Letters
of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (8/14) By Loch Ness
July
21, 1999
Galveston
The
kitchen smelled of egg rolls--Langly cooked them in
bulk
when he could get the ingredients and froze them to
eat
later. When Mulder walked in, the Gunmen were sitting
on tall
stools around a prep table, the food spread out
alongside
a six-pack of Tecate beer and some limes, all of
it
ready to be slurped down. They stopped as if in
mid-breath
at Mulder's entrance, Frohike short and dumpy in
a black
T-shirt and jeans, Langly taking his hair out of
the
pony-tail, Byers dapper as always in his maitre d's
tux.
They
looked at him expectantly.
Mulder
shrugged.
"Something
you want to tell us, man?" Langly asked.
Mulder
went to the table, pulled up a stool of his own and
fished
an egg roll off the platter. "The less you know, the
safer
you are," he said. "But it might be a good idea for
you
boys to be ready to move on short notice. Just in
case."
Frohike
popped a chunk of egg roll into his mouth. Around
it, he
said, "Hey, we're always ready to move. We're just
waiting
for you."
Mulder
squeezed the juice out of a lime wedge into the
opening
in the top of a can of Tecate and took a drink.
They
fell silent again, eating, drinking, keeping their
thoughts
to themselves.
After a
while, Frohike said quietly, "She's looking fine,
isn't
she?"
Mulder
lifted his beer toward his mouth and said coolly,
"Who?"
Frohike
took his cue and shut up.
****
July
22
*How
the mighty have fallen,* Scully thought, thinking of
Skinner's
wood-paneled office in D.C. with its elegant
brass
accents, its soccer-field-sized conference table.
The
office here on the island was an abandoned storefront
still
bearing a sign that read "Lula-belle's Shells" over a
hand-painted
pink clamshell. Taped to the inside of the
glass
door was a sheet of white paper on which the words
"Federal
Bureau of Investigation" had been written.
Skinner's
handwriting, Scully noted. She and Pendrell went
in.
Beyond the door, an elderly woman chewing placidly on a
wad of
gum sat at a small desk that looked as if it had
been
rescued out of an estate sale. No computer, not even a
typewriter--just
an old telephone and answering machine.
Behind
the receptionist stood a rickety, hastily erected
wall of
masonite, the nails showing up bright silver
against
the dark brown.
Scully
wondered if Skinner had put up that wall himself and
concluded
he probably had. She felt a stab of sympathy--it
couldn't
have been easy for the A.D. to cope out here all
by himself,
to adjust to this sort of bare-bones, no-budget
operation.
At least in Miami he'd had some support. Here,
clearly,
there was none.
She
wondered what this meeting was about. Surely Skinner
didn't
really mean to hit them with a fine for having
violated
the order not to leave Jefferson parish? She had a
more
frightening thought suddenly--what if Pendrell had
actually
shot somebody in the melee in the bayou?
The
elderly woman waved them toward an unfinished wooden
door
marked "Private." The moment Pendrell pulled the door
open,
Scully got a wave of cigarette smoke. She ground her
teeth
and went in.
Skinner
had opened a window behind his desk, but there
wasn't
much breeze, and the smoke wafted heavily in the
air.
The A.D.'s expression was tense, his face held hard in
annoyance.
The smoking man sat on a couch shoved up against
the
side of the office, holding his cigarette like a
conductor's
baton. Scully tried to ignore him.
"Pendrell,
Scully," Skinner said. "Have a seat."
They
sat in two folding chairs placed before the A.D.'s
desk.
There was an awkward silence while Skinner shuffled
some
paperwork and closed a file, put it aside.
"Sir,
if this is about New Orleans--" Pendrell started.
"Oh,
nevermind New Orleans," the smoking man said
pleasantly.
Scully
shot a look at Skinner, whose return gaze was
calculated
to tell her nothing--which told her everything.
It
revealed that he wasn't calling the shots, and that
while
he didn't like it, there was nothing he could do
about it.
They'd have to deal with Bloodworth, not with
Skinner.
She
turned to face the smoking man. "Then may I assume
we're
free to go?"
Bloodworth
smiled. A lizard's smile, cold-blooded, that
didn't
touch his eyes. "You're hardly prisoners in
Galveston,
Mrs. Pendrell."
"That
doesn't answer my question. If we're not here to
discuss
what happened in New Orleans, then why *are* we
here?"
"I'd
heard you might be seeking passage to California,"
Bloodworth
said. "I thought we might discuss your options."
Scully
made a mental note not to ask any more questions of
the
clerk in the hotel lobby. Either the clerk himself was
snitching,
or someone had overheard them asking discreetly
about
transport off the island.
"California's
certainly a possibility," she said. "It's one
of the
places we might consider for continuing our work. On
the
other hand, in the daylight--Galveston doesn't seem all
that
bad."
"Perhaps
something could be arranged," Bloodworth said. "It
strikes
me that the facilities at the headquarters of the
SEB in
Colorado could considerably speed your progress."
"You're
offering us a job with the SEB?" Pendrell asked.
"In
effect."
"Wait,"
Scully said. "You don't already have people working
on
trying to develop an antivenin for the bee stings?"
"At
first glance it wouldn't seem to come under the SEB's
charter."
"You're
telling me *no one* has been trying to develop an
anti-toxin?"
Pendrell asked, his eyes wide.
Bloodworth
shrugged. "The truth is, we don't know whether
anyone
is or not. We're hoping to locate scientists such as
yourselves
and collect them as a team."
In the
back of her mind, Scully heard an alarm going off.
*Why
now? Why not two years ago?* She didn't trust the
smoking
man on general principles, and there was much about
the
situation that didn't ring true. If the SEB wanted to
talk to
them about setting up a lab, why shoot at them as
they
were leaving New Orleans? Why not just, well, sit down
and
talk about it? Why sink the boat, trapping them here?
None of
it made sense.
Slowly,
she said, "Well, that certainly opens up
possibilities.
But I actually think we're making good
progress
on our own. I'm not sure it would benefit us, at
this
point, to have input from other scientists. Other
opinions
might prove distracting."
"Are
you afraid working with a team might expose your
mistakes?"
"We
haven't made any mistakes," Pendrell said coldly.
"Really,"
Bloodworth said. "But then, you haven't cured
anybody,
have you? That suggests to me that you *have* made
mistakes,
and that, in fact, whatever you have come up with
may
actually be dangerous--it could lead those to whom you
administer
it into a false sense of security."
Pendrell
had flushed with anger. "That's a completely
unfounded
accusation. You don't know what we've tried and
what we
haven't."
Bloodworth
lit another cigarette. "Are you so sure?"
"How..."
Pendrell faltered. "How could you?"
"His
spies are everywhere," Scully murmured.
"Not
very genteelly put, but essentially correct."
"Why
don't you just come out with it?" she asked. "What the
hell is
it you want, exactly?"
"Just
as I said--I want you to come back to Denver with me
and
resume your work."
She
nodded. "Do you mind if we think about it for a couple
of
days?"
"Not
at all. But I will point out that every day you delay
an
average of 832 people are killed by bee stings."
"We're
aware of that," Pendrell said. His tone was neutral,
but
Scully knew how much it troubled him that they had not
been
able to proceed faster. She knew the weight of those
deaths
that they couldn't stop.
"We'll
consider your offer and get back to you," she said,
rising
to her feet.
"I'll
look forward to your answer." Bloodworth stood, too.
"One
word of caution--the SEB would not take it kindly if
you
were to attempt another unauthorized departure. I'm
sure
you agree that the work you've undertaken is of vital
importance.
You can understand our wish to know where you
are at
all times?"
"Naturally,"
Scully said, between her teeth. "In other
words,
'don't leave town.'" She pulled the door open, and
Pendrell
followed her out.
She
wasn't surprised when Skinner caught up with them a few
minutes
later, on a street corner as they walked back to
their
hotel.
"What
the hell's going on?" Scully asked the A.D. "We're
not
really supposed to believe that nonsense about
'collecting
a team of scientists,' are we? Do we just look
stupid?"
Skinner
shook his head. "I don't know what he's after. The
only
thing I'm sure of is you two had better get off this
island
before you get buried here."
"How
do we do that?" Pendrell demanded. "Our boat's gone."
Skinner
looked at Scully. "That's a question you'd better
ask of
your old friend Fox Mulder." He told them about the
couriers
on the causeway.
"Why
would Krycek trust Mulder with those letters?" Scully
asked.
"Mulder'd rather cut Krycek's throat than look at
him."
"Because
Mulder's the only man alive who hates the smoking
man even
more than Krycek does. Look, believe me--Mulder
either
has the letters or he knows where they are. And they
may end
up being your only chance of getting away."
Scully
looked away and let go a heavy sigh. "The only
problem
is, I'm not so sure Mulder is a friend anymore."
****
The
smoking man's minions had not been kind, but then,
Krycek
hadn't expected they would be. He'd had the shit
kicked
out of him before and figured he could survive it
again.
Besides, that they were only beating him indicated
that
Mulder had kept his word--the smoking man still didn't
know
where the letters of transit were.
Otherwise
they would've just killed him.
Of
course, they were likely to get around to that anyway,
eventually.
At some point, they'd conclude that the letters
were
irretrievable, and then they'd have no further use for
him.
And that would be the end of that. But like Mulder,
Krycek
figured denying the smoking man what he wanted was
worth a
little grief.
At
mid-afternoon, he heard the two minions coming back down
the
long concrete hall of the county jail, and Krycek
curled
up into himself, expecting another savage pounding.
But
then he peeked around the arms he had wrapped over his
head to
protect it and noticed the minions were all rigged
out in
nuclear-bacteriological-chemical protective suits.
Ready
to go where the bees were.
Krycek
stifled a grin. The smoking man was making a
mistake.
A *big* mistake.
They
lifted him by the arms, and he made a show of
whimpering
a little in terror and going limp, as if too
weak to
resist.
"Where
are you taking me?" he asked, his voice low,
trying--and
succeeding, he thought--to sound pitiful.
"Shut
up," one of them growled from inside the suit.
"You'll
find out where you're going."
They
shoved him into the back of a panel truck, then
climbed
in the front and drove off. Krycek couldn't see out
of the
truck, but then, he didn't have to. He knew where
they
going.
To
Houston.
It
would take almost an hour. He lay down on the floor of
the
truck and let himself doze off--resting would
strengthen
him for what was coming next.
He woke
when the suited minions lifted him again, and now
he
started to squall like a baby.
"Noooo!
No, please! Don't hurt me any more!"
"Talk,"
one of the minions said. He kicked Krycek in the
thigh,
but not very hard. Krycek screamed as if it had
really
hurt. "Where did you hide the documents?" the minion
shouted.
"I
swear I don't know what you're talking about! I don't
have
any documents!" He ducked his head and squeezed out a
tear
for effect. "Please--you've got to believe me!"
"You
lying dirtbag. I'm going to count to five, then I'm
shoving
your worthless ass out with the bees."
"NOO!"
"One."
"Oh,
God, no, *please*!"
"Two."
"You
can't do this!"
"Three."
"Oh,
God--it's inhuman!"
"Four."
"Please,
I'm begging you--"
"Five."
They
lifted him again. Krycek kept right on screaming,
knowing
perfectly well the noise would attract the bees.
Hell,
the bees were probably all around them now, between
the
sound of the truck's engine and his yowling. But that
suited
him just fine. He'd been exposed to the toxin in
Russia;
he'd even been stung before. He had the immunity.
Not
enough that he could just walk away--what was coming
next
wouldn't be pleasant. But he'd survive it, just as
he'd
survived the beating.
Seconds
later, he hit the ground behind the truck.
Instantly
the bees were all over him, and the minions,
protected
by their suits, stood over him, watching as he
doubled
over with the spasms. He had no way of knowing
whether
they meant to leave him here or not. There was only
one way
to be sure.
He
lunged at one of them, and with all the strength he had,
ripped
loose the man's hood so that his head was bared to
the
bees. The minion shouted in surprise and terror as the
bees
hit him. He staggered, waving his arms--as if that
would
help anything.
"Jesus
fucking Christ!" the other one yelled, and he ran
for the
truck. Some bees flew into the cab with him, and
Krycek
heard the faint hiss of insecticide canisters
discharging
inside the vehicle. In the enclosed space,
Malathion
spray would kill any bees that got in the truck.
The
minion who'd been stung toppled over onto the ground,
writhing
and retching. His face was already gray, his eyes
swimming
with the black toxin. He'd be dead in another five
minutes.
Krycek
was on the ground, too, in terrible pain, stomach
heaving,
his muscles spasming uncontrollably. But he was
laughing
through it.
As the
truck drove off, he used the last of his strength to
yell,
"You fucking suckers!"
Some
more bees hit him then, because he'd made a noise, but
he
didn't care.
Continued
in Part 9.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (9/14) By Loch Ness
July 22
Galveston
Scully
had no reason to doubt what Bloodworth had said
about
the boat--though she knew it had sunk because *he*
had put
a hole in it. Nevertheless, after the meeting with
Skinner,
she went to check on it, to see if there might be
a way
to repair it.
Mistakenly,
she hadn't landed the boat on Galveston Island,
but on
the smaller, deserted Pelican Island adjacent to it.
