by Josan
The man who was crossing the street ahead of him was the Third Man.
That's what he had named the third of his
assailants from the hospital stairwell. The other two had names: Krycek
and Cardinale. The first had disappeared
somewhere in Russia, the second had died in a prison cell waiting
arraignment. The third had just disappeared into thin
air. But now, more than two years later, had suddenly reappeared in
front of him.
Carefully, Skinner followed the man. Old techniques of surveillance
quickly came back. He didn't think the man had
spotted him following him into building with the sign on the door:
Rehearsal and Recording Studios for Rent or Lease.
There was no one in the lobby. The door to the stairwell was just
closing. Skinner drew his weapon, cautiously opened the
door, heard another shut below him.
He started down the stairs on cat's feet. Wouldn't it be ironic if
there was a repeat of the last stairwell incident? he thought.
Skinner had a glimpse of a man out of the corner of his eye before
the lights went out.
He was aware of the headache, first. His stupidity at being caught
without back-up, second. The fact that the room he was
in had a high overhead light, but no windows, third. That his glasses
lay next to his legs fourth. He put them on and came
to his fifth realization.
Alex Krycek was hanging by one arm in front of him.
He got slowly to his feet. Krycek was naked, had been beaten. His
body from groin up to face was a wealth of freshly
administered bruises.
The fact that it was Krycek, that he was naked, that he seemed to be
unconscious was diminished by the fact that his left
arm ended in a stump. And that the right shoulder was hanging in such a
way that indicated it was probably dislocated.
Skinner staggered up, went to Krycek and lifted his body enough so
that the weight of it no longer pulled on his shoulder.
Skinner dropped onto his knees at the sudden release of weight, just
managing to keep Krycek's head from hitting the
cement floor. He let the man down, rolled his head to ease the tension
in his neck and shoulders.
He took off his coat, used it to cover Krycek. A quick inspection of
the room told him it was one of those sound-proof
studios he had seen advertised on the lobby door. The door was locked
from the outside. Apart from a pile of clothing
and a prosthetic arm, there was nothing in the room. No chairs, no
tables, nothing to use as a weapon.
He checked Krycek's clothes, boots, even the arm—reluctantly—as
a hiding place for a possible weapon. It was obvious
the Third Man had had the same idea. Krycek's leather jacket had its
lining ripped loose. His boots were cut: if there had
been a weapon in them, it wasn't there now.
And the arm. It gave Skinner the chills to think that this was part
of Krycek. What the hell had happened to him? The last
he'd heard, Krycek had gotten away from Mulder in Tunguska Forest, with
two good arms.
He went to check on Krycek himself.
Apart from the possibility of some cracked ribs, the main problem
would be internal bleeding. So far Skinner could find
no sign of that, but he wasn't a doctor. He moved from the body to the
right arm. His wrist had been torn by the rope, by
the struggles of Krycek's movements and weight.
The shoulder was a straight dislocation. Skinner felt carefully, but
Krycek made a gasping sound. He wouldn't be
unconscious much longer. Skinner acted quickly: it would be easier to
reset the shoulder while Krycek was still out. It
took almost no time to snap the bone back into realignment. Still,
Krycek felt it: this time he moaned loudly.
There wasn't much else Skinner could do for the man. He wrapped the
torn wrist in his clean handkerchief, used Krycek's
sweater to make a sort of sling for his right arm, wrapping it close to
his chest at the same time trying to avoid putting
pressure on those ribs.
While Krycek slowly regained consciousness, Skinner finally made
himself examine the mangled stump. There were
burn scars, shiny in the light. Signs of a knife, of a scalpel. Of at
least one operation, maybe two. Neither a success by the
looks of it. Skinner had seen cleaner amputations on the battlefields of
Nam.
Krycek's eyes opened and had trouble focusing. Even when they had
focused, he didn't quite believe what they saw.
"Skinner?" His voice was raspy, faint.
Skinner crouched by the man. "Krycek. Thought you were in Mother
Russia."
Krycek tried to moisten his lips.
"Sorry. There's no water or anything liquid here."
"What time?"
Skinner looked at his watch. "Nearly five."
"Anyone missing you?"
"No. The meeting was a waste of time. I was making an early day of
it."
"Back-up?"
Skinner looked a bit angry. "No." His tone indicated that no
additional comment from Krycek would be welcomed.
