reams of material prepared for publication. And yet the boss got clear, killing one officer who tried to arrest him with a nightstick and a pair of handcuffs. Mulder could deal with that. What he couldn't was the blood and horror. In his ears, the Code Ones and cries for ambulances rang like a funeral dirge, until he had to walk outside and take in a couple breaths of air. And there he'd remained for the past hour or so now, sitting there on a low ornamental wall, watching as the photographers went in and the black bags rolled out. Scully's approach was quiet, despite her shoes, and with his eyes closed he wasn't aware of her until she spoke. "Maybe you should go back to the office, Mulder. I can finish this up myself." "I'm fine." She paused, and even with his eyes closed, he could see her chew the inside of her lip. "How long has it been since you got any sleep?" The stakeout had taken longer than he'd estimated. Twelve hours, no relief. "I can stay awake long enough." He took a deep breath. "What've we got?" Scully's gaze bored into him for a moment longer, then she shrugged and glanced back in the direction of the hotel. "Pretty well everything we need. Guns, photographs, mailing addresses--I guess they thought they could take on Washington's finest and win." "Everything except Rezatti himself." "We've got his passport, and an officer or two on all of his usual haunts. He can't run that far." "Skinner's going to be mad as hell." "I don't think so. He's got all the evidence he needs and more. We just need Rezatti now." Mulder stood up and looked towards the hotel. "We'd better finish it, then." "Mulder." He turned towards her. "Relax. I'm not having much more success than you with this thing." He nodded slowly, and they walked back up towards the hotel. * * * Saturday came and went, Mulder spending most of it writing up the report for the forced entry of the premises housing Rezatti's ring. He'd expected to be able to sleep in on Sunday, but the phone trilled in his ear at 8:00 am, rousing him from a dreamless, recuperative sleep. "Mulder," he mumbled into the phone. "Skinner," answered the voice on the other end, hard as an iron bar. Damn. The guy had decided to tear into him after all. And on a Sunday, no less. "I need you at the office, Mulder. It's urgent." He focused on the words, his brain carefully putting them together and considering their implications. It was a good three seconds before he was wide awake. "Sir...is it a---" "Be here by 8:45. Don't keep me waiting." And the phone rang off in his hand. * * * Like several large law firms, it was common practice at the F.B.I. that on weekends, the employees could dress fairly casually, since they weren't per se on duty. Of course, a number of agents did in fact go on Saturdays to continue their work, and the level of casualness did go to jeans and T-shirts in some cases. But one didn't observe such a dress standard when meeting with Deputy Director Walter F. Skinner--weekends or otherwise. Rumour had it that the last agent who did got himself booted all the way back to stakeouts. So only a stream of suits came in and out of Skinner's office. Mulder made it to Skinner's office at 8:41, notwithstanding the traffic between his house and F.B.I. headquarters. Scully was outside waiting, looking no less dishevelled for the early call she'd gotten. "I was worried you wouldn't make it," she said as Mulder walked over to her. "There was a traffic accident on the freeway," Mulder said, gazing at the frosted glass of Skinner's office door. Vague dark shadows moved behind it. "Who's he got with him?" Scully shrugged. "They've been in there since I arrived. One of the higher-ups, maybe." "On a Sunday? That's not like Skinner. He's usually at golf this time in the morning." "We'll know soon enough." No sooner had she said that than the door opened, and Skinner appeared. "Scully; Mulder. Come in, please." Please? Mulder directed a glance in Scully's direction. She raised her eyebrows in reply. Inside the office were another woman and a man. The woman's identity was simple enough; Jennifer Benson, the legal attache to the Australian embassy here in Washington. Mulder and Scully knew of her by experience, but she introduced herself formally anyway. The identity of the second man was more of a mystery. He was tall, tanned. Black hair. Freckles spattered his face like a bad paint job. His uniform was curious. Not the standard Washington cop's uniform, but instead a deeper, darker blue matched by gold studs and other regalia. But a cop's uniform nonetheless. Not American. That was all. "Mr. Crawford, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Mulder; Special Agent Scully," said Skinner, timing his words to their respective handshakes. "This is Robert Crawford, from the Australian Federal Police, Homicide Division." "A pleasure," said Crawford, and immediately that thick Australian accent was apparent. At the memory of "Crocodile Dundee", Scully couldn't help but smile slightly. But then she frowned slightly...Robert Crawford... Mulder turned to Skinner. "So what's the story?" Skinner looked at the Australian. "The F.B.I. is participating in an ongoing scheme where we take in police from other, international jurisdictions and train them in certain advanced police enforcement techniques. I think you'd know about this from your work at the Academy, Scully." The memory clicked. "Yes. I remember now. Mr. Robert Crawford. Graduated top of your class, I believe." He gave a self-depreciating little shrug. "I had good teachers." Then he turned serious, and before Skinner had a chance to go on, he