A pair of high-heeled purple boots rested on the battered wood of the desk.
A suit to match decorated an African American man, who was as tall and thin
as anyone Mulder had ever met. The man moved his wide brimmed hat with the
dyed purple plume aside and said, "Day or week? Week is cheaper."
"I'm here to talk to a private detective, Tony Baretta. He was recommended
by Commissioner Nopke," Mulder said.
The man rolled his eyes and hit the phone. He asked, "Hey, Babe, you
expecting some geek with a big nose who dresses in boring suits?"
A crackling laugh came over the phone and a tough guy voice answered, "Yeah,
Nopke said the guy's a friend of a friend."
"Elevators out again. Take the stairs. Apartment 5-8 on the fifth floor,"
the man said.
Lovely, thought Mulder, five flights of stairs. As he trudged up the floors,
he noticed that people cooked in their rooms. For some reason, cabbage
seemed to be the meal of the day. Mulder could have gone the rest of his
lifetime without smelling it again.
Baretta looked like a wizened monkey. He was clad in old, loose fitting
jeans, a worn tee shirt, and tennis shoes. His deep sunken, brown eyes
seemed to find a vast source of amusement in Mulder. He said, "Nice suit.
Hope Fred don't get his feathers all over it."
A huge, white bird let out an indignant squawk as if to deny the man's
words. The detective said, "That's Fred, my pal. So, what's a famous former
FBI agent and ghost buster such as you beating on my door for? I mean, if
there were anything you wanted investigated, why not do it yourself? This
business about the alleged ghost here is nonsense. I told you that over the
phone. This better not be a way around that. My place don't need a spook
hunter hanging around."
"No, the ghost hunting investigation was a cover for my real intentions as I
had Commissioner Nopke tell you," Mulder said.
"Let me pull you up a beer and we'll talk," Baretta said.
The man moved like a gamecock, a strut in his step and confident pride in
his bearing. Mulder smiled; it almost reminded him of Krycek in some of his
personas. The smile quickly fled and Mulder chased away his own ghosts with
a perusal of the apartment.
It was a comfortable place, plaid overstuffed couch and chair, walls filled
with lithographs of trains, pictures of Baretta with cops and other tough
guys, a small round table that was covered with a table cloth, and an old TV
with a huge almost antique VCR sitting on top. Mulder said, "I have a tape
to show you. May I put it on?"
"Yeah, you know how to work that damn thing? Why don't you fix the damn
clock while you're at it? Bugger drives me nuts blinking zero, zero, zero
like that," Baretta said.
All right, Mulder thought, bemused. He picked up the remote, punched the
menu up and set the clock to Eastern Standard. He took the videotape from
his briefcase and slid it into the VCR. The credits of a news show rolled.
Mulder fast-forwarded the tape to the correct spot and stopped it.
Plunking down beside the agent, Baretta handed him a beer and said, "Okay,
you got da ball. Shoot."
For an answer, Mulder pushed play. The main story was a fluff piece on
Broadway's mobile vendors. Briefly, the camera lingered on a passerby, tall,
loose-limbed walk, head slightly bowed as he briskly walked with a package
under his left arm. The man was well-dressed, light blue jacket, slightly
darker pants; his tie was stuffed in a pocket as if it had annoyed him. The
dress shirt was opened against the heat.
"Okay, so who is the GQ model? You wanna tell me that the guy is a ghost or
maybe a werewolf?" Baretta asked.
"No, when I knew him, his name was Alex Krycek. I don't think he's a ghost,
but he should be. I saw him shot three times in May of last year. The last
bullet was in the head. His body disappeared, but there was no natural way
that he would have survived. However, there he is. This tape was clipped
last week by some friends of mine, who brought it to my attention," Mulder
said. He drank a swig of the beer, cheap beer, and settled back on the
couch. "I want you to find out who this man is, how long he's been in New
York, everything you can."
"Why not do it yourself? Sure you got yourself canned, but that doesn't
worry me. Hell, when I was a cop, you couldn't even call my career spotted.
Damn near more like polka dotted," Baretta said. "The suits see it one way,
but a street cop like me, we got a different vision. So, you got fired. Me,
I was in and out so many times that I ought to have been a yo-yo. Ya gotta
pay the fare if ya wanna take the ride."
The short man set down his beer and leaned back. His hairy forearms were
wiry with muscle. He looked tough as nails, intelligent in a shrewd,
street-wise manner.
"There are things you know nothing about; that you don't want to know,"
Mulder began. The immediate reaction from Baretta was a moue of distrust and
irritation. Mulder's lips twitched in a hint of a smile.
"Yeah? Well, you know something, man? Every time anybody ever said that to
me, it was a sure bet that it was something I did need to know. I don't like
being kept in the dark," Baretta replied, his arms crossing belligerently.
That reminded him of Alex Krycek. The few times that the man had showed any
genuine emotion, after he had betrayed Mulder, was when he was deprived of
information. How Krycek had hated people withholding facts from him...a
personality attribute that Mulder amply shared.
Shrugging, Mulder said, "I'm not joking about this. I was fired because I
insisted upon investigating a far-reaching conspiracy. These men would do
anything to hide their secrets, to hide..."
Holding back, Mulder thought about what he wanted to say. He winced and
continued, "To hide the fact that they had conducted medical experiments on
a global scale on unwilling people."
"Yeah, that works for me," Baretta said. His dark eyes, sunken in deep
sockets glittered as he studied Mulder. "Ain't the whole story, but it's
your dime."