Then
they had followed a narrow road toward lights they
could
see in the distance and walked over a bridge to the
big
island, only then discovering the error. At the time,
Scully
had thought it might actually be a blessing
anyway--it
could make it more difficult for someone to find
where
they had hidden the power boat because there were
fewer
people around who might've seen them ground. Now
*there*
was an irony.
She
walked north on Broadway, retracing her steps. They
hadn't
seen much of the city when they'd arrived, in the
dark,
after the curfew. Now she could see the antique,
Victorian
charm of Galveston. The Catholic cathedral,
gigantic
and ornate, with its seemingly incongruous
minarets.
An enormous mansion's iron fence held a bronze
plaque
proclaiming the house Ashton Villa and explained
that
the lower row of windows were half underground because
the
storm surge from the savage 1900 hurricane had washed
so much
mud up onto the island. Six thousand had died. As
she
turned away from the plaque, she caught a motion out
the
corner of her eye and suddenly had a prickly sensation
at the
back of her neck.
Someone
was following her. But when she turned, she
couldn't
see anyone.
*Great.
One of Bloodworth's minions--just what I need.*
She
wound through the Strand, a Victorian historical
district,
pausing at a few denuded shop windows in hopes of
luring
the follower out. But whoever he was, he was good.
She
still hadn't seen him.
She
debated walking down that lonely road across Pelican
Island.
A good three-mile hike with no one near to hear her
scream
and enough brush on either side of the pavement to
hide
any mayhem from view. She had her gun, but still, why
buy
trouble? But if the boat was salvageable, delay might
just
worsen the damage. She'd have to go. There was no way
around
it. Maybe she could get a look at her shadower as
she
crossed the bridge, where the terrain was open for some
distance,
maybe even come up behind him and get the drop on
him.
She
clamped her jaw and set herself to the task, walking up
Avenue
A past the Port of Galveston, up to the bridge. She
crossed,
and when she could do it nonchalantly, she glanced
back.
Nobody. She walked around a bend in the road, then
slipped
into the brush and waited, holding her breath.
Nothing.
Nobody came down the road behind her. Either he
had
given up, or she had lost him.
Scully
let go a long breath, stepped back onto the asphalt
and
headed off down the road again.
She had
tied the boat underneath a dilapidated fishing pier
at the
end of a rocky point facing out into Galveston Bay.
As she
neared the water, she could see bottlenose dolphins
playing
in the channel between the islands. And in between
the
flocks of wheeling gulls, brown pelicans diving
gracefully
for fish--the island was aptly named.
They
had arrived at night, and though Scully had made out
the nearby
superstructure of ships, she had not been able
to see
what kind they were. She was surprised, in the light
of day,
to see they were old warships--a World War
II-vintage
submarine and destroyer escort. They'd been
hauled
up onto the shore and their hulls set into the
ground.
Curious, she went off the path to have a closer
look. A
faded wooden sign on a little hut at the gate read
"Seawolf
Park - Parking $2."
Scully
pushed on a chain-link gate, and it swung open,
creaking
loudly. More plaques, heavily coated with
verdigris,
told her the submarine was the U.S.S. *Cavalla*
and the
destroyer, the U.S.S. *Stewart.* She wandered
around
the end of the destroyer, painted light blue,
liberally
speckled with patches of rust showing out from
underneath
the paint. Behind her, she heard something on
the
wind--it might've been the squawk of a gull.
Or the
creak of that gate.
Slowly,
quietly, she drew her gun, keeping it where someone
behind
her couldn't see it. Yet. She went up the ladder
onto
the destroyer, listening acutely for footsteps. She
heard
something, but couldn't sift anything coherent out of
the
wind noise, the cries of birds, the roar of the surf.
*Damn,
damn, damn.* She ducked into a hatch, into the
galley,
with its stark metal cabinets and its
industrial-size
stove-tops and ovens. She took her shoes
off and
set them on a counter so that her steps wouldn't
make
any sound. Then she went forward, along the starboard
rail
toward the bridge.
Whoever
it was, he moved like a cat--silently. She stopped
up on
the bridge, where there were steel walls on three
sides
of her, and slipped between the ship's wheel and an
abandoned
chart table, gun poised. He'd have to come in to
follow
her. She waited him out. Finally she heard something
nearby,
just outside.
"Federal
agent!" she yelled. "Put your hands up and step
out
where I can see you!"
"Okay,"
a soft voice said behind her. She whirled, leading
with
the gun.
It was
Mulder, leaning up against the port-side bulkhead,
hands
lifted lazily. He was wearing khaki slacks and a
denim
shirt open at the throat so a couple of stray dark
hairs
peeked out, with a dark blue windbreaker tied around
his
waist--probably to cover his own gun, Scully
figured--and
deck shoes with no socks. He looked like the
cover
of a Land's End catalog--the casual, windblown New
Englander.
He was
devastatingly beautiful, tall and straight, his eyes
glowing
bright green in the sunlight. She'd been trying not
to
think of him that way, of the smooth lines of bone, the
flat,
hard planes of muscle. She lowered the gun, shaking
with
adrenaline rush, hoping adrenaline rush was the only
reason
for it. "Goddammit, Mulder," she said, between her
teeth.
"I could've killed you."
He
crooked an eyebrow. "And after I went to the trouble of
chasing
the smoking man's bloodhound off your trail? That's
gratitude."
"Did
you kill him?"
"Nah.
I just told him you ducked into the cotton warehouse.
He had
lost you at that point, so he didn't have any reason
not to
believe me. What are you doing out here, Scully?"
"My
name's not Scully any more," she said. "And I was about
to ask
you the same thing." She holstered her gun.
"Me?
I was following you."
She
pursed her lips, tamping down the anger that had flared
up as
her fear drained away. "A bit late, aren't you?"
A
muscle flexed along his jawline. She knew he was debating
something
with himself, but he said nothing. She looked
away
and then stepped off the bridge, headed back toward
where
she had left her shoes.
"I
was just curious about this old ship," she lied. "Maybe
it's in
the blood."
"Pretty
long walk, just to satisfy your curiosity," he
said,
following her. His tone told her he hadn't bought
that
story. "It's hotter than hell out here."
"I've
been informed I'm not a prisoner here. I'm free to do
whatever
I want."
"Except
leave," he said softly.
She
stepped into the galley and picked up her shoes. "What
do you
care?"
He
glanced at the ring on her left hand. "Some reason I
should
care?"
"Not
one," she said coldly, yanking on one shoe.
"Are
you happy with him?"
"Yes,
as a matter of fact, I am. Not that it's any of your
goddamned
business."
He
shrugged. "Okay," he said. There was a short silence
while
she got the other shoe on. "Well," he said, squinting
out to
sea, "if you came out to check on your boat, don't
bother.
Bloodworth's friends ripped it open the whole
length
of the hull."
"How
do you know that?"
"I
have my sources."
"Those
three freaks you hang out with? I saw them at the
bar
last night. I don't know what you see in them, Mulder."
"They're
loyal friends," he said.
"Are
you taking lessons?"
He
crooked an eyebrow in surprise, and again, she saw some
quick
flash of emotion, snuffed out so quickly she couldn't
be sure
what it was.
She
sighed and looked away. What was the point in fighting
over
that now? So much had changed. When she glanced back
at him,
she saw that he was gazing out at the ocean again.
There
was no sign of it in his face or his pose, but she
sensed
that she had hit a nerve. She doubted it served any
purpose
to beat him up over the past--she knew all too well
he was
perfectly capable of doing that himself.
"I'm
sure you had your reasons," she said.
"Yes."
She
leaned on the rail and looked down at the water lapping
along a
rock wall a few yards away from where the destroyer
stood
rooted in the ground. "Is it true what you said last
night--about
it being possible to run the blockade?"
"Not
without a boat, and I don't just happen to have one."
Suddenly
it occurred to her how he knew it was possible.
"Oh,
my God," she said. "That was you? The 'Malathion
Raider?'"
Expressionless,
Mulder inclined his head toward the big
island.
"Me and those three 'freaks' back at the bar."
"I
just assumed that because the insecticide came in from
seaward..."
she trailed off.
"I
found that I don't get seasick when I'm really
terrified."
She
didn't know what to say. When she had read about the
"Malathion
Raider," she had thought the reckless fool who
could
do such a thing was simply the bravest son of a bitch
on
Earth. He had gone straight through the blockade, under
fire,
and then right into the thickest part of the swarm,
time
after time. In retrospect, she supposed she might've
guessed
who it was. The plan was so...well, so *Mulder*.
"Anyway,"
he said, "if there's a seaworthy hull left on
Galveston,
I don't know about it. And I'd know." He paused,
then
crooked an eyebrow. "'Malathion Raider?'"
She
stared at him.
He
shrugged. "I don't know, Scully--it's not bad, but
somehow
it just doesn't have quite the ring of, say, 'Conan
the
Barbarian.'"
How
like Mulder at his most annoying to make a joke of such
a
thing--and not even a good joke. She headed down the
steel
stairs that led off the destroyer. "No offense, but I
think
I'll check the boat myself."
It was
a moment before she heard his footsteps behind her.
Still
debating something with himself, she thought.
But God
only knew what.
****
Frohike
didn't mind going to Houston now and then. It was a
hot,
dirty, generally unpleasant job. Right up his alley,
in
other words. He went once or twice a month, as suited
his
fancy, if he had a jones for something. It particularly
amused
him to go into town and get a couple of videos. He'd
go into
Blockbuster and pick something out--even write
himself
out a receipt--and then return them on his next
trip.
Seeing
Special Agent Dana Scully again had put him in the
mood
for *Terminator 2.* Linda Hamilton wielding an M-16.
Oh,
baby.
So he
dressed in a vinyl rain suit, carefully taping over
the
tops of his boots and around his wrists where the suit
met the
gloves. He took with him a welding hood he had
specially
modified and the roll of tape, too. Then he
pilfered
a bottle of Scotch from behind the bar, fired up
his
Jeep Cherokee and headed across the causeway.
Early
on he had learned how to negotiate with the guards at
the end
of the bridge. It wasn't hard to get off the
island,
but he'd be subject to inspection on the way back.
The
guards were only supposed to inspect for bees, but
Frohike
had found that they generally helped themselves to
a few
things. He could save himself time and effort by
finding
out what goodies they'd like to have brought back
from
the big city, then keeping the Scotch in reserve in
case
they got sticky with him later.
Today
he'd lucked out. He knew the guys on duty, Frank and
Hector,
and they were all right, although they were reputed
to be
some of Skinner's most loyal snitches. They just
waved
him through, and he headed on up Interstate 45.
He
stopped for gas in Texas City, helping himself at an
abandoned
Texaco station he knew about. Farther north, the
road
turned bad, cluttered with the dead hulks of cars and
trucks
that hadn't made it. Occasionally he passed a
decaying
body or two, crumpled on or beside the pavement.
The
wreckage slowed his progress. He popped a tape in the
player--Sheryl
Crow. He started to pick up bees just north
of the
Johnson Space Center. He knew they couldn't get into
the
Jeep, so he just ignored them and kept going, picking
his way
between the vehicles.
Frohike
could've used a Malathion spray inside the Jeep,
but he
didn't trust the stuff. He had a system he liked
better.
He turned east onto Loop 610, where the road was
clear
enough that he could go fast--too fast for the bees
to keep
up with him. The insects were nasty, but they were
slow.
At sixty miles an hour, he could just outrun the
mothers.
And by the time he headed out of town, it'd be
dark.
The bees didn't move at night.
He
turned the engine off and waited. The bees usually lost
interest
after about half an hour. He dozed for a bit in
the
heat, then woke and pulled a cold bottle of water out
of his
cooler and sipped on it. Then, when the bees finally
got
tired of buzzing angrily around the Jeep, he pulled his
helmet
on, taped it and quietly climbed out.
His
favorite Blockbuster Video was a couple of miles east
from
the bottom of the bridge, in a suburb called Galena
Park.
Because the little town wasn't right in the thick of
the
city, it hadn't been quite as heavily looted as other
areas--so
far, Frohike'd had it pretty much to himself. And
it
wasn't as bad as some parts of town. Most people had
gotten
out. Not too many bodies.
He went
through his usual ritual when he reached the video
store.
Then he headed off down the street toward a nearby
drug
store. He knew what Frank and Hector wanted in
exchange
for letting him back onto the island--Advil for
Hector,
whose wife had arthritis, and toys and picture
books
for Frank's little girl, aged eight.
The
bees buzzed irritably around him each time he moved,
but
they slid off the rain suit when they tried to land,
and
even if they had landed, their stings couldn't
penetrate
the vinyl. The whole trip had become a sort of
rote,
and he finished quickly. Still hours before sundown.
Because
he was curious and had the time, he strolled
farther
down the deserted street than usual. The intense
sun
seemed to give the whole area a bleached-bones pallor,
grass
and weeds climbing between cracks in the concrete and
wilting
as soon as they sprang up, signs fading rapidly
under
the heat's assault. Around a corner, he saw movement
and
stopped sharply.
*What
the hell.* Nothing moved in this city any more, and
there
was no wind to account for it. He cocked his head and
listened.
No tell-tale angry buzzing. But when he looked
again,
he definitely saw a figure moving.