"You?"
Krycek made a sort of laughing sound, winced suddenly in pain. His
eyes opened wide. "My arm!" Panic.
Skinner reached over, put his hands on Krycek's shoulders. "Krycek.
Your right arm was dislocated. I set it. It's wrapped
around your chest. Try not to move: you may have some cracked ribs."
But Krycek wasn't listening. Was trying to move his left arm to feel
his right. Couldn't, of course. That didn't help the
panic. Skinner finally had to give him a shake which sent pain cursing
through his body.
"Krycek! Listen to me! Look at me! Damn it, will you look at me!"
Krycek's panicky breathing was aggravating the pain in his chest.
That, combined with Skinner's tone, got through to him.
He tried to control his breathing, make it shallow so as not to put too
much pressure on his ribs. Finally succeeded.
"Krycek. Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah." Whispered.
"Listen. Your right shoulder was dislocated. I set it. I wrapped your
sweater around you to keep the arm immobile and to
keep you from hurting your ribs more. Got that? That's why you can't
move it."
"But it's still there?"
"Yes. It is still there. Feel my hand on yours? Your right arm is
still there. Just immobilized. Until I can get you to a
doctor." He waited till he was certain Krycek understood.
"Krycek? Do you have a weapon hidden in the prosthesis? Krycek! Do
you?"
Krycek opened his eyes. Now that he had been reassured about his
right arm, he was having trouble focusing on
anything. "Weapon?"
"Yes, Krycek. A weapon. Look, they got mine. Both of them. Even took
the cell phone. Do you have anything in the
prosthesis? A knife? A gun? Anything?"
Krycek had to think. "Knife. In boots."
Skinner grunted. "No. Not any more. They've been ripped apart. And
so's your jacket." He tried again. "Do you have a
weapon hidden in your prosthesis?"
Krycek shook his head slightly. "No."
"Shit!" Skinner gave the room another look, trying to see if there
had been anything he'd overlooked. Krycek said
something. Skinner looked back at him. "What? I missed that." Short.
Irritated.
"I said the thing's a weapon. Heavy. Metal."
Skinner went over to the pile of clothes and picked up the fake arm.
Krycek was right: the damn thing was heavy. Shit!
No wonder the stump looked the way it did. He swung it a couple of
times. By the straps. By the hand. Either way, it
would pack a good wallop.
He picked up Krycek's clothes, brought them over to the man. "Let's
get you dressed. That'll keep you warm. And when
we get out of here, no one will notice the condition you're in. We don't
want to attract too much attention."
It took longer than he would have liked, simply because he didn't
want Krycek to lose consciousness. Finally he had
gotten Krycek dressed in shorts, jeans, socks, leather jacket zipped
closed to keep his arm stable. His boots were useless.
Krycek lay on the floor, Skinner's coat covering him for extra
warmth. He was beginning to shiver from shock. He kept
moving his fingers against his collarbone where Skinner had isolated his
hand, just to reassure himself that it was still
there.
Matherson had promised to cut it off before he finally killed him.
He was having enough trouble adjusting to life with only one hand: he
had no intention of living with none.
"Skinner." His voice was dry, making it hard to be heard. He had to
try again before Skinner heard him.
"What?"
"Help me sit up. By the door. Maybe trip one of them...when they come
back."
"Shit, Krycek. There are two of them! Why didn't you..." Skinner
cursed under his breath. Christ, Krycek was barely
conscious. Don't take it out on him. He wasn't the fucking idiot who
followed a suspect without back-up.
"You sure?" At Krycek's nod, he helped the man up, slowly got him
over to just that side of the door and helped him sit
down, back against the wall. He wrapped his coat around Krycek's
shoulders. The move had made him realize the
condition the man was in.
Krycek tried to find a position that would help lessen the pressure
on his ribs. He didn't give their chances a high
percentage of success. But sitting here, with luck, he might get one of
the men to shoot him while he still had an arm.
He dozed a bit, waking every time his head fell forward because of
the sudden pull of the muscles on his shoulders. The
right one was especially painful with what had to be strained ligaments.
It was after seven when they heard noise at the door. Krycek looked
to Skinner, who stood, the prosthesis harness
wrapped tightly around his hand. Like Krycek, he knew they didn't have
much of a chance. It would all depend on timing
and luck.