"I'm still being watched. Then, there's something else. I want someone
objective to contact the man, find out who he is, where he came from, and
if..." Mulder took a long look at Baretta. He said, "The man in the news
clip resembles a man that betrayed me and betrayed our country. A man who I
believe has committed heinous crimes. A man whom I believe was shot and
killed in May of last year."
Watching for a reaction to his pronouncement, Mulder felt Baretta studying
his reactions. The man said, "So why not take it to the police if he's
committed crimes?"
"There's no proof," Mulder replied, drinking the thin American brew to cover
for his emotions. "Besides, I want someone to objectively investigate this
man. I want to know if there was any chance that some one was coercing him
when the crimes were committed. He tried to tell me that and I didn't
believe him."
The memories overwhelmed him. Alex's pressured words. He remembered Alex
pleading as if the man had been desperate for one final chance to get
through to him. After the death, Mulder had not been able to sleep; Alex's
beautiful eyes followed him everywhere reproaching him. The horror of his
death had replayed in his dreams.
The one time he and Walter had tried to talk about what happened, Mulder had
ended up hitting his ex-boss. Walter had blocked his blow, stared at him,
and said, "I thought so." With no further explanation, Walter had walked
from the room. They hadn't spoken since.
As for Scully, they had spent some weeks together and it hadn't taken long
for her to say, "Mulder, this isn't working. I'm not who you want and you're
not who I thought you were. I don't want to be unhappy and I don't want you
to be miserable with me. That won't help William. Whatever, whomever you
want, go to ...him."
Unfortunately, Mulder was sure she thought he was in love with Walter. Too
bad, that would have been a shitty move for Walter's career, but Walter
would have been safe, stable, and strong. That was never what Mulder
wanted...never what he needed.
Restless and wanting to distract himself, Mulder walked over to the chess
game that was set upon a small table. He reached for one of the pawns to
look at it and Baretta growled, "That was the last game I played with Billy;
leave it alone."
Mulder observed that all of the pieces had the gentle sheen of age and use,
but they didn't look as if they just sat in place. They looked as if they
had been played recently. Hmm, well, perhaps Baretta sat and reenacted old
games, dreaming of the past. Mulder could understand that. He found himself
dwelling on all the lost chances, the opportunities to reach out to Alex
that he had never taken.
Mulder said, "What I want you to do is find out everything about the man on
that video clip. His family, his education, any missing time from his
life...I think he's the man I knew, but I'm not sure."
Taking a CD-data disc from his briefcase, Mulder handed it to Baretta and
said, "This will give you what I know about the man. Maybe it will help you
fill in the missing pieces."
"Like I said, it's your dime," Baretta said.
Shoving his hands in his suit pockets, Mulder said, "Good. I'll get in touch
with you. I'd rather we didn't discuss this on the phone or anywhere that we
could be monitored or overheard."
"Paranoid sucker, aren't you?" Baretta said, leaning back again. He crossed
his legs, tapped his worn tennis shoe and said, "Yeah, I'll take the job.
You ain't giving me much to go on, but I like a challenge. Leave the tape
here."
Nodding, Mulder dropped a check into Baretta's lap. He said, "If anyone
asks, this is payment for interviews about the haunting."
"Yeah, sure, ghosts...if I had a reputation, I'd be worried," Baretta said.
Walking out of the apartment, Mulder felt relieved. He had no idea why he
trusted the tough, but odd man, but he did. The truth...Alex had once said
there was no truth, but Mulder still believed that it was out there.
Pausing on the steps, Mulder gazed at the people, walking by him, none of
them making eye contact. If Baretta found Krycek, what would happen? Did
Mulder really want what he had lost or was it another one of his Holy
Grails? It seemed, as Spock had said in Amok Time, having is not so
satisfying a thing as wanting. He'd wanted Scully; he had briefly had
Scully. Turned out that they had been right the first dozen times in the
dance. Bow and courtesy; move away.
Alex, however, Alex, beautiful, threatening, and strong, having him would
never be safe, staid, and sane...Mulder knew he could hold Alex in his arms
and still want him. Still need him. Still feel as if some part of him was
elusive...
Sitting in front of the age worn chess set, Tony mused, "So the guy's
telling me part of it, but there's a hell of it more that he ain't telling.
What do ya think, Billy? What is Mister Fox Mulder hiding, buddy?"
Advancing his pawn, Tony studied the board again. Games moved slowly since
Billy had died. At least, he had not left any openings. For a man who drank
himself to death, Billy had been a sharp old boy.
The next morning, Tony rambled down to the corner on Broadway where the guy
had passed. It could have been a chance visit, but the area was thick with
vendors because it was near a cluster of major bus stops. He'd lay a bet
that the guy had stopped at a shop, picked something up when he was coming
or going from work. Tony spent the time reading the reports about the
mysterious Mister Krycek. He was astounded at what the FBI did not know
about the man. It seemed as if the man had appeared as a twenty-five year
old double agent. He had attended the FBI academy but before that his life
was a complete construct. Mulder had investigated and proved that in his
spare time after the man betrayed him.
Hmm, Tony noted. The tone of Mulder's report conveyed a personal sense of
betrayal. The man still trembled with passion when he spoke about the double
agent. Yeah, Tony realized, Mulder wanted to know if the man he had spotted
was really Krycek for his own reasons, which had nothing to do with his
former employment. It seemed to Tony that the question about the man's
background and possible coercion was a wish for him to exonerate the man.
Well, he wouldn't lie to the man. Tony Baretta was not about lying. If there
was a truth to be found, he would find it whether his client wanted to hear
it or not.