Major
weirdness. He shuffled closer, warily. There were two
bodies,
the one weakly crawling toward a patch of shade,
and
another one in an environment suit with the hood
removed.
Frohike doubted the live one would hang on for
long,
but the environment suit was a real find--worth
taking
a risk for.
He went
over to the dead one and began methodically
stripping
the suit off. Newly stung, this guy--he was still
stiff.
Frohike stuffed the pieces of the suit into his kit
bag and
shouldered the respirator that went with the suit.
Then he
looked again at the live one, his face swollen
beyond
all recognition from the stings, his eyes swimming
with
black.
Really
strange that he should still be alive. Usually
people
stung like that died in a matter of minutes. If the
two of
them had been stung at the same time, this guy
should've
croaked a long time ago. Cautiously Frohike
approached
him, staying just outside arm's reach. The guy
was
clearly in misery; he didn't appear to realize anyone
was
there. Frohike hunkered down beside him.
"Hey,"
he said softly. "Hey, can you hear me?"
The
other man stopped crawling. He made a pitiful,
ineffectual
try at turning himself to look. Frohike took
him by
the shoulder and gently flipped him over. He
couldn't
have seen anything if he had tried--his eyes were
swollen
shut. Frohike retrieved his half-empty bottle of
water
and dribbled a few drops on the man's lips. The mouth
moved a
little, parting just enough to let some of the
water
slip between them.
*Shit.*
He couldn't just leave him here, much as he
would've
liked to--getting him back to the island was going
to be a
pain in the ass.
He gave
the man some more water, then went to bring the
Jeep
down.
****
Standing
behind Scully and gazing under the fishing pier,
Mulder
could just barely see the sunken power boat. Through
the
gently rolling water its white hull looked ghostly.
Scully
put her fists on her hips and gave a sigh that
sounded
like steam escaping. "Son of a bitch," she
muttered.
Mulder
sympathized. The Cancer Man had that effect.
"What
about that freighter?" she asked, still staring out
at the
boat.
"Sure.
The freighter's good. But you need the paperwork."
He
thought a moment, then asked, "What did Skinner say?"
"Skinner
said Krycek gave you paperwork we could use."
"Skinner's
been wrong about me before," Mulder said coldly.
She
faced him. At least, he thought, she had the decency
not to
look pitiful. Her expression was cool, neutral. "You
don't
have the letters of transit?" she asked.
He
decided to return her courtesy and answer her bluntly.
He
didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to do anything
that
would permit someone else to hurt her. But he didn't
have
the strength to take the fall for her, either. He was
*not*
planning to get himself embroiled in some quixotic
absurdity
that probably wouldn't save her anyway. Been
there,
done that, had the scars. If she knew that right
up-front,
maybe she would find her own solution.
He
said, "I might have some idea where they might be, but
if I
were to come across them I wouldn't give them up."
She
stared at him. "You mean to use them yourself?"
"No."
Her
perplexed frown deepened. "What are you saying?"
"I'm
saying I've got a pretty comfortable situation here,
and I'm
not planning to screw it up."
She
glanced away and then back. "What the hell happened to
you
after you left Washington?" she asked. Her tone was
bitter.
"I
had a close encounter with reality."
She
shook her head. "So what? So you woke up one morning
and
suddenly realized that life sucks? Why didn't you just
ask
me--I could've told you that. Jesus Christ, Mulder,
that's
the most pathetic excuse for amorality I ever
heard."
"Look,
Scully, I'm still alive. It's about all I've got
left.
If you want me to give that up, too, get your gun
back
out and get it over with."
Her
look was penetrating suddenly. "What happened to your
mother?"
"What
you think." *The same thing that happens to everybody
who
gets close to me sooner or later.*
She
looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she said.
A heavy
silence hung between them, broken only by the cries
of
gulls and the lazy thrashing of the surf.
Finally,
she said, "Why won't you give me the letters? No
one has
to know. I don't know if you care about such things
any
more, but Agent Pendrell's work has the potential to
save
thousands of lives. He discovered a link between the
venom
in the bee stings and the substance in that Mars rock
Krycek
led us to in Washington. He discovered that an
immunity
can be built up if..."
Mulder
felt as if his head might simply explode. Pendrell
had not
discovered that. Mulder had handed it to him, both
in the
files he had e-mailed to the FBI office and in the
blood
he had given up in North Carolina. The bastard hadn't
just
taken Scully away from him--he had also taken credit
for
work that actually had been Mulder's.
He
shoved his anger down into the cold, dark place where he
kept
all his other pointless, bothersome emotions. The
truth
was, although he had known there was a link between
the
bees and the black cancer, he hadn't had the biomedical
expertise
to do anything about it. Pendrell did, and right
now,
that was the important thing. Not who had figured out
what
the stuff was, but who could render it harmless.
Mulder
focused on a seagull side-slipping on the breeze and
forced
himself calm.
"It's
very important work," Scully was saying.
"Crucial,"
Mulder agreed.
"We
could save thousands of lives," she repeated.
"Millions."
"We
need to get to California to continue it, to finish
it."
"But
it would be better yet to get to Hawaii, where you can
be
undisturbed for a period of time."
"Yes."
She seemed relieved that he had understood that.
"Then
why come to me? Why not go to the SEB?"
She
glanced away. "They have been...uncooperative. They
tried
to stop us from leaving New Orleans."
"Really,"
Mulder said, though he was not the least bit
surprised.
"And just why do you suppose that is? Has it
occurred
to you, has it ever crossed your mind, that maybe
they
don't *want* to see an antivenin developed? That maybe
they
have plans of their own for what's left of the
continent
after all of us are gone?"
Her
lips compressed in that prim little grimace that he
knew
meant she thought he was so full of bullshit his eyes
had
turned brown.
"I
see your paranoia's undimmed," she said.
"I've
seen what they have in mind for the future," he said.
"And
it doesn't leave much room for independent science
projects."
She
sighed heavily. "Is that what this is about, Mulder?
You've
become so consumed with hopeless cynicism that you
just
don't even care enough to try any more? You couldn't
stop the
bees, so you don't want anybody else to either?"
He held
her look and said nothing.
"Simple
cowardice at least would've made sense," she said
bitterly.
"But you're no coward."
"If
you really want to know, ask your husband," Mulder
said,
between his teeth. "He can explain it far better than
I
can."
"What
would Pendrell know about it?"
"Everything,"
Mulder grated, and he turned sharply and
walked
away.
Continued
in Part 10.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (10/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (10/14) By Loch Ness
July 22
Galveston
Good help
was *so* hard to find.
The
smoking man sighed out a plume of blue-gray vapor as if
to
release his anger along with the smoke. "You miserable
bungler,"
he said to his aide.
The
aide stood there, half-in and half-out of his
environment
suit, still trembling visibly from his
experience
with Krycek in Houston. "He...he killed Vern,"
the
aide said helplessly.
They
had met at the Galveston hospital as had been planned
all
along. Only the arrangement had been for Krycek to be
here,
too, as the first step in an elaborate plan to make
Dana
Scully and Ted Pendrell think they had found the right
antivenin,
in hopes they would distribute it only to find
it a
failure--just before the bees arrived in Galveston and
killed
them. Krycek had the immunity, of course--he would
recover
no matter what drugs Scully and Pendrell gave him.
But
without Krycek's bee-stung, writhing body lying on a
gurney,
the plan was likely to come apart at the seams.
"Grow
up," the smoking man said. "This is dangerous
work--if
you planned to live forever, you should've gone
into
accounting. All you had to do was haul Krycek into the
truck
and bring him back here. Were my orders not specific
enough
for your tiny little mind to grasp?"
"No,
sir. But I thought--"
"No,
you didn't *think*. If you had, you'd have done as you
were
told. And when you need to *think*, I'll tell you
*what*
to think. Is that clear?"
"Yes,
sir."
"It'd
better be," the smoking man snarled. He stalked out
into
the hot afternoon sun. *Stupid son of a bitch,* he
thought.
He wondered how he could accomplish what he wanted
without
Krycek.
He'd
have to find another way to discredit and trap Mr. and
Mrs.
Pendrell.
****
Scully
spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a
boat.
Not that she hadn't believed what Mulder had told her
about
there not being any available, but hell--even Mulder
could
overlook something now and then, especially when he
wasn't
particularly motivated to look. Besides, what else
did she
have to do except sit around the hotel?
She had
no intention of asking her husband any questions,
as
Mulder had suggested. It made no sense whatever that
Pendrell
would know anything about Mulder's
motivations--Ted
had never really known Mulder that well.
Nobody
knew Mulder well unless he wanted them to, and he
didn't
often make the effort. There was some evidence he'd
had a
more-or-less normal social life before he had
launched
on his quest after his sister--he did have a few
friends
from that time before--but since then the term
"lone
wolf" pretty much had defined Mulder's leisure time.
In
fact, given the depressing nature of what Mulder had
told
her, Scully was thinking she might not even mention to
Pendrell
that she had spoken to her former partner, at
least
not until Pendrell brought it up himself. He had been
acting
a little squirrelly ever since they had encountered
Mulder
at the bar. Maybe a little jealous. She'd always
thought
she might like to make a man jealous, for once, but
she'd
found when it happened that she actually didn't care
for it
at all. Seemed like he ought to have learned to
trust
her more than that.
Walking
by one deserted, ramshackle marina after another on
the
north side of the island, she grew more and more
annoyed
about it all.
Damn
Mulder. Damn Pendrell. Damn them both, and for that
matter,
all men. Petulant, willful creatures, ruled by
their
hormones, acting on those chemical impulses with
social
impunity.
She
gave up searching for a boat at around seven o'clock,
as the
sun finally began to sink slowly toward the horizon.
Either
they'd have to find a way onto that freighter, or
they'd
have to try to go overland.
Or
maybe take Bloodworth up on his offer and hope they
could
get away once they reached Denver.
She
hated the thought of it, but their options were being
whittled
down, one by one.
****
Mulder
didn't start to get worried about Frohike until 10
o'clock.
The little man functioned on his own terms, on his
own
schedule. He was the eyes and ears for the whole
operation
at the club, and he needed freedom of movement to
make
that work. He came and went as he pleased. But the
Jeep
was gone, and it looked like he wasn't going to make
it back
by curfew at midnight.
"He
say where he was going?" Mulder asked Langly at about
ten-thirty.
Langly
shrugged, flipping his long blond hair off one
shoulder.
"Haven't talked to him all day," he said.
Mulder
sighed, looking around the club, trying to sniff out
any
ferrets Skinner or the Cancer Man might have sent in.
He
didn't see any.
"Don't
sweat it," Langly said. "He's probably lying low
somewhere.
You know Frohike--he's a very cautious man."
"Yeah,"
Mulder said, unconvinced. After the club closed at
eleven-thirty
he went upstairs to the apartment over the
bar,
pacing the floor. He was tired. He hadn't slept well
the
night before, and this night didn't seem to hold much
promise
for rest, either.
Times
like this, he missed the numbing diversion of cable
television.
He loaded up the CD player, grabbing discs at
random,
paying no attention to which ones he put in,
intending
to let them function as white noise in the
background.
Then he opened the sliding glass door and sat
on the
balcony in the dark, staring out at the ocean and
the
moonlight.
Suddenly
something in the music penetrated. He frowned, his
attention
sharpening. "...In the end what you don't
surrender/Well
the world just strips away..."
*Shit.*
Springsteen, "Human Touch"--it was Scully's disc.
He had
no idea how it had gotten mixed up in his stuff.
Scooped
up in a rush while they were on the road, likely.
He
jerked up, intending to turn it off. But when he got
within
reach of the stereo, he found he couldn't do it.
"...You
can't shut off the risk and the pain/Without losin'
the
love that remains/We're all riders on this train..."
He let
the song play through. The sound of it in his ears
was
like having her arms around him. He knew he was playing
with
fire, but somehow he just couldn't pull himself away
from
the flames.
****
Finally,
about two in the morning, Mulder heard something
downstairs.
Hand on his gun, he peered around the edge of
the
door and saw Frohike gallumphing breathlessly up the
stairs.
Mulder
stepped around the door. "Where the hell have you
been?"
he demanded.
Frohike
ignored the question. "Where's Scully?"
Mulder
frowned in confusion. Even Frohike wasn't usually
this
direct or this crude. "Down the boulevard in the Best
Western,
why?"
The
burly little man went galloping down the stairs toward
the
back door and out. What the hell, Mulder thought. Then
Byers,
from the kitchen, called to him.
"You'd
better come have a look," Byers said, and
disappeared
through the double doors again.
Mulder
sighed and went down. On the prep table in the
center
of the kitchen, a grimy, sweaty figure writhed
weakly
and emitted a series of short, low moans. Mulder
couldn't
recognize the swollen face any more than Frohike
had.
But he
didn't have to. The guy was alive.
It had
to be Krycek.
*Shit,*
Mulder thought. *Here we go.*
****
Frohike
brought Pendrell and Skinner back with Scully.
Mulder glared
at the A.D., then at Frohike. The little man
returned
the scathing glance with an apologetic shrug.
Mulder
went out to the bar to make a fresh pot of
coffee--before
this was over, they'd all need it. Frohike
followed.
