Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and
situations created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions
and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no
infringement is intended. All other contents are copyrighted
to the author.
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
Part 1: Curve Ball
The Journals of Fox Mulder
* Thur. 9 June
The dates of my journal entries from the past
few months tell me more about my state of mind than I
really want to know. The bulimic pattern of eight or
nine entries in a week, followed by a month of silence,
followed by three separate entries in one day, is
worrisome enough.
And then, looking at the entries themselves,
I see even more troublesome indicators: a lucid essay
and then page after page of half-formed rambling, a
concise report, then a series of vague speculations...
it all adds up to a portrait of instability. Consistency
has never really been my strong point, but this looks
bad even to me.
No wonder Scully's been having trouble taking
me seriously of late.
I started the fact-checking and preliminary
research on a possible abduction case today. It's
Scully's turn to do the quarterly budget... full
accouting required by the Bureau four times a year...
even the IRS isn't _that_ sadistic. So she stationed
herself at her desk and worked on that while I made
calls and read files. At one point I excavated some
paperwork from her side of the office and saw that
she has a copy of _The Myth of Repressed Memory_
by Dr. Elizabeth Loftus and Katherine Ketcham.
How long has she had that? I went back to my
files and stared at them for a while, not reading them,
just wondering. Scully's been particularly zealous
about Satanic ritual abuse cases lately. Violent
Crimes keeps sending them to us and she's debunked
quite a few of them without much help from me, since
generally it involves comparing testimony to forensic
evidence and accumulating enough discrepancies to
discredit the testimony. I'm familiar with Loftus's
book, which is subtitled "False Memories and Allegations
of Sexual Abuse"; it provides a "scientific analysis"
of repressed memory retrieval techniques. Scully
might have it simply to aid her in those Satanic
ritual abuse cases, which are frequently based on
an alleged victim's recovered repressed memories.
But one of the techniques called into question
in that book is hypno-regression therapy.
I thought, after all this time, I had at least
convinced her of that much. I thought that by now she
believed that what happened to my sister was real.
I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but it makes
me think that Scully's lost faith in me. There are
other indications. More and more, she's been questioning
my motives as well as my methods. Now I have to defend
not only how I'm investigating something, but why.
Maybe it's the inevitable result of the nature
of our partnership. The tension we've always had-- the
ideological tug-of-war over extreme possibilities--
dissolves sometimes into irritation. We've been working
together for a long time now and, as I warned her way
back when, I'm a pain in the ass to work with.
Still, Scully's not exactly Miss Congeniality,
is she? At times, she can be positively reactionary.
I find it difficult to believe that after all
we've seen, Scully still takes accepted wisdom as gospel.
The other day she (smilingly, I must note) accused me
of deliberately flaunting the laws of science. My answer
was sincere: I'm not flaunting the proven laws of science,
just questioning the established assumptions that have
become ingrown without ever really being examined.
She seemed disappointed that I took it seriously.
And at other times, she gets upset when I don't
take things seriously.
If I start cataloguing all the little things that
bother me about our partnership, they become distorted,
magnified beyond their true signficance. Every friendship
has its drawbacks. Her neatness bugs me now and then, and
my messiness gets on her nerves sometimes. Things like
that. You compromise, you negotiate, you live with it.
We've shared so many mindboggling experiences
that only we can understand. How could I explain to someone
else what it was like to stand in that tunnel full of
medical files? For whom would it carry the same meaning,
except for Scully? No one could understand the significance
of that moment or a thousand moments like it unless they'd
been there. Only Scully has been there.
The question that keeps coming back and insisting
an answer is this:
How can two people go through so much together and
still see things so differently?
...Maybe I'll just save this file and play computer
solitaire. At least that's something I can win.
* Fri. 10 June
Back again! I've decided to make one (1) journal
entry each day, every day, right before I try to sleep.
Establishing a nightly routine is important when everything
else about your life is in flux.
Since I've made such a big step in establishing
this commitment, my reward is that I don't have to write
anything tonight.
* Sat. 11 June
...Can't think of anything to write about, but at
least I made an entry. The couch beckons.
* Sun. 12 June
Disaster strikes! The cable went out. Well, I've
seen _The Devil In Miss Jones_ about a hundred times
already. At least the day wasn't a total waste. Langley
and I modemed a connection and played a vicious game of
DOOM. I won, so he surrendered a batch of .gifs I've
wanted my own copies of for ages-- Groom Lake UFOs and
the Mandelbrot crop circle. I made the crop circle my
new computer wallpaper.
Scully called. Told her about my DOOM victory.
An incredulous pause, then she said, "Mulder, you need
a _life_."
Almost said Maybe so, but _you_ called _me_.
But I don't want to antagonize her (much) so I passed
it off. I thought we resolved the getting-a-life issue.
But that's the way it's been with us lately. Nothing stays
resolved for long.
* Mon. 13 June
Scully's changed perfume! I hate the new one. How
do I tell her that?
...When did I start thinking like an issue of Cosmo?
I'll just tell her. No big deal.
Paperwork today. I'd like to feed all this paper
piece by piece to whoever dreamed up all these damn
forms and procedures... better yet, I'd like to feed it
to him in its original form: a tree.
Cable's still out. Guess I should call the company.
* Tues. 14 June
Chickened out. Didn't tell her.
Called the cable company, left a message.
* Wed. 15 June
Uh, mental note: NEVER tell a woman you don't like
her perfume.
* Thurs. 16 June
All is well in Mulderland again. I should amend
the mental note. Don't ever tell a woman you don't like
her perfume by asking her what died.
Okay, what _actually_ happened-- she was telling
me about an autopsy she got tapped to do yesterday morning
and said, "They'd tried to embalm the victim, but the
solution was too diluted. He was almost liquified. I
don't know what they used instead of embalming fluid--"
I said, "Your new perfume?"
Oops.
That was yesterday. Tried to make it up to her today.
Spent an hour at the perfume counter at Neiman-
Marcus sniffing scents instead of going to lunch. Finally
I found the perfume she used to wear and bought her a
bottle. (Seventy bucks! What's IN this stuff? Plutonium?)
Gave her the perfume after lunch and was forgiven.
* Fri. 17 June
Finally, finally, the budget is done. Hallelujah!
The perennial backlog of paperwork is dwindling, too. And
my 302 for the abduction case went through. My praises
ring the skies, etc. Good day today.
Couldn't convice Scully to start for Ohio yet,
though. Maybe she has plans for the weekend. I didn't
ask. If I go ahead without her and fly to Ohio this
weekend she'll be _pissed_.
So I won't.
* Sat. 18 June
Called the airline, bought a ticket to Ohio for
tomorrow morning at eight.
While I was at it, I called the cable company
again. Left another message, a little crankier this time.
Held my nose and read the latest Whitley Strieber
book. Every word he writes is another hole in the shield
of abductees' credibility. Maybe I can trump up charges
against him to shut him up or something.
Now, now, Agent Mulder. Free speech is a
beautiful thing.
Just not _his_ free speech. Pfft.
* Sun. 19 June
Regained my senses and cancelled my plane ticket
to Ohio. Things are strained enough between me and Scully.
_Young Frankenstein_ in the TV listings; I made
a bowl of popcorn and settled down only to discover that
it was on CABLE.
Called the cable company again, left an angry
message, and stayed on the line hoping to reach out and
punch someone. No such luck; after the recordings ended
the line went dead. I wonder if any human beings actually
work there.
Plus it was raining. I went running anyway. Now
my head's stuffed up. Fortunately Scully left an arsenal
of medicine with me last time I got injured. Preventative
measures have been taken. I will NOT get sick.
Got nostalgic, played some Led Zeppelin on the
stereo. The upstairs neighbor called to complain.
Shitty day.
* Mon. 20 June
Uh-oh. Scully called Saturday to inquire about
our upcoming flight arrangements and found out about my
aborted Sunday plane ticket. Apparently she was so
angry that she didn't even bother to call me Saturday
night to try to talk me out of it.
I'm off the hook because I cancelled the flight
on my own, but I think I'm on probation.
At any rate, we leave for Ohio tomorrow. Soon
we'll be knee-deep in a new case and we can leave all
this dissolution behind.
Who am I kidding? Where'd that psych degree
come from, correspondence school? This is an abduction
case. Scully and I will be at arms for the entire
investigation. I'd better be ready for it now.
How can we be so polarized on this issue after
so long? With all the evidence we've uncovered (however
briefly) you would think that one of us would be won
over to the other's point of view by now.
So how did it end up like this? I'm more
convinced than ever of the existence of extraterrestrial
life, and I'm more certain than ever that EBEs have
contacted us in some way, continue to contact us. Maybe
not literally abducting people, but how can I discount
the hundreds of accounts of alien abduction?
Scully keeps pointing out that there are almost
as many eyewitness accounts of Satanic ritual abuse,
which, of course, does not exist. How can she be so
sure ritual abuse doesn't exist? is my usual response.
That gets me the eye-rolling look I think of as the
Angel Eye. Not the Evil Eye... the opposite. Like
she's trying to appeal to my better, more level-headed
nature. Problem is, Scully _is_ my better nature; why
would I need one of my own? I've got her to take the
high road for me.
And my better nature, as incarnated by my
partner, is now totally convinced that alien abduction
is a myth created to cover the reality of government-
sanctioned genetic experiments.
It's nice to see I'm having _some_ effect--
this is an inspired bit of paranoia on her part-- but
why can't we both be right? Maybe the abductions _are_
contrived by forces within the government in order
to secretly test human genetic material... so that
our scientists can learn how to comingle human and
alien DNA.
This theory drives her up the wall every
time I mention it.
Well, Scully, I'm frustrated too. Does that
mean I don't listen to you?
Okay, sometimes I _don't_ listen to you.
But I'm used to not listening to anyone else
because everyone but you totally dismisses everything
I have to say. And you have to admit, even you don't
believe me a lot of the time.
...Urk. This is a bad habit. I can't keep
addressing Scully like that when she's not around.
I realize it's because we spend so much time bouncing
ideas around that now I unconciously project my own
skepticism onto her even when she's not here blah
blah blah...
ENOUGH! New case tomorrow and I'll try to
call a truce with Scully during our flight.
Oh, hey, and she's back to wearing her
usual perfume again. Maybe she just ran out of
the old stuff and that's why she wore the new,
until I got her the other bottle of the previous
perfume.
Sure. That makes sense. Not that, for
instance, somebody bought her that new perfume.
Well, _whatever_ prompted the change, she's
back to the normal perfume now.
Cable's still out, but who cares? I'm sure
the hotels in Ohio get HBO.
* Tues. 21 June
We're on the plane. Scully fell asleep
before I could broach the subject of a truce. She
used to have a really hard time flying. I wonder
if she's started taking Dramamine or something. I
quit relying on that stuff a long time ago, throws
my whole system out of whack. She looks totally
flatlined.
In fact, I actually took her pulse a
minute ago. Strong and steady. Flight attendant
gave me a weird look, though.
She took the window seat (it seems to
make flying easier for her if she can look down
and personally verify that the plane is not
plunging earthwards in a plume of smoke) and
now she's curled up against the curve of the
airplane wall. God, she's _tiny_. You don't see
it at all when she's awake... she's DANA SCULLY!
Exclamation mark mandatory. She's larger than
life. Maybe it comes from wearing all those titles
like a cloak: Special Agent Doctor Dana Katherine
Scully. If I had six words to my name I guess--
oh. I do have six words to my name. I just don't
use a couple of them.
Particularly that troublesome one in the
middle. William.
No, it's too early to start thinking about
all that. (Daddy Dearest...) Go away, begone foul
spirit, get thee behind me Cancerman.
I could wake Scully up. Have someone to
talk to, and she probably didn't mean to doze off
anyway.
Rationalization. No, let her sleep. I
don't need Scully to hold my hand.
That blond stewardess, however-- "zero
gravity is right". It's like the wax on fruit...
you _know_ they're silicone but they look so
_good_...
Ah, we're coming in for the landing.
Time to wake up Scully. Can't wait to get started
on this case. I try not to get my hopes up, but
this one has that feel to it, like ozone hanging
in the air after lightning strikes. It smells like
an X-File.
* * *
(continued)
Disclaimer in part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer
Part 2: Line Drive
Dana Scully's Personal Log
Thursday, June 9, 1996, 8:30 pm
I HATE ACCOUNTING!! I went into Medicine and Physics to
avoid Accounting and now I get stuck doing the shit anyway! I
realize that it's important to have an accurate accounting of the
division. I know that more good sections have fallen prey to the
budget slicers than to all the wigged-out schemes by the likes of
Cancer Man. But why in hell do I always have to be the one to do
them?
OK, that's not fair. Mulder does every other one. And he messes
them up so badly that I have to do the last one AND the current one at
the same time just to keep the numbers in some sort of logical
progression! I think he does it on purpose. The man is a frigging
genius, so I know he can add and subtract; he just hates the system so
he screws it in his own little testosterone-dripping way. And I get
to pick up the pieces. Again! Damn him, I could just . . .
Just what? Leave? HAH! He'd love that. They all would.
"Leave all the really neat stuff to the boys' club, *honey*, you
wouldn't want to break a fingernail or something." NO WAY! His
name may be on the door, but these are my files, too, goddammit,
and they'd all better figure that out.
Just reread this and decided I am definitely going to take a nice
long soak and fall asleep watching Harrison Ford and Kelly McGillis
get it on in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. When I feel like this,
_Witness_ is the only thing that calms me down.
Friday, June 10
Mulder was acting funny again. I do not know what his problem
is these days. He's moody all the time, he jumps about in fits and
starts. Just reread this line and checked back to a few previous
entries. He's ALWAYS been like this. But now, somehow, it seems
worse. I would try to ask what is wrong, but, whoa, hey, I'm not
about to go there. Last time I tried, it took a week to get the knife
out of my back! He can be lethal with those glares of his. I don't
want to sit there and have him glaring ice daggers at me for invading
his privacy while I'm struggling with the fact that we've got to
account for four (count 'em: *4*) cellular phones this quarter. At
least we didn't lose any flashlights or guns this time around. Maybe
I could strap the damn phone to his other ankle like he finally figured
out to do with his gun? Maybe I could strap him to the car next
time, and leave it at that? Why does that image make me smile so
much? Time for another soak.
Saturday, June 11
Shopping for mom's birthday I found the neatest perfume stall at
the mall. It's got so many scents, and it's not that pricey. Went wild
and picked up one that's really floral. I need a change. Actually, I
need a life. Yelled at Mulder for the exact same thing. Why do I do
that? It's not his fault he has no interpersonal skills. My God, the
man could have been raised by wolves and had a more caring family!
But I'm always rubbing his nose in it. Shit. Now, I feel awful.
Picked up the book again. They raise some fascinating theories.
But are they right? Missy really hit me hard when she said I had lost
myself. When I was little, I knew me. I was Dana Katherine Scully
and I liked horses and stories about the sea and GI Joe's over Barbie
and felt very secure with myself. Now, I don't know. I have three
months looming in the corners, ready to jump out and get me like
the boogeyman that Bill Jr. was always trying to scare me with. I
don't know what to do, what I can do. But one thing is certain:
doing nothing is the wrong answer.
I know I didn't give the last hypnotherapist guy a chance. It
seems kind of silly, but I got the book as much as a consumer's guide
as anything else. I mean, if I can get a handle on the stuff that's
obviously out of whack, maybe that will help me ferret out the stuff
that can really help. I know it helped Mulder. He's still tortured,
still frightened, but, my God, at least he's secure in what he
remembers. That has to be reassuring to him. It's a horrible
memory, but at least he has a memory. Not a big, gaping hole.
I've thought about asking him to help me find someone. But I
can't. It's too personal. He would take it the wrong way and jump
into that overprotective 'Big Brother' act and all hell would break
loose because I would just pull out my gun and shoot him again.
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
I'm visiting Missy's grave tomorrow. Maybe I'll be able to figure
out something while I'm there.
Sunday, June 12
It was so peaceful there in the cemetery. So why did I keep
checking around me, why did I keep feeling like someone was
watching me? Because they are. God, I really have gone and done
it, haven't I? I'm as paranoid as Mulder. But then again, you aren't
paranoid if they really are out to get you.
I'm going to bed.
Monday, June 13
Mulder kept giving me 'looks' all day. The man is so infuriating.
