Free The X-Files: Antibodies by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

high and protruding.
    “Scully, that’s him,” he said. Mulder had seen various photos of Alphonse Gurik in his criminal file—
    but previously he had had long hair and no beard.
    Still, the effect was the same.
    Scully gave a brief nod, then flicked her eyes away so as not to draw the man’s suspicions. Mulder nonchalantly picked up a colorful brochure describing the Postal Service’s selection of stamps featuring famous sports figures, raising his eyebrows in feigned interest.
    The National Crime Information Center had rapidly and easily completed their analysis of the letter claiming responsibility for the destruction of the DyMar Lab. Liberation Now had mailed their note on a piece of easily traceable stationery, written by hand in block letters and sporting two smudged fingerprints. Sloppy . The whole thing had been sloppy and amateurish.
    NCIC and the FBI crime lab had studied the note, using handwriting analysis and fingerprint identification. This man, Alphonse Gurik—who had no permanent address—had been involved in many causes for many outspoken protest groups. His rap sheet had listed name after name of organizations that sounded so outrageous they couldn’t possibly exist. Gurik had written the letter claiming responsibility for the destruction and arson at DyMar.
    But already Mulder had expressed his doubts.
    After visiting the burned DyMar site, it was clear to both of them that this had been a professional job, eerily precise and coldly destructive. Alphonse Gurik seemed to be a rank amateur, perhaps deluded, certainly 68
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    sincere. Mulder didn’t think him capable of what had happened at DyMar.
    As the man reached for P.O. Box 3733, spun his combination, and opened the little window to with-draw his mail, Scully nodded at Mulder. They both moved forward, reaching into their overcoats to with-draw their ID wallets.
    “Mr. Alphonse Gurik,” she said in a firm, uncom-promising voice, “we’re federal agents, and we are placing you under arrest.”
    The bald man whirled, dropped his mail in a scat-tershot on the floor, and then slammed his back against the wall of boxes.
    “I didn’t do anything!” he said, his face stricken with terror. He raised his hands in total surrender.
    “You’ve got no right to arrest me.”
    The other customers in the post office backed away, fascinated and afraid. Two workers at the counter leaned forward and craned their necks so they could see better.
    Scully withdrew the folded piece of paper from her inner pocket. “This is an arrest warrant with your name on it. We have identified you as the author of a letter claiming responsibility for the fire and explosion at DyMar Laboratory, which resulted in the deaths of two researchers.”
    “But, but—” Gurik’s face paled. A thread of spittle connected his lips as he tried to find the appropriate words.
    Mulder came forward and grabbed the bald man’s arm after removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.
    Scully hung back, keeping herself in a bladed position, ready and prepared for any unexpected action from the prisoner. An FBI agent always had to be prepared no matter now submissive a detainee might appear.
    “We’re always happy to hear your side of this, Mr.
    Gurik,” Mulder said. He took advantage of Gurik’s antibodies
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    shock to bring the man’s arms down and cuff his wrists behind him. Scully read the memorized set of Miranda rights, which Alphonse Gurik seemed to know very well already.
    According to his file, this man had been arrested seven times already on minor vandalism and protest charges—throwing rocks through windows or spray-painting misspelled threats on the headquarters buildings of companies he didn’t like. Mulder gauged him to be a principled man, well-read in his field. Gurik had the courage to stand up for what he believed in, but he gave over his beliefs a little too easily.
    As Mulder turned the prisoner around, escorting him toward the glass door, Scully