The subject was smart. Tony didn't figure it was worth the trouble to fake
an IQ test. He spoke Russian well enough to act as an interpreter, having
told the FBI agent his parents were cold war immigrants. Mulder's notes
indicated that Krycek probably had Russian connections. The man's left arm
had been amputated, which should provide another way of tracking him. Mulder
also commented that the man was bisexual and not likely to be celibate long.
So, that would be a task for Rooster because the man still knew who was
doing who and where they were doing it.
About noon, AJ took over the task of watching. One of Rooster's kids, the
young man was the spitting image of dear old dad and had the same
willingness to take on any task for money. His taste in clothing was even
stranger than his papa's was. Today he was wearing a florescent green mesh
shirt over skintight jeans. He slouched down and held out his hand.
These kids...Baretta gave him five.
AJ said, "What kind of shit is that? Gimme the mon..eee."
"Half now, half when I come back," Baretta promised.
"You want I should follow this guy if I see him?" AJ asked.
"No, he might be dangerous," Baretta replied. "You get hurt; I got to
explain to your momma. That scares me."
"Yeah, right. Some old one-armed dude is going get me. Shit, you ask Doc
Kimble where the man is? I'm going wet myself I'm so scared," AJ said. He
slumped down on the bench and plugged into his CD player.
Baretta spent a few hours drifting around amputee clinics. He flashed the
picture at the receptionists, not expecting any confirmation, but watching
for a physical reaction that would make it worth his while to do some
unauthorized hacking into the records. He wasn't any good at that himself,
but Rooster had another kid, his daughter, Twila, who was a computer genius.
Whatever that meant. Baretta still found her useful despite her anarchistic
ideas.
The third clinic had a pale, blonde receptionist whose eyes narrowed and
whose cheeks formed an instant blotch of red. She snapped, "Sir, all of our
information is privileged. If you are a policeman, show me a warrant. If you
aren't, then get out of here."
Baretta promptly said, "No skin off my back. I was just trying to find him
about an insurance settlement. You think the guy's rolling in it and don't
need the dough..."
"I don't believe you," The thin woman said. "Alec told me...I mean...oh,
just get out."
Alex...so the guy had kept almost the same first name. Maybe that was real.
After leaving the clinic, Baretta went to relieve AJ who said he hadn't
spotted the guy. Baretta paid the young man off and went to meet with the
boy's half sister. He had the feeling that the stakeout in Times Square
would be unnecessary after Twila hacked the computer at the prosthetic's
clinic. He was curious about the man who was alleged to have perpetrated
such a trail of mayhem yet who managed to haunt his alleged enemy long after
his supposed death.
Fifty dollars bought most of Twila's evening. Twila was twenty years old.
The tall genes from her father had created a long legged beauty. She was
willing to use her looks and was modeling, picking up enough money to pay
her way through college. However, she thought nothing of her beauty, being
more interested in the beauty of the computer world. Baretta's money usually
went on more computer hardware or software. She fired up her computer and
proceeded to hack a path through the firewall of the clinic's computer,
finding a weakness in the PC Anywhere program one of the doctors used.
Baretta watched her download the man's file to disk. She handed it to him
and said, "Okay, pops, here you go. What you wanting the guy for?"
"I think his old flame is looking for him," Baretta remarked.
"If she's looking, he might not want to be found, " Twila said. "Nice
looking guy like that might have left some women who still wanted him."
"The former lover is male," Baretta replied.
"Yeah? Well, that doesn't change anything. You might be pimping for a
stalker," Twila lectured.
"Don't worry your pretty head about it, Tweeks," Baretta said, "if I think
the guy doesn't want to be found, I won't find him. Give me some credit."
"Uncle Tony, please stop calling me Tweeks. I'm way too old for that," Twila
said.
"Yeah, I'll try to remember," Baretta swore, but he knew he wouldn't. As far
as he knew, he didn't have any kids to claim. Rooster's flock of them was as
close as he came to posterity. He sometimes thought he took more interest in
them than their real father did.
Popping the disk into his own computer at home, Baretta read through the
file, not even stopping at the gruesome medical details concerning the
treatment of the man's amputation.
Alexander Krasukha: Clinic Number PA2301-ank BD June 22, 1967 Residence:
111 Broadway, Apt 42 New York, NY Employment: Columbia University Russian
Literature Associate Professor
Bingo, that was easy enough. Baretta tossed a coin and decided to go visit
Commissioner Mimi Jansack. She was still good for information as long as he
didn't abuse the privilege. The name, Krasukha, stirred up a half-remembered
case file. Baretta just remembered that he had been pissed off at how the
assigned detective, Foley, had mishandled the case. Early in the
investigation, Foley had found out that the missing man was bisexual. He had
harassed the man's male lover until the man had committed suicide, convinced
that he had killed Krasukha and covered it up.
"Hey, how's my best lady?" Baretta asked.
"Wishing she had stayed a beat cop. Three officers up on brutality charges
again. The mayor's having a fit. The line officers are threatening a strike.
I have reporters mobbing the lobby and...what can I do for you, Tony?" Mimi
said.
"I want to prowl through the unsolved cases. I'm looking into the past
history of a guy named Aleksii Krasukha," Baretta said.
"You don't have to prowl. Here, I was just having a look before having the
clerks close it. The victim showed up. Said he was kidnapped and had amnesia
until recently," Mimi replied. She handed him a dog-eared file.
"Thanks, you want me to do anything about those cops?" Baretta asked.
"No, spare me, Tony. I'll handle it through official channels," Mimi said.