Why can't he just come out and say what's on his mind? Obviously
it had nothing to do with a case or a theory. He's ALWAYS ready
to pummel me with his thoughts on those things. So it was about
me. Or about him. Is he not sleeping again? Something is
bothering him. I'd better keep an eye out. When he gets that look in
his eyes, it's right before he takes off and almost gets himself
'eliminated' again. Like the calm before the thunderstorm. Well, I
have to give him this, he's predictable. Now, if only he was
controllable. . .
Tuesday, June 14
I swear, Mulder was sniffing me today! What is his problem?!? I
bet it's the perfume. Well, he can just sit on it and spin, for all I
care. He's like an infant, the least little change in his environment
and he's a basketcase. He can get an air freshener!
Wednesday, June 15
Does it constitute sexual harrassment if you glue a guy to his
chair with crazy glue? OK, not the best idea I've ever come up with,
but dammit, I'm mad! He could have said he didn't like the perfume.
Instead he waited until I told him about a particularly grueling
autopsy I got tapped for yesterday and make a joke about the new
scent smelling like formaldehyde! To compare it to embalming fluid
was juvenile, at best, and so-- so-- so MULDER!
Almost done with the damn accounting report. Only need to
balance a few more entries. Oh, and that section on cellular phone
usage. At least I don't have to account for any `adult pay-per-view'
movies at the hotel this time. I've noticed a pattern. Since I have to
go over the reports Mulder does with a fine tooth comb to make heads or
tails of the numbers, I've figured out that he only puts those little
items on the bill in months when *I* get to account for them. Is that
his idea of a little joke? That little weasel . . .
Where did I leave the crazy glue?
Thursday, June 16
Boy, was I glad I couldn't find the crazy glue. I just remembered
today why I still count Fox Mulder as my best friend. This big jerk
went out on his lunch hour and bought me a LARGE bottle of
Chanel #5. I had to laugh. I don't think I've ever mentioned the
name of my perfume. He must have spent the whole hour sniffing
little cards, because he didn't have a scent on him. Well, just his own
scent. L'air du Mulder. But, it was so sweet and he looked so
apologetic. I admit it. I melted.
And then that wonderful feeling went away quickly when I had to
tackle that sticky phone issue. But I think I've figured out an angle.
Now, how do I keep Mulder from blowing his stack when Employee
Assistance calls and sets up his psych review?
Friday, June 17
Another abduction case! GOD SAVE ME FROM ABDUCTION CASES!
God, save us both. Mulder's had this one going through channels
(we do observe them now and again...) and he was ready to jump
up and fly to Ohio without a plane as soon as the call came down on
the 302. I really wish Kimberly would route those calls through me!
I asked her to, but I think she forgets. Yeah, right. She thinks
about Mulder's cute butt and all other thoughts fly from her mind.
She's so shallow! What a bimbo!
I got him to hold off until next week. I found a BIG error in the
report. (OK, so I was never that great with the sevens times tables
when I was a kid and 7 times 8 always threw me for a loop--it was
an honest mistake). And Mom's birthday is tomorrow. I want to
spend the day with her, something nice and quiet. Maybe we'll catch
a movie. Just the whole day with my mom. I can't wait.
Saturday, June 18
DEATH TO THE INFIDEL! Oh, I am so mad I'm just one small
step away from calling Skinner and spilling my guts! I called the
airlines. He's got himself a ticket out on an 8 am flight--
TOMORROW! He's ditching me, again! Well, I have ways of dealing
with the little worm, these days. I have allies, too. I called
Frohike. Little Mister Fox William Mulder is 'under surveillance'
until he goes to the airport. And then, I'll be standing at the gate
with a pair of handcuffs and a straightjacket!
Fly in the ointment time, of course. Since I wanted plenty of
updates, I ended up taking my cell phone and now Mom thinks I'm
dating Frohike. Sigh. I tried to explain and she got this really sweet
kind of wistful look in her eyes and I just could NOT get her to
listen to a word I was saying. Yikes. I hope she doesn't expect me
to invite him over. Then again, maybe I should. That would
definitely get her thoughts headed in other directions.
Sunday, June 19
OK, I'll let him live.
Frohike called at 7:05 to tell me that Mulder was still in his
apartment, sacked out on the couch. FOX cartoon kid's club was on
the TV. Bet his cable's out. Frohike mentioned something about it
being out last weekend. Anyway, he was sighted and not in too
much of a hurry to get to the airport.
Then, at the 10:00 am update, he was seen going to the bakery
about four blocks up the street from his apartment and came out
with one large Starbucks coffee cup and a bag containing two onion
bagels and a baklava. I have to hand it to the guys-- they are
thorough.
Reports at noon, 2, and 4 were the same. He did get off the
couch long enough to go running. The idiot. It was raining cats and
dogs. He'll have a cold and keep me up coughing all the time we're
in Ohio. I finally called the airlines and found out he cancelled his
ticket. I would like to think that I had some hand in this, but that
would be all ego talking. Still, he's safe from my wrath for the
moment. Hope he gets some sleep. He'll need it when that cold hits.
I'm starting to feel a little guilty for spying on him. I mean,
what if he had a date for the weekend? What if Kimberly finally got
it through his thick head that she wants him BAD? I mean, there's a
big part of me that wants him to be happy. I want him to have a
normal life. I want him to come into the office with one of those
shit-eating grins on his face and someone else's perfume on his jacket
and deny that he did anything but lay on his couch and watched TV
all weekend. But then another big part of me would invariably want
to scratch his eyes out. I mean, why should he have a life when I
don't? And I don't have a life because I have to drop everything and
run after him. I sense the pivotal moment of failure quickly
approaching. And I really need to quit watching Pinky and the Brain
on Sunday mornings.
Frohike just called with the 11 o'clock report. His car is still
in the front of the apartment, both exits are being watched closely; I
guess I can call it a night. He sure as hell better be in the office in
the morning.
Monday, June 20
He was there, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning. I
read him the riot act for five minutes (a record for my part) and let
it go.
And the Quarterly Accounts Report is done!! Yippy!! I walked
the damn thing up to Skinner personally and gave it to him myself.
And it's in SEVEN days early, might I add! Of course, old stone
face didn't mention that. Not that I figured he would.
Kimberly was dropping hints again. So I dropped them back. I
think I'll get a heads-up next time a 302 comes down. At least, I will
if she wants to know Mulder's shirt size at any point in the future.
She wanted his belt size. I was afraid to ask. I know she's taking
leatherworking classes, I've seen the purse she made (really nice) so
it's probably a belt or something. I hope.
Leaving for Ohio in the morning. Together, ha ha! As I said
earlier, I was very good. I didn't strangle him. I told him that I
didn't appreciate him making travel plans that didn't include me, but I
let it drop after that. Truth be told, I was sort of proud of the fact
that he didn't go, even though he obviously wanted to. OK, so he's
not a hopeless mess like I often think he is. There is hope. There's
always hope.
Tuesday, June 21
What a flight. I slept through most of it. Now I can't sleep to
save my soul. I think I hear Mulder's TV on. Maybe we can talk
about the case for a while.
Maybe I can get him to tell me what the hell has been bothering
him lately.
Maybe I'll tell him about the hypno-regression therapy book and
he can tell me the name of a good person to go to.
Or maybe I'll lay here and count the flowers on the bedspread
again.
end part two
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley
Part 3: Stealing Second.
The Journals of Fox Mulder
* Tues. 21 June
Plane trip uneventful, except that the stewardess
winked as I left. I can't decide if she was returning my
interest or being mischievous because she thought I was
with Scully. Women are stranger than any X-File.
I'm making these entries on this wanna-be laptop
`computer organizer' that my mom gave me for Christmas.
I think the format's different than my computer. Oh well.
Saving the journal is a mere formality. It's just an
organizing process to help me focus my thoughts. I've
been really foggy lately. So it doesn't matter if it
gets saved or not, really.
I hate the little keys on this thing, but I
didn't want a laptop... after all, I've got a big bad
photographic memory, why would I need a portable computer?
So now I get to stub my fingers on this. I have to admit
it was weird to get a work-related accessory from my mom
for Christmas... when _Scully's_ mother gave me a pair
of ties. Nice ones. I'm wearing one today, actually;
it looks like a grayish leafy pattern but if you look
close, you can see Mickey Mouse in the swirls. But to
get something personal from Scully's mom and something,
well, impersonal from my own mom... it just felt so
_dysfunctional_.
Speaking of dysfunction-- not only does this hotel
lack HBO, there's no cable at all! It's just like my
apartment, only worse! At least at home I have my books
and my couch. I hate hotel beds. Especially the kind that
sag in the middle like this one. Maybe I'll camp out on
the floor. At least FOX is re-running old Star Trek eps
now, so there's something tolerable running in the
background.
So, now we're in Warmington, Ohio. Just another
zero town backwoods of nowhere. I made another rule for
journal entries: first, one and only one entry per day,
and second, no shop talk. There's more to life than work.
This is my _personal_ journal for _personal_ thoughts,
not the notes for my case report.
Noooo shop talk. No sirree. None.
...I don't _have_ any personal thoughts right
now. I'm thinking about the case. I'm working, I'm on
a case, I'm thinking about the case. Okay. This is not
indicative of psychological disturbance. This is well
within the range of normal behavior.
Sometimes, I almost believe that.
But rules are important. I established them
for a reason.
Then again, I already broke the first rule; this
is my second entry today because I wrote while I was bored
on the plane. So maybe I can stretch my second rule for
tonight too.
(Ah, the joys of self-justification! This is good
practice for what's sure to be a marathon battle with
Scully for the next few days...)
The case! The case. The case is strange, even
by my standards. We have a small town, population 4,384.
(I hate my memory... one glance at the sign on the way
in and I get to carry that information with me for all
eternity...) We have the mysterious disappearance of
two teenage girls. Rebecca Colt, 15, and her cousin
Darcy Waitland, 16. Darcy hails from Kentucky, which
gave me shaky federal jurisdiction. I anticipate more
than the usual hostility from local law enforcement.
They've been missing for five weeks. There's
a media factor. I intend to employ an evasive strategy;
I'm going to let the locals take all the media credit
in return for free reign on the actual investigation.
That's standard for a case like this, actually, though
it's been a while since we had to deal with the papers.
The reason I'm looking into this, the bit that
makes me think it could be abduction, centers on the
girls themselves. They're from a moderately wealthy
family around here, both considered to be highly
responsible, mature young women. Definitely NOT the
kind of girls to run off on a teenagers' getaway without
telling anyone. Not the kind of girls to get into trouble.
Of course, no ransom demands. They've simply vanished.
The family's efforts have turned up nothing. Warmington's
an extremely tight rural community and the people here have
launched extensive searches for the girls, dead or alive,
and failed to find anything indicative of foul play.
The really interesting thing-- the part that
screams "They're heee-eeere!" to me-- is the town's odd
history of disappearances like this one. Never for as
long as five weeks, and usually only one woman at a
time... but Danny dug up newspaper accounts from as
far back as 1959 where the town was put on alert
because a woman had vanished, only to have her appear
again within a few days. No explanation forthcoming.
I've got accounts of nineteen such incidences.
That reminds me. I owe Danny favors _big_ time
for this one. He manned the microfilm hotseat for most
of two days finding this stuff for me. What's appropriate?
Um... I'm fresh out of inspiration on this one. Maybe
I'll ask Scully for her opinion. That should serve to
disarm her at some key point of debate.
Scully's not going to like this case. The budget's
kept her too tied up to really look it over yet, but once
she settles in with the case file and sees the patterns
of disapperances... this could get hairy. It's too much
like those two unaccounted-for months she's been avoiding
for so long. That's exactly why I want to unravel this one
so bad, but Scully? She may prefer not to deal with it.
That means arming full sensor arrays for the
duration. Attune and detect, Mulder. If Scully gets
upset, _back_off_.
I know I won't be able to, once we get rolling.
But I want to at least start off with good intentions. I
want to make that rule. Even though I know I'm going to
break it.
* Wed. June 22
The usual meeting with local law was a surprise.
First off, the sheriff's _old_. Sixty, at least.
However, the guy makes me understand the idea behind the
word `spry', which I never quite picked up on before.
He's got white (not old-guy yellowish white, but snow
white) hair and keen blue eyes; give him a fake beard
and a pillow down his shirt and he could "Ho ho ho"
with the best of 'em. Actually, the guy looks like he
may be in better shape than _I_ am. I wouldn't want
to armwrestle him. He introduced himself as Sheriff
Falk, then called me `sir' (?!) and Scully `ma'am'--
and lived! (Scully doesn't like being `ma'am'ed, I've
noticed. Men have lost limbs for similar offenses.)
First thing off, Falk says, "Now, I've got a
few ears in Washington and I hear you two tend to
find some, well, some strange things in your work."
Scully and I both tensed for different reasons.
I prepared to sic the guy, those defense mechanisms
ticking over in anticipation. Scully got ready to smooth
things with the sheriff and cover for me when I inevitably
blew up at him.
Before either of us could react, however, Falk
goes on. "So you can imagine how glad I am that you came
out to help us find our girls. No one around here has
ever seen anything like it. It's like they dropped off
the face of the earth." He gave us both a level, measuring
look and said, "I hope you'll let us help you any way we
can, sir, ma'am. We just want those girls back home with
their families. Whatever you need to help find out what
happened to them, you'll get."
Needless to say, I remain stunned. I keep looking
up to see if the sky is falling. Surely the end of the
world approacheth.
Scully caught my astonishment, gave a funny little
smile, and thanked the sheriff for both of us. We stayed
another ten minutes or so and I didn't say a word the
whole time.
We're talking to the family this afternoon; it's
more to reassure them than to learn anything new at this
point, but I really want to show them that I'm here and
I'm going to do everything I possibly can to find their
kids.
In the meantime, Scully's getting directions
from the deputy to every relevant landmark in the state.
Maybe it's overkill, but it'll probably come in handy;
we're both pretty hopeless with maps. I can tell Falk
is impressed by her diligence. Hell, so am I.
...Then again, the direction-getting seems to
have degenerated into flirting. To interrupt or not to
interrupt, that is the question. I mean, I want Scully
to have a normal life. I feel really shitty that she
doesn't date or go out because we're always working.
At the same time, I know doing this job and doing it
well means more to her than spending Fridays listening
to some dork prattle on about his golf game or something.
Besides, any guy worth Scully's time would appreciate
her committment to her job and give her the space to
devote herself to work. Even the dregs of her attention
would be enough to make a smart guy fall for her. But
really, how many men are worth Scully's time? Who could
compete with the rush of solving the unsolveable and
saving lives? Flirt all you want, Barney Five. I'm not
worried.
Much.
Oh, yeah... I'm supposed to be checking the
phone book to find a place for lunch. Good thing I type
fast, even on these little keys. I just had to commit
my amazement at our reception to the screen in order to
believe it was true.
...Damn. Damn. Damn.
I'm back in the hotel room. Captain Picard orders
his crew to "Make it so." And I screwed _up_ today.
We met with the family at the police station.
Apparently they stop by there most nights to see if
there's been news. The community's even more tight-knit
than I realized; everyone seems to be in everyone's
business. The waitress at the diner where we had lunch
asked us if we thought the missing girls would be found
alive. I told her I knew everyone had been working hard
to find them, and there's always a chance; I told her
we were guardedly optimistic. (Scully liked that turn
of phrase.)
So. We talked to the Colts in an interrogation
room, the only private place in the station. It seemed
to stink with the tang of guilty sweat. Not an ideal
place to reassure them, as it turned out.
I couldn't help it. Mr. Colt came in blustering
that none of this would have happened if Rebecca hadn't
gone off with Darcy.
Darcy was older. She should have known better.
Darcy ought to have taken better care of her
younger cousin.
Darcy's to blame.
And I _know_ he was just looking for someone
to put this on and I _know_... GOD, do I know... what
he's going through... but it got to me. I snapped.
"Mr. Colt, Darcy is not at fault here. Whoever
took these girls is at fault. We're here to find the
ones responsible and get Rebecca and Darcy home safe
again."
I wish I'd said that.