"I
couldn't help it," he whispered. "He was with them at
the
hotel."
"Who
saw you bring the victim back from Houston?"
"Nobody,"
Frohike said. Then he thought about it for a
moment.
"Well, Frank and Hector on the causeway."
*Wonderful,*
Mulder thought. Those two would've been on the
phone
to Skinner in two seconds flat. The A.D. had known
about
it--and probably relayed the information to the
Cancer
Man--before Frohike had had time to drive across the
causeway.
And that, naturally, would explain why Skinner
was at
the hotel with Pendrell and Scully.
Frohike
caught Mulder's long-suffering look and said, "I
know--they're
Skinner's moles, but there was nothing I
could
do about it. What was I supposed to do? Leave him
there
to die?"
"He's
not going to die," Mulder said, disgusted.
"Nevermind--it's
done. We'll deal with it."
"There
was another one with him. A dead one, wearing most
of an
environment suit. Fresh dead, like they were hit at
the
same time. And I found this on the body." Frohike
handed
over an ID wallet, nearly identical to the one
Mulder
had carried. Only this guy's badge had been issued
by the
Special Emigration Bureau.
Mulder
frowned at Frohike. "That doesn't make any sense,"
he
said.
Frohike
shrugged. "I know."
When
Mulder took the coffee back into the kitchen, Scully
was
giving Krycek a shot. Whatever it was, he began to
quiet,
almost immediately.
"He
must have been exposed before," she said.
"The
question is how," Pendrell said.
"And
why he didn't die the first time," Skinner put in.
Mulder
sipped his coffee in silence. Pendrell shot a look
at
him--but Mulder didn't react. *Hell, you know more about
it than
I do,* he thought. *You want to be a hero? Cool.
Earn
it.*
"Do
we know who he is?" Scully asked.
Frohike
shook his head.
She
sighed. "Well, he's stable enough," she said. "At this
point
we can treat him symptomatically--just provide
support
and see what happens."
"Can
he be moved?" Mulder asked.
Her
look would've vaporized diamond.
"Look,"
Mulder said, "this is a bar, not a hospital."
"Sure,
fine. Whatever," she said, between her teeth. "God
knows
we wouldn't want to inconvenience you. I just thought
it
might be better not to have it get around the rumor
mill.
I'd love to take credit for curing him, but I think
that's
a bit premature and maybe completely unwarranted."
Mulder
shrugged and went back out for more coffee. This
time it
was Skinner who followed him. "Mulder," he said,
"you
know something you're not telling."
"Sure,"
Mulder said. "I know, for example, that Ioannina is
a city
in northwestern Greece and that pavid is a synonym
for
fearful. But I can't imagine what use it would be to
say so
in the present situation."
"You
know what I meant. It's Krycek, isn't it?"
"Huh.
You know, he *does* kind of look like Krycek, doesn't
he?"
"Why
would the smoking man let him go?"
"Who
said he did? How do you know Krycek didn't escape on
his
own? And why ask me? Why don't you ask your pal,
Bloodworth?"
"Goddammit,
Mulder--"
"You
know, this is fascinating. I don't think you've ever
really
wanted to know what I thought before--I don't
believe
you've ever asked me what was my theory."
"That's
crap, and you know it."
Mulder
put both hands flat on the bar. "All right, you want
to know
what I think--I think the Cancer Man is setting us
all up
for a fall."
From
the kitchen door, Scully said, "A third-grader
could've
figured that one out."
*Goddammit,*
Mulder thought. He should've known. Two years
ago he
would've known--that Scully wouldn't let go of it,
that
she'd follow him out, dog him to say what he thought,
what
theories were forming in his head. *Stupid.*
"Well,
then, maybe you ought to get yourself a third-grader
to
figure out what comes next," he grated.
"How
was Krycek exposed? When?" Scully pressed.
They'd
been in Siberia together, but if Krycek had been in
the
same room, had the same black worms crawl up his nose,
suffered
the same convulsions and nausea while restrained
in one
of those chicken-wire cages, Mulder hadn't actually
witnessed
it. He hadn't been in any condition to witness
it.
"How the hell should I know?" he asked.
"Then
tell me what you *think* happened!" Scully yelled.
He
stopped himself from recoiling away from her, but he
didn't
manage not to flinch. Scully enraged was
fearsome--he
had forgotten that about her, too. She had
that
drill-parade voice--must have learned from it her
father--and
there was something about somebody that small
coming
at him like doom on wheels that suggested she had a
sledgehammer
held behind her back. Scully could kick ass
and
take names with the best. Mulder had seen her do it.
He'd
been the victim of it.
He drew
a long breath to settle ragged nerves. He was
angry,
she was angry; time to cool things off.
"Look,"
he said, his voice low, "he was working with the
Cancer
Man when I first met him--I'm sure of that much. For
all I
know, he was one of their experiments."
Skinner
said, "They could've exposed their own people to
give
them an immunity, so they wouldn't be killed if there
was an
accident."
Mulder
pulled the SEB badge Frohike had given him out of
his
pocket and tossed it on the bar. "Yeah, except there
was a
corpse with him. Frohike found that on the body. Like
they
were trying to kill Krycek and it went bad somehow. Or
he was
trying to get away from them and it went bad. I
don't
know."
"They
were together?" Scully asked.
"It
looks that way."
"But
if Krycek was on Bloodworth's payroll, wouldn't
Bloodworth
know that Krycek had been exposed?"
"I
don't know, Scully--I'm trying to work this out just
like
you are."
Langly
strolled in then, reading the morning newspaper,
fresh
from the curb in front of the bar.
"All
right," Skinner said, "for the hell of it, let's
assume
that Bloodworth did know he'd been exposed before.
What
would he gain by taking Krycek to Houston and letting
him get
stung?"
"Maybe
this," Langly said, and he handed over the paper.
Mulder took
it from him. The headline, in type sized
appropriately
for the second coming, read: "Medical
breakthrough:
Doctors save man stung by bees." The story
quoted
Bloodworth, in his capacity as deputy director of
the
SEB, as saying that government scientists Ted and Dana
Pendrell
were "very hopeful" that they had found a cure for
the
stings.
"Oh,
my God," Scully said, reading around his shoulder.
"Yeah,"
Mulder said. "He's setting you up. You try to leave
the
island now, and the mob'll lynch you."
Continued
in Part 11.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (11/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (11/14) By Loch Ness
July 23
Galveston
With
the news about Krycek now all over the island, Scully
saw no
point in trying to keep him out of sight, so they
took
him to the hospital in Frohike's Jeep and left him
there
with specific instructions about how he should be
treated.
Then
she and Pendrell went back to the hotel, both of them
exhausted
and discouraged. Pendrell flopped on the bed. "Do
you
think he's right about what Bloodworth wants?"
"I
don't know," Scully said. "In effect, that would mean
Bloodworth's
trying to dupe us into thinking we actually
have
effected a cure--but I don't understand why. Mulder
said he
doesn't think the SEB wants us to find a cure. But
that
doesn't make any sense. I don't understand what they'd
gain
from it."
"Did
you ask Mulder about the letters of transit?" Pendrell
asked.
She
sighed heavily. How much to tell him? "Yes. But it was
useless,"
Scully said, pacing across the hotel room. "He
was..."
She shrugged. "He was in one of his moods. He was
bitter
and hateful, and nothing he said made any sense. But
the
bottom line is, he's not giving up the letters."
"Did
he say why?" Pendrell asked quietly.
Scully
gave a bitter chuckle, but it died when she looked
at her
husband. He was pale, his face tight with anxiety.
"Ted,
are you all right? You look like you're not feeling
well."
"Did
he say why?" he repeated, in a hoarse whisper.
Slowly,
she said, "He said I should ask you." God, what new
horror
was coming now? "He said you could explain it better
than he
could."
Pendrell
closed his eyes and let his head incline forward
so that
she couldn't see his face. Softly he said, "Well,
that
was chivalrous of him."
Chivalrous?
She went over to sit on the bed beside him.
"What
are you talking about? Ted, what is it?"
He kept
his head down and rubbed his hands along his
thighs,
his pose abject misery. She waited him out.
Finally
he said, "You remember when I went to North
Carolina?
When I brought back the samples from the
'unidentified
survivor'?"
"Sure,
but what has that got to do with--" She snapped.
"That
was Mulder?"
He
nodded. "He'd been exposed to the active toxin in the
venom
when he was in Russia, in Tunguska. I don't know how;
he never
said. So he had some immunity already. But he
wasn't
doing very well--I didn't think he was going to make
it."
Scully
sat very still. Nothing in the universe would've
kept
her from Mulder if she had known he was alive.
Pendrell
had known that. And yet he hadn't told her.
"I
think..." Pendrell hesitated. "Dana, I told him you were
dead.
And after that, it was like he just gave up. Then one
night
he left the hospital. Disappeared."
She got
up. Suddenly her skin crawled at the mere thought
of being
in the same room with him.
"The
truth is, I think I came as close to killing him as
the
bees did, just by telling him you were gone," he said.
"But
I loved you, too, and it was clear to me at the time
he
wasn't going to live. I didn't think it would matter."
"So
you were going to let him die thinking he was all alone
in the
universe? That there was nothing left for him?"
"I
know you'll hate me for it. And I don't blame you." He
looked
up suddenly, his eyes brimming with tears. "If you
decide
to stay with him, I won't make any trouble."
She
couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She was trembling,
feverish.
She fled, out the door, across the deserted
boulevard
and down the seawall to the beach. She ran and
ran,
heedless of direction, until the soft brown sand under
her
feet finally exhausted her and she had to slow to a
dispirited
walk.
She
felt suddenly as if she were trapped between them.
Pendrell,
who could save the world, if only the world would
let
him. Mulder, for whom she would happily give the world
up, if
only he would let her.
She'd
have to choose between them; there was no other way.
But she
had never been good at determining what she wanted
for
herself and herself alone. She'd never had any trouble
readily
identifying what others wanted or needed from her,
but her
own needs and desires had always seemed unfocused,
indefinable.
Only occasionally had she found the will to
pursue
things simply because *she* wanted them.
Did she
want Mulder? God, yes. So much that the thought of
him,
the sight of him, took her breath away. Yes, he was
cynical
and neurotic as hell. He was an emotional quicksand
of
insatiable need and incurable pain, so wounded he could
hardly
bear even the gentlest touch. Here on the island his
scars
had hardened, but they were no less tender
underneath.
Scully knew it would take more than a kiss to
heal
those wounds--she did not delude herself that her love
would
cure him--and that until they were healed, there
would
always be times when he just had nothing for her. He
had
never been entirely insensitive to her needs. There was
in him
a boundless, bottomless tenderness, a generosity he
did not
easily yield up and which was, for its rarity, all
the
more precious. But his needs would always predominate,
and most
times, he wouldn't even realize he was doing that
to her.
If she opted to stay on the island and pillow her
head on
Fox Mulder's chest, *that* was the life she
realistically
could look forward to.
And
yet, somehow, it was the life she wanted, more than she
wanted
her next heartbeat. So which of them really was the
neurotic?
Pendrell,
on the other hand, was an endlessly giving sort.
He had
always been sensitive to her every whim, sometimes
giving
her what she had not even realized she needed until
he had
presented it to her. He had done all the right
things.
There had been roses and candlelit evenings, and in
the
midst of the hell the world had become, she had needed
those
things much more than she ever would have conceded.
And he
had never asked anything of her but that she let him
love
her. And so she had. She had drifted along with her
congenial
partner, pleased to share a vital professional
effort
with someone who approached it with the same
no-nonsense
attitude she held. He had made that easy for
her,
and in such a difficult environment, she had been
relieved
to find that something could be easy. It had even
been
easy to make love to him, to close her eyes and
pretend
that his hands belonged to someone else.
The
only thing that had not been easy had been convincing
herself
that there couldn't have been something more.
Yes,
Pendrell had given her everything she needed. Except
that
when he'd had the opportunity to take *Mulder* away
from
her, he had snapped at the chance. And all he had to
offer
her now, in compensation, was to suggest that he
wouldn't
make trouble if she left him? He'd been wrong when
he'd
said she would hate him--she couldn't do that. But she
couldn't
forgive him, either. Between she and Pendrell,
things
would never be easy again.
Still,
she couldn't simply walk out on him, either. The
antivenin
still had to be perfected--she couldn't escape
that.
Scully
saw lights above her and to her left, and she looked
up. She
had drawn even with the Casablanca Club, almost as
if she
had been pulled there by some unfathomable magnet.
She
closed her eyes, her throat constricting suddenly, a
sharp
ache welling up in her chest.
God.
How would she ever figure out what to do?
****
The sun
was coming up, and Mulder still hadn't slept. Then
again,
he figured sleeping probably wasn't all that safe an
idea
just now. Lots of things could happen in the dark,
when
one's eyes were closed, and most of them, in his
experience,
were bad things.
He
drifted downstairs into the kitchen for a snack, and
when he
headed back to the apartment with a plate of toast
and
jam, he heard footsteps on the dock outside.
It was
Pendrell, peering through the window with his hands
cupped
around his eyes so he could see past the reflection
of the
morning sun on the glass. *Shit--that's what I need.
