by Josan
This was a daily event for him, these days. Standing in the early dawn, at
his end of the huge wrap-around porch, coffee
mug in hand, watching the sun rise over his lake.
Well, not really his lake. It hadn't come with the lodge. It was considered
to be Crown Property, but the land at this end of
it belonged to him.
All because of an ad in the back of the New York Review of Books. "Lodge for
sale by auction. Northern Ontario.
Temiskaming region. Good hunting, fishing. Established business. Serious
inquiries only, contact..."
He still wasn't sure just how serious his inquiry had been. But the way
things had turned out, serious enough so that the
bid he had put in, a rather low one in his opinion, had brought him here to a
land that had nothing to do with bureaucracy,
double-dealings, cover-ups, lies.
Here, the Temiskaming had its own problems, human ones as everywhere else.
But unlike the so-called civilized urban
areas, the Temiskaming was strong enough,
uncaring enough to ignore human frailties.
Strange that in a place that only emphasized the insignificance of man, he
should have found such peace.
It had cost him.
He'd sold the condo, taken the "golden-handshake"—shove, really—they'd
offered him, made arrangements for his
pension and investment cheques to be deposited to a Canadian account in
Toronto. He'd cut all ties, not that he had many.
Flown back up in the weekly mail plane, an Otter, to take possession that
August 1.
The ad hadn't lied, exactly. There had been "an established business", but
that was a couple of years back. And though
someone had lived on the site, no repairs had been done in all that time.
The lodge was a large log structure with a lobby, dining area, kitchen on
the ground floor. The top floor consisted of two
bathrooms, eight fairly large bedrooms, two larger ones at each end, with their
own bathrooms. He had appropriated one
of these as his, the one with the forest view. He had no trouble realizing that
paying customers got the one with the lake
view.
There were also six cabins that dotted the area. These could be used for
overflow, but were there mainly for the staff that
he hoped would come back when they realized that the lodge was going to re-open
in the spring.
He'd already had a meeting with the local Ojibway council about hiring
staff, labour to help with the repairs that needed to
be done to the buildings, the equipment. They'd looked a bit taken aback when
they'd asked him for his credentials for
running this type of business. He'd caught the careful eye exchanges, the
resigned sighs indicating their confidence in yet
another of these stupid white men from the city who was coming up here to hug a
tree. Still, he had money to pay for
supplies and help: they would be even more stupid not to take it. Besides, it
wouldn't do their business in guiding much
good if a "tourist" died up here in the winter-time. They'd be keeping an eye
on him.
He knew he'd surprised them. He had no trouble admitting he knew very little
and not only asked questions, but listened
to their answers. He was courteous. Worked harder and longer hours than any of
them. Appreciated the beauty of the
land while not underestimating its uncaring nature.
He gained the elders' approval when he sat down with them with the list of
past clientele and asked for their advice on
which of them was worthwhile contacting, to let them know the lodge would be
back in business.
And through it all, he began to find the peace that he so badly needed.
Now, this morning, as he watched the rising sun paint the small snow-dusted
valley with light, he realized that some of his
ghosts had been laid to rest.
He smiled. The lodge was ready for winter and whatever the winds threw at
him. The roof had been shingled where it
needed it, the solar panels that provided hot water checked out, the windows
caulked. Supplies brought in. He had bought
and installed two new generators, a new skidoo, short-wave radio as well as
enough batteries necessary for the cell phone
that he would only occasionally be able to use. He had a list of things to keep
him more than occupied throughout the
winter. The RCMP knew he was here, had come to check him out personally.
He took a sip of his cooling coffee. He had even been prepared for the first
blast of winter that had arrived September
28th. Just a few inches, but enough to make him appreciate the snugness of his
bedroom and the warmth of the wood fire.
So, he'd been surprised to get a call on the radio telling him that the mail
plane would be landing today with a package for
him. The lake was still open so that the plane would land, but it would have to
wait till it froze over before coming again.
And then only if the weather allowed.
Package, he had learnt, was the pilot's code for a passenger.
Just who the hell would be coming up here at this time of the year to see
him? Whoever it was, it would be a short visit:
they'd have to go back with the pilot and the short daylight meant Terry might
stay for an hour, max.
Well, he had things to do. And his partner was waiting for him to get a move
on. He looked down at the large malamute
mixture that was sitting at the foot of the stairs, head cocked, not so
patiently waiting for him to finish his coffee.
"Okay, Boy, I'm coming." He went back in, exchanged his mug for a thermos
and went to work on one of the cabins.
It was noon when he heard the plane buzzing overhead. Terry always did a
once-over to let him know he was landing, then
dropped the plane like a gliding loon
onto the silvery water.
The plane pulled over to the landing dock, a man jumped out, two pieces of
luggage followed and the plane backed out
onto the lake for take-off.
Not normal procedure.
He went into the mud room, unlocked a closet, grabbed his rifle from the gun
cabinet and went out onto the porch to greet
his "package".
The man was carrying a bag in each hand, dropped them when he saw the
weapon, slowly raised his hands. Carefully
approached. About twenty feet from the porch he stopped.
"Gee, Skinner, fancy meeting you here."
"Krycek! What the fuck are you doing here?"
They were in the kitchen.
Skinner had placed the rifle on the counter, close enough at hand if he
should happen to need it. He warmed up soup on
the cooking stove that provided the heat for the kitchen, made cheese
sandwiches. He cut an extra piece off the block for
Boy who was keeping his eyes on Krycek, sitting, hands flat on the table.
Skinner didn't doubt for a moment that Krycek
was armed.
He was hungry, so he ate. Krycek had just nodded his thanks when he'd placed
the bowl of soup in front of him. He
played with the contents more than he ate. Skinner took the time between bites
to look him over.