Instead of telling him that we'd never get
anywhere if he didn't focus his attention where it
belonged instead of pushing the blame onto a defenseless
(and absent) young girl. In a tone cold enough to
make him draw back in alarm and bring (I can't believe
I did this...) bring tears to Mrs. Colt's eyes.
That's unforgivable. Mrs. Colt looked totally
wrung out-- sapped and careworn. Mr. Colt, on the
other hand, remained steady and unassailable. He's
a strong patriarch of the stern discipliarian variety;
respected man in the community, works at the county
courthouse, generally used to deference, not defiance.
He probably would've liked to slug me. I don't blame
him. But at the same time, I felt like decking _him_.
Fortunately for everyone, I have a partner.
She stepped in with a careful, compassionate voice and
gave them reassurances, comfort, hope. I managed to
get it together enough to express how much effort I
intended to devote to the search, that this was important
to me. They needed to hear that, but they needed the
sympathy too, and I couldn't seem to-- I don't know.
Scully, naturally enough, was furious. I
really don't want to spell out the talk I got from
her. It was harsh and angry and totally justified.
The gist of it: if I can't be civil, I should at
least apologize. And that of all people I should
know better.
And she's right. I should know better. I
know I hared out. Should've admitted at least that
much to her, but I couldn't say what I knew needed
to be said to her any more than I could communicate
it to the Colts.
She let up on me and said something about the
case being hard on us both, but I'd lost focus by
then. We didn't even have dinner together tonight.
Oh, wait... that's because I didn't have dinner
tonight. Maybe Barney Five took her out or something.
I guess I'm sort of hungry, but I think I'd
rather be alone and miserable in a shitty hotel room
than alone and miserable in a shitty restaurant with
everyone staring at me because I'm from out of town
and on my own. Maybe I'll order in. Maybe I'll chew
on the rug.
You know what else?
This is my _least_ favorite episode of Star
Trek, bar none.
I'll make it up to the Colts. I'm going
to find Rebecca. I know it. And then they'll understand.
Once we find Rebecca and Darcy, everything will be
all right.
end part three.
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer
4: Single to Right Field
Dana Scully's Personal Log
Tuesday, June 21, continued
It's actually Wednesday morning (sorry Simon and Garfunkel,
it's not 3 am, yet-- still two hours to go) and I just got done
reading this case file.
The worm in the room next door knew those girls have been
gone for five weeks. He knew that there has been a history of
these missing persons cases since the fifties. He knew there
was more to this (of course there was, dummy, or WE WOULDN'T BE
HERE) and he let me sleep on the plane.
Killing him in the motel room would be too messy.
OK, I'm not being fair. I should have read the damn file before
now. But with the budget and Mom's birthday, I sort of, well, I
DID spend the weekend getting detailed updates from Frohike, so
I guess you could say that was 'work related'. But not case
related.
I really wanted to get some sleep tonight.
But every time I close my eyes, I see Betsy Hagopian lying on
that table getting another MRI to tell her what part of her body
was no longer human, was now cancer. And all those blank faces in
her living room, so calm, so collected . . . Goddamn them to hell,
how could they all just sit there like it was NOTHING?! Nothing
at all. The most common thing in the world to wake up and find a
frigging computer chip embedded in your neck and have no
recollection of how or why or what . . .
No, I'm not getting ANY sleep tonight.
I sat up and read some more of the book. The more I read the
less it sounds like regression hypnotherapy is going to help. But
Mulder is so sure of it. Then again, I'm talking Mulder here. I
mean, if I was speaking of a `normal', `well adjusted', `stable'
person, I would _not_ be talking about Mulder, now, would I?
But damn it all, he's been there.
I don't know.
I do know that this case is going to be like chewing glass for
both of us. I can see it coming a mile away. I'm going to be
comparing myself to those girls left, right, and center. And those
girls are nothing more than `Samantha substitutes' for Mulder.
God, if the Bureau ever figured out how psychologically wigged
out we both are, they would have us both in rubber rooms by
now.
But maybe, that's why we're in the basement. Thick cement
walls, high, non accessable ceilings. No one can hear the screams.
Yeah, it makes sense in a 'fiscally responsible' sort of way. I
mean, padded cells have to *cost* something, right?
We HAVE to find those girls. I HAVE to find those girls. I
know Mulder feels the same way. I just hope we find them before
we both lose it, permanently.
Wednesday, June 22
Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into, Mulder!
Just once, could we stay at a place with REAL plumbing?
I got used to the saggy mattresses. So much so that my own
mattress is too hard and stable for my back now. And I even got
used to waking up and having 'little friends' in my shoes (although
after the one trip to Texas, I've learned to keep my shoes on the
dresser--scorpions are the one 'bug' I DON'T mess with). And I
thought it was minorly humorous that this particular flea bag is
sans HBO *and* cable.
But is it too much to ask that the damn toilet works?!
Obviously, it is.
I called the desk. I was informed that they place a plunger in
the bathroom 'for the convenience of the guests'!!! Do you believe
that??? The 'convenience' of the guests?!? I knew what the
problem was. I mean, I've played with my share of toilets--that
didn't come out right. I've "worked" on my share of toilets, so I
know that if the water is too high in chlorine content, the little
plastic gizmo in the middle corrodes away and you are left with a
messed-up toilet. This stuff is so full of chlorine that I can smell it
when I turn on the tap. My hair is going to be a nice shade of
green before we get home, too, but that's another matter. After a
lot of finagling, and three paperclips, I got the damn thing to work
properly. For now. I can't believe that I am actually
contemplating buying a new gizmo for this hell hole just so I can
flush the toilet on a regular basis.
And I was going to be damned if I called on Mulder to help.
For one, I knew he couldn't fix it. He's called me to fix his sink.
For two, I'm still mad at him. Sort of.
And I had to yell at Mulder today. I didn't have much choice.
He was an asshole to the parents of one of the girls and he was
way out of line. I couldn't believe it. I looked up and suddenly he
was Mr. Freeze with these people. His voice would have frozen
molten lava. These people are VICTIMS here and he is treating
them like, well, worse than he's treated suspects, that's for damn
sure.
For a fleeting moment, I thought he might be on to something.
That maybe, well, I mean, it happens. Daddy gets a little too
'close' to his fully developed teenaged daughter. Or to the visiting
cousin. And then there's a death in the family but no one knows
about it. I mean, my God, there was a case just a couple of years
ago where that exact thing happened and it took twenty years to
come out.
But in an instant, I could see that wasn't it. It was something
else, something I don't think even Mulder completely understood.
He had just come unglued.
Enter Dana Scully, wonderagent. Yeah, right. One psych
course in undergrad and one `how to handle a bereaved family' class
in Med School. Oh, and the extensive training I received at
Quantico ('don't fuck up when dealing with family' as I remember).
But I managed. I mean, I am my mother's daughter, after all.
I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I've seen Mulder with
victim's families before and he's usually better at it than *I* am.
I mean, he's _been_ a victim's family for God's sakes, he knows
what it's like to have some nameless, faceless suit pry and prod
into your family life, maybe even imply that you had something to
do with the tragedy that has befallen you. That you are somehow
at fault. He knows that. He's been there. Been there, done that,
made it his life's obsession.
Maybe that was the problem. I don't know. All I know is
before I knew what was happening, he had the father ready to slug
him and the mother was in tears. That got to him, though, seeing
the mom in tears. I could see it in his eyes. Right before he
closed up and let me pick up the pieces. He did come around
enough to tell them that he would do everything to find the girls.
I believed him. I know he will. And when I did yell at him,
outside, out of earshot of anyone else, I think he looked relieved.
He definitely looked apologetic. A lot of times, when I yell at
him, he gets defensive. Or cocky. Like *I'M* the one who is
socially inept and *HE'S* Mr. Personality. Not this time. He
knew he stepped his foot into it and he was sorry.
Maybe that's why I'm worried. A cocky Mulder, I can handle.
A "Don't bother me, I'm the only one who's right in the world"
Mulder is a happy Mulder, relatively speaking. But a Mulder who
can't keep his mouth shut in an interview with a missing girl's
parents *and* is sorry about it later? That's a Mulder who's having
definite problems (beyond the normal ones that I really don't care
to outline at this moment). Why won't he just talk to me about it?
He's starting to scare me.
See, even half crazed, looking for Samantha, screaming into his
pillow at night, there is NO ONE who could possibly find those
girls except Mulder. I know I couldn't do it alone. I wouldn't
have a clue. I depend on him to shove me, no, drag me, in the
right direction. He gets too close and he loses perspective and he
depends on me to go the final distance, but it's his chase from the
beginning. He sniffs 'em out. I go in for the kill. And pick him
up, dust him off, and carry him home when it's over. It's a fucked
up job, but somebody's gotta do it.
So seeing him come unglued at the beginning, way before I'm
used to it... it really scared me. I can't do this without him. I
need him to give me the goofy theories, the off the wall bumps in the
night, so that I can look into it and see the real answers in there
somewhere. I've got to watch him closely. This is not going to be
fun. He's gonna figure out that I'm watching real soon and he'll be
pissed as hell at me.
At least, I hope he figures it out. Oh, God, if he's so out of it
that he doesn't . . . Don't go there, Starbuck!
He just has to understand that sometimes I have to stop him
from himself. I think he expects that. Sometimes, it sort of makes
me mad. I don't get paid for babysitting. We've had that fight a
few times before, too. But still, I can't let him self-destruct. I
couldn't bear to watch that.
And since I didn't get an invite to dinner, I know he didn't eat.
And the damn case really hasn't even gotten started, yet.
We have to find those girls. In one piece. He's used up all his
sick time this fiscal year and I'm all out of personal time. Unless
the case lasts until October 1 (God forbid) and then we're into the
next fiscal year and he has all kinds of sick time and I have three
personal days I can use sitting by his bed in some ICU somewhere.
Damn budget reports. Damn fiscal years. Damn this case. I
hate abduction cases.
But at least local law is civil. The Sheriff is really nice.
He reminds me of Carrol O'Conner in the Heat of the Night, but
much kinder. And very polite. Called me `ma'am' and I didn't even
flinch because I knew he wasn't doing it to schmooze me. And
one of the deputies spent the afternoon helping me figure out the
lay of the land. Mulder kept shooting us looks. I don't think he
trusts me to figure out directions, sometimes. Or something.
Anyway, maybe he was just having a hard time. I could see it in
his eyes: the `Samantha' Look. That look that he gets when the
whole case boils down to one 12-year-old boy running out in the
night to find one eight-year-old little sister. God, I've started
hating that look.
So maybe that explains the blow up. I'm not condoning. I'm
just trying to convince myself that this is normal 'Mulder Behavior'
and not something unusual. That it's something I can fix. Like the
toilet.
Please don't let him fall apart on me completely this time. I
couldn't fix that. That would hurt.
end part four.
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley
Part 5: The Windup
The Journals of Fox Mulder
* Thurs. 23 June
First thing this morning we trekked out to
the site where the girls went missing. Neither of us
really said much of anything about yesterday. Scully
drove, so I didn't even have to ask her for directions;
total silence for the whole trip.
Darcy and Rebecca disappeared on a stretch of
pockmarked country road that was probably last paved
before either of them were born. Five weeks ago they
went to a seven o'clock movie and walked home from the
theater together. It would have been a warm spring
night, and it's only seven blocks from the cinema to
the Colts' house. Halfway home, still clutching their
soft drinks from the movie, giggling, Rebecca swinging
her beaded purse... something happened.
A farmer's house stands a few hundred yards
in off the road here. According to the reports, the
homeowner, Buzz Turkle (Ouch! And I thought Fox was
bad...) saw a flash of light on the edge of his property
the night Rebecca and Darcy went missing. He dismissed
it as heat lightning. Only later, when he joined in
the search for the girls, did he assign any significance
to what he saw.
Naturally, Scully thinks Mr. Turkle exagerrated
what he saw, once he learned of the girls' disappearance.
She suggests that if in fact he did see the light (heh),
it was probably car headlights. Or that he's remembering
something that happened earlier or later that same day
as happening when Rebecca and Darcy vanished... apparently
some people were letting off fireworks that day at dusk
in this area for a birthday party. I can tell she's been
consulting _The Myth of Repressed Memory_ again.
We know that's where it happened because the
first wave of searchers found Rebecca's purse and two
battered soft drink cups with Darcy and Rebecca's prints
on them right there near a stunted oak tree. There's
still some heat damage to the tree-- the leaves on one
side hang dead even now, at the fresh start of summer.
We poked around, but didn't find anything. Told
Scully I wanted to come back to the spot after dark; she
nodded, said she wanted to get both girls' complete
medical records and look them over.
Despite everything, I enjoyed a rush of relief
right then. Anyone else would've thought I was nuts to
want to return to the site knowing there was nothing to
be found there. She knows, though, to give me room to
soak up the place. And I know Scully's looking at their
medical records to see if there's evidence that the girls
were subjected to any kind of experimentation or genetic
tampering. It's good to know that no matter what, we're
still working like two halves of the same machine, even
if the gears are getting stuck lately.
Coffee for breakfast-- the diner near the police
station makes a decent cup and the waitress there already
knows how we take it. Then back to the station itself,
where Sheriff Falk had laid out the minimal physical
evidence... the two cups and the purse. Rebecca's purse
was small, more an accessory than a handbag, decorated
with beads and a fake leather fringe. Scully picked
up the plastic bag it was in and looked it over carefully.
I knew: I knew she was trying to make Rebecca a real
person in her mind, instead of just an anonymous face
in a photograph. The Sheriff looked at us respectfully
while we examined these few things. I think he knows
what we are... hunters trying to pick up a scent.
The smell I'm picking up so far is making me
sick. Gone without a trace, and the determination I
had last night is flagging-- I couldn't find my own
partner under these circumstances, but I'm going to
find these girls? The difference is that Scully's
here to work with me and make sure I stay on track
instead of veering down the wrong road. But neither
of us wants to look this thing full in the face right
now.
I'm an idiot. Why did I take on an abduction
case _now_, when things are so strange between me and
Scully? Some vague notion that after a couple of weeks
of paperwork, we'd be recovered and ready to take on
the world again, I suppose.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong.
Well, we're here now and we're going to solve
this. Period. Somehow we'll make it work.
Scully had an appointment with Rebecca's
doctor at eleven, so she left me at the police station.
I talked to Barney Five (whose real name, it turns out,
is Carl Knox... at first I thought he said it was Knotts
and I almost laughed in his face...) and found out a
couple of interesting things.
First off, he asked me if I thought the girls
had been the first victims of a serial killer. I wanted
to know what gave him that idea, since there's no sign
of foul play, and it turns out that Sheriff Falk checked
up on me and Scully. Falk confided in Knox that we'd
solved a slew of serial crimes all over the country.
So I got to explain to Knox the difference
between a series of murders (killings committed for
the same motive or by the same cause) and serial murder
(multiple killings committed over a period of time by
a psychotic/sociopathic individual or individuals). I
used to solve serial murders. Now, through the X-Files,
Scully and I investigate what generally turns out to
be a series of crimes.
He gave me a blank look, so I told him I'm
99% sure that Rebecca and Darcy weren't murdered by
a serial killer. I held back a torrent of sarcastic
remarks and resentment at him for wasting my time;
after that bone-stupid screwup yesterday I'm on my
very best behavior. Too bad my best behavior still
isn't very good.
Civility paid off. After I'd wasted all that
time with him, Knox said Falk told him to reveal to
us something that the Colts had requested no one know.
I expected more of a revelation than I got, but it
still seems significant: there was a string of condoms
in Rebecca's purse, with only Darcy's prints on the
wrappers.
That explains Mr. Colt's resentment toward
Darcy. He's afraid she's gotten Rebecca involved in
something. Now I really feel like a louse for losing
it with the guy.
Rendezvous'd with Scully via cellphone; she'd
turned up a few things but wanted to wait and talk
about it over dinner, which was fine with me. I told
her I had a few more things to check out with local
law and then I'd head to the library.
"What will you look for there?" she asked.
Well, actually, I wanted to look for train
timetables and records. Should I say so? Probably.
Did I?
Of course not.
"Ah, it's just a hunch I'm following up on.
I'll let you know tonight if it leads anywhere."
The library here is dumpy, but the staff is
friendly and the high schooler working there part-time
knew Rebecca. They helped me find what I was looking for.