Shrugging, Tony sat down to read. He grabbed a peek at Mimi as she gathered
her briefcase to leave the room. She still had it. Her long legs were still
trim and beautiful. Her hair was as brightly colored as ever, piled high on
her head now and even Tony knew it was an expensive and sophisticated
permanent. The suit she wore probably was worth his entire wardrobe plus
some. Damn, the guy she had married was nuts to dump her. Tony had to wonder
if it was finally going to be the time when they got together and stayed?
Just maybe...
In the quiet office after Mimi left, Tony read the file. Professor Katerina
Dorogaia filed the original report. She was the professor whose teacher's
assistant the kidnapped man had been. She had been very insistent that the
young man would never have disappeared on his own. Her report said that when
Alec did not come to work or call in sick, she had gone at noon to check on
him.
The reports said that she found his apartment empty. Later Alec's lover,
Richard Proud, told her that someone had called Krasukha's landlord and the
Utilities Company to shut off the services. The man, a teacher at a public
school, claimed that he and his lover had not argued and that Alec had said
nothing about leaving. Professor Dorogaia claimed that the young man was
well liked at the college, doing well on his thesis, and appeared to be
happy. Everyone said that Alec was tough and stable, not the kind to break
under the stress of academic life or to suddenly decide to take up a new
life by disappearing.
Of course, Baretta knew that people could be mistaken in how they read a
person, but most of the time stable, happy people did not walk off and leave
career and friends behind.
Foley's assistant, an ambitious, young police detective named Lawless, had
checked the victim out thoroughly. The man had no arrests, money in his bank
account until he or someone withdrew it, no bankruptcies, credit card and
other bills up to date, and a clean bill of health at the doctors. No one
had witnessed any domestic violence between the lover and Alec. By all
reports, they had been an ideal couple, deeply in love and compatible. If
anything, the lover's occupation had been the only obstacle. A public school
teacher might not want to come out of the closet.
Somewhere along the way, Foley had hit on that one fact and decided he knew
what had happened. He had repeatedly brought Richard Proud in for
questioning. Someone had leaked the investigation to the press and the
teacher was suspended. About a month after Alec Krasukha had disappeared,
Richard Proud was found dead in his apartment, a prescription bottle of
Valium and a bottle of Vodka at his side. Foley hadn't officially closed the
case, but he might as well have.
Lazy police work, if Baretta had been Foley's boss, the man would have had
his ass canned.
The new report said that Katerina Dorogaia had come into the station with an
older version of the young man in the picture and said that the kidnap
victim had returned. A psychological report verified that the man had been
found in a fugue state, wandering in downtown Maryland. His fingerprints
were those of Alec Krasukha. When Ms. Katerina rushed to his side, the young
man seemed to regain his lost memories and had returned with her to New
York. They had come in to close the file. Krasukha claimed to remember
nothing of where he had been for ten years. It was as if he had stepped onto
a space ship and been dropped at random a decade later.
Baretta found that the address listed was that of Ms. Dorogaia. Glancing at
his watch, he decided that they were both probably at the apartment and
decided to confront them.
The apartment was in a fashionable neighborhood and had a good security
system. Baretta flashed his old ID at the door, figuring they would be more
likely to open up for a chief of detectives than a private investigator. A
low pleasant male voice said, "What is this about?"
"I have a lead on your kidnapping case," Baretta replied. It wasn't an
outright lie. Mulder certainly seemed to know where the man had been.
Wary, green eyes greeted Baretta when he made his way to the apartment. Alec
Krasukha looked very much like Alex Krycek, a bit older than the last
picture that Mulder had supplied, better dressed and with a flattering
hairstyle. Baretta could see why a guy like Mulder might have a hard time
forgetting about him. Softly, face turned at an oblique angle, eyelashes
shielding his downcast eyes, Alec said, "I'm not sure if I want to really
know what happened to me."
"Yeah? What if the guys are still out there?" Baretta said. He asked, "Can I
come in?" He could see Professor Dorogaia watching from a doorway. She
nodded at Alec's backward glance and the man cleared the doorway to allow
Baretta to enter.
"We were about to have coffee and some cookies," Alec said. "I'll get you a
cup."
Professor Dorogaia entered and sat down. She said, "Why would the police be
suddenly taking an interest in Alec's case? Do you have any idea how many
times I tried to get you people to reopen the case? Now, he's back and you
come around?"
"I'm not exactly with the police anymore, Ms. Dorogaia," Baretta said. He
held out his hand and said, "Tony Baretta. I'm a private investigator."
"Hired by whom?" the woman asked.
"Someone who knew Alec Krasukha in another life," Baretta said, watching for
a reaction from the man in question.
The coffee cup trembled in the man's hand, but he steadied it and handed it
to Baretta. He sat down, moving next to the professor for comfort. She was
sturdy appearing woman of about fifty, her hair only had a few streaks of
brown left and she was plain, but her eyes sparkled with an intelligence and
kindness that might make you describe her as lovely as exact impressions
faded.
Her hand rested reassuringly on Alec's knee. She said, "How do you know that
the man who approached you isn't one of the men who kidnapped him?"
"He's a famous man, Ms., an ex-FBI agent. You probably saw him on TV
recently," Baretta said. "I think he's up front about why he wants to know
more about Mr. Krasukha."
"Was he my lover? I remember someone...so intelligent. He was like mercury,
quick tempered, but full of passion and he was a good man," Krasukha said.
He frowned and said, "If you want to investigate something, investigate
Richard Proud's death. He would never have killed himself, not even if he
thought I was dead and most certainly not if he hoped I was still alive."