The two men concentrated on the door. Krycek had pulled up the leg
closest to the door opening and put all the anger, all
the strength he had left into a kick that caught the first man just
above the ankle, snapping it. He screamed just as Skinner
hit him with the arm.
Matherson, who was behind him, tried to slam the door shut, but his
partner, now unconscious, lay partially in the
doorway. Skinner had picked up the man's gun in his left hand, not his
best shooting hand, but good enough to fire a
couple of times and convince Matherson to get out as quickly as
possible.
Skinner pursued him to the stairwell, realized that he would never
catch him as he heard the upper door close and decided
to get Krycek out instead.
Krycek was not conscious. Lay on his more injured side. Skinner
barely spared a glance for the other man. He dragged
Krycek out to the hallway and shut the door on their assailant. He
stowed the prosthesis in the arm of his coat, wrapped
the coat around Krycek, buttoned it.
Taking a chance that his ribs were only bruised, that there was no
internal bleeding, Skinner hoisted Krycek over his
shoulder, in a fireman's hold, and, gun in his right hand, he got both
of them out of the building.
He kept to the shadows, thankful that at this time of the year,
darkness came early. And that in this part of town, the few
people they passed believed in minding their own business.
Actually made it back to his car without attracting the attention of
anybody.
"How is he?"
Joe Fischer looked up from washing his hands. He had been a doctor in
Marines for twenty years, a poker buddy of
Skinner's off and on for almost thirty, and now worked at a free clinic
in the DC war zone.
"A couple of bruised ribs. Best left alone. Abrasions and contusions.
I've bandaged the wrist; change it as you see fit, then
leave it to the air. The rest don't need any special attention. I'll
leave some antibiotic cream for all those."
"Right shoulder, strained and torn ligaments. Keep him bound up like
I've done. That'll hurt like hell. You got codeine
around? Good. Give him some of that."
"Left stump. Severely traumatized. Whoever did that to him was a
butcher. And so was the asshole who tried to clean it
up. Fairly recent. In the last year. That prosthesis thing is too heavy,
too ill-fitting to be of much use. He should have one
of those new ones with electrodes and computer chips, but he'll need
surgery for that."
"Apart from that, he needs feeding up: he's underweight."
Joe had wiped his hands, come out of the bathroom off Skinner's
bedroom, was looking again at his patient. He had
sedated Krycek as soon as he had ascertained there was no chance of
concussion. "He'll sleep till morning at least,
probably longer. That's what he needs the most: sleep."
He looked at his poker buddy. "I just want to point out to you, in
passing, that I haven't asked why you haven't taken him
to a hospital. Why you've asked me to keep his presence here a secret.
I'm assuming that you have good reason for him to
be here. You being an FBI assistant director and all.
"And I don't want to know what his name is. But I will tell you that
his body tells me he's living hard. And those calluses
he has on his hand and feet tell me you'd better be on his good side.
"So, I will be checking in on my patient...and you...over the next
few days."
Skinner grinned. "I like the way you mind your own business, Joe. And
thanks. I do appreciate all this."
"Enough to let me win a couple of hands?"
Skinner laughed.
Krycek woke stupid.
He was wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and beyond that his mind didn't
want to know.
Eventually some things made their way into awareness. The smell of
clean sheets. The softness of the pillow. The
comforting heaviness of blankets.
So he was in a bed. When was the last time he actually lay in a bed?
he asked himself. A clean one. He found himself
pondering over that as if it were a question whose answer might solve
the problems of the world.
He fell asleep still pondering.
The next time he woke, he tried to move just to make himself a bit
more comfortable. Pain flared from his right shoulder
and he forgot to be stupid.
He kept still, waiting for the pain to subside. Remembered Matherson
and his partner stumbling across him by merest bad
fortune down at the Circle. The guns in his back, the car drive to the
studio. Matherson's delight with his prosthesis.
Panic waved through him. His arm! Shit! He couldn't feel his arm!
Hadn't felt the left in some time: he was beginning to accept that,
still not quite used to that.
But the right! Matherson had promised he'd have a matching set of
arms by the time he got through with him. He tried to
move his right arm and couldn't.
Panic was making him breathe hard, made his ribs hurt, his stomach.