A train stopped just a few miles from Warmington
the night Rebecca and Darcy disappeared. It's a small
way station. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
But that doesn't explain the heat damage to the
oak tree, the flash of light, or the near-total absence
of physical evidence.
Scully and I met up for dinner. She went first:
Rebecca and Darcy were medically normal, for the most part.
Both had been sick a normal number of times; neither had
ever been X-rayed or operated upon. That didn't help much.
I let her in on the Colts' little coverup. One
eyebrow darted up and I knew we had _something_, however
slight.
Sure enough, Scully said, "Darcy recently went
to Rebecca's doctor complaining of nausea and exhaustion.
Mrs. Colt was afraid Darcy might have Chronic Fatigue
Syndrome because she seemed so tired."
"Did she?" I asked.
Scully took a bite of salad and shook her head.
"CFS is a much more complicated illness than most media
reports describe. Its effects range from total exhaustion
to bizarre neurological symptoms and usually it's accompanied
by recurring flu-like sicknesses. Rebecca's physician ran
the basic Epstein-Barr virus test on Darcy and she had no
reactivation of the EB virus, which is the most reliable
diagnostic tool for detecting Chronic Fatigue."
My amazement at this flood of information must've
showed on my face; Scully chuckled. I mean, when I reel
off something like that, it's simple: I see it in my head.
It took me years to understand that other people just
don't have that little turbo-charger in their brains
that feeds them snapshots of everything they'd seen. But
Scully doesn't have a photographic memory. I guess she
just has an IQ of about 500.
"So what does this have to do with the condoms?"
I had the misfortune to ask just as the server brought
our meals.
The server gave us both startled looks and
rushed away; Scully put her head in her hands. With the
way gossip about us is already spreading throughout this
little burg, we'll be the subject of petty scruntiny for
the rest of our stay due to that little misstep.
"Well, what other ailments are characterized
by fatigue and nausea?" Scully asked after a short
respite of dining.
"I'm not sure I'd call pregnancy an ailment."
"You would if you were likely to get it," she
tossed back, and for a minute there everything was
okay; we were playing around, enjoying the challenge,
preparing to attack a problem together.
I conceded the point and wondered how to mention
the train. Tried to eat while I was thinking about it
and found that I couldn't.
I was hungry, I really was, and it looked good,
but I... couldn't even stand the idea of choking it down.
Inevitably, Scully noticed that I was fidgeting
with the food and not eating it. She put down her utensils
and sighed and looked at me and said quietly, "Mulder,
please don't do this."
My guts sank into my shoes and I knew if I tried
to walk I'd trip all over them. I looked back and really
attempted to find some way to explain or apologize or
something. And failed.
"You skipped lunch too, I suppose."
Felt like I'd been rapped on the knuckles. "Look,
I'm just not feeling up to speed. I think I'm getting a
cold."
She looked so disappointed. I knew she wasn't
going to play along with me this time and let me pretend
it'd be okay. I almost see it scrolling across her eyes:
Mulder, it's too damn soon for you to pull this shit with
me. Snap out of it.
For appearances' sake, I forked a couple of
bites and you wouldn't believe the effort it took,
but I went through the motions. And then I knew if
I kept going, I'd be sick-- and that would worry Scully
even more than not eating. So I pushed the blue plate
special away and shrugged. She looked down... I can't
keep doing this to her. There's got to be some way to
tell her...
I'm not blind. I know what I'm doing. I _know_
I've been diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
and I know what that means. It means I've got no business
chasing after missing children and lights in the sky. And
it means I can't help but do just that.
I think I even know why I couldn't choke down
dinner. When Sam went missing, I lost it. Literally, just
shut down, pulled down the blinds and hid out in my head
for a while. I was in the hospital and yes, you sick fuck,
you were on intravenous for weeks... is it a surprise that
I can't conceive of eating now?
It's _textbook_ that I can't conceive of eating
right now. In the hospital, even after I woke up, I
couldn't manage more than a milkshake for so long.
This has to stop.
I think I covered tonight. Inadequately, and Scully
will probably worry a little, but I think I covered. I hope.
When the server came back, goggling a little at
the mishmoshed plate I left-- "Was everything all right,
sir?" -- "Yes, thank you, I'm just not feeling too well
right now." -- I ordered root beer floats for both of us.
Really, really tried and shot her a hand-in-the-cookie-jar
look, and some of the anxiety faded and she whiffed that
little almost-laugh I occasionally manage to coax out of
her. That's an old joke we evoke rarely, and it's never
lost that frisson of edgy, almost forbidden implications.
(For me, anyway. Maybe Scully just thinks it's a hoary
old line we perpetuate now and then.)
I told her, "Danny put in all kinds of hours
getting background info for us on this case. I want to
show my appreciation, but I'm drawing blanks on what
to do for him. Any ideas?"
Scully said she didn't know Danny as well as
I do, but she'd think it over and let me know if she
had any ideas.
"Maybe I could get him a bottle of perfume,"
I joked.
She smiled, then suggested, "Maybe Dramamine.
Or does he know that microfilm machines make you seasick?"
"Nope. Good idea, though."
So we drank the floats, we put together our plan
of action for tomorrow, and probably Scully's wondering
if I'm going to be up to this, but I think that's as
far as it goes. I hope.
I _am_ going to be up to this.
I'm going to be fine.
I hope.
end part five.
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer
Part 6: Take Me Out to the Ball Game
Dana Scully's Personal Log
Thursday, June 23
Well, if the plugged toilet wasn't enough to clue me in, I
should have guessed that it was going to be a bad day just by the
ride to the crime scene.
No, that's not entirely true. I think we got some very
significant leads today. I really feel like we're making some
progress on this one. But that isn't what it felt like on the
drive out there.
I got the silent treatment. Not a word. And since I was
driving, he could have been in another time zone for all the
communication that went on in that car. Maybe he was still sore
about yesterday. I mean, I thought he was apologetic, but
sometimes he can be so damn pigheaded. Maybe after a night of
old Star Trek reruns and a saggy mattress, he decided that he
was right to walk all over the Colts and he's mad at me for
calling him on the carpet.
Or maybe it's the other thing.
Shit, what am I doing? I can't even write about it now. It's
got me so scared that I don't even want a record of it in my
private journal. I don't want to be able to look back some day
and say "Yes, that is the exact point in my life when my best
friend started to self destruct right before my eyes". Or worse
yet, "Why didn't I see it then? Why didn't I stop him when I had
the chance? Before he went and . . ." NO! I don't even want to
think those thoughts.
Killed himself.
I admit it. I think about it. All the time during some cases.
Damn it, I've had nightmares about it. And the nightmare is
always the same. I don't hear from him for days. I get worried.
I go to his apartment and I unlock the door. The minute I'm in
the room I smell that sick, horrible smell and God help me, I
know, I know at that moment. And all I can do is walk in the
rest of the way and answer the only question that can be
answered: How did he do it? Because all the other questions
have no answers. Would never be answered. Like: did it hurt?
Did he think about it for a long time? Did he think of me when
he was doing it? And, of course, that all important: WHY? In
the dream, nightmare, whatever, it's always different. Sometimes
he hangs himself, sometimes it's the gun, hell, sometimes it's pills
that *I* have given him.
Where the hell did I put the Maalox?!
Off this train of thought RIGHT NOW. The case. We had
some good leads. Apparently, the girls were taken about halfway
home after they had both gone to the movies. It struck me that
this is still the kind of town where a parent, any loving parent,
would let their 15 year old daughter walk home at 10:00 at night.
Sure it was only 7 blocks and she was with someone else. But in
DC--forget it. Well, I sure bet this little piece of Americana is
history in Warmington, too, now. No more late walks alone for
teenaged girls. No sirree.
The searchers found two soda cups and a beaded purse that
was Rebecca's. No purse found for Darcy. Maybe she didn't
carry a purse. Still, it's something I would like to ask the
Colts when I talk to them next.
Now comes the Mulder part. The farmer, whose house is
very close to where the cups and the purse were found, saw, yes
folks, *lights in the sky*. Why wasn't I surprised? So I whipped
out my standard *lights in the sky* card and read Mulder his
rights.
You have the right to think this might have been car
headlights.
You have the right to think this may have been a
memory from earlier in the day, or lightning, whatever, your
choice.
You could even think that this was from the fireworks
display that occured just one mile away at about the same time to
celebrate the 50th birthday of the town's leading citizen, the
Mayor.
But of course, if you waive these rights, you will
undoubtedly come to the conclusion that these young girls were
whisked away in an alien spacecraft and are currently hanging
out with Arthur Dent at the Restaurant at the End of the
Universe.
Boy, am I glad I didn't add that last part. Cheap shot.
I'm more tired than I thought.
Oh, I guess I should mention his flawless piece of evidence
for sticking to the UFO theory. The oak tree at the side of the
road was dying on one side.
He said it was heat damage. Now, I know I'm just a lowly
M.D. who took waaaaay too much physics for the job I thought I
was training for, but I DID manage to sneak in a couple of Bio
courses in my years at U of M. And it sure looked like a half
dead tree to me. Could have been heat damage, I will admit. Or
it could have been a fungus, or some kid with a piece of fishing
line or any number of diseases (perish the thought) that attack
oak trees in the middle of Ohio. But to Mulder, dear sweet
Mulder, it was heat damage.
So I took a leaf to check it out. Shipped it off to the lab
today while he was at the library. Hopefully Pendrell isn't too
busy because he's the only one in the lab who will actually *rush*
when I request that something be done as a *rush*. We seem to
have outstayed our welcome in the lab a couple of times in the
past.
We got a cup of coffee-- I noticed he referred to it as 'getting
breakfast' but did not consume any solid food-- and then reviewed
the evidence found at the scene. Two cups and a beaded purse.
A beaded purse just like one that Missy had when she was in high
school. I remember it. I wanted it. It was so cool. It was little.
She said it was a dance purse. You took it when you went
dancing because you could put your fake ID in it and a couple of
tissues and a tampon if necessary. Oh, and a couple of bucks, of
course. I'm pretty sure that Missy's had a condom tucked in there,
too, but she never told me that. That's why I wasn't too
surprised when Deputy Knox confided to Mulder (not to the
'little woman'--oops, forgot, these guys *do* seem to be on our
side) that they found a couple of condoms in the purse with
Darcy's prints on them.
But I didn't know about the condoms when I went to see
Rebecca's doctor-- Dr. Ron Thiele.
Ronald Thiele, M.D. Family Practice. Has been treating the
Colts since Mrs. Colt first had morning sickness some 16 years
ago. A very nice man. I couldn't help but look around the place.
It was a nice little office. But that didn't answer my questions.
Well, maybe some of my questions (like what will I do when the
Bureau kicks me out at retirement age), but not the ones about
the case.
I was only expecting a report on Rebecca. I was a bit
surprised to find that Mrs. Colt had brought Darcy in to see Dr.
Thiele. Apparently Mrs. Colt had noticed that her niece was
suffering from fatigue and nausea. It was more pronounced in
the morning. OoooKay. Well, maybe Rebecca was adopted.
Being the rocket scientist that I am, I knew right off the bat
that we were taking the most obvious ailment of sexually active
teenagers, but hey, never leave a stone unturned. And
apparently, Dr. Thiele is the same way. Sort of unusual in a
small town country doctor, especially one who's at least 50 years
of age. Note: I have got to stop being so judgemental.
Anyway, Mrs. Colt was certain that Darcy was suffering from
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, since she had recently read an article
about it in the _Reader's Digest_ and so, Dr. Thiele ran a few
blood tests. No sign of Epstein-Barr virus. Plenty of hormones
associated with pregnancy. One more medical mystery solved.
Another virgin birth in the heartland.
Let me review here. Two missing teenagers, girls. One
pregnant, one not (big assumption on my part, but what the hey).
Only one girl's purse found at crime scene. A dark night, lights
of some kind. Gee, California looks awful good when you're 16
years old and you need a place to run. But this is pure
speculation on my part and I am keeping it all to myself. I can't
afford to make those leaps of logic that Mulder is famous for. I
would be wrong occasionally.
I related all of the pertinent medical information to Mulder
over dinner. I should learn to keep these discussion to the
privacy of the car, or maybe even the motel. Public places
should be avoided. I think the discussion of the condoms really
cinched it for our waitress. She showed up right when my male
partner asked me what the condoms had to do with the case. She
obviously got the wrong idea. I could have killed Mulder at that
moment.
But he was too busy killing himself. He is not eating. At all,
from what I've seen in the last two days. I know the last meal I
watched him consume was lunch yesterday. He had no dinner,
no breakfast, no lunch, and no dinner tonight, to speak of. He
bought the blue plate special, lots of meatloaf, mashed potatoes,
gravy running off them like a rush of motlen lava, a big pile of
green beans and a dinner roll that looked homemade and made
*my* mouth water. And he didn't get a bite of it in his mouth.
Not that he didn't try. He played with it nicely. When the
man marries, the first thing I plan on telling his intended is that he
plays with his food. After she married him, of course. Wouldn't
want to scare the woman off. And at least he didn't try to sculpt
Devil's Tower in the potatoes. But he didn't eat them, either, and
that is what upset me.
I wanted to go into my 'Did you really *like* that naso-gastric
tube we had to use in Alaska?' speech. I've been saving it for just
such an occasion. Or the famous 'you are one missed meal away
from the ER and an IV, Mulder' lecture. But, instead, I just said
nothing. What could I say? Hey, don't kill yourself over this
one? Yeah, right. Mulder, eat before I force feed you? That
one always works. In my dreams.
I'm really getting scared. If he doesn't eat something
tomorrow, I will have to seriously consider giving AD Skinner a
call. I don't want to tattle. Missy would kill me for tattling.
But damn it, when he does this, I have to do something.
*********
end of part six
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley
Part 7: Fouled Out
The Journals of Fox Mulder
* Fri. 24 June
...Well, technically, anyway. It's one a.m. and
needless to say there's been no rest for the wicked
tonight. I can't even watch TV to get me through the
night. Scully's sure to hear it through these thin walls
and then we'll both be up worrying and that's the last
thing either of us needs.
I'm now intimately familiar with every detail
of this room, having prowled around it for three hours
without a break. I had to sit down and start writing
this before I started throwing myself against the walls
or something.
Somehow I have to bounce back and pull myself
together tomorrow. I can't keep doing this goddamn
`Spooky' act every time I run across a situation I
can't handle for the rest of my fucking life. My
partner is _worried_. I can't _do_ that. I can't keep
throwing myself off a cliff and counting on her to
save me.
Because this is too much. I feel sick, unsaveable.
It's built up since I broke and lashed out at Robert Colt.
Maybe I was shaky before. But that...
Confession time. I looked at Robert Colt and I
saw Bill Mulder and it just hurts and I don't know what
to do except find them, but how? How?
I'm NOT going to throw this little organizer
against the wall. I'm not going to pitch a fit. I'm
not going to lose it, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.
So.
So!
That's _better_. This will all seem ridiculous
in the sane light of morning.
One-thirty, now. I'll stop writing at two and
go to sleep. I'm tired. It will be easy. I may just
drift off while I'm writing. Because I'm tired and
I need to sleep. I'll just close my eyes. This isn't
hard. I need to rest. I'll fall asleep soon.
... Shit.
Never mind. I'll write. I'll write from now
until morning, then I'll run until I can't feel my
legs anymore, and I'll coast on endorphins and coffee
tomorrow.
And we'll find Rebecca and Darcy.
Sure. We'll find them, with me jump-started
and hot-wired and stuck together with spit and bubble
gum, and Scully wasting time trying to help me.
Sometimes I wonder if the only reason she
stays is out of pity. I know it's not. I know this
is the only challenge she's ever found that really
lets her use that incredible mind and apply everything
she knows to the work. In fact, it's a sad kind of
egotism to believe she only sticks around in an
attempt to help me. I still think it sometimes.
God, there's so much hate in my head right now.
I think at the moment the one I hate is Patterson. Yeah,
good ol' stoneface... jesus, that's sick. Anyway. He's
the one who taught us to live the case, not just solve
it but make it your existence. Study the art. Patterson
used to LOVE it when I freaked out. As far as he was
concerned, I was the only one properly applying his
teachings-- I went crazy every time we tracked down
another killer, made myself insane to understand their
insanity. All that ugliness. The sicker I got, the
more approval Patterson showered on me. If I wasn't
turning into a monster, than by his judgement, I
wasn't doing it right. If I wasn't doing it right,
surely a stern talking-to would make me see the error
of my ways. What the hell are you still doing up and
about, Agent Mulder? Aren't you nuts yet? Don't you
know our boy's going to carve up victim after victim
unless you lose your mind and tell us where to find
him? I don't know who I hate more... Patterson, for
feeding me that crap, or myself for eating it up.