Tears rolled from beneath the thick lashes. Alec turned his face further
away and dug for a handkerchief. He said, "When I remembered my old life,
the first thing I thought about was if he could possibly still want me. Then
Katerina told me he was dead. Those men who kidnapped me might as well have
killed me."
The man lurched to his feet and ran from the room. Katerina shot Baretta a
dirty look and said, "I hope that they pay you well to do this. Is it worth
causing such pain?"
"I don't know, Ms. Dorogaia. You can't protect him from his past. You think
he won't want to know even if it's painful? I'd want to know," Baretta said.
"Was the man who approached you his lover? Does he miss Alec?" the woman
demanded.
"I think they were lovers who became enemies. The man lived a rough life,
Ms. You can see that. Missing arm and all," Baretta said.
"The doctor said that his arm was amputated when he was conscious and
fighting under horribly primitive conditions. He must have been a soldier or
something like that. I can't understand why they took him. He was fit
enough, but not like a marital arts expert or anything like that. The only
thing truly different about him was his looks and personality. Alec was
always a survivor and forever curious," Dorogaia said. She shook her head
and offered Baretta the plate of cookies.
"What was his background?" Baretta asked.
"Alec was adopted by an childless Jewish couple after children's services
found him abandoned in a synagogue. They assumed that the mother was Jewish
and trying to indicate that without leaving a note. He was about three years
old when he was found. He didn't really know his parent's names. He spoke
English and Russian, a few words of each so the social workers were very
pleased that they had a Russian Jewish couple to adopt him after they
published for his parents and terminated Jane and John Doe. He lived an
ordinary life until he disappeared," Ms. Dorogaia explained.
Taking another cookie, Baretta munched on it as he thought. Perhaps Alec's
abandonment was the key. Could his parents have been trying to protect him?
Mulder had spoken about a conspiracy. Could Alec Krasukha's kidnapping be
part of that?
The man in question wandered back into the room, looking pale. The skin was
drawn tightly around his eyes, making them seem wilder and larger than they
were. He sat down, again as close to Dorogaia as he could get. He was
dressed in different shirt, a white old-fashioned shirt with billowing
sleeves. It was open at the neck, revealing his slender neck and his nearly
hairless chest. He ran his hand through his hair, disarranging the glossy
waves of sable.
"I guess I do want to know," Krasukha confessed. "There are flashes of
memory. I remember a man that I cared about deeply, but it seemed as if we
were always hurting each other. There are memories of pain, more pain than
any one man seemed able to bear. Not only this..."
Krasukha lifted his artificial hand to indicate what he was talking about.
He said, "I just have small flashes of how this happened, but even that is
enough to send me screaming for sleeping pills for a week after I have one
of them. Even so, it's not as bad as when I remember things that I did when
I was that other person. I just want to know..."
A choked sound came from the man's throat and he leaned further into the
safe harbor of his friend's stout body. He seemed to pull himself together.
With a shudder, he sat straighter and said, "This man who hired you. Does he
want to meet me? Question me?"
"I guess. Are you willing? He wanted to check into your background. Do you
have any family?" Baretta asked.
"Not that claims me," the man replied. " My parents passed away before I was
kidnapped. They were in a car accident. I have a cousin, but he's never
really counted me as a relative. He tried to have me declared dead, but my
Katerina stopped him. Apparently, my parents made it clear that if anything
should ever happen to me that the trust account they left me be held in
escrow for twenty years. If I still was missing, it was to go to the Jewish
Orphan's Society."
Krasukha smiled at that and then scribbled down a name and address. "You
want to talk to Peter Krasukha; this is where he's at. Just tell him you're
investigating me and I'm sure that he'll give you the dirt on me."
Rubbing his face, Krasukha said, "When they took my finger prints, nothing
showed up for the last ten years. I can't understand how a man could do the
things I think I did and not have a record. Did they pick me up, use me,
wipe me off as if I was a dry erase board, and drop me on the streets? Who
are these men?"
"I don't know," Baretta replied, "just be careful. I'd bet that if you start
making waves, they might not be content to merely mess with your head."
"Yeah, I know. I've thought about that. Katerina and I are moving soon,"
Krasukha said.
"That might be a good idea," Baretta said. He looked around at the book-
cluttered apartment and said, "Hope it's to someplace that has room for more
books."
"Yeah, it's someplace where we can rent a house for the price of this little
apartment," Krasukha said. "That's one reason I'm willing to talk to the man
who hired you. I can see him, find out what he knows, and if I remember
anything more when I look at him, then I don't ever have to see him again."
"I'll talk to him and you can meet him at my place," Baretta said.
"Tell him..." Krasukha shrugged with one side of his body and added, "Tell
him I won't let him hit me."
"I'll tell him that," Baretta said.
Walking out, Baretta shook his head and wondered what the hell had gone in
the man's life...
Krasukha's cousin, of course, bore no resemblance to his adopted relative.
He was a thin, very pale and rabbit-like man who lived in a high rise in
Brooklyn. He said, "It's about time that someone investigated that fraud.
How could the police just accept that a man disappears for ten years and
turns back up to resume his life as if it was perfectly ordinary?"
"It's been known to happen," Baretta said. "Fingerprints match."
Krasukha's fingerprints were taken when he was suspected of a minor crime at
age eighteen. The real culprit in the vandalism had been caught, but no one
bothered to pull the prints or picture. The prints had come in handy when he
had turned up in Washington DC. He was identified so quickly that media
hadn't noticed the story. A scandal involving a missing girl had all the
reporters too a-twitter to cover a less interesting case of amnesia anyway.