Krycek looked older. For someone who had passed for years younger, he now
looked his age. Which had to be
mid-thirties. And he didn't look particularly well.
Not ill, but just not well. Worn out was maybe a better way of expressing it.
His eating habits might explain the wiriness of his body. He seemed to be
more honed down than when Skinner had last
seen him: explaining to an in camera meeting of select senators his role as a
double agent with the rebels forces. They
hadn't disbelieved him: just not especially believed. Or hadn't wanted to.
That was a couple of weeks before he had been forced into retirement. Of
course, they hadn't believed he was involved
with the Consortium: hadn't disbelieved it either. It was easier for them to
move out of sight those with information they
hadn't wanted to deal with, been forced to deal with.
He wondered where Krycek had been moved to. Didn't care enough to ask. Not
that, at least.
"What are you doing here, Krycek?"
Krycek stopped pretending he was eating, carefully aligned the spoon beside
the bowl.
"I hear you're looking for help. Thought since you knew me, I wouldn't need
to send a resume."
Skinner snorted. "I doubt that your skills would be of much use up here,
Krycek. Besides, I'm not hiring till spring."
He got up, went to the radio.
"Terry said to tell you there's a storm on the way. That's why he couldn't
stay. He said to contact him once it was over:
he'd have to see how the weather was before coming in."
Skinner turned, expecting to see Krycek gloating: instead he found himself
looking at a man who didn't seem to have the
energy to do anything but sit there. He looked out toward the lake, saw the sky
filling with heavy black-gray clouds.
Shit! He was stuck with the man, at least until Terry could get back in.
Well, it didn't mean he had to have him under his
roof. One of the cabins was fairly liveable: he'd move him there. Out of sight.
He went to get some bedding.
"Come on."
He grabbed his jacket, tossed Krycek his along with his bag—the second had
been stuff for him—and led the way out.
Boy followed them.
The cabin was one of the smaller ones. It had a double bed in one corner, a
small wood stove in another, a table, a couple
of chairs. Its only light source was the lantern that sat on the table.
Skinner dropped the bedding on the bed, opened a closet-like area. "Chemical
toilet. Showers in the main house, off the
mud room. Wood for the stove is stacked to the left of the lodge. I'd bring in
a few more loads if I were you before the
snow hits." He did light the stove himself, to made sure it was drawing
properly.
"Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, supper at six."
He shut the door behind him.
The storm, when it hit, was his first experience with a weather front that
left snow drifts of over six feet. Now he
understood why the doors opened inward, why the cabins faced leeward. He didn't
see Krycek until late the next morning,
in a lull between fronts, making his way to the lodge, following the lower
wind-scooped valleys between the drifts.
Damn, thought Skinner, apart from the jacket, he didn't have the proper
clothes. By the time Krycek came up the back
stairs, his jeans were wet to the thighs.
"I know," Krycek said. "I'm too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.
I was wondering if I could get a cup of coffee?"
Skinner had the impression that if he said no, Krycek wouldn't argue, would
just re-trace his steps back to the cabin. He
nodded toward the door, followed Krycek in after he'd dusted whatever snow he
had on him off at the door.
Skinner stripped off his waterproof skidoo suit, went and poured himself a
cup. Krycek was sitting at the table, eyes
closed, just inhaling the steam that rose from the cup he held in his hand.
Skinner shook his head, went into the pantry and came out with last night's
leftover stew. He put some in one of the big
cast iron pans that were hanging from the wall by the stove, heated it up and
placed it in front of Krycek.
Krycek looked surprised, thanked him and began eating. For a couple of
minutes he ate with appetite, and then, as if a
switch had been flipped off, he stopped. For the next few minutes, he played at
eating, then even stopped that.
Skinner caught himself from asking what was wrong: because there was
something certainly wrong with the man. But that
would mean he was concerned, and he didn't want to be. Still, he couldn't have
the man falling sick on him. Trekking back
and forth to the lodge in wet jeans, underdressed would do that. He went into
the store room came back with an older
skidoo suit, one that he'd found here. It hadn't been big enough for him but it
would do for Krycek.
"Here, wear this. It'll keep you dry. Put the dishes in the sink when you're
through."
Skinner put his suit back on, went back to shovelling snow off the porch.
About a half hour later, as he rounded the corner
of the porch, he found the snow there had been cleared off, that Krycek was now
clearing a path to the wood pile at the
back of the lodge.
He watched for a minute, anger warring with gratitude. This was his porch
and he wanted to be the one to clear it off. But
then he realized that he would have more than enough opportunity to do over the
winter. Besides, he wasn't going to
charge Krycek, didn't want his money, but if the man wanted to clear snow as a
way of paying for this enforced stay, he
was going to be smart enough to accept. There were other things he could be
doing. He went and did them.
He didn't see Krycek again until supper time. And, as with lunch, Krycek ate
hungrily for a bit, then played at eating. Boy
had no objections to cleaning off his plate. He stayed to help clean up, put
the suit back on and made his way back to the
cabin. It was snowing again, heavily. Skinner told himself that was the only
reason he stayed at the kitchen window,
watching until he saw the light appear in the cabin window.
He managed to get hold of Terry the next day, only to be told that until the
lake froze up solid with a sheet of ice a good
six inches thick, he was stuck with his visitor.
"Guy told me you were expecting him. That he hadn't known exactly when so it
was going to be a surprise. I told him it
might be a while before I could come and pick him up. He said it would be
okay."
"Thanks, Terry. Just let me know when you think you could manage a landing."
Skinner got up next morning to find coffee already made, and Krycek working
on snow removal. He made breakfast,
called the man in. This time when Krycek began playing with his food, Skinner
asked, "Is there something wrong with the
food?"
Krycek looked up from his plate, shook his head. "No."