Sure. Kick me. I can take it. Please, sir, may I have
another?
Two o'clock.
I can't _do_ this. There's an extended family
missing two girls right now, worried and frightened.
Two young women are lost who-knows-where, alone and
afraid. I have to pull myself together because it's
up to me and Scully to find out what happened to those
girls and bring them home to their family.
That's all that matters.
...Six o'clock. Well, I slept. Sort of. No
nightmares, because I don't think I was ever actually
unconcious. Just staring up at the ceiling and feeling
the cells die off one by one. Lactic acid in the
muscles, detritus in the synapses. The body needs
sleep to do its cellular housecleaning. When deprived,
it punishes the brain with disorientation, tunnel
vision, perception disorders, hallucinations.
See, Scully, I know your `Good NIGHT, Mulder'
speech by heart now.
Finally escaped the room at dawn, ran across
town and back (wasn't that far), alternated all-the-
way hot water with all-the-way COLD water in the
shower and I think I'm going to make it through the
day. I'm even almost hungry. This'll work out.
Scully's going to go the Colts' and handle
that end of the investigation. I'm... what am I doing?
I'm tracking down the local records of the
nineteen disapperances in Warmington since 1959. Scully
must have known that wouldn't take me all day, but she
let me tell her it was all I had planned.
I'm checking on the trains today, too. I didn't
tell her about that last night. If she's not ready to
face up to it yet, it's not my place to push her. If
she brings up the possibility, if she seems to accept
the idea that maybe the girls were abducted-- even if
she thinks it's by doctors in trains, not aliens in
spaceships-- _then_ I'll tell her. But it's bad enough
I flipped out with Bob Colt and upset her last night
by not eating. The least I can do is keep this angle
to myself until I know if it's going anywhere. The
minute it looks promising, I'll tell her.
I summoned all my discipline and also took an
anti-emetic Scully once left with me when I'd gotten
bonked on the head or something, and I had breakfast!
Decimated two pieces of toast and part of a slice of
ham and a huge daunting glass of orange juice that
Scully requested and plunked down in front of me with
a piercing glare. May not sound like a big accomplishment,
but it was an astonishing feat to me. I knew I probably
wouldn't be able to repeat this astounding performance
at lunch without benefit of the anti-emetic so I brought
along my sunflower seeds and gnawed on them all day.
Protein! Complex carbohydrates! I wanted to wave them
in Scully's face and say, See? I'm fine!
She watched me like a hawk all morning. Like
a hawk? I should be so lucky. Like a convenience store
surveillance camera: unblinking, unflinching, unforgiving.
Well, I earned that, I guess.
The rough part was adhering to the schedule
we have to follow to keep this investigation going.
Scully didn't want to let me out of her sight, and
if I hadn't struggled and conquered the demon of
breakfast I probably would have had a red-haired
babysitter all day today. As it was, she extracted
a promise that I'd be in the library all day today
and available by cellphone.
Scully spent the day with the Colts, talking
with them and looking around Rebecca's and Darcy's rooms.
Getting to know the victims. I didn't tell her this--
didn't even acknowledge it in my journal entry last
night, actually-- but while I was at the library yesterday
I looked up some yearbook pictures and newspaper stuff on
the girls and photocopied it. It's in my case notes.
Warmington is so small that the local paper printed
Rebecca's picture when she won first prize in 4-H for
a pencil drawing she did. I have the copy of that one
out: she's thirteen in the picture, still a little
gawkish at that age, blond hair frazzled in a failed
perm. She has braces in the picture but it's still a
beautiful smile. She's holding up the drawing. It's
a fairly skilled rendering of a squirrel perched in
a dying tree.
Anyway... I found out a few things about the
previous disappearances. The Colts are an established
family around here, and apparently have a tendency to
marry Pritchards and Rothmans.
1962, Glenda Pritchard got lost in the woods
for eight days, returned unable to clearly articulate
what had happened to her. Her maiden name was Colt.
1965, Bridget Rothman had a car accident; it
was nearly three weeks before searchers discovered
her wandering a back street in Warmington. Bridget's
maiden name was also Colt.
1969, Carmen Pritchard. She wasn't a Colt
herself, but her mother Charlene had been. Carmen
got lost on a family outing to the park when she
was nine. Frantic searches yielded nothing for
two days, when she suddenly turned up unharmed
and sleeping under a tree only a stone's throw
from where she disappeared.
This one hit hard. 1972. Jessamina Rothman
went missing. And never returned. She wasn't a Colt.
Her maiden name was Falk.
Explains a little about how and why a cop
in a little Ohio town hears about a pair of obscure
FBI agents who specialize in odd disappearances and
murders. Sheriff Falk's cousin Jessamina vanished
two decades ago; he's remained sheriff of this town
since then, long past the age most men would retire
to collect their pensions.
Obscure FBI agents. Maybe not-- Scully and
I had a quick phone conference around noon. (Actually
one of several calls throughout the day.) She wanted
to meet up then because the papers were starting to
call our hotel. Not just the little local press...
the Cleveland and Cincinnati papers. I told her she'd
handle it a lot better than I ever could and that I
had a lot more work I wanted to do at the library.
That wasn't fun. We fenced on two levels:
the surface argument over how to conduct this inquiry
and the underlying argument over whether she got to
keep me on a short leash or not. I promised to leave
the library at five (ha ha, it closes at five; she
thought I was caving in by leaving that early) and
to help her deal with any press calls we get tomorrow.
I took off for the train station a couple
of miles north of here right after we talked. Went
in with highest of high hopes, thinking I could get
hard proof of those mysterious train cars, and came
away utterly disappointed on that score. No one knew
what the hell I was talking about.
That's scary. It means they girls very likely
were not stolen away to take part in a genetic
experiment. But that leaves the possibility of
abduction. And strange as it seems, I'd almost rather
believe the girls have been abducted by aliens than
that a bunch of human doctors are taking their blood
and ignoring their screams.
No. Happy thoughts, Agent Mulder. C'mon.
Anyway. I managed to conscript the cooperation
of the railway manager, who agreed to fax me timetables
and car accounts far more detailed than the ones at
the library. If there's any documentation of those
cars whatsoever, I'll find it.
At dinner, Scully unexpectedly declared a
moratorium on shoptalk. (Has she been reading my
journal entries?) She said something to the effect
of, "We're two well-educated, resourceful adults.
We can find something to talk about besides work."
I just gave her a level look: _Yeah, right._
It took about five minutes for her to give
in. She sighed, "Okay, what'd you come up with?"
Told her about three of the women who'd
gone missing before being Colts, and the one being
Jessamina Falk.
Sober and wrung out as we both were, she
gave a wan smile and repeated, "Jessamina?"
I told her that with the Buzzes and
Jessaminas in this little town, I was seriously
considering moving to Warmington. "I'd fit right
in."
Wry smile from Scully. "Somehow I doubt
that."
Innocuous remark, maybe even meant as
a compliment, but it gave me a twinge, and not a
pleasant one. "Anyway," I said, ignoring it, "it
does seem to be a clear pattern, don't you think?"
"Do we have any comparable statistics for
disappearances in a town this size?"
Different restaurant tonight, but the
waiter came in right then and asked if `the lady'
and I would be having drinks tonight. The implications
are staggering. The whole town must think we're
shacking up together by now. Scully bit the inside
of her mouth as I declined with characteristic
grace (I think it went like this: "Huh? Ah, oh, ah,
no, um, thank you, that's okay, no.") Then she
summoned him back and ordered a Bloody Mary! If I'd
known... well, no, actually, I haven't really been
able to stand alcohol since the last time I saw Dad.
He stank of the stuff, that night. Trying to screw
up the courage to reveal truths that died with him.
Right. Happy thoughts. Shit.
Anyway. Scully turned back with a Sphinx
smile and repeated her earlier question. Of course,
I didn't have comparable statistics onhand. I'm
fairly sure that nineteen missing persons cases
is on the right side of the bell curve, but she
has a point. So tomorrow I've gotta call back to
DC and find out what the normal rate of missing
persons cases is in a town the size of Warmington.
Shouldn't take long.
Once I admitted that, Scully gave a nod
and suddenly clammed up. I couldn't figure it out
until I realized... she wasn't going to tell me
what she'd found out today until I started eating
something before her very eyes.
Steeled myself and started in on what I'm
sure would have been a delicious fish fillet meal
if it hadn't taken every ounce of willpower just
to get it down my throat. Felt like the tightrope
act in the center ring.
"So, what'd you find out today?" I asked.
Scully glanced pointedly at my plate, gave
a little wave with one hand, and didn't answer.
In other words: Bad Mulder. No biscuit.
I know she meant well. Attacked the food
with renewed vigor and she started talking.
Darcy's parents are in the process of
divorcing; she was sent to stay with her cousin's
family until her custody was settled. At the time
of the girls' disappearance she'd been living
in Warmington for two months. Mrs. Colt apparently
diplomatically described her niece as `troubled'.
The short version: Scully's almost certain
that Darcy got pregnant and that she and Rebecca
have either run away together for good, or tried
to arrange for an abortion for Darcy and ran into
trouble.
"Wouldn't conventional investigation have
turned up some trace of them, if that were the
case?"
"It wouldn't be the first time runaways
slipped through a police net."
"Do we know for sure Darcy was pregnant?"
"The blood tests Dr. Theise ran showed
a significant elevation in estrogen and related
hormones."
"Don't birth control pills often produce
the same effects? Maybe she's just been having
really, really safe sex."
"Possible, but unlikely. Hormonal
reactions like the one Darcy had would be very
rare for the Pill. But very, very common for
teenage pregnancy."
"Do you honestly think that these two
girls would disappear like this, leaving their
families terrified, just because Darcy was
going to have a baby?"
"Pregnancy is slightly more serious than
you seem to think," she reproached, with splendid
timing. Our waiter had just come up behind her to
check on us. I got a magnificent view of his eyes
popping out when he heard that. Too bad I was too
tired to laugh. Now the residents of Warmington
will think the two visiting FBI agents aren't just
sleeping together-- they're expecting. Unbelievable.
Fortunately, Scully didn't seem to notice
him. She went on, "In a close-knit religious family
like the Colts, getting pregnant upsets all the
expectations and illusions the parents have about
the girls. Darcy may have decided she'd hurt them
less by disappearing than she would by staying and
having an illegitimate child at age sixteen."
"But then why would she take Rebecca with
her? It doesn't wash, Scully. If Darcy's so troubled,
why would she care what her family thought of her?
If Rebecca's the good little girl the Colts claim
she is, why would she go along with running away?"
"I don't know, Mulder," she said, in that
eminently sensible tone. "I'm bringing up what seems
to me to be a simple, mundane explanation that fits
the known facts. It's a theory. That's all."
"It just doesn't make sense."
"People disappearing into nowhere isn't
_supposed_ to make sense."
And then, _boom_. Like that. All the
spit and chewing gum holding me together fell
apart. I sprinted for the men's room, locked
myself into the handicapped stall and put my
head against the tiled wall for a while.
It wasn't what she said. Not really. In
fact, if anything, what she said was comforting
in an odd way, because it was so true. There is
no sense in this. That's what did it... not what
she said, but the truth behind it.
I just had to get away to someplace cool
and private where I could close my eyes for a few
minutes. Eventually I came out, splashed water
on my face and looked at the mirror. I look like
the sick old basset hound dad finally takes out
back and shoots out of kindness.
Unsurprisingly, Scully was hovering right
outside the door when I emerged. "Were you sick?"
"No, just thought I would be. Nauseous."
Cracked a smile. "Maybe I'm developing a case of
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome."
She snorted delicately. "Right. And maybe
you're pregnant."
I laughed. Sounded more like a croak.
"C'mon." Scully tucked her arm around mine.
"Let's go back to the hotel and turn in for tonight.
We'll be able to deal with all this a lot better in
the morning."
And, wonder of wonders, Dr. Scully saw me to
my hotel room and left me to my own devices without
another word.
Now it's ten p.m. and I've got the TV tuned
to a rerun of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. It's one
of the ones where they're trapped in an alternate DS9
where Major Kira is a leather-clad dominatrix. One
of my favorites. Good Kira ends up in the alternate
DS9 and Bad Kira tries to seduce her. Too bad this
show started to suck not long after these episodes.
Too bad the show didn't suck during this episode...
Okay, I'm officially dead tired. Sleep or
no sleep, I can't concentrate to write anymore.
Hell of a day.
end part seven.
Disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer
Part 8: Pop Out to Left Field
Dana Scully's Personal Log
Friday June 24,
Five messages from reporters greeted me in my room. Well,
the little red button on my phone greeted me and the nice clerk at
the desk (the one who was so 'concerned' last night about the
plunger) was kind enough to give them all to me at once.
I hate PR almost as much as accounting.
But I fully understand the need to leave these little
annoyances to me rather than to Mulder right now. I mean, it
would be really hard to find a lawyer willing to defend him if he
shot an unarmed reporter in the head after the reporter ask one
too many stupid questions about the case. Especially since
Mulder would have to drive to Dayton, Cleveland or Cincinnati
to do it to the bastard. That pretty much defines 'premeditated'
in most judicial circuits.
And I can say "no comment" with the best of them. I even
got fancy. Once I said, "We have no comment at this time."
That should make CNN. Maybe even get the tape played on
Court TV when this all comes to trial. Yeah, right.
Ah, well, it was a distraction. I needed a distraction when
I walked in tonight. Whatever happened at supper was not
something I wanted to dwell upon for very long. I don't like it
when Mulder 'hares out' as he calls it, but I've learned to live with
it. At the end of a case, a really bad one, I know that it's normal.
It's the way he deals with the empathy he has, for the victim, the
victim's family, hell, sometimes for the other law enforcement
officers. Mulder empathizes with the best of them, all right. But
this was different. This wasn't about empathy. This was
somehow connected with whatever is bothering him. It took
everything inside of me to calmly leave him at his door and go
into my own room like we were both normal people and I could
trust him by himself right now.
He would tell me if he was sick, right? I mean he wouldn't go
into the bathroom at the restaurant and puke his guts up and then
walk back out and tell me it was just nausea, would he? No. He
looked too green on the way back to the room. I would have
known, I ALWAYS know when he's been sick and thrown up.
And not from the smell, either. From the look in his eyes. And
this time he didn't look like he was lying to me. He just looked
scared.
Shit. I'm still trying to figure out what I said that set him
off. Something about this case not making sense. Not exactly the
most startling of revelations, to be sure, but apparently it was
enough to make him sick to his stomach. He ran off faster than
some jack rabbits I've seen. And when he came out of the
bathroom and saw me standing there (I suppose he would have
preferred it if I sat at our table and acted like nothing had
happened)--he just looked scared.
As scared as I felt.
Should I have taken his gun? Now *there's* a really stupid
thought! On two levels. No, on three levels. One, he would
have *really* gone off on me if I did that and to tell the truth, I
wouldn't blame him. I have no proof that he is a danger to
himself. Two, to go along with number one, I don't think he's
thinking in those lines, anyway. This not eating stuff is closer to
classic anorexia than classic suicide. Not that anorexia isn't a
complex form of suicide in some people's minds, but anorexia is
about control. He *wants* to control his life right now. It feels
out of control. Given enough time, that lack of control could
transform into a feeling of never being in control again, and
THAT would be the flip of the switch to classic suicide.
What was I saying about only *one* psych course in
undergrad? Hah! I learned my psychology in the streets,
following around Mulder, boy genius.
That, and the subscription to Psychology Today that Mom
got me last year for my birthday. I figure, if I stick with Mulder
long enough, one day I can take my boards and get certified in
psychiatry. Lots more money there.
Anyway, I digress. He is not suicidal. I keep telling myself
that. I keep looking for evidence that I'm right. I am watching
him all the time for any sign that he's thinking about it.
I can not be wrong on this one.