"Not that it matters. Alec probably just found the criminals that abandoned
him like a cuckoo bird's egg for my dear, deluded aunt and uncle to raise,"
Emil Krasukha had said.
"What do you remember about Alec as a young child?" Baretta asked.
"I was ten when he was adopted. I made sure the brat knew his place. He was
always crying for his mama at first. My aunt doted on him despite his lack
of appreciation for being accepted in a decent family. He had a flashy,
rodent like intelligence and adaptability. I had to work for my position in
life; he used his superficial charm and looks. He's a bisexual, you know. He
could have slept his way through all his teachers. As for that hideous
woman, Katerina, one wonders how he has her so doting upon him," the man
said. He sniffed and said, "I imagine he can't get his way as easily now
with that handicap. One wonders how he was injured. I hardly believe in this
soap opera amnesia. Awfully convenient, if you ask me."
"Thanks, Krasukha," Baretta said. He finished his notes and stood up to go.
He felt more sympathy than ever for Alec. Growing up with so much spite
could not have been comfortable no matter how loving the adoptive parents
had been.
Mulder had flown back to Washington so Baretta called him over a protected
line he borrowed from Twila, who had reasons for having one that Baretta did
not want to know about.
His client answered with a dispirited "Mulder, Paranormal Investigations"
"I found him," Baretta said. "He's agreed to meet with you on neutral
ground, but before you come back here, you may as well check on something.
The guy's fingerprints matched a kidnap victim who disappeared ten years
ago. He was discovered wandering near the Lincoln Memorial. He was
disorientated and was taken to John Hopkins as an amnesia victim. Can you go
there and get a peek at the records?"
"I can do that," Mulder said.
The Lone Gunmen's help meant that Mulder didn't have to break into the
records. "There isn't any privacy, is there?" Mulder said.
"Nope, if it's on a computer, there's hacker somewhere who can get into it.
Want the recipe for Frangos? The secret ingredient in Colonel Sander's
recipe? We can get it for you." Frohike said, wiggling his fingers in the
air like the maestro he was.
"The hospital information will do," Mulder said.
"Yeah, this should be like taking candy from a baby," Frohike remarked.
"Listen to the man, he knows all about taking candy from babies," Langly
sniped. "Come on, Mulder, we've got a pizza in the kitchen."
"Feels like old times," Mulder said. He followed Langly into the kitchen.
Byers lifted a hand in greeting and went back to taking notes from a phone
call.
"So how's the show coming? Where were you last week? New York? What's up
with that?" Langly said.
Mulder slumped into the duct tape repaired kitchen chair and said, "I wasn't
really looking for a ghost story. I hired a detective."
"You did? Isn't that sort of like a an exterminator hiring the Orkin man?"
Langly teased.
Taking a bite of the everything-on-it pizza, Mulder shrugged and
concentrated on eating. Langly turned his chair around and looked as if he
was trying to hack Mulder's brain. "You still think there are aliens?
They're dead and gone. Even the guys and me have moved on."
Swallowing, Mulder said, "Not aliens, Krycek."
"Krycek? Man, I told Frohike we shouldn't have shown you that clip. If the
dude's alive, he's not making any trouble. Let him be," Langly advised.
"I can't. There are things I told Frohike in confidence," Mulder replied. He
pulled nervously on a string of cheese before coiling it back on the crust.
"That you and he messed around when he was your partner?" Langly remarked.
He said, "It happens. You still in love with him despite everything?"
"Maybe," Mulder said. "I'm sure now that the man in the news clip was him.
It looks as if maybe Krycek wasn't a Russian spy at all. He may have been a
Russian literature professor who was kidnapped a year before Alexander
Krycek was enrolled at the academy."
"Kind of takes the glamour out of it, doesn't it? Hey, did the guy ever
attack you by throwing Russian novels at you or try to seduce you by reading
Dr. Zhivago?" Langly asked.
"Not that I recall," Mulder said, trying not to blush at the second
question. He concentrated on eating the slice of pizza.
Langly snapped off a large bite and snagged another piece onto his plate. If
you are what you eat, Langly was a pepperoni with extra cheese.
A few moments later, through a gooey mouthful, Langly said, "He's good
looking, a pretty guy...I'd go for that myself if I swung that way."
"Hey, with all the cyber-sex you play at; you probably have made it with a
guy. You know as well as I do how easy it is to be somebody else on the
Internet," Frohike butted in. "I'm in.
"Already?" Mulder asked.
"Hell, yes, if I wanted to, I could put scopes of the president's last
prostate exam on the Internet. Course, trouble is people might not be able
to tell the difference between that and his face," Frohike responded. "Come
on. It's Krycek all right."
Sitting at the computer, Mulder studied the confused looking face in the
picture that the hospital had scanned into the computer. There had been
ligature marks on the wrist, ankles, and neck of the man. He had signs of a
head injury, had been very dehydrated, and undernourished. Whomever or
whatever had died in the garage of the Hoover building had been a double or
a clone. Mulder had thought it was odd that Krycek had helped them escape
Miles and then turned on him. Krycek had a million chances to kill him, but
had only hit him once in all the encounters they'd had since he had betrayed
their love.
Krycek had escaped and then what? Lost his memory or faked it? In any event,
he had wanted to resume his old life and done so. If Mulder had any
compassion, he'd leave it alone. Let Krasukha or Krycek stay in his quiet
academic life. Slumping, Mulder realized he couldn't do it. He had thought
he was finished with quests, but now he had found another one. He had tried
to kill love, but some things won't die. He wanted Alex and he wanted the
truth.