"Then just what the hell is the matter with you? You start eating and then
you just stop."
Krycek shrugged. "It's not the food." He got up, scrapped his plate into
Boy's food dish, much to the dog's delight. He
went to wash the plate when Skinner rose, caught him by the shoulder.
"Okay. I can't say it thrilled me to see you landing on my doorstep.
Especially since I'm going to be stuck with you for
some time. But because I am going to be stuck with you, why don't you tell me
what the hell's wrong with you?"
Krycek looked at the plate, reached over and placed it on the table.
"Remember the senate hearing?"
"Yes." Skinner took his hand off Krycek, went and leaned back against the
counter, arms crossed over his chest.
"They decided for my own security that I should be channelled into their
witness protection program."
Skinner waited.
"Except it wasn't so secure. And I think, though I can't really prove it,
the only ones they were looking to protect were
themselves."
"What happened?"
"One of the agents assigned to move me through the program tried to kill
me."
Skinner had to admit he really wasn't surprised. He still had family who
could raise difficult questions: Krycek... well,
who would care if Krycek just disappeared?
"He wanted it to look like an execution. Had me kneel in front of him. He
was going to cuff my hands behind my back
when I surprised him."
Oh, yeah, thought Skinner, I'll just bet you did.
"Still, he managed to get me in the gut before he died. Not badly. But it
was some time before I covered up both our traces
and got to someone who could stitch me up. Between blood loss and infection, I
was sick for a couple of weeks. I still
have trouble eating. But I've eaten more here in the last two days than I have
in a week." He gave a tired smile. "Must be
something in the air."
"Should you be shovelling?"
Krycek gave a small one-shouldered shrug. "Doesn't seem to be killing me.
Besides, if we don't keep up with it, the snow
will just harden and it'll be impossible to clear."
"You've got so much snow experience, have you?" Skinner challenged lightly.
"I spent a winter in Russia, Skinner. You ain't seen nothing yet. Believe
me."
The weather didn't co-operate. It warmed up, enough to melt some of the
snow, to keep the lake from freezing hard. The
thin crust of ice that covered the water wouldn't take Boy's weight, let alone
that of a plane.
Strangely enough, they managed to co-operate. Krycek kept the porch, the
pathways to cabins, wood-piles cleared while
Skinner did whatever work he had planned for the day. He made the meals and
Krycek helped with clean-up.
If it was snowing outside, Krycek found things to clean inside the lodge.
Skinner noticed that he tired easily, disappeared
for an afternoon nap, went to bed almost right after supper. At least the light
in the cabin was doused soon after he
returned to it. Skinner got the feeling that the "not bad" shot to the gut had
been worse than Krycek had admitted.
Terry needed a good secure day of light before he would even attempt to come
up to the lodge. So far, between snows,
winds, relatively warm weather, he hadn't made it.
Skinner was surprised to find that Krycek didn't grate on his nerves. He was
quiet, worked at things without being asked,
came to help if he saw Skinner needed it. In spite of having only one really
useful hand, Skinner was impressed with the
way Krycek had learnt to improvise, to accommodate for the prosthesis.
Before he knew it, Krycek had been at the lodge a month. He noticed it the
night Krycek actually cleaned off his plate
himself. Even Krycek seemed surprised to find there were nothing to scrape into
Boy's dish.
Terry contacted the lodge the next morning while they were at breakfast to
tell Skinner he was coming in.
Krycek stopped eating, bent his head, seemingly looking at the food on his
plate. Skinner said nothing, refilled his coffee
mug, took his seat at the table.
Krycek pushed the plate away from the edge of the table, placed both his
hands on the table. Head bowed, he spoke so
softly that Skinner had trouble hearing him at first.
There had been a time in his life he'd have given anything to hear Alex
Krycek beg. He used to dream of it after the
incident with the nanocytes. Used to imagine in great detail what he would like
to do to Krycek to make him beg. The
pleasure it would give him to ignore the begging. Even after he found out how
many sides Krycek had been playing on,
how much information he had passed on to Mulder, he still had the dreams.
But that was then.
This was now.
And Krycek had already escaped one attempted execution.
He'd needed a place to hide out. Had come here, into avowed enemy territory
to do it. Because. What? Why the hell had
he thought he could come up here and not be made to pay any less?
But he hadn't been, had he? Skinner hadn't taken any revenge other than send
him to sleep in a cabin that, though it was
winterized, was really not made to house anyone in this weather. His big bit of
revenge.
Now here was Krycek, begging... God, yes! He'd begged. Had said "I beg you,
please. Let me stay." In that soft voice.
Not really expecting Skinner to let him.
Skinner said nothing. After a minute, Krycek pushed his chair away from the
table, went into the mud room. He put on
his boots, pulled his jacket on, went out to the cabin. He left the skidoo suit
behind.
Boy followed him to the door, whimpered when it was closed in his face. He
came back to Skinner, sat watching him.
Finally, Skinner reached out and patted the animal on the head.
He got up, pulled on his boots, grabbed his jacket and went out to the
porch. He moved quickly. If he slowed down, he
would think about what he was doing and stop himself.
He didn't bother knocking at the door of the cabin, just opened it.
Krycek wasn't packing.
He was sitting in one of the chairs, jacket still on, holding a gun in his
hand. He looked up, surprised at the interruption.
Skinner stopped breathing for a moment. Then, slowly, he closed the door
behind him.
The two men stared at each other. Neither of them moved.
Then, carefully, Skinner made his way over to Krycek. He reached and took
the gun out of his hand. Pocketed it.
At the door, he spoke over his shoulder. "Until spring. Then we'll see."
Terry dropped off fresh supplies, a month's worth of mail, gossip and left
without a "package".
They didn't speak about the incident.