But anyway, I couldn't take his gun for the very obvious
reason number three. He would make some smartass comment
like "Planning on shooting me again, Scully?" and *I* would lose
it. Maybe it's this case. Maybe it's worrying about him so much
these past few days. Last night, good old Nightmare No. 306
paid me a visit.
Nightmare 306, so named because it was 3:06 am when I
woke up from it the first time. In that sleazy little roadside inn
just outside of 'where in the hell are we anyway' Oklahoma,
heading for Farmington, New Mexico. And I guess I should be
relieved that it's not changed much since the first time.
I can still smell the alley. It's weird. It's the only dream
I have where I can smell things. But then, it's not so much a
dream as reliving a memory. What would the book say about
that, huh? Hardly repressed, I relive that personal hell all the
time. But last night, God, I was surrounded by that smell of
garbage that has baked in the spring sunshine, only to be rained
upon. That sick smell. I feel my gut curl up into a tight little
ball every time I think about it even now.
And I walk, no I *run*, around the corner of the building and
there is Mulder with a gun on Krycek. Has to be Krycek's gun,
since *I* have Mulder's. God, I left him without a weapon.
That was so stupid! I mean, sure, I was positive that he was not
thinking clearly. I knew something was wrong, desparately so,
but still, I left him defenseless. And I knew someone was trying
to kill him. So, since I was halfway there already, I just finished
their job and shot him.
It's so easy to write the words, so hard to live with them.
I know that I was justified. I know that I aimed more carefully
than I have *ever* aimed in my life. I know that if I hadn't done
it, he would have killed Krycek and stood trial for his murder
*and* his father's murder. I know that my intent was to stop
him, render him harmless in the situation, injure, yes, kill,
absolutely out of the question. And all it would have taken was
for him to move. Bolt. Jump for Krycek and the bullet would
have hit his heart or his head and not his shoulder.
And if he had killed Krycek--
Damn it.
As it was, I got the joy of patching him up. Boy, did I
deserve that. Like when Fr. Sullivan used to make our penance
fit the sin and I ended up scrubbing church pews for two hours
all the while reciting the rosary because I had chewed gum
during the May procession and stuck it under the seat. I still
wonder how he knew that? But with Mulder that night, nothing
fit the sin more than cleaning that wound, seeing the pain on his
face, trying to keep fluids down him and dealing with his fever
dreams that night. I deserved a thousand years of that torment
for what I did.
I still do.
Is that why I'm worried about him? Because I hurt him so
badly that I can never forgive myself? I am doomed to spend the
rest of my life following around behind him and trying to keep
him safe, make sure no one else does to him what I have already
done?
Or am I simply running from what's really bothering me?
I wanted to tell him tonight. After spending the whole day
with the Colts, sitting in their nice not-quite-Ethan-Allen living
room with the chocolate milk stain on the beige berber rug in
front of the television and the scent of 'tropical breeze' air
freshener, I wanted to tell him so bad what I figured out. But I
couldn't.
I couldn't, because he is having enough trouble just surviving
right now. I don't need, I don't want to burden him with my own
revelations. I can deal with this. This is good, from a
therapeutic standpoint. I am getting somewhere, maybe, stupid
regression therapy books aside.
That book is really beginning to annoy me. I mean, sure, the
theory works when you're talking about a trauma that causes you
to blank out a specific event. You don't remember running over
your mother, you don't remember slicing your wrist, you don't
remember the plane crashing into your front window. And after
a couple of months, things snap back into place and you
remember it all. But that is not what happened to me. I was
kidnapped from my apartment and thrown in the trunk of a car
and then--nothing. Nothing for three months of my life! And
now, tiny bits and pieces sneak their way into my mind and I
wonder if they haven't been there all along and I just missed
them. Maybe it's all there, somewhere in my mind. Missy was
right, it's in there. I know that. I accept that now. But
how the hell do I get it out?!?
It was while I was standing in the room where Rebecca and
Darcy slept that it happened. It wasn't a memory. It was a
feeling. It was dread.
Thank God that the Colts were in the kitchen and didn't see
me. They had left me to wander the house, hoping against hope
that I would stumble onto something that would bring their
daughter and their niece back to them. And, in a real sense, I
think I might have. But the feeling hit me with such a jolt that
I probably would have scared them shitless.
It was funny, almost. The way the room was set up was
exactly like our room had been in San Diego. The room was
about the same size as ours, mine and Missy's. The beds, twin
beds, were on either side of a window with a nice big elm tree
outside. A single vanity on the wall next to Rebecca's bed, a
single dresser on the wall next to Darcy's bed. Just like we did.
There was never enough money for each of us to have a
complete set of bedroom furniture, much less our own rooms.
So we shared everything. Just like Rebecca and Darcy did.
It hit me so hard, I almost doubled over. I couldn't breathe.
I had to sit down until it subsided.
I tried really hard to shove the feeling back in place. I mean,
logically, think about it. Here is a girl, 16 years old, pregnant
and knows it. She's a good kid at heart, she doesn't want to be in
trouble. Her parents are already in the middle of a divorce. Her
uncle doesn't think much of her, probably rules the roost with an
iron fist. She's scared. So, she tells her cousin. The girls are
close, the cousin is not about to let her leave to handle this alone.
Now, together, they devise a plan.
Go to the movies. Yeah, that gives a window of at least 2
hours. Who really knows when the purse and the two soda cups
suddenly appeared on the road? The searchers found them at 7
am the next morning. The movie started at 8 the night before.
Who says the cups and the purse didn't arrive there about thirty
minutes after the show started?
Here, the speculation gets sticky. Rebecca's purse had no
money to speak of and just a couple of condoms. Why leave it
on purpose? But if they didn't leave it on purpose, was it left by
accident? And what caused the accident, two girls running to get
into the car that they had hitched down to ride or two girls being
manhandled into a car by some psychopath.
Both scenarios are unsupported by the evidence we currently
have. Of course, both are also equally plausible since we have no
real evidence to speak of. So I should have told Mulder what I
was thinking. I should have bounced the theory off him and
watched him get that gleam in his eye as he pounces on me like
he's a cat and I'm his catnip mouse. But I didn't.
Because that is not what happened that night.
I hate this. I can't get these thoughts out of my head, this
feeling out of my heart. I was standing there, staring out the
window of Rebecca and Darcy's room. Could it have been the
blinds? White painted wooden blinds, wide slats, just like in my
old apartment. That could have been it. The same kind of blinds
that I turned and saw
Why now!? Why am I suddenly remembering this stuff now?
I mean, it's been two years. I know why. It's this case, it's
enough to pull all those thoughts right out of the corners and
shove them all in front of my eyes.
Whatever happened to me, happened to Rebecca and Darcy.
Just as sure as night follows day. I know that. I can feel it
in my bones. That was what hit me there in that room. The
empathy was so undeniable. It was like nothing I have ever felt
before. I knew that we shared common ground.
And where is the evidence, Agent Scully? Where is the
proof? Where is the smoking gun with the fingerprints on it that
will allow Perry Mason to shout out those fateful words: "HERE
IS OUR MURDERER!"?
Nowhere. Not a snip. Not a snatch. Hell, I don't even get
the luxury of performing an autopsy so I could find the computer
chips.
That's horrible. I don't want to find those girls dead. It
would kill Mulder, I know that. But I feel so worthless here!
I want something to do that *I* am good at! Something besides
this speculative shit that I hate so much. And I really hate
it now that I find myself doing it more and more.
So, I can't accuse myself of obstruction of justice by
withholding pertinent information on a case, because I don't
believe it is pertinent. OK, it's pertinent, but not supportable.
Not objective. Not even really a good theory because, quite
frankly, aside from the fact that I know those girls were taken
in the same manner I was taken and for the same purposes, that
leaves us--where?
Absolutely NOWHERE!! I DON'T KNOW WHAT
HAPPENED TO ME!! I still don't know what happened. When
I was standing in that railroad car with that pompous asshole
who calmly told me what he wanted to tell me, I thought I knew.
I thought it was about leprosy, the Hanson's Disease Research
Facility. It was really about secrets. Dirty, filthy little
government secrets. Or so that son of a bitch told me, and I
accepted it blindly.
When I sat in Mulder's apartment later, trying to figure out
how to disarm a bomb, and told him what I had learned... I really
thought it was the proof I had wanted. That was a laugh.
Because he thought he was about to die in an explosion and *he*
thought he had his proof, too. He thought he was trapped with a
human/alien hybrid and was about to die for the pleasure of it.
But, really, my mind has given me no more proof. It's just a
theory. Just like Mulder's theory that I was abducted by aliens.
Just two nice theories, mutually exclusive in nature. Neither one
supportable on their face, and supportive evidence is not
forthcoming.
The one person in my life that I can talk to about this is
sitting in the next room. And I can't go to him. I can't tell
him. Because he is exhausted and underfed and emotionally a walking
time bomb. He's got too much to bear already and to add this to
the burden--no, I've hurt him enough as it is.
I just wish it were different.
I just wish one of us was normal and stable and capable of
handling the shit we have in our lives. So that one of us could
help the other. I don't even care if it's me that does the helping.
Actually, I think I would prefer that.
I can hear the strains of the theme song to Deep Space Nine
wafting through the walls of my room. Thank God he found
something to watch, but Jeez, Mulder, DS9?!? The adventures
of an intergalactic shopping mall. No wonder they waited till
Roddenberry was dead before unveiling it.
He was really trying at dinner tonight. He had some news, a
great lead, in his mind. All the missing women were related, in
some way or other. Of course, I had to point out that it could be
a normal random occurance and he should check the statistics of
missing persons in towns this size. Let's face, in a town with
fewer than 5000 residents, it's pretty hard to have two cars in a
fenderbender on the square and not have both parties be related
in some way. That's just the way it is. And he honestly agreed
that it was plausible.
That should have set me off more than it did. But I was too
worried watching him play with his food again. He had made an
effort at breakfast this morning. I could tell it took every ounce
of strength within him to choke down the few bites he did
manage. He's trying to be good. Trying so hard.
I hated being such a bitch about it, but what the hell am I
supposed to do? I can't let him pull that shit in front of me.
Even he would know that was over the line. I have to be the
playground supervisor, making sure he doesn't run out into the
street. I tried not to call him too many times at the library.
He needed the time away from me, I could see that. Just as much
as I needed him with me at the Colts. To tell me the blinds
*weren't* the reason I had that feeling of deja vu.
I didn't call Skinner. I can't do that to him until it's
absolutely necessary. I can handle this. I've handled worse,
for God's sakes. And as long as he's trying, it won't get too
bad.
The minute he stops trying, that's the minute I'll call.
end part eight
See disclaimer part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley
Part 9: Hand Signals
The Journals of Fox Mulder
* Sat. 25 June
I woke up this morning at eight. Let me write
it again: I _woke_up_ this morning at eight.
Did I dream last night? I don't remember, but
I suspect so. Times like this I remember why I so vastly
prefer Jung to Freud. Jung, with his archetypes and
collective unconciousness, postulated that dreams act
as a clearinghouse for the subconcious mind. They
process all the gunk in your brain, in other words,
and help you arrange it mentally so it doesn't crush
your cerebellum.
Did I dream last night?
Well, _something_ went right, anyway.
Felt pretty neutral when I woke up and went for
a run. At that point, neutral seemed pretty amazingly
good to me. So as I pounded the pavement early on this
beautiful Saturday morning, I realized: I'm looking at
the clouds, the houses, admiring the town. And I'm not
seeing dark forces looming in every corner. A terrible,
terrible thing has happened here. It has no justification
and it makes no sense. My partner and I are here to find
out what went wrong and try to put it right. Together,
there's an excellent chance that we'll be able to do
that. I'll work hard. Scully will work hard. We'll do
everything we can.
Essentially, as I ran, the sense of helplessness
that dogged me yesterday and the night before began to
fade and drift away. There's _hope_.
Ran past a bakery and it smelled really good
and I actually did a double take because... it was
food, and it smelled really good. So on my way back
to the hotel I stopped in and fortunately my wallet
was in my sweats, though I don't remember putting it
there, and I picked up some croissants and pastries
for Scully and me.
The girl working behind the counter was
humming while she put it all into a big bag for me,
and I heard her sing a little when she went into the
back: "First you decide what you've got to do, then
you go out and do it. Maybe the most that we can do
is just to see each other through it."
So beautiful. I asked her what she was singing
and she blushed. She didn't remember. I told her the
words. She went even redder and said it was called
`Hour Follows Hour'. Bonnie DiFranco.
Never heard of her.
Doesn't matter. That little piece of song
stuck with me on the way back to the hotel. I picked
up some Snapples and Hansen's juice and Lipton's
bottled teas from the grocery store. Standing in
line with a few other early risers I thought, my
god, this seems so normal. Considered getting Scully
flowers or something but that's a little _too_ normal.
I got her one of those little boxes of Russell Stover's
chocolates instead.
Ducked into my hotel room, tossed everything
onto the dresser, ripped through a quick shower and
checked out my reflection. Still didn't look so great,
but better. Maybe dad would take the hound to the vet
before he gave up and shot him.
Dressed and went over to knock on Scully's
door. She answered, a hairbrush still in one hand,
looking out with no small amount of trepidation. I
said, "I don't know who Bonnie DiFranco is, but
I think I owe her one. Want some breakfast?"
Scully relaxed; her eyebrows curved up
and she stared at me for a minute. I gave her a
little shrug. What could I say? Good morning. I'm
sane again. At least for now. No, but I said what
amounted to the same thing: "C'mon, Scully, make
up your mind. I'm starving."
She turned and walked back into the room,
tossing "Come on in, then," over her shoulder.
Spread it all out on the threadbare, stomped-
out carpet and we had breakfast. She kept looking at
me like she couldn't quite believe I'd snapped out
of it. If I thought about it too closely, I'd be
pretty floored myself, but I can't examine it without
risking losing equilibrium and that's not an option.
After I'd put away a pair of croissants and
a Danish (delicious, we have to go back to that bakery)
and Scully was sure I wasn't performing some kind of
sleight-of-hand to fool her, she said, "So who's Bonnie
DiFranco?"
"No idea."
"So why do you owe her...?"
"First you decide what you've got to do, then
you go out and do it," I recited for her. "Maybe the
most that we can do is to see each other through."
Scully looked down and read the label on
her bottle of Snapple. I told her about the girl
singing at the bakery. She shook her head and stared
at me again. "So... you're feeling better," she said,
like she was testing uncertain waters.
"Look, I picked up some chocolates. Did you
peruse the miraculous selection of entertainment
available on television last night? Or go out and
experience the swingin' local nightlife?"
She said she couldn't find anything on TV
but Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, wrinkling her nose
as she said it.
"Death to the infidel!" I told her. "DS9's
much better than that sanitized, soulless crap they
made with the Next Generation."
That kicked off a fun little fight about
the relative merits of the two shows. Scully said
DS9 is a ratty-looking intergalatic flea market.
Finally I confessed that the only episodes I really
liked were the ones with alternate-universe Kira
in leather. I mean, the actress's name is Nana
_Visitor_... how irresistable can you get?
Scully grinned and said the only relationship
she found even remotely interesting on the show is
Kira and Odo because it was obvious they were in
love without knowing it. (Yeah, right. Scully's so
obviously going to end up marrying some older guy
who's constantly grouchy and everyone hates him
and she'll be the only one he'll even talk to
without copping an attitude... _hey_...) I agreed
that anything about Kira is interesting. By then
I was just clowning, and she actually went along,
pretending to be jealous, asking if she ought to
chop her hair off like they made Kira do after
the first few episodes of DS9. I told her that
her hair looks fine but it wouldn't hurt to try
out Bad Kira's wardrobe.
She laughed, "I'll have Kimberly make
a leather jumpsuit for me. Maybe it'll match
whatever she's making you."
"Kimberly? Young Sherlock Skinner Kimberly?"
(The only extended conversation I've ever had with
Skinner's receptionist concerned the movie _Young
Sherlock Holmes_ and at one point she actually
said Holmes reminded her of Skinner, so...)
"I'm probably not supposed to tell you
this," Scully confided. "But she's been taking
this leatherworking class--"
I played along. Uh-huh, right, Kimberly tans
skin(ner)s in her spare time and fashions fetishwear
for recalcitrant Congressmen. And she asked Scully
for my sizes. Ooooh yeah. "Be sure to tell her I
prefer black," I joked. "And no thongs! Ouch!"