spoke. "We might as well cut through the red tape. I came here because I need your help. Your particular help." He produced a folder and handed it to Mulder. "The photographs are of Frank Mereweather, a proprietor of a local hotel. Three days ago he was murdered at his home at Starkey's Creek, Western Australia. It's my jurisdiction out there, so I took a look at the file. The regular force don't want to look at it, now that federal police have intervened." Mulder was looking at the photographs. Standard black-and-whites of the murdered man in his position. "The photos look normal, but there are some interesting anomalies here which I can't quite explain. I'd heard at the Academy that you two were really into this kind of thing, so I thought I'd ask for a little help from my teachers." Mulder turned an amused eye on Scully, now--seemingly--identified with his own "spooky" ideas. But Scully had the photographs, flicking through them one at a time. "What kind of anomalies?" Crawford looked hesitantly at Benson and Skinner. "Trust me; it's right up your street, as I think they say here." Mulder looked at Skinner. "Are there any jurisdictional problems if we go, sir? What exactly would we be doing?" "Well, the Director hasn't got a problem with you two taking a quick vacation. As far as anybody else is concerned, you'd be on exchange to Australia to observe their investigatory techniques. The department's approved it, so there's nothing stopping you going." They looked at Crawford. "I think we'd better pack our sunblock, then," said Mulder. * * * Qantas was the safest airline in the world, without a single crash in its seventy-year history. Flight 567 out of Washington over the Pacific to Sydney International Airport, then a brisk walk to a connecting cross-country flight to Perth, the capital of Western Australia. They touched down at midday. Crawford was there to meet them as they emerged from the passenger egress into the terminal. "Good to see you again," he said. "We've got another connecting flight to Geraldton, about 300 kilometres north of here. There's a car waiting there that will take us to Starkey's Creek." The plane that took them to Geraldton was a smaller jet. Unlike, so Crawford said, the turboprop aircraft that worked the southern air routes. Then conversation turned to the murder. Crawford handed them another file. "This is the information which the local police wouldn't touch. You see, we haven't conducted a full autopsy on Mereweather yet, but even from external evidence it's plain that this wasn't a simple shooting." "If it was, you wouldn't have called us," Scully pointed out. "Exactly. Anyway, Frank Mereweather was killed five days ago outside his house, give or take twelve hours. They found a loaded .22 rifle next to him, but I think you'll see it's plain that he wasn't shot." Mulder pulled out a photo, looked at it. Handed it to Scully, who raised her eyebrows. "Was he found like this?" "Yeah. Forensics think some of the damage might have been done by scavengers. Dingoes, crows, that sort of thing. But whatever it was that killed him was a lot bigger than any scavenger. There's some small maceration and tearing around the main wound from the animals when they came to have their share of his body, but the fatal cut, so far as we could see, was about a metre long and ripped him from neck to sternum. We're not sure whether it was made by a large knife, but maybe you can tell us more." "There's nothing really unexplainable here," said Scully, "Murders have been known to have been perpetrated by people waving swords around. What's wrong with the picture?" "The rest of it. It's like he cut himself to pieces. The reason Forensics was so careful with their examination was because they didn't have anything else to work on. We've got no footprints, one set of tyre tracks from the poor sod's car going in. And Starkey's Creek is mostly sandy soil. If there were any footprints, we should've seen them." Scully took another photo, stared at it. The item in the frame was not human. Unmistakably animal. And large. "What's this?" "Oh, yeah, there's that, too. About four metres from Frank's body they found a feral pig dead, killed in much the same way. Large slit in the abdomen. We estimate the times of death to be concurrent or close to it." "Was it the victim's?" "No. He didn't have any pets. Nice bachelor, by all accounts. No wife or children. Owned a pub but didn't make enough for it to be profitable. Just your average bloke. No hidden caches of money or anything that would make anyone want to kill him." "He had a gun, though," said Mulder, one eyebrow raised. He'd heard about the strictness of Australian law on that point. Crawford shrugged. "Everyone out here has a gun, agent Mulder. It's common practice. Rabbits, foxes--anything feral qualifies as vermin. And they're pests enough so that they're worth wasting bullets on." "Just your regular holiday camp," said Mulder. Crawford looked evenly at him. "I realise the rest of the world probably sees the average Australian as a back-country Paul Hogan, agent Mulder, but unlike America, most of the country is desert. Bad things can happen out there. People insure themselves." He nodded at the photographs. "And sometimes your policy comes up." Mulder was rational. "There still isn't enough here that says it's out of the ordinary. You haven't got any footprints, but that doesn't mean the murderer couldn't have come in from another direction." "You're still not listening," replied Crawford quietly. "Maybe you'll understand better when you actually get a look at the site." END OF PART 1/7.