Krycek's appetite dropped for a couple of days and Boy enjoyed the fact. Not
that they'd been talkative before, but now
Krycek was positively silent. He thanked Skinner for the food with a nod,
waited for instructions if there were any
forthcoming and generally found things to do that took him out of Skinner's
sight and hearing.
Skinner finally took a good look at his enemy and realized that Krycek was a
man with no future to look forward to. He
knew too much, had no one to offer him protection, no real place to hide out.
He'd made too many enemies. Even the
information he'd passed on to Mulder hadn't really gained him anything: the men
he'd brought down with it had allies
even in the new administration.
He was exhausted, not just physically. Maybe a bullet to the brain would be
a quicker death than anything that would be
done to him if he were caught.
But, Skinner thought, if Krycek said he'd covered his traces after being
shot, he was certain the job would have been well
done. If everyone thought the man was dead, he at least would have a chance at
getting his health back, making plans.
Come spring, Skinner reasoned, people would believe Alex Krycek was dead and
he could get rid of him with a clear
conscience.
The weather stayed unseasonably warm until Christmas. Not that it was warm
by Skinner and Washington standards: it
snowed, it was cold, it was often gray. But for Temiskaming, the fact that they
hadn't yet had nights of -40C, well,
according to Terry, it was practically balmy.
While Skinner worked on the cabins outside, he put Krycek to work on the
bedrooms upstairs, all but his own. Each
room was cleaned, every repair needed was noted. Each room had a small wood
stove that had to be taken apart, cleaned,
checked out. Skinner had no intention of ever taking winter customers, but even
in summer, Temiskaming nights could be
cool.
The first really bad blizzard struck in mid January: over a metre of snow,
winds of 110 kph, wind-chill factor of -42C.
For the first time since the "incident", Skinner worried about Krycek out in
the cabin. He dressed quickly in the coolness
of his bedroom, added some wood to the stove. It wouldn't do to let it go out
today, not with this wind. And if his room
was this cool, Krycek's cabin must be frigid. He hurried down the stairs,
wondering how the hell he was going to get to
the cabin in this storm.
He was on his way to the mud room when he realized that there was something
on the floor at the side of the kitchen
stove. Krycek was sleeping, huddled under Boy's blanket, as close to the heat
as possible. In the mud room, Skinner
found the skidoo suit in a puddle of melting snow on the floor. He picked it
up, shook it only to discover that the side that
had been folded in on itself was frozen together. It was less than a hundred
feet from cabin to lodge. Skinner wondered
how long it had taken Krycek to find his way in the dark with the storm raging
around him.
He hung up the suit to dry, added wood to the fire box and tried to wake
Krycek up. He was barely alert when Skinner
got him to his feet, more or less carried him to the stairs and up into his
bedroom. There he stripped the damp clothes, the
prosthesis off the man, got him dressed in a pair of his sweats, thick socks on
his feet and tucked the bedclothes around
him. He built up the fire and waited until the wood in the stove was solidly
burning.
In the kitchen he put together the fixings for some soup, placed the kettle
at the back of the stove where it would simmer
until ready. He called Boy in from his kennel: the malamute might be bred for
northern temperatures, but Skinner was
enough of a southerner to feel this weather was too harsh for even the canine
member of his household.
He checked in on Krycek a couple of times that morning, to replenish the
fire, to make certain he was just sleeping, not
fevered.
The storm was still going strong when Krycek made his way down to the
kitchen in time for lunch.
"You all right?" Skinner asked as the man sat in the chair closest to the
heat. He handed him a mug of coffee, watched him
hold it carefully in his one hand. He waited until he drank some before asking,
"How long did it take you to find the
door?"
Krycek shrugged.
Whether that meant he didn't know or didn't care to answer, Skinner couldn't
tell.
"You're moving into the lodge. The bedroom next to mine. It'll be the
easiest to keep warm what with the two stoves in the
same area."
"Might not be a good idea," offered Krycek. His voice was husky, as if he
were coming down with a cold.
"Why the hell not?" Skinner was angry at himself: he should have moved
Krycek into the lodge with the first storm.
What if he'd lost his way, hadn't found the door? The man could have died out
there.
Krycek took a sip of coffee. "I have nightmares. That close to you, I'll
wake you up."
"I'll chance that," Skinner growled. And made Krycek eat something. Krycek's
appetite was low again. It was becoming a
barometer Skinner could use to judge how the man was feeling.
He pulled in one of the sofas from the lobby, placed it near the heat, went
and got some bedding. When they were warm
enough to suit him, he made Krycek lie down and get some rest.
The wind made Skinner aware of just what a good chance this was to check for
drafts in the rest of the lodge. He was
pleased to note that except for one or two places, all his work of the fall was
holding true. He checked the fire in his room,
started the one in the room next to his for Krycek. When the room was warm
enough, he made up the bed.
That done, he dragged one of the overstuffed armchairs into the kitchen,
stoked the fire, and settled to read the rest of the
afternoon away.
Boy slept soundly on his blanket in the corner. Krycek twitched on and off
in his sleep, occasionally making little sounds
of protest that grew louder. Skinner watched to see if the man would calm down.
Usually, Krycek would open his eyes, as
though forcing himself awake, look around the room and, obviously relieved, he
would drop back down into sleep.
If that was the way he slept, no wonder it was taking him so long to regain
his strength, his appetite. Skinner shrugged,
told himself it was Krycek's problem, not his.
It became his the second night Krycek slept in the lodge. He was awakened
out of a sound sleep by the screams coming
from the man's bedroom.
Skinner lay in bed, not moving, waiting for the sound to stop. It did, only
to be followed by steps rushing to the bathroom
across the hall. Then he did move, opened the door to hear Krycek being
violently ill.
"Jesus!" Skinner watched as Krycek barely had the time to breathe before yet
another onslaught of vomiting gripped him.