She insisted it was true and added, "You
really ought to either ask her out or discourage
her, Mulder. She gets her hopes up so much every
time Skinner calls us in."
Why would Kim Skinnerette even notice me
among the flood of agents streaming in and out of
Grand Central Skinner? (I know, the Skinner stuff
is getting out of hand, but the more I look at our
boss's name the more ridiculous it looks: Skinner.
Skinner? Hah.) I've barely even spoken to the woman.
I said as much to Scully and she gave me a knowing
sidewise look.
Well, fine then; I fought back. "How 'bout
you? I noticed you and Deputy Knox were getting
along awfully well. Not to mention poor Agent Pendrell
pining away for you back in Washington."
Scully asserted that Deputy Knox had cole
slaw for brains (a secondhand judgement based on
what I told her about his questions in re: serial
murder vs. series of crimes).
"And Agent Pendrell?" I prodded. This was fun.
"Don't be silly," she scoffed. "I've barely
even spoken to the man..."
Maybe it's the respite from the unrelenting
tension of the past week; maybe it's just the inherent
absurdity of our lives. We both laughed like idiots
and agreed: we are _hopeless_.
"Mulder, if you put my life and your life
together we _still_ wouldn't have enough to make one
complete life," she calculated.
I grinned, because after all, that's what
we've done-- put our two non-lives together and made
one almost-life out of them. Well, no, actually, what
happened is that Scully had a life, met me, and ended
up as pathetic as I am. Hah hah.
(Stop that.)
"Here's what we'll do," I said. "When we get
back to DC, I'll ask out Kimberly and you ask out
Pendrell-- and then we'll see who's right and who's
doing the quarterly budget next time around."
Scully agreed and we shook on the bet. I know
I've got the inside track on this one-- Pendrell asked
me once if Scully was seeing anybody. (I told him she'd
been spending a lot of time with some weirdo named
Queequeg lately.) Looks like I weaseled my way out of
the budget this summer.
So then we cracked open the chocolates and shared
them. I asked if she'd had any word from the papers.
Scully grinned, "No comment."
So we riffed on that for a while. I asked
a series of increasingly silly questions; she kept
stolidly answering with "No comment."
"Is it true that Elvis was sighted in
Warmington not long after your arrival?"
"No comment."
"Is it possible that the Assistant Director's
Rogaine treatments will backfire and turn him into
Jim-Jim the Dog-Faced Boy?"
"No comment!"
I never knew there were so many different ways
to say "No comment." When I mentioned that to Scully
she proudly demonstrated her more drastic variations.
"We have no comment at this time. I can't
comment on that right now. I have no comment."
I applauded and suggested she set up a 900 line.
Scully smiled and paused delicately. "You know
I have to file my field report over the weekend and modem
it to Skinner Monday," she said. Well, yes, I answered,
like always. And she paused again, and looked at me.
She must have thought the entire thing was some
huge act I put on so she wouldn't _tell_ on me to Skinner!
I can't believe it. For one thing-- like I care what A.D.
Skinner thinks. He's done us good turns, we've done him
good turns. (I can't think of any right now, but we must
have done him good turns.) Anyway, she could tell Skinner
I think I'm the Easter Bunny. He's either going to back
us up, or he's going to pull out the rug from under us,
and whether or not I'm acting like a lunatic will have
no bearing on his opinion about the validity of the
investigation because as far as Skinner is concerned,
I always act like a lunatic. For another thing, it never
even crossed my mind that she would turn me in. It's
that whole "I trust you, Scully" thing. Call me crazy
(well, why not, apparently my partner will) but the
idea had not occurred to me.
I told her that she could have my case notes
if she needed them for her field report and pretended
that was why she brought it up.
Then I said I wanted to look my notes over
before we discussed the next tack to take and I'd
meet her for lunch to talk about it. She agreed.
She agreed knowing that I never need to `look at
my notes', so basically she allowed me to escape.
Just realized. That'll probably _convince_
her that I was just trying to fool her, and that once
she was on to me I gave up and stalked back to my
lair to sulk.
If I deceived Scully about how off-kilter
this case has made me, I did it because I don't want
to worry her. And that's the only reason.
Which is what I'm going to tell her at lunch.
Then we can get back into the case in earnest. I'm going
to tell her about looking into the trains, even
though I haven't come up with anything there.
First you decide what you're going to do,
then you go out and do it...
Well. So much for that.
Not too long after I made my last entry
Scully came storming over to my room. Deputy
Knox had called her to let her know our faxes
came in: the ones from DC and the ones from the
train station.
If there'd been board and nails handy I
think my partner would have happily crucified
me.
Numbering among her more notable remarks
were repeated queries as to why I didn't inform
her of this particular line of inquiry. When I
told her I didn't want to bring up the
possibility because I didn't want to make her
confront the idea until she was ready, Scully
exploded.
Turns out, she's been thinking of nothing
else since we started this case. She came up
with her mundane explanation to reassure herself
that it's possible nothing truly sinister is
going on. And I punched holes in her theory
without bothering to offer another one to
replace it.
Turns out, she's been making herself sick
wondering if what happened to her for the two months
she was gone has happened again, now, to Rebecca and
Darcy. She's been struggling to remember something,
anything, in the hopes that it would help our
investigation. She got _The Myth of Repressed Memory_
to help her understand why she still can't recall
more than the briefest fragments of those two months.
I saw _none_ of this. How I managed not to
notice defies explanation.
And when I asked why she didn't tell me
what she was thinking, Scully lost patience
completely and snapped, "How can I talk to you
when anything I say is likely to send you
running from the room at any moment?"
I couldn't argue with that.
In fact, it took everything I had not to
bolt again. The only thing that kept me there was
the sure and certain knowledge that it's my patented
Spooky act that made me miss so much in the first place.
I can't let her down like that. I've already hurt her
by omission, by losing sight of how this is affecting
her...
At the same time, she _refused_ to discuss it.
I asked-- asked? I _beseeched_ her to tell me what she
really thinks is going on here. She drew up and pinned
me with that stabbing blue stare and said, "That's not
what this is about."
Huh?
Finally she turned on her heel and said, "Come
on. We have to pick up those faxes."
"You go. I'll stay here and field press calls."
She whirled around and narrowed her eyes and
I got the message. Ditch her again, and I'm dead.
So I got to say "No comment" a few times today
myself. Started my own field report, getting all the
boring stuff out of the way, the stuff I haven't even
bothered to record here in this journal-- legwork like
re-checking everything the locals did, following up
on the very few and unlikely leads that they hadn't
caught, bringing our oh-so-formidable federal resources
to bear on the problem by running prints, etc. through
the US database. Thrilling stuff like that, the time-
eating crap we've sloughed through with the usual
efficient-but-thorough methodology that's made Scully
so beloved of the upper echelons of the FBI despite
her career-suicide decision to stick with the X-Files.
I promised myself that I wouldn't leave the hotel for
even a second until she came back.
That lasted.
Storm clouds gathered (I love it when the
weather matches my state of mind) and the sky went
_dark_ and suddenly, I remembered that I'd never
had the chance to go back to the abduction site
at night.
I left her a note.
So here I am, under the very oak tree where
it happened. Where an extraterrestrial craft hovered
overhead as its occupants loaded the paralyzed forms of
two young girls onto the ship. Where a car pulled over
and a man with a badge told Rebecca Colt and Darcy
Waitland that they'd have to come with him, please.
Where a mad Nazi scientist rode up on his big black
horse, carried them off to his castle, and ate them
alive!
How are we going to find Rebecca and Darcy?
We can't even find each other.
How can we save them?
We can't even save ourselves.
end part nine.
See disclaimers part 1
Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer
Part 10: Waving off the Signals
Dana Scully's Personal Log
Friday night/Saturday morning June --
Ah hell, it's the middle of the night! Who the fuck cares?
I am tired and I really want to sleep but I can't. Mulder just
let loose with another scream and so help me God, I really want
to go over there and either wake him up to handle these
nightmares, or stuff a pillow in his face so I can get some sleep.
I don't do either.
I really like it when we have connecting doors. That sounds
awful. But it's true. I usually lock mine (throwback to the dark
ages when women were pretty defenseless), but Mulder never
locks his. That way, it's my decision, right? I guess. Anyway,
when he has a night like this, when all hell breaks loose, I can
sneak over and peek in the connecting door and make sure he's
all right.
I don't wake him up. I think that's the wrong thing to do. I
just watch him and make sure he's not really being attacked by --
well, anything we might be investigating at the moment.
But I don't have that luxury right now. So I am just lying
here and listening. In light of his recent behavior (OK, let's be
honest, his very good imitation of Jack Nicholson in 'One Flew Over
the Cuckoo's Nest'), I am listening very closely. These walls are
thin, his bed is against the same wall that my bed is against. I can
hear him turn over. I could hear him get out of bed. I could hear
the safety of a gun being released. And I can break down a door
with the best of them.
Please, God, don't make me have to do that.
I wonder what he does when he hears my nightmares? I
know I have them, too. And I know he hears them.
But goddammit to hell and back, this is the third one tonight
for him! And I'm positive "Mr. Personality" at the desk is going
to be ringing his phone in a moment to tell him the other guests
are complaining. They have to be. I think Great Lakes Navel
Air Station is picking up some of this noise.
I knew it was bad at dinner. I should have said something. I
will say something. First thing in the morning.
Saturday, June 25
The 'alien morph' is back. At least that would explain
Mulder's transformation. It wasn't Mulder-I'm-one-step-from-a-
straightjacket who greeted me this morning. It was Mulder-this-
is-the-REAL-reason-my-mom-named-me-Fox who was at my door at
an early hour with croissants, juice and *chocolates*.
Well, that was one hell of a dip in the roller coaster, now,
wasn't it?
God, forgive me, I let myself enjoy it. I couldn't help myself.
The man ate three croissants in a matter of seconds. Ate? Hah!
Inhaled was more like it. I was certain he had to be hiding them
in his pants somewhere, but his jeans left little room for that. Or
for my imagination, for that matter. I mean, face it. Here is
Mulder. He's cute, in a run over by a log truck sort of way. And
he has a terrific sense of humor. And I'm dead tired because he
kept me up all night. So, if he wants to be Prince Charming, I'm
going to let him. I deserve it.
But I feel like a heel now. Because I don't think he even
remembers the nightmares. He didn't mention them. He usually
doesn't mention them outright. I mean, he never says "Hey,
Scully, I had a real headbanger last night. 9.9 on the Richter
scale." But he usually makes some comment to let me know he
knows that I know.
That sounds dumb, right? But it's just his way of apologizing
when he wakes up in a sweat and his throat is raw from screams
he might not even remember. He knows I probably heard, so he
gets all sheepish and says something like "Hope the roaches didn't
keep you awake with their remix of Tommy".
Sometimes, when we're at home, he'll call me when he wakes
up from one. It's usually fear that makes him call and then he sits
there all pompous and says he was worried about how the
case/meeting with Skinner/memo/brawl in the cafeteria (take
your pick) of the day affected *me*.
I don't think he remembers the actual dreams. Maybe pieces.
I don't know. He won't talk about it. So neither do I. The guy
deserves some privacy, doesn't he?
We all deserve that. He deserves a whole lot more.
He was sooo funny this morning. Classic Mulder, all the way.
So, hell, I had to throw it all right back at him, didn't I?
It started out with our ever popular Star Trek the Next
Generation vs. Deep Space Nine battle. I mean, come on. I
know what's going on here. Troi sounds too much like a long
haired Phoebe Green with that wigged out accent and he just
can't handle it. So he sees old Kira and the lights on the pinball
machine just can't stop flashing.
I, on the other hand, would let Picard eat crackers in my bed
ANY DAY OF THE WEEK over Ben Sisko and that doof who plays the
doctor. Maybe it's the Shakespearean training, I don't know. I
just melt when I see Patrick.
And I still think DS9 is nothing more than a space-age truck
stop.
I finally got him to admit that Kira is the turn on here, and I
guess last night was one of the Bad Kira episodes, which turned
him on A LOT (should I find that upsetting? I don't, really) so
we had some fun with that. From there I got in some good shots
about Kimberly.
How can guys be so totally blind? I've noticed this trait in my
brothers, and I've decided that it's a hormonal thing. Testoserone
adversely affects vision. That's it. I really need to conduct some
lab experiments to prove this theory, but it sure seems that the
anecedotal evidence points in that direction.
Mulder had the audacity to sit there and try to convince me
that Kimberly isn't ready to lay down right in Skinner's outer
office and make babies with him.
Then he tried to tell me that Deputy Knox was giving me
more than a passing glance. I laid that one out real fast. Please,
be real. The guy has cole slaw for brains. Doesn't know the
difference between a series of murders and serial murderers--
where did he train, Sears? Oh, better yet, 'Little Creek that Runs
Dry Community College'.
And then, the REALLY funny part was, Mulder seemed to
think that Agent Pendrell has the hots for me! I mean, just
because the guy hasn't thrown me out of his lab recently, that
makes him ready to bed me or wed me? Give me a break! OK,
Pendrell is kind of cute, I'll give him that, but the poor guy is
such a doof. A nice doof, don't get me wrong, but a doof none
the less.
So, we made this bet. It was Mulder's idea, really, but it was
too good to pass up. We agreed to ask out our respective
'prospects'--his is Kimberly, mine is Pendrell, and whoever has to
admit that they were wrong in their initial assessment (i.e. that
Kimberly doesn't know he exists or that Pendrell is just that nice
to everyone) gets to do a budget report out of turn. Hee, hee.
There is something Fox William Mulder needs to learn about me,
but he will soon enough. I NEVER bet--unless it's a sure thing
that I'll win! And then, it's not really betting, it's taking
advantage of a sucker. Sharpen those pencils, Mulder. You get
to do the next TWO budgets all by yourself.
It's kind of fun, actually. I mean, I used to kid around with
the guys at Quantico sometimes, (Willis in particular, but let's not
open that mine field right now), but it was nothing like kidding
around with Mulder. He is truly wicked. He had me laughing so
hard at his little 'pet names' for Skinner that I almost snorted
apple juice through my nose. Very ladylike. Mom would be so
proud.
Maybe it was the comment about Rogaine turning Skinner
into Jim-Jim the Dog-faced Boy that got me thinking. I still had
a field report due on Monday. It just sort of hit me that although
I was having a really good time right at that moment, Mulder had
been a basketcase just a few wee hours before.
What am I dealing with here? One minute I'm worried about
leaving him alone in his room and the next minute, he's bringing
me chocolates and making me laugh till my sides hurt. I never
liked teetertotters as a child. Too easy to slip off and smack your
chin real hard. And that is exactly like what this felt like. Only
it wouldn't be me biting through my tongue this time, it would be
Mulder.
I mentioned the report. Now, sometimes these reports are
the bane of my existence and the scourge of Mulder's soul, and
sometimes there are the best thing for us since bottled iced tea.
This was one of the former times, in my opinion.
By rights, I should put ALL of my observations in my field
report. Now, in most cases, that means everything that I observe
in the case. But, on those occasions when Mulder has done
something so bizarre that no sane person would believe me if I
told them about it, I have included *Mulder* in my observations.
What he has done. How he is acting. What his reaction to
certain stimulus has been.
It started out as strictly CMA material. (Daddy always taught
us to Cover our Asses, if nothing else is covered) Then, after
Alaska, well, I felt I had to keep a closer watch on Mulder and I
think Skinner did, too.
Don't get me wrong. I don't put in stuff like 'Agent Mulder
is close to suicidal' or 'Agent Mulder was drowning in self-
recrimination'. This is not a report for EAP. This is a field
report. And as such, it is the only thing that proves the validity
of our work. It has pulled our butts out of the fire too many
times to mention. So I am confident that I have not damaged
either of us in these reports.
So how do I explain the little incident with Mr. Colt? Mulder
was rude and it was totally uncalled for. But was it instinct that
was making him do that, or something else? I still haven't quite
given up the idea that Mulder was seeing something there I
couldn't see. He does that so often that I take it for granted. But
usually, when that happens, he mentions it afterward. In a round-
about way. He sure as hell doesn't apologize for his behavior
and then never mentions the incident again.