Admitting to himself that he was grasping for straws, Mulder told himself
that this proved that Alex was a victim. He wasn't responsible for his
actions. He knew where he could find some of the answers, although he had
never thought to look for Krycek in the database of the consortium. He had
found a copy of the MJ files in a vault in the basement of his father's
house. He and the Lone Gunmen were still sifting through the data, solving
backlogs of crimes that even he had not suspected were tied to the
consortium.
Mulder looked up Krycek and found bits and pieces of history, but most of it
was on a damaged sector. Perhaps it was cross-indexed to the name Krasukha.
He fed in the name Alec Krasukha. Bingo. Now a larger file pulled up.
The first link was to the name: Alexander Kraichev. He was the son of
Russian born biologists, who had worked on the project with Mulder's father
until the time had come to render up their child. They had fled and when
they had been caught, committed suicide rather than reveal where they had
left the boy. That took courage, Mulder thought, bitterly. If his father had
taken that action, Samantha could be alive today.
They had abandoned the child in a location that they hoped would lead to his
adoption by a similar family. They must have loved Alex a great deal to give
their lives up for him...
The consortium couldn't find Alex for the next fifteen years. Apparently,
the same incident recorded in a police file that allowed the amnesiac
hospital patient to be identified as Krasukha had led the consortium to him.
Then they had simply watched him until the elders decided he might be
useful.
Oh, shit, useful because they had noted Mulder's college affair with a
similar man! It was Mulder's fault.
Apparently, the process of remaking a man was one they had used before with
varying success. The last case notes under Krasukha were that he was
unstable and untrustworthy. The note signed by CSM Spender stated that they
should use Krasukha for a time limited project "to distract Fox Mulder" from
his quest.
After he was no longer useful for that reason, he could be used as
biological material as originally intended. What that meant, Mulder did not
want to know except that the consortium had cannibalized their own young
like rats scrambling for survival in a stress test.
Had they even made Krycek love Mulder or was it all as false as the life
history they had inserted in government files to create his background? All
Mulder knew was that he had to find out the truth...and he knew he hoped
that there had been something real at the core of Alex Krycek. Something
that survived in Alec Krasukha.
Krasukha arrived early for the meeting with his Katerina in tow. Mulder also
arrived an hour ahead of schedule. Baretta managed to get out, "Mister
Mulder, this is Katerina Dorogaia" before Krasukha stood up, chest heaving
and eyes flashing.
"I do remember you," Alec said, his voice becoming deeper and harsher in
timbre. A moment later, the man added, "Cold blooded bastard."
Baretta got ready to step between the two men but Mulder, although his fists
clenched, said, "I suppose if you only remember some of it, I must seem that
way. Sit down, Alex."
"The name is Alec," Krasukha said.
"Okay, but I liked Alex better," Mulder said, "It suited you. Anyway,
there's no point in fighting. I'm here to resolve some issues."
"Like why you choose to use former lovers as punching bags. I remember that
you hurt me. I don't know what those sick assholes did to me to make me just
take it from you, but I'm not the kind of person who puts up with domestic
violence. Hell, I used to volunteer for the hot line, didn't I, Katerina?"
"Yes, you did," the professor said.
"Alex. Alec, I mean, you have to understand. How much of it do you
remember?" Mulder asked.
"Being taken...I went to the door to answer it. Men rushed into my apartment
and held me down, injected me. I remember staring at them stoned as they
packed my things, took away my life piece by piece.
When I woke up, I was in a dark room, strapped to a table without any
clothes on. I remember trying to keep my mind on Richard and Katerina. I
held onto the memory of them, knowing they would be looking for me. One day
they asked me to choose one of my friends to die. I wouldn't so they chose
for me. They showed me videotape of Richard's death, of them forcing booze
and pills down his throat. After that, I started to give up. I couldn't
fight them or they would kill Katerina too."
"You want a drink, kid," Baretta asked.
"No, I..." Krasukha said. "Wait, yes, do you have vodka?"
"Sure, I'll get you a double shot," Baretta replied. He went to the freezer
to pull the bottle out. Billy liked vodka. Actually, Billy like anything
with an alcohol content, but vodka was one of his favorite spirits.
Placing the squat glass in Krasukha's hand, Baretta squatted in front of
him, wryly aware of how stiff his joints felt as he assumed his
characteristic pose. He said, "Now, I'm just an old New York cop, but one
thing I know is that dead is dead and it ain't coming back. You lost some
one and that grieved you a lot, but Mulder isn't dead. He's sitting there in
front of you and he must have loved you a lot to come all this way to find
you."
Tossing back the double shot, Krasukha gasped and his face grew red, but he
managed not to cough it back out. He flopped his head back against the couch
and said, "All I know is that they took me and peeled everything I was away.
I can't remember everything, but I know I killed for them. They made a
murderer out of me. Why? I just want to know why?"
"They chose you because you already belonged to them, Alex. Just as I did,"
Mulder said. He didn't trust himself to tell Alex. He opened his briefcase
and handed him the printouts he had made of the MJ matter about him.
"Incidentally, Alex is your real first name. Alex Kraichev. I don't know why
Spender misspelled your last name when he returned it to you."
"He must have had a twisted sense of humor," Katerina said, "Like my
ex-husband. Krycek is more or less derived from a word meaning rat. Kraichev
is a word meaning lord. Quite a come down, wouldn't you say?"
There was nothing to do, but nod. Mulder watched Krasukha read and grow
pale. At last the many shaded green eyes stared at him and demanded,
"Where's the rest?"