Even when he had emptied his stomach, his body still continued heaving until
Skinner wondered if the stomach lining was
going to come up.
He knelt next to Krycek, tried to get him to swallow some warm water to help
ease the pain of voiding nothing. Grabbed
the bath sheet and draped it around his shoulders. Finally placed his arm
around his shoulders, rubbed his back trying to
find a way to soothe him.
Krycek lay his cheek on the toilet seat, too drained to move. He finally
managed to rinse his mouth, drink some of the
water. He needed help to get to his feet.
Skinner closed the lid, directed Krycek to sit down. He wet a cloth, passed
it over his face. Went and got a fresh sweat top
to replace the one spattered with vomit. He got Krycek back into his room and
back into the bed.
"Sorry." Krycek's voice was rawer than usual. "I'll move back to the cabin
in the morning."
Skinner sat on the side of the bed. Krycek's face had no colour. His body
shook with occasional tremors. "Is it always
like this?" He tucked the blankets around him closer.
"Usually." There was only acceptance in Krycek's voice.
"How often? Once a week? Once a month?"
Krycek moved his head so he could nestle a bit further into the comfort of
the blankets. "Every couple of nights."
Skinner sat by Krycek's side until the man fell asleep again. Out of
exhaustion, he supposed. He couldn't see how anyone
could have a nightmare like that and go back to sleep voluntarily.
He reached out with a hand, and stroked the hair off Krycek's forehead.
In the morning, he refused to let Krycek move back to the cabin. "You'll
freeze. And it's not like moving back will help the
nightmares. You'll stay in that room. It's not open to discussion, Krycek."
The next time Skinner was awakened by noises coming from Krycek's room, he
went to wake the man. It wasn't easy: the
nightmare had him firmly in its grip, but it released him before it got to the
point where he was sick. Krycek kept on
saying "Sorry" as though he expected to be punished for having wakened him.
Skinner made him lie on his side, rubbed
his back through his clothes, until he'd calmed down enough to sleep again.
The earlier Skinner caught the nightmare, the easier it was to wake Krycek.
After eight nights of sleeping with an ear open
for sounds, Skinner decided that neither of them was getting the sleep they
needed. There had to be another solution to the
problem.
That night he didn't hear Krycek until he was in the bathroom puking his
guts up. By the time it was over and he'd gotten
him cleaned up, Krycek was shaking like a leaf. Instead of putting Krycek back
into his bed, Skinner brought him into his
bedroom, put him into his bed. He threw an extra blanket onto the bed, got in
and pulled the trembling man into his arms.
He spooned himself behind Krycek, letting his body heat help ease the tremors.
He woke in the morning, Krycek wrapped around him, sound asleep. Skinner
slipped out of Krycek's embrace and did
some thinking throughout the day. That night, when they went upstairs to bed,
Skinner stopped Krycek at the door of his
room. "Get changed and then come into my room."
Krycek looked at him for a minute, slowly nodded and went and did as he had
been told.
Skinner was coming out of his bathroom when Krycek knocked on the door and
came in. He was wearing a sweat suit,
thick wool socks. He'd taken off the prosthesis. There was no expression on his
face. He stood there quietly while
Skinner examined him.
"In the bed."
Skinner thought he'd have to say it again when Krycek moved. He stopped at
the side of the bed, hesitated and then got in.
Skinner turned off the lantern, got into bed. Made himself comfortable, his
back to the man lying on his back, eyes staring
blankly at the ceiling.
"Go to sleep, Krycek. This way, I'll be able to hear you faster. Maybe
you'll be able to keep your supper down where it'll
do more good."
When the faint mewling sound began, Skinner turned, pulled the man into his
arms and went back to sleep. Krycek slept
that night through. And even if the nightmare gripped him suddenly other
nights, Skinner was right there to wake him, to
hold him, to chase the demons away.
Krycek slept better, ate better, put on weight. Gradually the aura of
'un-well-ness" that had surrounded him since his
arrival was dispersed. He began to show more interest in what Skinner was
doing. Even offered some suggestions of his
own. Skinner never realized how depressed Krycek had been until he started
getting better.
He discovered that Krycek had a variety of skills he could use. He knew
weapons, expertly cleaned all the rifles that hung
around the lodge, even the old ones that were used only as decorations. He
actually had a few plumbing skills which came
in handy when some of the pipes froze. When Skinner got fed up with eating his
own cooking, Krycek took over with the
few dishes he knew how to put together.
And, to Skinner's delight, he played chess.
After supper, when the dishes were done, they sat at the kitchen table and
challenged each other to display skills almost
forgotten. Games could and did last for days. They had nowhere to go, no
schedules to attend to, so if one wanted to take
a half hour or more to determine a move, well, what did it matter.
And, every night, Krycek got into Skinner's bed and slept, Skinner either
close by or with an arm around him, keeping him
safe from night terrors.
Terry landed the plane, skied to a close stop by the dock. Skinner was
waiting for him, ready to stack the supplies on the
sled for easy carrying to the lodge.
"Molly at the Post Office says you'd better answer some of that mail right
away. Seems you got some replies to those
brochures you mailed out."
It still took Skinner aback that the Postmistress knew more about his
business than he did.
"Coffee's fresh. Do you have the time?"
There were three responses, all from previous visitors who were pleased the
lodge was re-opening. Two were coming for
the fishing, and would he see to it that they had a guide. One was coming just
to get away from phones: he wanted a
written guarantee that apart from satellite and his cell phone, no one would be
able to contact him for the week he was
reserving.
Suddenly, Walter Sergei Skinner, ex-Assistant Director of the FBI, found
that he was an innkeeper. For a moment there,
he was swamped with an incredible sense of fear. Jesus Christ! Just what was he
doing here, up in the middle of
nowhere?