So, normally, I would document the fact that Agent Mulder
had some reservations, some concerns, some *something* about
Mr. Colt during our inital interview. But it was just that once
and there has been nothing since.
If I don't report it, and it does turn out to be something down
the line, Mulder would kill me. If I do report it and it's nothing,
and it's never mentioned again, then what? Will it cast
aspersions on the investigation? If it turns out that we really
have nothing to go on and this case remains open (not out of the
realm of extreme possiblities, as Mulder would say), then it looks
like we dropped the ball and let the real UNSUB slip through our
fingers.
And that was only ONE of the times this case that Mulder has
made me question what he is doing. So, I mentioned the report
to him, sort of a heads-up for what might be coming. I felt bad, I
don't want to tattle. Missy hated it when I tattled, as I mentioned
before. But damn it, what the hell am I supposed to do. I was
sent to him so that I *would* tattle.
In typical Mulder fashion, he blew me off. He really doesn't
care, and I know it. But I do. I care. One of these days, he's
going to want to go up the ladder. I mean, we all do, really.
And he's going to regret all these times when he's thumbed his
nose at the hierarchy. But he wouldn't listen if I tried to tell
him that. He'd probably take it wrong and just get mad.
Anyway, he offered to lend me his notes. That was sweet,
but with his memory, he writes the strangest notes on the planet.
I'm better off looking through the telephone book. Still, I said
that would help.
I was pretty sure that the whole morning had been a set up at
that point. He said he needed the morning to work on his notes.
Yeah, right. Little bells started going off in my head: DITCH
ALERT! DITCH ALERT!
I started to protest, but stopped myself. Talk does nothing to
Mulder. I've learned my lesson. Only stealth and cunning and a
few well placed bribes can outFox this Fox. I just hope the
twenty I gave the desk clerk will suffice.
Is it two sins when you consider murdering your partner
TWICE in one day, or just one big sin? I really should have
listened closer to Fr. Sullivan in 5th grade.
I'm dry now. I'm not as cold as I was. I am still so mad I
could punch a hole in the wall, but then I would have to look at
Mulder sitting in his room, dripping wet and sneezing and I
would have to do *something*--all kinds of lethal things keep
coming to mind.
We had a great time this morning. TOO great a time, I
should have known. I wanted to get it down in print, for
posterity. To prove to the jury that the murder was done in the
heat of the moment and was not premeditated.
I left him, fairly certain that he was going over his notes about
as surely as he was carrying on an affair with our AD. But he
seemed to be staying in the room and really, how much trouble
can even Mulder get into when he's in his hotel room? I refuse
to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate
me.
I started working on my field report right after I wrote my
first entry here. And then, the phone rang. It was the Sheriff's
office. We had received a bunch of faxes. Deputy Knox (or
Barney Five, as Mulder calls him; I don't think he knows the guy's
name was Fife) was quick to point out that Agent Mulder had a
fax from Burlington Northern Railway System.
Huh? Burlington Northern? OK, here is my justification for
having the good deputy read me that fax. One, a fax is about as
open a document as you can get. Several people see them going
out and 'thousands' of people read them at the destination point.
So, I was NOT invading the little worm's privacy. And if he has
a hot date with some babe at Burlington Northern, he needs to
keep his hormones in check and ask her over the phone, not in a
fax that goes to the Sheriff's department. Two, he had never
mentioned the railroad except to say that the records didn't show
any trains that night.
The 'records didn't show any trains that night'. He saw the
records. He looked at them in the library. He told me that they
didn't show anything. But he went ahead and looked even
deeper. He called, no, apparently from the sound of the fax he
went to the office and talked to the business agent himself. And
he did not mention one damned word of it to me.
And there was a train that night. Holy shit, there was a train
that night. Oh, God, help me, there was a train that night. But I
didn't really want to think too hard about it right then. I was too
busy being justifiably madder than hell at my partner.
HE took the investigation down a whole railroad track and
neglected to tell me! I went next door and read him the riot act.
I told him that I didn't appreciate him not telling me about this
little turn in the investigation and if he wanted to survive the day,
he had better spill his guts and be quick about it.
Then, he did it. He made me REALLY mad, madder than I
was, if that's possible. HE said he was only thinking of ME! He
didn't tell me about going to the Burlington Northern office
because he didn't think I was ready to deal with what happened
to me in the train car.
EXCUSE ME? Have I missed something here?!? Am I the
one who is not eating on a regular basis, screaming like a
madman all night, running for the john like I'm about to toss my
cookies in the middle of dinner? Have I been looking in the
mirror for the last two fucking weeks watching all this shit?!?
God, I'm looking an awful lot like Mulder if that's the case! And
if I'm ready or not to deal with it is none of his goddam buisness!
I blurted out my hunch right about then. I told him that I
*feel* that whatever happened to those girls is the same thing or
close to it that happened to me. BUT I STILL DON'T KNOW
WHAT THAT IS!! And I told him about the book, and that it
really doesn't address the problem of traumatic amnesia when the
memory doesn't come back like it should. And I wanted really
badly to punch his lights out--
but when I said that stuff he just looked sad. He looked like it
hurt him that I couldn't remember. Almost as much as it hurts
me.
OK, so this time *I* bolted. I figured I had a right, by this
point. I mean, I'm certain the conversation was heading into one
of those 'let's figure out who is more mentally deranged' pissing
matches and I was not up for it, even though I had LOTS of
ammunition. I wanted out of that room.
But I wasn't about to be accused of letting my emotions get in
the way of proper procedure. I told him that we needed to go
over to the Sheriff's office and pick up the faxes.
He opted to field newspaper calls. Yeah, right. I gave him
my fiercest 'Leave this room and you are a dead man, Mulder'
look and left the room.
On the way out I noted that Mr. Personality had a weekend
replacement in the form of Ms. Personality. So another twenty
went toward the cause and I left the hotel secure in the
knowledge that Mulder was not going anywhere without me
knowing about it.
By the time I made it back to the room (the good deputy had
*several* theories on the case that he wanted to 'share' with me,
some more outlandish than even Mulder could come up with),
the clouds had formed overhead and it was threatening to pour
any minute.
Very big admission here. Rain makes me sleepy. And
thunderstorms ALWAYS make me sleepiest. It's from all the
times I used to love to fall asleep in my parents bed during
thunderstorms when I was little. I always felt so secure there...
nothing was going to hurt me. So I went back to the room after
getting the faxes and sat down on the bed to read them and-- I
fell sound asleep. Hey, I was tired. It had been one hell of a
night. I figured I needed the rest.
I slept like a baby for hours. Right through lunch on until
dinner. I woke up ready to eat my pillow.
I learned a lot about the inner workings of a hotel tonight.
Like, I never realized that shifts at a hotel tend to mimic hospital
shifts. It makes sense, now that I think about it, since both run
on a twenty four hour basis. So Ms. Personality left at three.
Now, here is the other part that mimics hospitals. Ms.
Personality hates the guts of Mrs. Congeniality, who took her
place at three. And there was no way in hell Ms. P was going to
leave the message that the moneybags FBI agent in room 316
was handing out twenties to make sure she got the heads up
when her partner left his room. Which explains why I never got
a call when he left.
After the little incident with the train records, (the train was
heading west, routed through Peoria, Illinois and the Quad Cities
and through Iowa all the way to Oregon, according to the fax) I
almost hated to mention the tree to Mulder. One of the faxes
was from Pendrell, who asked why I had requested a lab analysis
of a burned leaf. It was heat damage. I bit my lip when I read it,
and I really wanted to sort of forget about it, knowing full well
that my 'GQ' partner would go into his little happy 'Mulder dance'
the minute I showed him. But I wasn't going to pull one of his
stunts so close on the heels of reaming him out for it. So I called
his room. No answer.
I stared at the little red button on my phone. Obviously, it
was possible that the desk had called to alert me and I had slept
through it. Pretty far out possibility, though I'm not going to be
so smug as to assume that it's impossible. But there was no
message waiting. I called the front desk. I got Mrs.
Congeniality.
"Why, yes, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder left about two hours
ago. He left you a message. You can come pick it up, with
proper identification."
"Can you read it to me?" I had asked. I mean, it had my name
on it and everything.
"Oh, no, Agent Scully. That wouldn't follow hotel policy.
All written messages must be picked up in person unless the
party leaving the message stipulates otherwise. You can never
be too careful, you know. And we have no intention of violating
anyone's privacy." Yeah, right.
So I trooped down to the desk and got the message. And it
was typical Mulder, all the way.
`Scully-- I'm at the crime scene. Back soon.
Got my cellphone if you need me. --Mulder.'
It was close to 8:30 and storming to beat the band and my
partner who was named health insurance customer of the year for
'most claims filed in a single period' was out at the crime scene.
Perfect. For the second time in twelve hours I was
contemplating terminal force. And this time, I was certain not a
jury in the world would convict me. For that matter, our
insurance carrier would probably give me a bonus.
I called. I screamed, although I don't think he noticed that I
was screaming at him, and not just so he could hear me over the
thunder in the background. And the stupid jerk convinced me to
come out and join him. I don't fucking believe it, but I did.
Why is it that Mulder can give the most outlandish
interpretations of the most mundane things and I can argue with
him from today to next Thursday but when he comes up with
stupid reasons to do things that I KNOW are only going to get
him hurt, I smile and say 'Sure, Mulder, let me give you a hand
with that'?
He didn't want to come back the hotel. I pointed out that it
was raining. He replied that he had his raincoat on. (This is a
Rhodes Scholar?) I told him that there was nothing to find there,
we had already been over it all a couple of times already. He
reminded me that we had looked there in the daytime and not at
night. I started to point out that we should logically find MORE
things in the day *light* than at night when it's *dark*, but
something in his voice stopped me.
It was hard to hear him because the rain was loud on the cell
phone and the lightning was causing the connection to break up,
but I was sure that he was tottering on the cliff edge. The
morning had been all sunshine and croissants but tonight was
dark and stormy and not just outside. It was getting pretty dark
and stormy in Mulder's mind and I could hear that on the phone.
I used the honest approach. I told him what I thought.
"Mulder, listen to me. I don't think it's a good idea that you
are out there by yourself right now." What more could I say? I
wasn't going to tell him I thought he was crashing after the high
of this morning. It's what I thought, but it's not what I was going
to tell him.
"Then come on out and join me, Scully. Oh, and if you
remember, bring my umbrella out of the car." That's when I
figured out he had *walked* to the crime scene, though it was
only about two miles from our hotel. I had the car keys from my
trip to the Sheriff's office. To take the car would have meant
telling me he was going somewhere.
I told myself that I was NOT going to cry. Well, I revised
that in the car. It had been raining so hard that I was soaked just
getting out to the car and so I figured he wouldn't be able to tell
if I had been crying *while* I was driving. Water is water.
Besides, I hurt. I ached all over and it wasn't the rain and the
cold. It was because he had just gone off and left me. I was
used to this shit at the beginning of a case. He's always first out
of the gate and charging down the track while I'm still figuring
out which direction the finish line is in. But by this time, by the
time we have both gone through the local stuff and sifted their
evidence and hashed some of our own theories around, by this
time, I've caught up to him. Oh, he invariably makes a couple of
leaps now and then and it takes me a while to catch up again, but
we have at least been going in the same direction.
Not this time. And that hurt. It hurt because he did it on
purpose this time. It doesn't matter how noble his reasons were,
he didn't treat me like I belonged here. Just like I've been feeling
for this whole case. He went off on his own.
By the time I got out to that damned oak tree, I was hurting
so bad that I didn't think I could walk. I got out of the car and
the rain hit me hard, almost knocked me over. I remembered the
umbrella, but the wind threatened to take it inside out and it was
pretty useless, so I put it back in the car. I walked over to him.
Mulder was standing a few feet from the tree. As I walked up
the sky lit with a nice big flash and he jerked his head upward
and for all the world I was afraid that what was lightning might
actually be one of his imaginary alien spacecraft and he was
about to be sucked up in its transporter beam. That didn't
happen, of course, but that's where my mind was at the time.
He was wet to the skin, his trenchcoat couldn't stand up to
the force of the wind and the driving rain, even if he had
bothered to button the damn thing up first. And he was shivering
and he had the fever gleam to his eyes that I've come to know so
well. Well, hell, if he wasn't sick from the run last Sunday, he's
going to be sick now.
"Look, Scully. Look at this tree. Now tell me that's a
fungus."
He looked really surprised when I told him that he was right,
it was heat damage. No, not surprised. Shocked.
I told him that I sent a leaf to Pendrell to be analysed and he
concurred that it was heat damage. He seemed pleased that I
had taken the time to second-guess him. Of course, if Pendrell
had sided with me and not Mulder, he might not have been so
happy. No, that's not fair. He tends to be pretty neutral when
science proves him wrong on the little stuff. It's the big stuff
he loses it over.
He found some more evidence of it on the bark of the tree,
too. Intense heat. But Pendrell had done a little extra digging
because he's used to us by now, and also noted that there was no
residual radiation apparent in the leaf. I didn't have him check
for dilithium crystals, however. Mulder sort of snorted at that. I
think he appreciated my attempt at humor.
Then I told him about the freight train. The one that went
through Iowa. He seemed more than a little interested in that,
Iowa and a certain hospital holding more than a passing
acquaintance with him just a few months ago.
"Scully, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the trains. I just
didn't want to drag it up if it didn't pan out. I mean, I would
have told you once I saw the fax, you know that."
I had to admit that I did know that. Mulder would never have
taken his deception that far. He would have come clean. I would
have still been mad, but we'd be knee deep in finding that damn
train and hunting down the individual cars and their owners and I
would have gotten over it pretty fast.
Since he was doing his best not to piss me off, I decided to
come clean a little, too. I told him what happened when I stood
in that room, the girls room. How much it looked like Missy's
and mine. How the slats in the blinds were like my old
apartment. How it was just a feeling and not a real hunch, even.
It just *felt* the same to me.
He nodded and then he stubbed the ground a bit with his
shoe. Actually, it looked like he was trying to dig a little replica
of the B&O Canal, complete with locks and dams, there in the
Ohio mud. Finally, he sort of straightened and looked at me.
"That's why I blew up at Mr. Colt. It felt the same."
I know I must have looked confused because he didn't even
wait for me to ask him what in the world he was talking about.
"The other day, in the interrogation room. The way he was
blaming Darcy. Darcy was older, she should have known better.
Darcy should have called so that he could have picked the girls
up rather than walk home by themselves. Rebecca was Darcy's
responsibility and it was Darcy's fault that something bad
happened. It felt just like old times, Scully. Like I was sitting
there and Mr. Colt was my dad and it wasn't Darcy he was
reaming out, it was me. It was just too much. It just felt the
same. I'm sorry. I had no right to lose it like that. It was
unprofessional and stupid and you were right to be mad at me.
But it felt so much like what my life was like as a kid. I just
didn't want that to happen to Darcy. At least, not without a fair
trial." He said the last with a grin.
I really felt bad then. I mean, I thought he had just wigged
out on me, but instead, we were having similar reactions. And
his wasn't even as strange an association as mine was.
"So it looks like the train is our best lead at the moment?"
I was sort of surprised that he even had to ask that. I figured it
was a given that it was the best course of action. He was
probably just trying to 'kiss and make up' some more. That's
usually his way.
I convinced him to come back to the hotel. He looked
exhausted, totally wiped out. The high of the morning was now
only a faint memory. The reality of that moment was that he was
bone tired, on the edge of being sick and he needed me to help
him get home. So I did.
On the way back I had to tell him about the nightmares. I
figured that he needed to know, just so I could know what he
wanted me to do if they came tonight. He seemed surprised, but
not all that upset. I think he was more bothered that I was upset
than that he had the nightmares to begin with. I made him get a
second key to his room, and let me have it. He didn't put up
much of a fight.
I guess I should have hovered more. I didn't have the
strength. I was still reeling from the implications of what we
were thinking. If only I could remember what happened to me
on that train . . .
Anyway, I left him at the door. His eyes are still a little too
bright. I made him promise me that he would go in and take a
_hot_ shower and go straight to bed. Well, maybe he took the
shower, but I hear Kira's voice debating with Odo through the
wall. Probably over a bar bill at Quark's.
I'm going to bed. If he screams tonight, I'm going over there.
end part 10