The
red-headed lab geek come to ask forgiveness. Fucker.*
He
sighed and went to open the door. "Something I can help
you
with?"
"I
need to talk to you," Pendrell said. He had his
shoulders
hunched up a little, as if to steel himself
against
a blow.
Mulder
would've liked to hit him, but it would've felt like
child
abuse. He settled for verbal needling instead.
"And
the reason why I would want to talk to you is...?"
"It's
not for me. It's for Dana."
"I
think she's your responsibility these days."
"Look,
it's not her fault," Pendrell said, all in a rush.
"She
didn't know--I didn't tell her I saw you alive in--"
He
stopped short and drew a breath, as if he were trying to
get his
nerves under control. "Can I come in?"
Mulder
didn't want to let him in. He wanted to kick his
scrawny
butt to the Moon. But then, who knew who might be
listening?
He held the door open and backed away so
Pendrell
could follow him in. He let the door swing shut,
then
pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Mulder,"
Pendrell said, "I know what you must think of
me."
"Yeah?
What exactly would that be?"
He
pulled out a chair and sat down across from Mulder.
"That
I'm...a pathetic weasel."
Mulder
took a bite of toast and nodded encouragingly. *Not
bad for
a start.*
The
younger man swallowed hard. "And I guess you're right.
But I
was in love with her."
Mulder
hooked a thumb toward the street. "Take a number,"
he
growled.
"I
shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry."
Mulder
nodded again. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too. So what? What
do you
want, Pendrell? My forgiveness? Why should I give it
to
you?"
Pendrell
drew a heavy breath and pinned him with a hard
look.
"Do you have the letters of transit or not?"
Well,
that was blunt enough. Mulder returned his stare. "If
I did,
what would you suggest I do with them?"
"I
know you've got no reason to want to help me. But I
don't
want Dana to get ground up in whatever Bloodworth's
planning.
Use the letters to take her to Hawaii. Just go,
the two
of you. I'll be all right here. That's what you
want,
isn't it? To be with her?"
Mulder
blinked in surprise. Now here was a twist. "You're
asking
me to use the letters of transit to run off with
your
wife?"
"I
want her to be safe," Pendrell said. "I know you want
that,
too. If Bloodworth's really trying to trap us here, I
don't
want her to get caught."
Mulder
felt something in his chest tighten, like a big
snake
coiling itself close around a tree's limb. He thought
of
black-sand beaches, of food that didn't come out of a
can, of
going to sleep with Scully's hair spread across his
chest
like dawn. "You're serious?"
"God,
yes. Just take her and go. I know she still cares for
you."
Mulder
realized he was breathing too fast. *Cares for me?*
If so,
she'd given little sign of it. Of course, he'd been
acting
like an asshole, mostly--quite on purpose. It was
possible,
he supposed...
No. No,
no, no. He shoved his feelings back down into the
pit of
his stomach. Why should he believe Pendrell? Why
should
he trust him? But for some reason, his heartbeat
would
not slow down.
"It's
an interesting offer," Mulder said carefully. "But
I'm not
sure it would work--you and your wife and I are
under
surveillance, you know."
"We
are?" Pendrell's eyes had gone wide. "Are you sure?"
God,
the lab geek was a naive little bunny. Now Mulder
understood
what Scully had seen in him--she was something
of a
rescuer personality. It was part of what had bound her
to
Mulder for so long.
"Yeah,"
he said dryly, "I'm pretty sure." *Or if we're not,
Skinner's
not doing his job, and he's usually very
competent.*
"So if I were to try to find the letters, the
odds
are good that Bloodworth and his hounds would snatch
them
right away from me the minute I had them."
"Damn,"
Pendrell said, crestfallen.
Mulder
got up, leaving his toast uneaten. "So you see," he
said,
"I really can't help you."
"Can't?"
Pendrell asked harshly. "Or won't?"
Mulder
shrugged. "Take your pick. Either way, the answer's
no."
"You
really want to see her die here?"
"Everybody's
got to die somewhere," Mulder said. "If you'll
excuse
me, I've had a long night."
He
returned to the apartment and shut the door. Then he
stood
there for a long time, leaning back against the door,
his
pulse thudding heavily. A savage mix of anger and fear
and
longing had suddenly boiled up inside him, and he
couldn't
push it away despite his desperate wish for the
cool,
soothing hardness of apathy. God, why had they had
come
here? He had worked so hard to dull himself, to strip
away
his sentimentality. He had thought pain had finally
burned
all that mawkish crap out of him, yet here it was,
to
torment him again.
Pendrell,
trying to repair the past by offering Mulder a
future
he had thought could never exist. And it was
working,
goddammit--he really was tempted. *Just take her
and
go.* God, how sweet that sounded. He and Scully
together,
fighting the bad guys, working, loving. The
thought
of it was enough to make his heart burst open with
joy and
terror. He let his head fall against the door and
closed
his eyes, fighting with all his strength to get the
images
out of his mind.
He had
already lost it all once. He knew he couldn't stand
it
again. His only defense had been not to have anything
that he
cared to lose, and up until the moment Scully had
walked
back into his life, it had been working.
Not
again. God, it hurt so. He did not ever want to care
about
someone so much. And yet--to have the chance once
more,
and turn away from it...
God, it
hurt.
Something
touched his face then, and he jerked hard away,
eyes
opening wide, reaching for his gun.
It was
Scully, her hand up where her fingers had grazed his
cheek.
"Are you all right?" she asked, frowning in concern.
"How
the hell did you get in here?" he demanded. His heart
was
galloping, his hands shaking.
"I
knocked on the side door, and Byers showed me to the
back
stairs from the kitchen. I told him I wanted to talk
to
you."
*I'll
kill the son of a bitch.* He turned away, rubbing the
back of
his neck to try to release tension in the muscles.
"Yeah,
well, I'm not really up for an extended dialogue,
Scul--"
He sighed. "Mrs. Pendrell."
For a
moment, she said nothing. Then, "I did what you said.
I asked
him why. He told me what happened in North
Carolina."
Mulder
drew a long breath, hoping it would steady him. He
faced
her. "Look, you have the letters. I sneaked them into
the
front pocket of your handbag out on Pelican Island. You
never
use that pocket for anything, but you always check it
when
you're getting ready to leave somewhere. I figured
you'd
plan to make a dash for the freighter and right
before
you did, you'd find them." He breathed again. "So
you can
go now."
He saw
her move toward him, saw her move to wrap her arms
around
him, and he stepped backward out of reach so fast he
knocked
something off the bookshelf behind him. "Don't," he
said
sharply. It came out at a higher pitch than his normal
range--almost
like a yelp.
Her
frown had deepened. "Mulder--"
"No.
It's too late, Scully. It's over. I'll be fine. You
just
go."
"I'm
not going anywhere."
"I
want you to. You and Pendrell--I'm telling you to go."
"Stop
it," she whispered. She took a step toward him.
"No!"
he yelled. "Don't do this to me! Oh, God--leave me
alone!"
That
had the desired effect--it stopped her, her eyes dusky
blue
with confusion. "I don't understand," she murmured.
He was
shaking so hard he thought his knees would go out
from
under him, but he locked his jaw and hung on grimly.
"Go,"
he said again.
"Mulder,
I know how it must've hurt you--"
"No,
you don't. You had him, and you could go on like that.
You
don't have any idea what it was like. You want to know
what
happened to me? You did, Scully. I lost you, and I
couldn't
stand it, and it's too fucking late."
Softly
she said, "I cried for you, too, Mulder."
"What
is it you think, Scully? You think we can rent a
bungalow
right here on the island and live out our lives
behind
a little white picket fence? Just you and me and
baby
makes three? Play out the American dream by the
seashore?
Yeah, we can do that, for a few months--until the
bees
come and kill you, and I have to watch you die while
I'm
helplessly retching my guts up. And then I go on alone
again."
He gasped in a shuddering breath. "You don't get to
do that
to me again, Scully. Tell me the truth,
goddammit--you
waited for me, didn't you?"
"Not
so long that I couldn't get away. I knew, Mulder--I
knew
why you asked me that. I didn't want to do that to
you,
and I didn't." She stepped toward him again. He was up
against
the bookshelf and couldn't back away.
"Mulder,"
she said, "I love you. I always have, and I
always
will." She reached toward his face.
"Please
don't touch me," he whispered.
She let
her hand drop. "All right," she said. "I don't want
to hurt
you any more. If you want me to go, I will."
"Please."
She
went a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped.
"I'm
still alive, Fox--I'm still here. I didn't wait for
you."
He
closed his eyes tight and held his breath until she was
gone.
It was the only way he could hold the sobs inside
long
enough for her to go.
He
hadn't wanted her to hear them. He knew she couldn't
stand
them any more than he could.
Continued
in Part 12.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (12/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (12/14) By Loch Ness
July 23
Galveston
Scully
returned to the beach with her thoughts in a whirl,
walking
aimlessly along just at the water's edge, not
caring
that the surf occasionally splashed over her shoes.
Where
else did she have to go?
In a
way, seeing Mulder in such anguish had been almost a
relief.
She was so much more accustomed to the Mulder whose
feelings
were bruised as easily as a four-year-old's. The
one who
was in some ways as delicate as a butterfly's wing.
Looking
back now, she realized she'd known he was aching
underneath
the icy facade he had presented to her. More in
what he
hadn't said, hadn't revealed, he had given it away
to her
in ways so subtle she had recognized them only
viscerally.
Along her spine, not in her brain.
She was
stunned at how much his rejection of her hurt.
Scully
had always thought of herself as the one who
supplied
others' needs--as the one who fulfilled *his*
needs.
It had never been clear to her before how much she
needed
him.
Part of
her wanted to do as he had asked her. Get on the
freighter
with Ted and leave. Pretend they had not met
again
and settle back into the comfortable blank space
somewhere
between happiness and misery that she had been
occupying
in New Orleans. That would save both of them the
pain of
re-opening the sores, re-learning to trust, to
believe,
to have faith in each other. Another part yearned
to
stay--to rush back to him and wrap herself around him
like a
bandage. To reclaim what he had given her two years
ago.
Except
that she wasn't sure either of them could stand even
a
healing touch.
God,
how would she decide what to do?
****
Skinner
went by the hospital at mid-morning to see how
Krycek
was doing. He had tried to call the smoking man but
got no
answer--whatever the bastard was up to, he was being
damned
quiet about it.
Skinner
had spent much of the night thinking about Mulder,
about
the way he was behaving, about what he had said and
not
said. The son of a bitch was right--Mulder had learned
well
from example and he now was acting like
Skinner
always
had. Maintaining distance, maintaining plausible
denial,
withholding information, holding himself aloof from
the
issues and the action. It wasn't a very attractive
picture,
and Skinner didn't like seeing either of them in
that
light.
*You
were the kind of commanding officer to him that you
always
hated in 'Nam--the kind who'd send troops into a
mine
field and then sit back waiting to see if anybody got
his
head blown off.*
Not an
appealing image at all. He ground his teeth, shoved
the
thoughts out of his mind and headed for Krycek's room.
Krycek
was asleep when he arrived. The guard Skinner had
assigned
said he'd slept through the night, his condition
apparently
improving slowly but steadily. Skinner had hoped
to talk
to Krycek, to see if he knew anything about what
the
smoking man might be trying to accomplish, but he
decided
not to wake him until he knew more details about
his
condition. Instead he went to find Pendrell in the
hospital's
lab.
He
found him with one sleeve rolled up and a hypodermic
needle
in his other hand, a sheepish look on his face at
being
discovered.
"What
are you doing?" Skinner asked, forcing his tone
neutral.
Pendrell
glanced away and then back. "I think I've isolated
what it
is in Krycek's blood that provided him with an
immunity."
That
didn't exactly answer the question, but Skinner
decided
not to push the issue. "What is it, then?"
"It's
a micro-organism that generates an antitoxin when
stimulated
by the active ingredient in the bee stings. The
ones I
got from Krycek last night were quite active." He
gestured
toward the microscope, and Skinner took a look.
He
couldn't see a damned thing and said so.
"They
look like tiny gnats," Pendrell said. "Little black
dots, mostly
sticking to the blood cells."
Skinner
looked again, and then he saw them, clinging to a
round,
pillowy red corpuscle like sprinkles on
a doughnut.
"So
those little things are what made Krycek immune to the
bee
stings?"
"I
think so, yes."
He
straightened up from the eyepieces. "And you figured
that
out overnight?"
Pendrell
pursed his lips in annoyance and shook his head.
"I've
been working on this for two years, and I suspected
for
some time now it was something like that. But we never
could
isolate it--they don't show up until they've been
inflamed
by the toxin, and the only samples I had to work
with
came from someone who'd been stung more than a day
before
I was able to draw blood. The results were
inconclusive."
"You
had a sample from someone else who had an immunity?"
Skinner
was surprised--he had thought he knew more-or-less
how
Scully and Pendrell had been proceeding.
A
fleeting look of distaste crossed Pendrell's face, lip
slightly
curled. "Yeah. Mulder."
"You
boys have a falling out?" Skinner asked, and then,
before
Pendrell could answer, he knew.
Scully.
"Oh,"
he said. "Yeah. I get it."
"It
was my fault," Pendrell said.
"I
don't need to know."