"Destroyed I guess. The file was an imperfect copy. Your prints were on
it...I don't know if you left it at my father's house or if he brought it
there," Mulder said.
"Did I kill your father, Mulder?" Krasukha asked.
"You always said you didn't, Alex," Mulder replied. "I think I'm going to
choose to believe you."
"I don't think I was supposed to love you," Alec said sadly. "I remember
that much. I don't know if I killed your father. Funny, most of it's gone.
All I remember are the parts with you. I loved you so much. Hated you too,
at times. I was so angry with you for not helping me. For this..." Alec
indicated his empty sleeve.
"You remember how that happened?" Mulder asked.
Eyes clouding, Alec seemed to search until he said, "I remember I was in the
back of a truck, pounding on a window. You were driving. Man, you must have
been a bad driver, Mulder. I remember being afraid whenever you were at the
wheel."
"Hey, the brakes went out. That wasn't my fault," Mulder chided. He took a
deep breath and said, "Alex, you were my partner at the FBI."
"I was a cop? How hell did they do that? I was a Russian lit teacher!" Alec
exclaimed. He shook his head. "Was I a good FBI agent? Did you like me
before that shit happened?"
"I didn't like you when you first assigned, but you grew on me. We were
close," Mulder said cautiously.
"We were fucking," Krasukha said crudely. "You must have been good to leave
such an impression on me."
"We were lovers, Alex. I loved you and I believe you loved me. I think that
part of you was the person you used to be and that you are again," Mulder
quickly interjected.
"So now what? You arrest me?" Krasukha asked.
"No, there aren't any charges against you. Krycek is dead. I spent most of
yesterday making sure that he stays that way. Some friends of mine hacked
into the FBI files and substituted faked fingerprints for the ones still in
the computer," Mulder said.
"I borrowed a friend's ID and went into the physical records and put the
same prints in the closed file," Mulder said. "You're free, Alex. The
consortium is all but dead. No one was looking for you but me."
"And what? If I let you fuck me, you won't betray me?" Alec spat.
"Alec, listen to him! What had gotten into you?" the woman said.
Mulder shot her a smile, but her look nipped that in the bud. He felt as if
she was trying to decide if she could make Alec happy or not. He tried to
look like the type of lover who would be almost good enough for her darling.
"I'm confused," Alec said. "It seemed simple when Katerina showed up. I
thought I could come back here and pick up my old life. With time, I thought
I could forget the nightmares about things that I did and the things that
were done to me. All I had was fragments anyway except for you, Mulder. I
wish you had left it alone."
"I'm not good at that," Mulder said.
Running a nervous hand through his hair, Alec agreed, "I remember that
much."
"I felt as if I had to try and I wanted to give you that file personally,"
Mulder said. He stood up and headed it for the door. It was one of the
hardest things he had ever done. As bad as burying his parents...
"No, wait," Alec said.
Mulder turned. Alec stood up and said, "We should go somewhere and talk. I'm
not sure how I feel. I think I love you still, but I'm afraid it's what they
made me feel. Yet, I know if I let you walk away from me without finding out
for sure, I'll regret it forever."
"Do you have a car?" Alec asked.
"Yeah," Mulder said. "A rental. You can tell I'm from out of town. I don't
use the transit."
"Okay, then you can drive Katerina back to our place. After that, I guess we
get to know each other and see if there's anything there," Alec said.
Pausing, Krasukha smiled and said, "I guess you can keep calling me Alex,
but Krycek...no way."
"Agreed, no more living with the rats for you, beautiful," Mulder said.
A smile spread across Alex's face and he held out his hand to be taken.
Mulder took it squeezed it and said, "I'd like to kiss you."
"We'll talk about that later too," Alex said. "How much time do you have in
New York?"
"All the time you'll let me have," Mulder replied. "Whatever it takes to
persuade you that I love you."
"I'll see if the reality matches the memory," Alex said.
"I think it can be a whole lot better. The only ghosts I'm going let into
our lives are the ones I chase for TV," Mulder promised. Alex's hand
squeezed his and Mulder knew it was going to be all right. Not even the
waters of Lethe could make Alex forget him.
After the young and not so young folks left, Tony sat down at the chess
table, "Well, I tell ya, Billy. It makes a guy wonder whether love is worth
all the trouble."
"It's worth it, Tony. You know, you're not dead yet and I got a ghostly
feeling that Mimi's alone tonight," Billy said, moving his queen to trap
Tony's king. "Check."
"And mate," Tony said, tipping his king. "How many games is that? Three
thousand and two. How do I know ya don't do some ghostly trick and read my
mind to cheat?"
"I don't need no spooky tricks to win. So what? You gonna hang out here with
an old drunk for company or you gonna call that beautiful woman up and ask
her out?" Billy said.
"Ya got some pretty good ideas for a dead guy," Tony said.
"Always did, dead or alive. Listen, Tony, when that young one makes up his
pretty head, you tell him that three pairs of parents say it's all right.
Even Mulder's parents want them to be happy. They say let the past lie with
them and make a new future."
"I'll tell them..." Baretta agreed. He reached for the phone and dialed.
"Mimi, it's Tony. I was wondering..."
The end
A Drink of Lethe
by Ursula
King Edward Hotel was a seedy brownstone in a lousy area of New York. The
concrete steps had depressions worn in the middle and the railing wobbled. A
long, narrow neon sign blinked above the door. Mulder found himself trying
not to brush against the doorway with its patina of grimy handprints. The
inside was amazing, like a time capsule of the nineteen sixties and
seventies. A row of pictures, mostly of policemen in uniforms, lined the
wall above the desk.
