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

sample—also submitted from rural Oregon.
    Elliott Hughart had treated a dog, a black Labrador, who was also infected with the same substance.
    Mulder had been intrigued by the coincidence. Now at least they had someplace to start looking.
    In the front lobby, the veterinarian’s receptionist 90
    T H E X - F I L E S
    looked harried. Other patrons sat in folding chairs around the lobby beside pet carriers. Kittens wrestled in a cage. Dogs whined on their leashes. Posters warned of the hazards of heartworm, feline leukemia, and fleas, next to a magazine rack filled with months-old issues of Time , CatFancy , and People .
    Mulder flashed his ID as he strode up to the receptionist. “I’m Agent Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to see Dr. Hughart, please.”
    “Do you have an appointment?” The information didn’t sink in for a few seconds, then the harried woman blinked at him. “Uh, the FBI ?”
    “We’re here to see him about a dog he treated two days ago,” Scully said. “He submitted a sample to the Centers for Disease Control.”
    “I’ll get the doctor for you as soon as possible,”
    she said. “I believe he’s performing a neutering operation at the moment. Would you like to go into the surgery room and wait?”
    Mulder shuffled his feet. “We’ll stay out here, thanks.”
    Three-quarters of an hour later, when Scully had a roaring headache from the noise and chaos of the dis-tressed animals, the old doctor came out. He blinked under bushy gray eyebrows, looking distracted but curious. The FBI agents were easy to spot in the waiting room.
    “Please come back to my office,” the veterinarian said with a gesture to a small examining room. He closed the door.
    A stainless-steel table filled the center of the room, and the smell of wet fur and disinfectants hung in the air. Cabinets containing thermometers and hypodermic needles for treatment of tapeworms, rabies, and distemper sat behind glass doors.
    “Now, then,” Hughart said in a quiet, gentle voice, but obviously flustered. “I’ve never had to deal with the FBI before. How can I help you?”

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    “You submitted a sample to the CDC yesterday from a black Labrador dog you treated,” Scully said.
    “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    Mulder held out a snapshot of Vader that they had taken from the family possessions at the ransacked Tigard home. “Can you identify the dog for us, sir? Is this the one you treated?”
    Surprised, the veterinarian raised his eyebrows.
    “That’s almost impossible to tell, just from a photograph like this. But the size and age look about right.
    Could be the same animal.” The old veterinarian blinked. “Is this a criminal matter? Why is the FBI involved?”
    Scully withdrew the photos of Patrice and Jody Kennessey. “We’re trying to find these two people, and we have reason to believe they are the dog’s owners.”
    The doctor shook his head and shrugged. “They weren’t the ones who brought him in. The dog was hit by a car, brought in by a tourist. The man was real anxious to get out of here. Kids were crying in the back of the station wagon. It was late at night. But I treated the dog anyway, though there wasn’t much cause for hope.” He shook his head. “You can tell when they’re about to die. They know it. You can see it in their eyes. But this dog . . . very strange.”
    “Strange in what way?” Scully asked.
    “The dog was severely injured,” the old man said.
    “Massive damage, broken ribs, shattered pelvis, crushed spine, ruptured internal organs. I didn’t expect him to live, and the dog was in a great deal of pain.” He distractedly wiped his fingers across the recently cleaned steel table, leaving fingerprint smears.
    “I patched him up, but clearly there was no hope.
    He was hot, his body temperature higher than any fever I’ve seen in an animal before. That’s why I took the blood sample. Never expected what I actually found,