"Anyway,
I thought he must have had some kind of
micro-organism,
something that was producing an antibody or
an
anti-toxin in his system, but I never could prove it.
The
organisms were just about gone by the time I got hold
of the
first sample--he'd been floating around on that
ferry
out by Martha's Vineyard for more than thirty hours.
I only
saw them once, in the microscope, and then they were
gone.
And the second blood sample I drew didn't show them
at
all."
Skinner
nodded. "So now you think that if we can introduce
the
same organisms into other people before they get stung,
that
will protect them from the stings?"
"I
don't know if 'protect' is quite the right word. You saw
what
Krycek was like when they brought him in--he's not
going
to die, but he's damned sick, just like Mulder was."
"But
people won't *die,*" Skinner pointed out.
"Right.
I mean, it's not the answer, but it's all we've
got,
and if it really works, it's a helluva lot better than
nothing."
"Uh,
huh," Skinner said. "So your plan was to stick
yourself
with these things and see if it works?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "Somebody's got to test it. I don't
know
how much time there is before the bees get here--not
much,
if they're as close as Houston."
"And
if it doesn't work? Pendrell, if you try it on
yourself,
then who finishes up the work?"
He
colored slightly. "Dana can do it," he said softly. He
inclined
his head toward the computer. "I left her all my
notes."
Skinner
nodded. Time to get out into the mine field. "I've
got a
better idea," he said.
****
Mulder
had slept finally, after his emotional outburst, and
had
awakened balled up around his pillow, feeling drained
but
calm, as if the release had greatly relieved some
pressure
that had been building. The bar had been pretty
quiet
all evening, giving him a chance to drift for a few
hours.
But he
figured it wouldn't last, and when he saw Scully
coming
up the dock, he wasn't really surprised. She was
walking
swiftly, bearing straight for him, her
I'm-in-a-hurry
manner telling him it wasn't a social call.
That
was all right; he preferred it that way.
"Can
I talk to you privately?" she said quietly, and headed
toward
the kitchen without waiting for his answer.
Son of
a bitch, Mulder thought. She just treated me like a
witness
she wants to interview. He shook his head in wonder
and
followed her.
"What's
up?" he asked, once he went through the double
doors.
"I
need some ice," she said. "The hospital's run out of
it."
"Okay."
He stuck his head back out the doors and made a
"come-here"
motion at Frohike. "What's happened? Krycek
take a
turn for the worse?"
Scully
sighed. "No. It's Skinner."
Mulder
frowned. "What happened to Skinner?"
"He
volunteered to be exposed to the micro-organisms that
create
the immunity to the bee stings." She didn't look or
sound
happy about this. She was holding her mouth in that
I-think-this-is-bullshit
grimace again.
"You
know what causes the immunity?"
"Ted
thinks he does. And all I can do now is hope to hell
he's
right."
Frohike
came in.
Mulder
said, "Go up to Seward's place, remind him how big a
favor
he owes us, and tell him to send--" He looked at
Scully.
"A hundred pounds enough?"
Scully
nodded. "That should be plenty."
"A
hundred pounds of ice over to Galveston General."
Frohike
glanced at Scully, murmured, "On my way," and took
off.
When he
had gone, Scully said, "Tell me about Tunguska."
"I
went, I got captured, had some black shit stuffed up my
nose by
some people I did not regard as gentlemen. I got
away."
She
inclined her head. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah,
but I can't tell you what you really want to know. I
don't
know what the stuff was--I mean, not *exactly* what
it was.
I just know it came from the meteorite that crashed
there.
I can only vaguely estimate how much of it they gave
me. A
tablespoon, maybe two. All I know is, the symptoms I
had
were pretty much the same as when I got stung. I
thought
so even before I got stung, just from watching the
victims
on the news. And from seeing people get hit in Ohio
when I
went to get the bee I brought back to D.C."
"That's
why you went to Ohio, wasn't it? Because you
thought
there was a connection."
"Yes."
"You
went to Ohio to get yourself stung," she guessed.
"No.
Well, yes. I mean, yeah, that was the plan. But the
bee I
saw in Canada died after it stung. I wasn't really
sure
they were the same bees--maybe they're not, exactly.
So..."
He shrugged. "I chickened. I didn't actually get
stung
until I was on the ferry, headed for Nantucket."
She
sighed heavily. "How many times did you get stung?"
"I'm
not sure. I remember two--but things got rather
confused
after that. It could as easily have been five or a
hundred."
He thought a moment, then said, "Skinner's really
bad?"
"He
was comatose for the first five hours. Now he's got a
fever
of a hundred and four, and he's delirious.
Convulsions,
nausea."
"The
usual, in other words," Mulder said.
"Yes."
She ducked her head and rubbed the back of her neck.
"I've
seen too many people die from this toxin." She
sounded
exhausted, and Mulder supposed she probably was.
Doubtful
she'd had any more sleep than he had. Maybe less.
"Well,
for what it's worth, if he's made it this far, I
doubt
he'll die. The remaining question is, will it really
work if
he gets stung? And there's only one way to find
out."
She
looked up, and her startlingly blue eyes were haunted.
"I
know," she said.
Suddenly
there was a loud boom, like distant thunder or
artillery
fire. They went silent, listening. Another boom,
and
then another.
"What
the hell?" Scully said.
"Shit,"
Mulder said. "They're blowing the causeway."
****
July
24
Scully
woke to a distantly familiar clicking sound. Before
she
even opened her eyes, she knew what it was--Mulder
playing
Solitaire on his laptop computer.
She'd
always found watching him do that slightly annoying.
He was
practically addicted to the thing--he'd play on and
on for
hours, and sometimes had whiled away entire
intercontinental
flights with it, seeming irritated when it
came
time to turn the computer off for landing.
But
what was really irritating was that he was so damnably
methodical
about it. Mulder--Mr. Quantum Leap of
Intuition--had
a system for Solitaire and never varied from
it.
Turn up every card you can right at the outset. Always
leave a
space to pull down a king. Never pull down low
cards
unless you needed them to move something else.
It
didn't even work. He lost most of the time. And he knew
it
didn't work, and yet he persisted, as if he were
following
some script from which he simply could not bring
himself
to deviate. She wondered if he had learned that
lousy
card system from his father.
She sat
up and stretched. They were at the hospital, in the
same
room with Skinner and Krycek, who were still sleeping.
Scully
had made Pendrell go and get some rest, protesting
that
she would watch over the patients. And then, despite
her
best efforts, she had fallen asleep. She wasn't sure
what
time Mulder had showed up to shoulder the rest of her
watch
for her, but from the look of his wilted white tuxedo
jacket,
it couldn't have been long after she'd dropped off.
He
glanced up when she moved and wordlessly passed her a
thermos.
"How
long have you been here?" she asked, opening it.
"I
came over after the bar closed up."
Scully
breathed the warm, bitter scent in the bottle.
"God,"
she said. "This is *real* coffee, isn't it?"
"Costa
Rican. Ought to be called Costa Bundle, but it's
worth
it."
"We
couldn't get the real stuff in New Orleans. It was all
burnt
barley and chicory."
"Shades
of the Civil War." He moved a card with one hand
and reached
into a pocket of his jacket with the other,
withdrew
a couple of brown paper packets labeled "creamer."
"That
stuff probably dates back to at least the Korean
War,"
he said, handing it to her. "It's Army surplus. But
it's
what we've got here on our island paradise."
She
opened one of the packets, sniffed, and decided to
forgo
it. The coffee smelled so good, she didn't want to
taint
it with old, musty creamer. "Not that I want to seem
ungrateful,
but..."
"I
completely understand."
"Is
there enough for me?" Skinner asked hoarsely.
Scully
put the cup down and went to him. "I really don't
think
you should, just yet," she said. "How are you
feeling?"
"Like
somebody scoured my guts with steel wool. I'm all
right.
Where are my glasses?"
Scully
handed them over. He was getting up. "Sir, I think
you
really ought to rest for a while," she said.
"No
time," Skinner said.
"Relax,
Walter," Mulder said, closing up the laptop.
"Nobody's
going to Houston today. They blew out the
causeway
last night."
Skinner
frowned. "What the hell for?"
"Because
the smoking man, speaking as deputy director of
the
SEB, told them to."
"Son
of a bitch," Skinner muttered.
"Are
the bees getting closer?" Scully asked.
"No.
According to the city's official reports the bees seem
to have
found the old rice fields west of Houston very
appealing,
and the bulk of the swarm is still out there
eating
like mad and...roosting, or whatever bees do at
night.
And making little baby bees, I presume."
Mulder
shrugged. "And on top of that, there's a tropical
storm
coming in that's likely to blow the little bastards
all the
way back to San Antonio."
"Then
why destroy the bridge?" Scully asked.
From
behind her came a bitter, rough-throated laugh. "Man,"
Krycek
said, "you people just don't get it, do you?"
"So
why don't you tell us?" Skinner demanded.
The
younger man propped himself up on his elbows in the
hospital
bed. "They don't want anybody to get away. They
don't
want any of us to survive--especially not anybody who
could
make it possible for a lot of people to survive."
Krycek
laughed again.
"They
just want to sweep the planet clean," he said.
Continued
in Part 13.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (13/14) ***NC-17*** By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (13/14) By Loch Ness
July 24
Galveston
Krycek
was grinning like a dog. Mulder would've liked to
slap
the smile right off his face, but they all wanted to
find
out what the little ratfucker knew about the Cancer
Man's
plans.
"You're
wrong, Krycek," he said. "We're all painfully aware
that
the smoking man wants to wipe out every living soul on
the
continent. The question is why, and if you don't start
talking,
I'm going to use you to troll for sharks."
The
smile segued into a smirk. "Yeah, you'd like that,
wouldn't
you, Mulder?"
Mulder
took two long strides and got his hands around
Krycek's
throat. "You just don't *know,*" he snarled.
Reflexively,
Krycek tried to jerk away, but Mulder had him.
"I'm
going to hold you down while he threads the hook, you
cocksucker,"
Skinner growled. "Talk--and you'd goddamned
well
better tell it straight and tell it all."
"All
right," Krycek said.
Mulder
released his hold, and Krycek wrenched free.
"They
want to start over," he said. "They've developed some
kind of
super-humans, and they're making space for them, so
these
new people can take over and rule the world, and make
it a
better place. They think regular folks like you and I
are too
contentious to co-exist with their super-race.
Assholes
like us would just screw up the dynamics of the
new
order."
"What
kind of super-humans?" Scully asked.
"They've
got some of the genetic characteristics of the
aliens
that crashed at Roswell, back in '47. I mean,
they're
mostly human still, but they're stronger, and they
have
resistances to diseases and chemicals and radiation.
And
they have some kind of healing powers."
"Like
Jeremiah Smith?" Scully asked.
"The
Jeremiah Smith series was one of the later
experiments,"
Krycek said.
"Those
mute clones I saw in Canada," Mulder said, his voice
low.
"Some
of the original prototypes. Now they think they've
got it
perfected--the ones they're producing now are even
better
than the Smiths."
"Who's
'they?'" Skinner demanded.
"The
smoking man, Bloodworth. I don't know their names, but
some of
them have been in it since the Truman
administration."
"The
Majestic Twelve?" Mulder asked. UFO lore had it that
President
Harry Truman had appointed a commission of twelve
men to
research and use technology recovered from Roswell.
Mulder
had never been absolutely sure it was true.
"Yeah.
There's not many of the original twelve left now,
but
they put the whole thing in motion, way back in the
'50s."
He looked at Mulder. "Your dad was pretty high up on
the
staff there, at one point. Until he backed out."
Mulder
nodded. Not a surprise.
"What's
in it for them?" Skinner asked. "They're going to
be
replaced, too."
"They're
*patriots.*" Krycek spat the word out. "Fanatics.
They
don't care whether they come out of it or not. And
hell,
they're all, what? Seventy years old? They won't be
around
long enough for it to matter much, and half of the
damned
hybrids are their kids, in effect. Their offspring
are
going to take over the world."
"One
would assume," Scully said, "that if these
'super-humans'
were all that super, it wouldn't be
necessary
to get rid of the *unter-menschen* so that they
could
take over. Why not just turn them loose among us, and
let
natural selection take its course?"
"They
were trying that," Krycek said. "There were a
lot--maybe
a hundred-thousand--like Smith out there before
the
bees were let loose. But now they're in a hurry."
"Why?"
Mulder demanded. "What happened?"
"I
don't know."
Mulder
reached for him. "Krycek, if you're lying--"
"I
swear I don't know! Whatever it was, it happened after I
left
for Hong Kong. I heard that one of the Smiths went
soft--he
wanted to help out the poor mortals. Maybe that
was it;
maybe they were afraid the *wunderkind* didn't have
the
balls to wipe us out. That could be it."
"That's
enough," Skinner said. "Scully, where the hell are
my
clothes? And don't give me any grief about how I ought
to
rest, just tell me."
"Closet,"
Scully said.
While
the A.D. collected his suit and went into the
bathroom
to dress, Mulder kept one eye on Krycek and
motioned
to Scully. "That freighter for Tampico leaves at
dusk,"
he murmured. "You'd better be ready."
"If
Krycek's telling the truth, Bloodworth's not going to
let us
get on it," she whispered back.
