Blood of Abraham - Chapter Twenty Six

by Mik

I liked New Orleans a lot better in the morning. I couldn't tell you why. I went to bed feeling hot, lost, low spirited and alone, but somewhere in the night, somewhere in those levels of awareness I so seldom go, something settled into place, and the fit was so precise that I woke with a sense of accomplishment and pride. He missed me. It was almost a declaration of love.

And the kid...there wasn't something wrong with him. He wasn't backward. He wasn't deficient. He was just moving at his own pace. I didn't care if his pace was a bit more leisurely than most, so long as he was moving forward.

And Samantha...well...I still wasn't prepared to deal with that one, but I was cheerfully willing to forget it for the time being and move forward with my own business and, while I will not ever claim to have a sunny disposition, at least I wasn't feeling too murderous toward the elements of Destiny.

Scully wanted breakfast in one of those cafes where the tiny cups of mud like chicory and coffee drinks are served on tables that cling precariously to narrow and uneven brick sidewalks. We found one near the hotel, and had petit dejeuner Americain, with case files balanced on our knees. And I didn't complain once.

The case was simple. A local B&B had experienced a series of break-ins and now guests were being targeted for...well, it wasn't exactly extortion. So far, not one cent had been demanded. I wasn't entirely sure how it became a Bureau case, since no money was involved and no one had been kidnapped or forced across state lines. It seemed like an elaborate prank to me. People being instructed to, e.g. wear a yellow hat in public for a week; light candles for specified saints in six churches; carry a sign admitting underhanded business dealings while walking a main street among other odd requirements.

As it happened, the man instructed to carry the sign had been under investigation for fraudulent dealing with some of his clients. The woman who had to light candles had some issue in a past relationship which, as yet, she had not been compelled to reveal. The fact of it came out of a comment about the particular saint to which she was instructed to pray; St. Felix of Nola...the saint one prays to for protection against perjury. The yellow hat, however, mystified both of us.

"Cuckoldry," said the young man serving our breakfast.

We both looked up at him sharply. "I beg your pardon?" Scully said, closing her file quickly.

"You wondering about yellow hats," he explained unabashedly. "Yellow means cuckoldry. Cheatin'. He didn't have any particular accent, just an economy with vowels. "Yellow hat means you cheatin'."

Scully and I looked at each other. Anyone who volunteers information in a case must be, however briefly, considered a suspect. "How did you know we were wondering about yellow hats?" I asked, attempting to sound affable.

He shrugged his skinny shoulders. "You police, aincha? You hear about Miss Sallie's." He shook his head. "That's bad goins on." He poured coffee into those dollhouse sized cups and followed with a drop of milk. "No man done that."

"You mean, a woman's responsible," Scully concluded.

"I know what I mean. No man." Again he shook his head. "Beaucoup crasseux."

I looked at Scully. She looked at me. We both looked at the server, but he was gone.

"Well," said Scully, reaching for her cup, "you studied French."

"I never studied yatspeak," I countered.

"You're going to..." she let it go, shaking her head. "Never mind. What does he mean?"

"I think he means," I smiled, liking New Orleans just a little bit more, "he means it's a ghost."

"You mean," she fixed me with the put-me-under-the-microscope stare, "that...boocoo crasoo means ghost?"

"No. Not literally." I took my coffee in one sip and sat up to stuff case files into my briefcase. "I think, literally, it means very dirty. Like...vulgar."

She followed suit, shaking her head. "Then I fail to see the connection to ghosts...and more importantly, to our case."

"Just something about the way he said it." I grinned at her. She was unmoved. "C'mon, Scully, where's your appreciation for my sense of phenomenon?"

"Oh, let's see..." she made a great show of poking through her bag. "Sorry, I forgot to pack it." She closed and shouldered her bag. "You'll have to prove it to me."

I dropped money on the table. "Come with me." I stood up and looked down at her. "Weren't you the one telling me New Orleans was the most haunted city in the US?"

She trotted after me on her little Scully legs and her ridiculous Scully shoes. "Alleged, Mulder. I said alleged to be."

"Ah, now, you believed last night. No fair backing down in the light of day," I chided her with a wagging finger. "Let's go see this Miss Sallie and see what she has to say."

Scully sent a look back at the waiter, and I wondered for a moment if she felt a little trepidation. "We're supposed to wait for the field agents from the local office."

"Well, we can wait for them there. Come on." It wasn't that I was particularly excited to encounter a ghost, I just wanted the case closed so I could get back to DC and the people who were waiting for me. I tugged a small, folded map we'd purchased from a street vendor the night before. "Hey, we're going to walk right by the Lalaurie Mansion. Wanna check it out?"