But the only thing he was aware of was the fact that he couldn't
move, couldn't feel his right arm or hand.
Jesus! He was barely surviving with the left one gone. How would he
with no arms? You couldn't kill yourself with no
arms.
Panic, fear, terror overwhelmed him. The warm cocoon had become a
prison, a place of torment.
He was trying to pull out of it when hands forced him back, held him
down. A voice he knew in the back of his mind but
couldn't place was speaking over his terror.
Finally, Skinner gave up trying to get through to the wild animal
struggling beyond sense in the bed. He raised his hand
and slapped him hard on the side of his face that was less battered.
And again.
"Krycek! Stop it! You're only hurting yourself!"
Even then Krycek was beyond reason. Finally Skinner could make out
words in the sounds coming out of the man's
mouth. My arm. Over and over again. Barely coherent.
Skinner hauled Krycek up to a sitting position, captured the flailing
head between his two hands and held it still.
"Krycek!" He enunciated every syllable carefully, forcefully, hoping the
tactic would penetrate the nightmare. "Krycek!
Your arm is all right. Nobody has cut it off. Listen to me. You still
have an arm!"
Krycek stopped struggling, tried to focus on the face speaking the
words. A part of him told him the words were
important, that he should listen to them. A larger part of him just
wanted to scream. Slowly the balance of power shifted
and he listened.
Recognized the words. Recognized the voice.
Skinner.
What was ... The studio. At the studio. Skinner was there with him.
Was with him now. This was a bed, not the studio.
There hadn't been a bed at the studio. So where were they?
And the words were beginning to make sense. He tried to get past the
fear to listen to the sense of the words Skinner was
giving him.
Skinner saw Krycek begin to understand, saw the panic be pushed down,
heard the breathing become less stressed. He
continued repeating the words that Krycek seemed to need most: "You
still have an arm."
The body between his hands slowly lost its rigidity, the head became
almost too heavy for the neck to hold upright.
Skinner moved closer so that Krycek could rest against him. He used
one hand to brace the man against him, the other to
stroke, in calming motion, the back of the head, the neck, the top of
the hunched shoulder. The drugs must have made him
forget yesterday's conversation.
"Krycek. Are you listening?"
Krycek nodded his head against the large shoulder that supported him.
"Yes." More of a croak than a whisper.
"Your right arm is still there. Got that?" Another slight head
movement. "It's bound up because your shoulder was
dislocated. The ligaments need time to heal and the doctor doesn't want
you moving them around. So he bound up your
arm." He shifted Krycek a bit in his arms. "Feel that? That's my hand.
I'm touching your hand. Krycek?"
Krycek swallowed against the pain that was gradually making itself
felt. He realized that he could feel Skinner's hand.
And that it was touching his hand. He released some of the residual
panic and fear in a sigh. Nodded his head. "Yes. I can
feel it. Your hand. My hand." A deep breath that hitched as soon as ribs
protested. "Sorry."
Skinner carefully lay the man back down on the bed. Krycek's eyes
were closed, his face white against the bruises of
yesterday's beating, his torso damp with the sweat of fear. He could see
the pulse in his throat still jumping.
"There's nothing to be sorry about." He kept his hands on Krycek's
shoulders until the pulse settled.
Krycek felt the mattress shift as Skinner got up. A moment later he
heard water running nearby. Then Skinner was back,
hand under his head, raising it for the glass he held at his lips.
"Slowly. Your ribs don't need any more action. No coughing, Krycek."
The water was cold, wet. His mouth was parched, foul with the after
effects of his panic. He drank slowly, letting the
coolness wash some sanity into him.
Then the hand released his head on the pillow and seconds later a
blessedly cool cloth passed over his face, neck, upper
chest removing the smell of his fear.
He opened his eyes to find Skinner's watching him, waiting to see if
there was going to be a repeat of his panic. Krycek's
eyes tracked beyond Skinner to case out the room. Survival instincts
were finally back in the forefront. He didn't
recognize the place.
"You're in my bedroom."
Krycek's eyes came back to his, wary, but panic and fear gone back to
whatever place he stashed them in. "Your bedroom?
Well, at least it's warmer than your balcony."
Skinner quirked an eyebrow at the reference.
"What am I doing in your bedroom, Skinner?"