He
nodded. "You leave that to me and Walter."
****
There
was a lot to be done, but most of it fell on
Pendrell--denied
the opportunity and the time to conduct a
full-scale
human test on Skinner, he had to run some
additional
bench tests to try to make sure the stuff was
working.
And he was the one who had to figure out how to
synthesize
the micro-organisms in bulk so that the hospital
staff
could produce them after he and Scully left. He had
to test
whether mixing them with a minute quantity of the
toxin
would keep them active long enough to be used.
It was
a big job, and not really Scully's field--she
couldn't
help him any more than the hospital's own lab
techs
already were doing. And to her surprise, a whole
gaggle
of young people who'd been studying at the
now-defunct
University of Texas Medical Branch and had
gotten
stuck on the island suddenly showed up to pitch in,
too.
That
left her with little to do but lecture the hospital's
staff
and the students on how to take care of people who
were
recovering from both the anti-toxin and the bee
stings.
She felt silly doing it--these people all knew how
to
treat a fever and nausea and convulsions
symptomatically.
It took all of thirty minutes. But they
seemed
relieved to hear it was something they could handle.
She
told them over and over again that the whole thing was
highly
experimental. She told them over and over again that
she and
Pendrell couldn't guarantee anything. But on her
way
out, she could hear renewed hope in their voices, see
it
glowing in their eyes.
She
hoped it was all warranted.
And so,
afterward, what there was left for her to do was
think
and wait aimlessly for dusk.
Mulder
had vanished after Skinner had dispatched Krycek
back to
jail. She had no idea what Mulder was planning, but
it
seemed clear he had something cooking. A frontal assault
on the
SEB's compound in Denver wouldn't have surprised
her,
though she hoped what he had mind was at least a
little
less goofy than running headlong into a hail of
bullets.
She wished she were helping him plan it. That was
what
she *wanted* to be doing--to be with him, to be in on
whatever
cock-eyed scheme he was working on. She would have
liked
to have been with him on that boat in Georgia, to be
the
"Malathion Raider's" gun moll, so to speak.
Suddenly,
she pictured herself in a flapper's fringed red
dress,
a cigarette holder between her lips, a tommy gun
across
her lap. Maybe one of those sequined cloche hats.
Mulder
in a dark, pinstriped zoot suit. She and Mulder,
cast as
Bonnie and Clyde for the new millennium. She
stifled
a laugh.
But
then, really, maybe that was what it would take to stop
the
smoking man and his colleagues from destroying the
world.
Most of the time she'd spent on the run with Mulder
had
been harrowing, but the truth was, she had felt alive.
She had
felt she was doing the right things, the necessary
things.
She had felt needed, had felt both she and her work
were
valued, even if only by a certified kook carrying a
badge.
Maybe
now the real question was, what was stopping her from
donning
that red dress?
****
She
found him in his apartment over the bar, still dressed
in the same
wilted tux he'd had on at the hospital, still
working
on the laptop. But he wasn't playing Solitaire
now--he
was typing something, sitting at the dining room
table
with his back to her.
"You're
getting to be a real break-in artist," he said, as
she
approached quietly from behind him. He turned, and she
saw he
had his glasses on--one of the lenses had gotten
cracked
at the bottom. The sight of him made her heart
pound.
Even bedraggled and tired, he was beautiful. Legs
and
arms that went on forever. Eyes like new spring grass.
"I
could swear I locked that door," he said, turning back
to the
computer.
"You
did."
He
turned off the computer, removed his glasses and twisted
in the
chair to face her. "What's up?" he asked.
"I'm
not going," she said. She went toward him. Like the
last
time, she had not planned this. She was flying on
autopilot.
"Yes,
you are," he said.
She
caught him just as he started to get up from the table,
caught
him between the chair and her body, both of her
hands
on either side of his jaw. "I love you," she said.
"You
can't make me leave, and I won't."
She
leaned in to kiss him, but at the last second he turned
his
head away from her. She kissed what she could
reach--his
cheek, his left eye.
"Stop
it," he whispered.
"I
don't want to."
He
wrenched out of her grip, pushed the chair sideways and
got to
his feet, size and sheer brute force overcoming her
feeble
effort to hold him trapped. "Look, Scully, this
won't
change anything." His eyes and his voice had gone
hard as
granite. "This immunity is only a stopgap measure,
and you
know it. We still need a real cure, and you and
Pendrell
have the best shot at coming up with it. You know
now
that you're on the right track."
"He
doesn't need me for--"
"Maybe
not, but he is still your husband. I don't know
about
you, but I was raised to believe that meant
something."
Into her stunned silence, he said, "I may be a
lonely
guy, but I don't fuck other men's wives."
She
knew he'd calculated that to shock her, so she threw it
back at
him. "Do you fuck women you're in love with?" She
advanced
on him like a tiger stalking a zebra, knowing full
well
that, like a zebra, he might bolt at any second. "Do
you
fuck women who want you so bad they'll break into your
apartment?"
His
eyes had gone wide--she read fear and desire in about
equal
measure. She sensed that he wanted to bolt, but he
held
his ground. She stopped when she stood close enough
that
she knew he could feel her breath against his throat,
and
looked up at him. "Do you want me to beg, Mulder?"
There
was a long silence while she stared up at him, and he
stared
back at her. Slowly, very deliberately, she raised
her
hands toward his face. Just before she touched him, he
finally
backed away a step. She could see his chest rising
and
falling as breathed. "Shall I tell you exactly how much
I want
you?" she asked, her voice low.
He was
beside her before she knew it--she'd forgotten he
could
be so quick, so agile. His hands closed around her
waist,
and he lifted her up onto the table and held her.
There
was a dark challenge in his hazel eyes, in the pained
set of
his mouth. *Do you want me? Are you *really* ready
for
this?*
He
raised his hands and cupped her breasts, still holding
her
with his gaze. She shivered hard with pleasure and let
him see
it, in her eyes, her slightly parted lips. He ran
his
thumbs across her nipples, and she drew a ragged gasp.
*Yes.
I'm ready. Are you?*
He
leaned in to kiss her, and she knew what he was
planning--to
crush her mouth with his own, to claim her.
She
stopped him with a touch, her fingers feather-light
along
his jaw. His look was savage, ravenous. But
ravishment
was not what he needed to give or to receive.
"Let
me gentle you," she breathed. He froze, and now the
wildness
in his eyes was partly fear. "I know it's hard. I
know
you're afraid. Trust me. You used to trust me."
His
eyes closed, and it was his turn to shiver.
*I know
the tenderness in you, Mulder. You can't hide it
from
me; you never could. Give it to me. Let me give it
back to
you.*
She
pulled ever-so-gently, with the hand along his jaw, and
felt
him hesitate, then slowly begin to yield, until he
took
two small steps and placed himself in her grasp. She
wrapped
her legs around his thighs, her arms around his
neck.
He was trembling like a frightened puppy, but she
could
feel his erection gently prod her belly as he
breathed.
She stroked his hair to reassure him.
*I
won't hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you. Not
today.
Let it go, all that hurt, all that terror.*
He
pulled his head away a little and brought his hands up
to her
face, her hair. Now his eyes were wide, adoring,
startlingly
green with excitement. "God," he whispered,
"you're
so beautiful. I need you so much."
"I'm
yours."
He
kissed her, his sweet, full mouth soft and warm on hers,
his
tongue exploring lightly. She drew him closer, pressed
her
breasts against him, ran her own tongue across his
lower
lip, and felt him shiver in anticipation. God, he
felt so
good, the smooth, trim planes of him, the clean
lines
of bone and muscle. She could feel herself melting
inside,
and she knew neither of them could wait for long.
Scully
withdrew just far enough to reach up and undo the
knot of
his tie. *No more sex with your tie on, Mulder.* He
was
still trembling, but none of it was fear now. He leaned
back a
little so she could slip his jacket off his
shoulders,
still staying inside the circle of her legs. She
took
the gun off his belt and laid it behind her on the
table,
then started on his shirt. *I want all of you this
time. I
want to see you, breathe in your scent, tickle my
nose in
the hair on your belly. All of it.*
With
his shirt open, she saw that his nipples were erect,
hard as
tiny buttons. She leaned forward, intending to kiss
them,
but he jerked backward.
"Wait,"
he whispered.
*Ah. So
those are sensitive, are they?* She would remember.
Instead,
she placed her mouth in the shallow cleft between
his
breasts and kissed him there, licked his skin, drank in
the
warm, salty taste of it. He gasped. His arms closed
around
her again, and he lifted her and carried her into
the
bedroom. As he went, she tugged his shirt-tails out.
He set
her down on her feet in the bedroom, toed his shoes
off,
then stood still while she unbuckled his belt and slid
his
trousers to the floor. Gently she freed his erection,
straining
at the fabric of his briefs. God, he was big. She
tried
not to touch him there any more than absolutely
necessary.
She could feel the effort he was exerting to
keep
control--she knew she couldn't push him much.
Naked,
he was stunningly beautiful. Lean and perfect, slim
and
muscled for speed. She let her gaze roam up the length
of him
until she was looking into his eyes again and read
the
message there: *Now you.*
She
took a step closer to him and let him remove her blouse
and
skirt, only touching him to hold his shoulder for
balance
as she stepped out of the skirt. He slid the straps
of her
slip off her shoulders, unhooked her brassiere, then
stood
looking at her bare breasts, as if transfixed.
*Yes,*
Scully thought, in the moment before his hands
cupped
her again. *Yes, touch me.* She gave a little
whimper
of delight at the contact. His hands were warm, the
skin a
little rough to the touch. He leaned down and kissed
her,
his thumbs again caressing her nipples. Every nerve in
her
body was aflame with him. Just when she thought she
couldn't
stand another moment, he released her. He pulled
the
slip gently down off her hips, then removed her
panties.
Again she caught his shoulder briefly for balance.
Then
she was lying on his bed, waiting, anticipating. It
was his
turn to look at her, and there was a kind of awe in
his
manner as he ran one hand lightly from the hollow of
her
throat, between her breasts, and down to the top of the
hair
that lay between her legs. He bent his head and took
her
right nipple in his mouth, suckling gently but
insistently
like a hungry child, his tongue lapping at her
in
steady swipes. Scully groaned out loud, full-throated,
her
hips writhing involuntarily.
*Oh,
God, take me.* And he was there, entering her, in more
small,
insistent movements, a centimeter at a time. She
wanted
to shove up and take him straight into her center,
but he
had her pinned with his weight so that she could
only
match him, tiny thrust for tiny thrust. He was so
hard;
she was so wet. The sensation of him moving inside
her was
too much. She came like an explosion, the world
seeming
to blow apart with the force of it along her spine.
And he
was still moving, deeper and deeper, inexorably, and
she
came again, and yet again when she knew she had all of
him.
He let
go of her breast. They were both panting like
overheated
animals, and for a moment, they just stopped
there.
Then he
lay down across her chest and did something Scully
couldn't
quite grasp in her dazed, exhausted state,
something
that somehow turned them over so that she was on
top of
him without breaking the fusion between them. She
tucked
her legs, lifted her shoulders and smiled at him.
*You're
lucky I still have the strength for this,* she
thought.
She moved on him and felt him shudder, saw his
eyes
shut and his mouth twist. She wouldn't need much
strength;
he was very close.
She
leaned down and suckled at his breast and came again as
he did,
his spasm inside her, the delicious sound of his
incoherent
cries, igniting her own body again.
*You're
mine now,* she thought in elation. *And I'm yours.
No
matter what comes between us, we'll never be separated.*
Continued
in Part 14.
lochness@texas.net
Letters
of Transit (14/14) By Loch Ness
DO NOT
ARCHIVE. ***Not to be entered in or nominated
for any
competition or award.***
Classification:
T, RA Crossover references to the film
*Casablanca*
International readers: US4 spoilers. Rating:
NC-17,
for VIOLENCE, PROFANITY and (M/S) SEX. If you are
under-age,
please do not read this. See Part 0 for
disclaimer,
summary and introductory notes.
***********************************************************
Letters
of Transit (14/14) By Loch Ness
July 24
Galveston
Mulder
let Scully sleep, but he couldn't. He cuddled her on
his
chest and wept a little, silently. He wanted to hold
her as
long as he could, knowing it wouldn't be for long;
he knew
he couldn't keep her with him, much as he
desperately
wanted her beside him forever.
The
question was, how would he ever manage to let her go?
The
thought made him feel as if his heart might simply
split
open.
*Don't
think about it. Just hold her. This is all you
have.*
Slowly,
the warm, regular thud of her heart soothed him,
and he
calmed. Pendrell had been right--they wanted the
same
thing--for her to be safe. She wouldn't like it, he
knew,
but it had to be done.
About
seven, he touched her face to wake her.
"Mmm,"
she murmured. "I would've begged, you know."
"I
didn't want you to," he whispered back. "I love you."
She
lifted her head and looked at him. He let himself drink
in the
sight of her--her eyes peacock blue in the afternoon
sunlight
filtering in through the windows. Her hair like a
slick
of molten copper.
"I
love you, too," she said. "I won't leave you."
He knew
better, but he smiled up at her.
"Still,"
she said, "we have to make sure Ted gets away."
"Yes."