She snatched the map from my fingers. "What's gotten into you, Mulder? Last night I had to practically pull a weapon on you to get out for a coffee and today you want to take the grand tour."

I didn't have an answer. I mean, I had one, but not one I'd give her. So, I bowed with a sweep of my hand, and let her take the lead.

It turned out there was no Miss Sallie. The place was run by two men who clearly had more than a business relationship. I looked at Scully and silently begged her to promise that if Skinner and I ever descended to that level of florid affect and flowery affection that she'd shoot us both. Scully seemed to find them charming and amusing, and she came damn close to gushing, so perhaps it was good for business.

Miss Sallie's was a bed and breakfast which had been around for years. Only recently acquired by the Wayne and Madame of the hostelry set, it was experiencing resurgence in popularity, and with it rumors abounded about misappropriation of funds, a missing partner, and buried pirate's gold. The break-ins and subsequent demands would have been dismissed as a prank or publicity stunt, were it not for one of the victims already being under investigation for some unlawful business dealings with retirement funds.

All of the victims had the same room in common; a room on the first floor at the back, prized for its privacy, view of the courtyard and its en suite bath. There was also the legend that the original Miss Sallie had been murdered in that room. Of course, Scully's immediate impression was that an employee with a warped sense of justice was taking advantage of the room's isolation to rifle the patrons' belongings and blackmailing those unlucky enough to leave some kind of damaging evidence to be found.

"That makes no sense, Scully. Would you really check into a low security place like this with copies of your cooked books in tow?" I flipped the flimsy hook and eye lock of the room we were examining and sent it spinning noisily. "No, you'd have those babies microfilmed and buried in a safe deposit box somewhere. You don't take them on vacation with you."

"I suppose it makes more sense for the ghost of Miss Sallie to use the US mail to send extortion threats," Scully muttered.

"US Ghostal Service?" I suggested brightly.

"Hmm," was her only reply. She lifted the window sash. "This window's only about five feet from the ground. Someone could climb in here very easily."

"But what would he find?" I opened the cupboard. It was empty, save a few wire hangers and an empty paper bag for laundry. "Listen to me. One person wouldn't just leave incriminating evidence lying around, let alone three."

"Who gets to define what is incriminating?" She turned around and looked at me. "Oh, Mulder, you're not seriously considering that ghost story, are you?"

"You know me, I'm open to all possibilities." I lifted the mattress and peered under it. Nothing extraordinary, just threadbare with a couple of water stains...at least I hoped it was water. "But it doesn't seem likely just anyone could walk in and find something worth blackmailing three people over."

"Well, maybe it isn't just anyone." She lowered the window.

"Maybe it's a ghost?"

"Maybe it's someone with a really good parlor trick. Like..." she turned to look at me, "what was that guy's name? The one who alleged to be a psychic?"

I chuckled. "The Amazing Yappi?" I peered into the dust covered lamp. "Picks up some little detail and pokes around 'til he gets in the neighborhood of the dirty secret?"

"We know of three victims." She ran her fingers along a shelf. "I wonder how many there are that didn't bite?"

"We should find out." I pulled the door open. "Let's go talk to the management."

"Yeah, and we should tell them this room needs to be introduced to Swiffer." She held out her hand. Her fingertips were almost black with dust.

I offered her my handkerchief.

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"Did you get the guy?"

I settled back into the pillows of the bed, my mobile cradled between cheek and shoulder. "We're closing in. The place has a staff problem, and there's a lot of coming and going there. But we've got three possibilities that fit the time frame. What about you? Change world policy much today?"

He chuckled, it was a nice warm sound in my ear. "Not for lack of trying. But we did get the go ahead on the new building. Groundbreaking will be in September."

"Aww, I like the Hoover. I have a great fondness for leaky roofs and basement offices."

"We're expanding, Mulder, not moving." Funny, I never before noticed that little frisson in my middle when his voice got stern.

"But our offices will move, won't they?" I pretended to whine. "I mean, isn't that why they'll call it the Field Office? It's supposed to be a place to put Field Agents?"

"Yes, your office is definitely moving." He was sounding just a touch smug. "Invest in some sunscreen, Mulder, you're going to have a window."

"I might turn to ash!" I protested, laughing. I don't know why, but I felt like laughing. That lightness of spirit, the weightlessness were, forgive the expression, alien to me, and I kinda liked them. I felt like sharing. I felt expansive. "How's the kid?"

"He's good." I heard him moving around and was faintly disappointed. I'd imagined him stretched out on his bed, as I was. "Here," I heard him say. "Say hi to Daddy."

I heard something soft and wet and senseless. "Hey, what are you doing up at this hour?" I scolded, not as lightly as I ought to have done. "You're too young to be an insomniac."