Then he took a deep breath, realized that Terry was grinning at him,
released it.
It took him just a few minutes to write out three letters confirming booking
dates, costs.
Terry was reading over his shoulder as he worked on the laptop.
"Don't forget to request a deposit. Twenty percent is what old Davison used
to ask. They're used to that."
So he added that.
"Why don't you give Molly the right to open your business mail until air
service is regular again. She can contact you if
anything comes in. Wouldn't want to miss a customer because I couldn't get in."
So he did that too.
Krycek waited until Terry had left to come out of wherever he was hiding.
Skinner had agreed to let him stay only till
spring and it was coming up close to that time. Every time Terry made it in, he
expected Skinner to tell him to pack his
things. Not that he could blame him: having a haunted man in his bed hadn't
been part of the deal.
Skinner had other things on his mind. He looked up at him with a sappy grin
that made him look like a kid. "Look,
Krycek, we've got reservations. We're in business."
For a moment, Krycek let himself be part of the "we", then pulled sharply
away. No sense going somewhere he would
never be welcomed. He nodded at Skinner's enthusiasm. "Congratulations," he
offered softly, his voice never really having
recovered from the nights of screaming, vomiting. "Isn't there a bottle of wine
somewhere in the pantry?"
There was.
By the end of the week, Molly had contacted him with two more reservations.
Skinner never noticed that as his spirits rose, Krycek's went back down.
That the nightmares were coming back and
Krycek was eating less again.
He was in the lobby, adding another reservation to the book when Krycek came
in from cleaning up some of the winter
debris from the yard.
"We've got another reservation for a week in July." He looked up in time to
see Krycek flinch. "What's wrong? Krycek,"
he came out from behind the registration desk, "what's the problem?"
When Krycek went to turn away, Skinner grabbed him by the shoulders.
"There's something wrong. Why don't you tell
me what it is?"
"It's March 19th." Krycek waited.
"Yes. So?" Skinner hadn't a clue.
"It's spring in two days."
But it was more than that, so Skinner pushed. "Yes, and?"
"You keep on saying 'we'. 'We' have another reservation. You told me I could
stay until spring. Terry's flying in the next
day."
Skinner released Krycek, took a turn around the lobby. He'd forgotten, he'd
actually forgotten his plan of getting rid of
Krycek when spring arrived. In his mind, he'd assigned Krycek all sorts of
things to do before the first customer arrived
in late May. Without being aware of it, he'd included Krycek in his plans.
He stopped pacing and gave Krycek a good look-over.
No one other than himself had been part of his plans at the beginning. He
had seen himself running the lodge by himself,
not with a partner. He would have help, of course, but they would be around
only for the season.
A short four-month season.
If he were being honest, he doubted he could have gotten through the past
winter by himself, alone with Boy.
And not that even now, even during the season, there wouldn't be more than
enough work to keep Krycek as busy as he
wanted to be.
Then there was the problem of the nightmares. Sure, now they were under
control. Because they slept together. That
might be a problem when the visitors arrived. Especially with the type of men
who were coming up.
Skinner crossed his arms over his chest, began drumming the fingers of one
hand against his shoulder.
"The cabin behind the lodge, just what repairs are needed to finish it?"
Krycek forced himself to think. "Some floor boards need replacing. There's a
leak somewhere on the left side of the roof.
The fireplace in the bedroom is stuffed with straw. It needs a thorough
cleaning."
"Okay. Leave all the other stuff and make that cabin a priority."
Krycek was confused. "I thought you wanted that one done last. For the cook
and her husband."
"No. I changed my mind. They can have the bedroom upstairs. It's right above
the kitchen and the stairs by the room
come right down to it." He went back to the paper work that waited for him on
the desk. "We will move into the back
cabin. It has two rooms, unlike all the others. People will just assume we use
both of them to sleep in. There's a sofa bed
we can move in, from the front bedroom. And besides, it may be a good thing to
have a bit of distance between us and the
paying customers."
He picked up his pen, made a notation on a calendar he was working on. He
didn't bother looking up. "You'd better
measure the doorways and the room. We might have some trouble moving our bed
into there."
Krycek didn't move right away. "Skinner. Are you sure?"
Skinner looked up. "I'm sure."
The season was a mixture of fiascos, successes, fun and disasters.
Skinner learnt that being as he called himself "an innkeeper" required more
patience, more tolerance, much more
diplomacy, negotiating skills, humility than he had ever needed at the Bureau.
Fishing trips could be a huge success or a devastating failure depending on
the client, the guide, the weather, the
mosquitoes, the fish. Some of the staff the council had told him would come
back, didn't. If he had had illusions of
standing behind the registration desk, serving meals, making witty conversation
with his guests, the first week quickly
took care of that.
He stripped beds, did laundry, listened to dumb corporate jokes that quickly
grew stale. He discovered that there weren't
enough hours in a day and he thanked God, often, that Alex was around. And that
they had moved into the back cabin. If
he needed to vent his frustrations, Alex was there to listen to him, to
sympathize. To fill in whenever, wherever he was
needed. To help.
There were nights they fell into bed, barely able to find the energy to
undress.
A freak snowstorm at the beginning of September meant that the season ended
early, and Walter thanked whatever god
was responsible for the storm with great sincerity. It meant that he had to
refund the reservation money, but he didn't care.
Terry made it in a week after the storm, when the sun had returned in full
force, melting all the snow.
He opened a bag and pulled out a bottle of champagne. Got three glasses out
of the kitchen cupboard. Popped the bottle
open and poured. "From everyone in the village. Congratulations. We didn't
think you'd stick it out, but you proved us
wrong." He handed each of the men a glass. Raised his. "To the next successful
season. And to many more."
Walter looked at his glass. "This was a success?"