Mulder shifted, and she caught his signal, moved so
that he
could sit up. "He's not going to go without you,
Scully."
"He'll
have to." She sat up beside him.
"Yeah.
That's why you have to convince him that you *are*
going
with him. Once we get him to the freighter, then
we'll
tell him. Then he'll have to leave."
"Okay,"
she said. She looked closely at him, her brows
knitting
suddenly in concern. "Are you okay?"
"Sure.
Why?"
"Your
eyes are a little swollen."
"I'm
tired, that's all." He bumped her shoulder with his.
"Which
is at least as much your fault as mine."
She
chuckled and bent to retrieve her clothes. "Believe me,
it's
mutual. What time will the freighter leave?"
"About
9:30. You and Pendrell be here at a quarter to.
We'll
give you an escort to the ship."
"Just
in case we get in a firefight, do you have some ammo
that'll
fit my Sig? I'm down to one magazine and three
rounds."
"I
doubt it, but I'll look." With her tiny hands, she
carried
a smaller Sig than he did; it fired 9-mm parabellum
rather
than the .40-caliber Smith & Wesson rounds he liked.
He
searched but didn't find any. "Sorry. No good." He
thought
a moment, still shuffling through a drawer. "You
want my
PPK? I've got plenty of .380 auto you can have."
When he
turned, he saw she was admiring the view--he was
still
naked.
"No,
it's okay. I'll try to conserve."
Despite
himself he blushed as he went back to her.
"Very
nice," she said. He rolled his eyes.
"You'd
better hurry," he said. "There's not a lot of time."
She
stood up, laid her hand along his cheek and gave him a
wide-eyed
look of such tenderness it stopped his breath.
"Do
you believe I love you?" she asked.
"I
believe," he whispered.
He
did.
"I
do," he said. Then he kissed her. He suspected it was
for the
last time.
****
They
were right on time. Frohike had already taken their
luggage
and equipment to the ship in his Jeep--Bloodworth's
people
weren't watching him. He had made a circuitous trip
around
the island, then, carrying an order signed by
Skinner,
had got the freighter's crew to load the bags in
advance.
"Distract
Scully for a minute, will you?" Mulder asked the
little
man.
"My
pleasure," Frohike said.
"You
have the letters?" Mulder asked Pendrell.
Pendrell
nodded.
"Put
your name and hers in the blanks at the top. Do it
now, so
you're legal before we leave."
As he
wrote the names in, Pendrell said softly, "What made
you
change your mind?"
"I
didn't."
Pendrell
looked up, his eyes both fearful and hopeful.
"I
never told you I was going to take her to Hawaii."
He
finished writing the names and stuffed the letters in
his
jacket pocket. "Why would you do this? Just let her go
with
me?"
Mulder
shrugged. "Like you said--I want her to be safe. And
she
wouldn't be safe here."
Pendrell
nodded. "But it doesn't matter. She hates me now,"
he
said, his voice low.
"No.
She was so determined to see you get away she tried to
seduce
me in return for the letters," Mulder lied coolly.
"I
didn't take her up on it."
Pendrell
frowned at him in confusion.
"She's
a very forgiving sort, Pendrell. She's mad at you,
all
right--but she always forgave me, and she will you,
too, if
you earn it. You have a chance now to regain her
respect."
He gave the younger man a hard look. "Don't blow
it."
"I
won't. What do you want us to do?"
"Sit
down and have a drink. I'll call you when we're
ready."
About
fifteen minutes later, he motioned at Scully over the
heads
of the other patrons. She murmured something to
Pendrell,
and they came into the kitchen. Just as they
entered,
Byers and one of the waitresses headed out the
back
and along the side of the dock to the street.
"What's
going on?" Scully asked.
"Oh,
you two are going back to the hotel," Mulder said. "Or
at
least that's what we hope Bloodworth's crack
surveillance
team will think."
"How'd
you manage that?" Pendrell asked.
Mulder
shrugged again. "The only hard part was getting
Byers
to shave off his beard."
Scully
smiled. "Tell him we appreciate his sacrifice," she
said.
What a
beautiful smile she has, Mulder thought.
Frohike
stuck his head in through the back door. "They
bought
it," he called softly. "They're gone."
"Let's
move," Mulder said.
They
made it to the ship without incident. But as they
pulled
up to the pier, Mulder saw Skinner and another man
standing
at the bottom of the ramp. It was tuxedo, the guy
he had
thrown out of the casino just before Pendrell and
Scully
had showed up. There was no mistaking the gun he had
stuck
in Skinner's back.
Warily,
they got out of the Jeep, hands on their holstered
guns.
And then, from back in the shadows, a figure stepped
forward,
a man-shape darker than the dark.
Bloodworth.
"Good
evening," he called pleasantly. "I was afraid you
were
going to leave without saying goodbye. So I took the
liberty
of asking Mr. Skinner to bring me down to see you
off."
"You
bastard," Scully said. She had her gun out now,
pointed
at tuxedo. "You pull that trigger, and you'll be
dead
before he hits the ground."
Mulder
slid out the left side, drew his own gun and braced
both
hands on the Jeep's roof. The shot was a little long,
but
there was no wind, nothing between he and the smoking
man.
"Drop it, Bloodworth!" he yelled. "I've got a clean
shot,
and nothing would make me happier!"
"I'll
trade him for Agent Scully," Bloodworth said.
Clever,
Mulder thought. Take Scully, and he'll have all
three
of us by the balls--me, Skinner, Pendrell.
"The
fucking hell you will," Pendrell said. Mulder didn't
see the
gun until the younger man fired. At once, Skinner
flung
himself out of the way and tuxedo fell, shot through
the heart.
Scully
was holding aim on Bloodworth and moving slowly
toward
him. "Get your hands up," she ordered.
Something
was wrong; Mulder could feel it in a tingle of
fear
along the back of his neck. Scully was so close, and
she was
moving between the Cancer Man and Skinner and
Pendrell.
Bloodworth stood motionless and let her get
closer.
And he
wasn't smoking. It was all wrong.
"Get
your hands up!" Mulder yelled, echoing Scully. The son
of a
bitch was up to something--he wouldn't just stand
there
and be taken.
She was
so close. Too close.
Mulder
tightened his grip on the Sig and moved out around
the
Jeep. He guessed it was thirty yards, in the gathering
dark,
with Scully too close.
Now,
suddenly, the smoking man moved. His right hand still
in
shadow, coming up in a lazy arc, a glint of steel off
something
clutched in his fist.
Scully
had seen it first, and she moved left, squarely into
Mulder's
line of fire. She shot, three times in quick
succession.
Bloodworth staggered but didn't fall--Mulder
realized
he was wearing a vest. He'd recover in a second,
and
Scully was out of ammo, searching frantically in a
pocket
for another magazine.
"Down!"
Skinner yelled at Scully, but she didn't seem to
hear
him.
Mulder
danced left, to clear his aim. Bloodworth's hand was
still
rising. Mulder stopped, let his knees unlock and took
his
shot.
And
double-tapped the son of a bitch right between the
eyes.
Bloodworth's
spine arched impossibly as the impact flung
his
head back, and for a moment Mulder thought he might
actually
turn a flip as he fell, his feet coming up off the
ground.
Then he dropped in a heap, slid almost a yard
across
the pavement and finally lay still.
Mulder
went toward him, leading with his gun. Bloodworth
was
dead. Jaw slack, eyes wide in an expression that looked
like
astonishment. Mulder nudged the right hand, still
gripping
something, with his foot. The fingers let go, and
a small
object hit the ground with a metallic rattle.
A Zippo
lighter.
Mulder
leaned his head back, trying to relax, let the
adrenaline
drain back out of his muscles. It was over. He
had
thought he might have a moment of triumph over the
Cancer
Man's demise. Instead, he just felt tired.
Scully
turned around, glanced at tuxedo's body on the
ground
and gave her husband a look of amazement.
Pendrell
looked equally stunned. "I've been practicing..."
he got
out. "A little."
"Practice
any more and you'll be a fucking Olympic
contender,"
Mulder murmured.
"Well,
I couldn't... I mean, I couldn't let him..."
"I
think it was meant as a compliment," Skinner said dryly.
"At
any rate, I'm grateful for your newfound skill."
"I
never killed anybody before," Pendrell went on. "I never
even
shot anybody before."
"You'll
get over it," Mulder said sympathetically. "Just
remember
he would've killed A.D. Skinner if you hadn't shot
him.
Keep telling yourself that."
Scully
put one hand on his shoulder. "Ted," she said, "go
aboard.
I'll take care of this."
"Okay,"
Pendrell said numbly. "Here." He handed her the
letter
of transit with her name on it.
She
took it, with a slantwise glance at Mulder. "I'll be
right
up," she said.
Pendrell
went up the gangplank.
When he
had gone, Mulder said, "We'll get rid of the
bodies,
Scully." He holstered his Sig. "There are sharks in
these
waters. Nobody'll find them." He inclined his head
toward
the freighter. "You go on."
She
stared at him. "Mulder, I told you--I'm not leaving
you."
"You
have to go, Scully, and you know it."
"No!"
He took
her arms, just above the elbows, and held her.
"Listen
to me. Pendrell didn't even know you were under
surveillance.
Despite his stellar performance here, I don't
think
he's going to make it out of Tampico without you. If
you
really think he doesn't need you, I think you'd better
reconsider."
"I
want to stay with you," she whispered.
"I
know you do. And I wish like anything that you could.
But you
know better, Scully. There's been too much pain,
too
much blood spilled. I thought I could turn away from
it, but
when I did, I lost myself. I didn't get it back
until I
saw you again."
She
closed her eyes, as if doing that could stop her from
hearing
what he was saying. But just before they closed he
could
see in them that she knew he was right.
"The
faith to keep looking," she whispered.
"Yes,"
he said. "I'd lost that. And I need it. You do,
too--you
can't turn away, either. We may not ever bring the
bastards
to justice, but we still have a chance to stop
them."
He fell
silent for a moment. Then he reached to lift her
chin
gently. "I love you, Dana," he said. "But if we give
up
fighting now, what will we have?"
She
opened her eyes, spilling over with tears. "Each
other,"
she breathed.
"I
don't think so. I don't think we'd ever stop wondering
if we'd
done the right thing. Do you really think we could
be
happy together while the rest of the world came
unraveled
around us? What kind of life would that be for
either
of us?"
The
freighter's whistle blew, thunderously loud, like the
crack
of doom. Scully started hard, and Mulder tightened
his
grip on her arms a little to steady her.
"I
want to be with you," she said.
"You
will be, no matter what happens." He let go of her.
She
reached up and stroked the lapels of his jacket with
both
hands, as if remembering a time when she had been able
to hang
on to him by taking hold of them. "You never forgot
Samantha,"
she said, as if reassuring herself that he
wouldn't
forget her, either.
"And
I never will." The freighter's crew was casting off
lines.
"You'd better go," he said.
"I
love you," she said.
"Go,"
he said.
She
went quickly up the gangplank. For a moment he feared
she
might stay on deck, watching until she couldn't see him
any
more, but she spared him that--she disappeared.
Mulder
stood watching, though. Standing guard until the
freighter
had gone, sailing slowly off around the end of
the
island until its lights winked out one by one.
He felt
drained, a soft, miserable loneliness soaking down
into
his bones.
Then
suddenly Skinner was beside him. Mulder drew a sharp
breath
to compose himself. "Where's Bloodworth?"
"Back
of the Jeep," the A.D. said. "Wrapped in garbage
bags."
"Nice
touch," Mulder said.
"I
thought so. Here." He handed Mulder the lighter.
"Souvenir."
*More
like a scalp,* Mulder thought. He looked at the
lighter.
Engraved on it were the words, "Trust no one."
*That's
what got you killed,* he thought. *You couldn't
trust
anyone, and no one could trust you.* He put the
lighter
in his pocket.
They
were silent for a long moment. Then Skinner asked,
"You
really do know how to get off the island, don't you?"
Mulder
looked over his shoulder at him.
Skinner
shrugged. "Somebody's going to have to start
distributing
the micro-organisms to what's left of the
country.
And I've got a certain curiosity all of a sudden
about
what's going on back east--I left some stuff in D.C.
I'd
like to reclaim, if I can wrest it away from the
members
of the master race who have probably taken up
residence
in my apartment."
"Okay,"
Mulder said. "I'll take that ride. Just do me one
favor,
will you, Walter?"
"Name
it."
"Don't
make any sappy remarks about 'a beautiful
friendship.'"
"Wouldn't
dream of it."
****
As she
was settling herself in the tiny ship's cabin,
Scully
noticed that her handbag seemed heavier than usual.
There
was something in that front pocket that Mulder had
said
she never used for anything.
She
looked. His Discman, complete with headphones. It was
on
pause, the display showing "9." With the cover closed,
she
couldn't see what disc it was, but she knew he had
meant
it as a message.
She
slipped the headphones on and pushed play.
She
heard Sarah McLachlan and knew instantly what the
message
was.
"...so
now you're sleeping peaceful/ and I lie awake and
pray/
that you'll be strong tomorrow/ and we'll see another
day..."
She let
the song play through. The sound of it in her ears
was
like the warm strength of his arms around her.
He
believed.
***********************************************************
The End
lochness@texas.net