"If you had any doubt he was your son, the fact that he absolutely loathes bedtime should settle it," Skinner said. "He's quite enamored of this notion that he can sit up on his own. It won't be long before he's testing the waters of the standing concept."

"There'll be no stopping him then. How's Rachel?"

"She's fine. We had a little chat about being extra vigilant, and she's convinced me that nothing short of nuclear armed tanks could get past her." I heard him settle into his favorite chair. I could just see him swinging his legs up onto the ottoman, one hand holding the phone, one resting on his chest. "She thinks Bram's remarkable."

"Yeah, everyone seems to." The lightness was getting a bit heavier. "Do you?"

"He's your son, Mulder." He said it matter of factly, as if there was no possible alternative to consider. "He has to be."

This time the warmth in his voice wasn't so inviting. I was distracted by something else. "Have you heard anything from anyone? From my mother? The Gunmen?"

"No. And I haven't gotten the results from the additional tests Agent Scully requested, either." He was trying to be reassuring, but I think he was bothered by what appeared to be my less than total trust. "Relax, Mulder. Bram's fine. He's safe, happy, healthy, and he's going to be with us a long, long time."

"You'd tell me if you knew anything," I asked doubtfully. "You wouldn't try to protect me or anything."

"What point would there be in that?" He sounded irritated by the suggestion.

"Okay. I'm sorry." Damn it, I ruined it again. One moment we were a happy family, and now we're just a mass of suspicions and unspoken doubts. "Well, it's very late. I'll call you tomorrow with updates." I pushed the End button before he could reply. And then, impulsively, I turned the phone off and shoved it in my briefcase.

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Scully was in sour spirits at breakfast. Because my phone had been shut off, she was the one to get the word that the local office was reclaiming the case now that we'd ruled out any paranormal activity. She sat, scowling into the busy street, ignoring her coffee and beignet. Arms crossed over her breasts, lips tight, she reminded me of a petulant child, and that pose was quite out of character for her.

"Hey, you didn't believe it was a ghost," I nudged her with my foot, "so, why does it bother you so much to find out it was something more corporeal?"

"It has nothing to do with that." She sat, sullen, for a moment, and then added, "but why couldn't they just let us finish the job, bring in the guy, close the case?" She flicked a hand outward, almost like a weapon. "We do the dirty work and they're getting the credit for it."

"So...it's not about helping people, or getting the bad guys, or putting stuff back to rights. It's solve rate percentages."

"Our solve rate influences our grade pay." She looked over the top of her sunglasses at me. "It's a bottom line world, Mulder."

"That's very cynical." I reached for my coffee. "And very unlike you."

She dismissed my observation with a little chin shrug. "We have to think to the future." She twisted in her chair to face me. "I've been thinking about it ever since you got Bram. We're not kids anymore. We have to think about the days when we're not in the field, when there's nothing left to boost us up the Bureau ladder." The knife like hand collapsed save one finger, directed at me in admonishment. "Pluck ye commendations while ye may."

"Well, pluck you," I mocked. "We both know the commendation ship sailed from my dock a long time ago. And if you feel working with me is holding you back, then-"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm sorry." She reached across the table and patted my hand, something else she rarely did. "I'm just in a bad mood today."

The implications of her words still stung. Did she still resent being held back politically within the Bureau because she was partnered with me? I thought we'd gotten past that long ago. I thought she was as devoted to the work as I was. Why else would she put up being assigned to Kersh when, without me, she could go anywhere in the Bureau?

Or perhaps it wasn't the Bureau at all? Was she feeling held back in some other aspect of her life? Romance? Motherhood? Did Bram wind her biological clock? How was that my fault?

"You want more?" Our waiter hovered over us, silver coffee pot in hand.

"Yes, please." I pushed my cup toward him. "Oh, did you hear? It wasn't a ghost at Miss Sallie's, after all. Just a former employee with a twisted sense of humor."

He smiled at me knowingly. "I never said ghost, bra. I said beaucoup crasseux. And he is. Dirty man. Dirty mind. Makes dirty thoughts and then puts them out on the street."

"You said it wasn't a man," Scully reminded him, less than kindly.

"I know," he admitted easily. "But if I say it's a man, you ask for names. I don't have names. I just know. If I say I just know, you ask how I know. I don't know, I just know. So, I tell you it's not a man, and you go find out for you'self."

"So..." she pulled down her sunglasses to pierce him with her steely blues. "You lied to us."

"It was truth. Beaucoup crasseux, no?" He filled Scully's cup. "Not so happy to be in Big Easy today, Miss?" He put our bill on the table. "You should enjoy it while you can." He looked up the street, and his knowing smile faded into ineffable sadness. "Someday it will all be gone." He made a broad gesture with his hand. "Swept away."

End Chapter Twenty Six
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