Terry looked surprised. "Of course. No one died, you didn't lose anyone, and
no one killed anyone. What more could
you ask for?"
"Sanity?" Alex picked up his glass.
"Sanity? Jesus, man, if it was sanity you wanted, what the hell are you
doing up here, eh?"
Walter stood up, raised his glass and touched it to Terry's. Alex shrugged
and joined them.
"You're sure this was a successful season?" Walter asked Terry. "I mean,
I'll take it if that's what you say it was, but it
sure didn't feel like that to me."
"Take it from me, you had a good season. One year, you'll look back on this
season with nostalgia."
"Oh, God!" Alex moaned.
To the surprise of only Walter and Alex, almost half of the first season's
clients wrote to reserve for the next one.
They moved back into the lodge for the winter.
Boy had gone off wandering in the fall, returned with a female who was
promptly named Madonna for her long eyelashes,
obviously bulging body.
Repairs were done, cabins closed off. Equipment repaired and stored.
Terry brought in a TV, a VCR and a box load of videos.
Madonna gave birth to three large pups, in the mud room, with Walter and
Alex looking on, terrified to be called upon as
mid-wives.
And then, just after Christmas, Walter and Alex became lovers.
After almost a year of sharing a bed.
Because of a nightmare Walter had, one of the ones he had now and then about
Vietnam.
After so many nights of being consoled, Alex had a chance to return the
favour.
He held Walter tightly against him, trying to absorb the trembling aftermath
of his nightmare. Rubbed his check against
Walter's head, murmuring in the soft tones that Walter used to soothe him.
Pressed a kiss on the side of Walter's head,
was beginning another when Walter turned his head and caught the kiss on his
mouth.
The next kiss was tentative. The next less so.
They slowly stripped each other under the layers of blankets, taking the
time to explore with their hands what they
couldn't see in the dark. Alex used his t-shirt to wipe the come from their
mutual masturbation session off their bodies.
They touched in silence except for the sounds of their completions, held
each other after and went to sleep.
In the morning, Walter got up, stoked up the fire, used the toilet and went
back to bed. He watched Alex wake up, waited
until he was certain Alex was wide awake before he bent down and kissed him.
Alex slipped out of bed, took his turn in the bathroom came out with the
container of hand lotion Molly had sent them
when Terry had commented on the state of their hands before the season had
begun.
In the pale light of a December morning, Walter had his wicked way, as Alex
later teased him, with him. And then later in
the morning, Alex with him.
Walter lay propped up on the pillows, Alex's head on his shoulder, arms
around each other. He dropped a kiss on Alex's
head. "I wonder just when the hell I fell in love with you."
Alex made a little sound of contentment. "When I stepped between you and Tom
Gallagher just as he threw up."
Walter laughed. "Probably." He waited a bit. "Alex?"
"Hmm?"
"When did you fall in love with me?"
Alex looked up. "The first time I saw you in the hallway at Headquarters.
You were growling at some wimpy agent about
a report."
Walter looked unbelieving.
"You were wearing a dark navy suit, a white shirt and a Marine tie. You
looked down the hall at me, nodded a greeting,
said," and he did a fair imitation of Walter's AD voice, "'You look lost,
agent. Is there anyway I can help you?' And I've
wanted you ever since."
"Jesus, Alex!" Walter was stunned.
Alex smiled dreamily, resettled his head against Walter's shoulder.
The second season was more under control. They had an idea of what to
expect, or so they thought.
They lined up a couple of extra guides, in case of emergencies. Made sure
that they had an overabundance of bug
repellant on hand. Lots of books, videos for rainy days. Made sure the cook had
lots of provisions on hand for
emergency feedings.
Like for the group of six that came up for a week and it rained every day. A
couple of them managed to get in some
fishing, but the rest just lazed around the lobby, playing poker, smoking
cigars and eating anything that Marie whipped up
to keep them sated. Three of them reserved another week for the next season
before they left. Walter gave Marie a bonus
for the work she'd put in that week.
Alex found himself followed around by three little girls who had come up
with their parents who were fishing fanatics.
While their parents went out, the trio, aged 8 to 12, attached themselves to
Alex, absolutely delighted to do anything he
asked them to. So he had them name the pups who still hadn't been named six
months after their birth.
Which is how the males came to be called Sylvester, Pepe, and the female,
Mismew.
When the second season drew to a close, Walter and Alex shared another
bottle of champagne with Terry, took advantage
of the good weather to go spend a week in Toronto where they gorged themselves
on fresh fruit, theatre, book and music
stores.
Walter made an appointment with a lawyer, had the paper work drawn up making
Alex part owner of the lodge, wrote out
his last will and testament. Alex was upset by both.
"For god's sake, Alex. You work just as hard as I do, put in just as many
hours. I'm just putting on paper what everybody
knows to be true. And as for my will, that's just in case. If anything happens
to me, I want the lodge in good hands. Yours.
That's all this is."
It took a long, careful session of loving for Alex to accept both.
He had some money of his own. Cash and jewels that he had brought with him
when he had been sent off on the witness
protection program. That had spent most of the time in the fake bottom of his
luggage. Even though he had made very
certain that there would be no way to trace him using the money, he carefully
took his time exchanging his American
money for Canadian throughout the city. When Walter was off somewhere on his
own, Alex went to Walter's bank,
deposited the money that he hoped would equal about what Walter had spent on
supplies for repairs since he'd arrived. If
he was going to be a partner, he was going to be a real one.
It took a long, careful session of loving for Walter to accept that.
They enjoyed their week in the city but were happier than they would have
thought to return to the quiet, the soothing
beauty of their lake.
The third season brought with it a couple of surprises.