Well, thought Skinner, the boy recovers quick. "Your ex-partner is
still on the loose. He'll have a harder time getting to
you here than in a hospital."
Krycek moved a bit, trying to find a position that might be easier on
his shoulder. "He was working on his own. He
knows I owe him for the car bomb. He wants to get me before I get him."
Krycek closed his eyes. "Because I will get
him."
The next time Krycek woke, he remembered where he was, how he'd come
to be here, that he still had one arm. Skinner
was not around.
There was daylight in the bedroom, making its way past the curtains
in the window. Slowly moving his head as to avoid
any pain, he checked out the room, figured out that the bathroom was
behind the partially shut door.
And right now that was an important piece of information. Because he
needed to piss badly. It took him some time and a
nearly bitten lip to move his body up the bed to the headboard. Which
gave his spine the backing it needed to push
himself into a sitting position. From there to swinging his legs out
from under the sheets and to the floor.
He sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the worse of the pain to
recede before he tried standing. If he fell, he had no
guarantee that he would be able to get himself back onto his feet. He
really didn't want Skinner to come back from
wherever he was—probably work—and find him lying in a pool of piss
on the bedroom floor.
At which point he heard someone make a noise.
There, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, was a large black man,
shoulder leaning against the jamb, arms crossed on
a Skinner-type chest. He was watching Krycek with a bit of a smile on
his heavy-featured face. There was a thick
moustache under his large nose. A clean-shaven head over it.
"Don't panic, boy, I'm your doctor." The man didn't move from his
place. He waited till the other man had accepted that
information. "Skinner was right about you."
Krycek didn't react to that goad. Just waited, like his "doctor".
"He said that you were a ratbastard with guts." Fischer straightened
and strolled into the room. He shook his head, his
glare somewhat intimidating. "All you had to do, boy, was call out."
He helped Krycek to his feet. Supported him into the bathroom. Used
one hand to keep him on his feet, the other to direct
his penis into the toilet. Krycek silently cursed to himself the whole
time his bladder emptied itself: this is what his life
would be like if Matherson got to him first.
Fischer was very aware of the "boy's" feelings. He had helped enough
double amputees in his career to interpret the
signs. Still, this one would recover the use of his arm quickly enough,
so he had no intention of wasting sympathy on
him. Before returning him to bed, Fischer helped Krycek brush his teeth,
gave him a very quick sponge bath.
"Those bruises of yours would make Picasso proud," he commented.
"You're lucky Skinner came across you when he
did. Apart from the shoulder and bruised ribs, you're doing fine."
Krycek said nothing. Had pushed deep within himself when he realized
just how helpless he was in his present state. He
didn't respond to the other's teasing tone, just waited for whatever was
going to happen.
Fischer took a good look at his patient as he got him back into bed.
The boy looked to be in the preliminary stages of
shock: eyes almost black, no expression at all on his face, body doing
as he asked of it. Mind hidden somewhere.
Fischer propped him up on the pillows, taking care not to aggravate
the ribs, the shoulder. He went and got the tray he had
left on the landing when he'd heard the irregular breathing of a man
doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.
Krycek slowly became aware of the mug of soup held to his mouth.
"Come on, boy, snap out of it!" His eyes began to
focus more. "That's better. You've only got a disabled shoulder. You
haven't lost the arm. Give it a week, and you'll be able
to put it to all sorts of uses."
He watched as some colour came back into Krycek's face. "Drink, boy.
It's soup and it'll help chase the chills away."
Krycek had almost finished the large mug when it finally struck him
that his doctor kept referring to him as "boy" in a
Skinner tone. He raised his head and really looked at the man. "You're a
Marine."
Fischer quirked an eyebrow at the comment. "What makes you say that?"
Krycek forced himself to relax. This was nothing more than a client
who had to be humoured. "You've got the same
barber as Skinner."
Fischer surprised him with a chuckle. "Not bad, boy. You'll live."
The fact that he would live didn't balance the humiliations of daily
living.
By the second day of his stay, he wanted nothing more than to tear
off the bandages that immobilized his arm. Both
Fischer and Skinner had taken turns helping him to the bathroom,
cleaning him. Helping him eat, wiping his face when he
accidentally slobbered. And, in spite of the continual reassurance from
both men that it was just a matter of time before he
got the use of his arm back, Krycek was beginning to drop into severe
depression.