One of their regular guests, a man who had come both seasons, wanted to
reserve the lodge and all places possible for a
group of business colleagues. They were working on a possible mega-million
dollar merger and wanted a nice, quiet place
to meet to wheel and deal. Would it be possible for them to helicopter in and
out a week before the lodge's season
officially began? He realized the lodge had no helideck, but his corporation
would be more than willing to pay for ist
construction.
They consulted with Terry who supervised the whole project.
Three days before the meeting was to begin, the helideck was completed. The
next day, the first helicopter landed, filled
with security people coming to check out the site. Two days later, two ceos of
multi-national companies and their teams
arrived for the negotiations being chaired by their guest.
The helideck was used twice more that season. Terry signed up for helicopter
flying lessons in North Bay.
The second big surprise was the arrival in mid-August by a figure from their
past.
Walter went down as usual to the dock to help the new visitors off the
plane. He was handing one down when he looked
up and came face to face with Dana Scully.
"Jesus!"
Scully grinned at the unexpected reaction of her former AD.
Walter mentally reviewed the list of people reserved for this week: there
was no Dana Scully listed. He'd have
remembered something like that. And, shit! he had to get word to Alex to lie
low. In Scully's world, Alex Krycek was
dead.
"Well, I'll take that to indicate surprise, sir."
Walter realized he was still holding her hand. He let go, smiled what he
hoped was a sincere smile.
"You certainly are unexpected, Agent Scully."
"Doctor, not agent. I left the Bureau some time ago, sir."
"Walter, please."
So ex-agent, now Doctor Dana Scully explained how a friend's mother had had
a heart attack and how she had taken his
reservation. She'd heard, of course, through the grapevine, that he'd moved to
the outer reaches of civilization. But she had
to admit she was surprised at just how remote the lodge was.
Just then, Alex came around the corner of the porch to help and came face to
face with Dana Scully.
Alex was even more surprised than Walter had been. Scully was speechless.
She looked from him to Walter.
"Scully, I'm sure you remember Alex. My partner."
"Sir! He's dead." She looked back at Alex. "You're dead."
"Alex, why don't you take Doctor Scully to our cabin and I'll join you there
after I finish assigning rooms." Walter took
Scully's hand in his, put on his best AD voice, "Please, Dana. This is
important. Too important to discuss out here. I
promise I'll join you as soon as I can."
A half hour later he opened the door to their cabin and found Scully sitting
in an armchair, a coffee in hand, with Alex
sprawled at one end of the couch. Madonna and her new pups were vying for
Scully's attention, which she was parcelling
out, a wary eye on Alex. Boy was sitting next to Alex, big head resting on
Alex's knee, keeping a careful eye on Scully.
Walter joined Alex on the couch. One of the pups abandonned Scully and came
to claim his attention.
"So, Scully, what do you want to know?" Walter scratched the pup's head.
Dana Scully wanted to know lots of things, but took a deep breath and got
straight to the point. "Who knows Krycek is
alive and here?"
"You."
"Sir, you know he killed the agent assigned to him."
Walter looked at Alex. "No, Scully. I know the man is dead. Alex was badly
wounded at the same time. We can only
guess at those responsible, but that's all."
Scully squinted her eyes at the look that passed between the two men. She'd
already noticed through the bedroom's open
door that there was only one bed.
"Is Krycek why you've buried yourself in the wilds, sir?"
Walter looked at her. "Buried? I'll have you know that this is a thriving
enterprise, Dana. And no, not because of Alex,
though he did join me here as soon as he could."
"Sir?..."
"Dana, do you think you could call me Walter."
Scully got up, placed her mug down on the table, took a nervous turn around
the room. All eyes, human and canine,
watched her.
She stopped in front of the two men. "Would it be better if I left? I
understand that the plane will be leaving after lunch. I
give you my word that I won't mention Krycek's being alive to anyone."
Alex stood up. "Scully, whatever made you come up here?"
Scully sighed. "I needed a holiday."
"So, is my being here going to interfer much with all that?"
She looked at him. Thought before answering. "I don't know. I must admit I'm
not happy to see you. I came up here to
see how AD... how Walter was doing."
"What if I stay out of your way as much as I can? Would that make your stay
easier?"
Walter made a small noise of protest but they ignored him.
"Maybe. Probably. I don't know! I wasn't expecting to see a ghost."
A knock on the door interrupted them. Alex opened to Terry who smiled,
"Sorry to butt in, but Alex, your fan club is
looking for you."
Alex smiled, called Madonna to him. "Okay, pups, let's hope they're not into
cats this year."
Walter was laughing as the door closed.
"Fan club?"
"The family with the three girls that arrived with you. They were up here
last year. They'll drive Alex crazy. Follow him
everywhere." He stood up, came over to hug
her.
Scully was flabbergasted: the AD Skinner she knew had never been a hugger.
"Dana, thank you. Not just for staying but for understanding. Up here, away
from all the brouhaha of Washington, Alex
and I are both safe. Because, let's be honest, none of us who had anything to
do with the Consortium's downfall are going
to be awarded medals for our part in it. Alex, in their minds, was just more
expendable. I know you have no reason to like
him, but he's rather important to me. And if they try to take him out now,
they'll have to take me out as well. I really
appreciate your offer of silence and I am taking you up on it."
He hugged her again. "Come on, I'll show you to your room. It's got a great
view of the lake. And lunch will be ready by
the time you unpack." He escorted her out of the cabin, up the path. Was giving
her the tour guide speech when they saw
Alex with his fan club, the dogs and pups.
Scully watched him laugh at something the smallest of the girls said. Walter
grinned at hearing him.
She looked around at what to her was stark beauty surrounded by trees.
"So, Walter, what are winters like, up here at the edge of the universe?"
NIF
he pink-tinged mist was rising off the lake, like ghosts on their
morning flight back to the heavens.