"It's not just this episode," Fischer said to Skinner Friday evening
as he got ready to leave. "I'm willing to bet that he still
hasn't adjusted to losing the other arm. It's normal to be depressed at
this stage of acceptance. Besides, he's got nothing
else to do but stew about it. He'll get out of it when he's got the arm
back and he's not dependant on anyone to wipe his
ass for him."
That hadn't stopped the nightmares. He'd often had dreams, most of
which he didn't remember when he woke up. Usually,
he would find himself sitting up in bed, gasping for breath, not sure
what it was that had awakened him.
Now and then, it would be worse: he would remember, near to
screaming, heart pounding, covered in sweat. Those were
the nights he didn't go back to sleep. That he used either to move on to
another place, or to go for a long walk till he had
shoved his ghosts back into the compartment in his brain where they
stayed till their next sortie.
That night, his nightmares mixed themselves.
He was back in Tunguska, on the ground by the fire. They were holding
him down, sitting on his legs, his chest, his right
arm. The old man had wrapped a rope around his left wrist, was pulling
it taut all the while pushing against his ribs, his
armpit with booted feet.
In his dream, Krycek turned his head to see the butcher approach him
with the white-hot blade. Yelling curses, he tried to
push the men off him, to pull away. But they were very experienced at
holding people down.
The butcher knelt at his shoulder. Someone tore his shirt sleeve
down. The old man tightened his grip and pulled back
even harder.
The blade cut and seared at the same time. Krycek couldn't believe
the pain. His curses changed to screams.
The blade hit bone, but the butcher was prepared for that. At his
signal, someone with a hammer hit the wide top of the
blade with just the right amount of force to slice through the bone and
continue its cutting.
The old man fell backwards.
Someone took the bloodied knife from the butcher and handed him
another one, also white-hot. He was going to go over
the cut to make sure it was thoroughly seared.
In Tunguska, Krycek had finally fainted at this point, but in his
dream the butcher became Matherson who, laughing, was
pointing with a white-hot blade at his other shoulder.
Krycek screamed and screamed again.
At the first scream, Skinner had run up from the living room couch
where he was sleeping. He turned on the light to the
bedroom as he entered, barely stopping on his way to the screaming man.
Krycek was thrashing on the bed, entangled in the bedclothes, out of
his head with images only he could see. Skinner
grabbed the man, tried to keep him from hurting himself, all the while
calling out his name.
Krycek's eyes had rolled back into his head. The scream diminished
only because Krycek had run out of breath. And he
wasn't inhaling.
Skinner slapped him hard, forehand and backhand. "Come on, damn you,
breathe!" And again. "Breathe, Krycek,
breathe."
And finally Krycek did breathe. A hitching, raspy breath, but an
inhalation nevertheless. Then an exhalation.
"That's it, boy. Do it again. And again. Good. You've got it."
But with breath came terror and Skinner watched as Krycek went from
shock to hysteria.
He tried hard to fight him off, used his upper body as a battering
ram until Skinner just dropped his own body on top of
Krycek's to keep him still. All the time talking, trying to get through
to him. To get him out of that nightmare world that
was doing its damnest to suck him back in.
He held the younger man tightly in his arms, stroking the trembling
body, calling his name, reassuring him that he was
awake.
Krycek just kept on trying to escape, to pull away from the men who
had hurt him, from the man who was threatening to
maim him forever. Not understanding the voice that spoke to him.
Eventually Skinner's patience wore out. He sat up, pulled Krycek up
with him and shook him hard. "Krycek! Where are
you? Krycek!" He sharpened his tone to one he used when he had been
ready to ream, in Nam, one of those fucking
West Point idiots they had sent over as officers who, instead of leading
them, were putting their lives in danger.
The tone got through to Krycek. He knew the voice had nothing to do
with Tunguska, nothing to do with Matherson. He
tried hard to concentrate on it.
"That's it, Krycek. Don't let it control you. Get a handle on it.
Come on, boy, don't let it get to you."
Skinner watched as Krycek's eyes began to green again, to focus. To
push the nightmare aside, to hold onto his eyes as a
lifeline out of the nightmare.
"Skinner?" His throat was raw from his screams.
"That's right. Skinner." He pulled the shivering man close to him,
pulled the blanket around so that he could cover
Krycek's back, hoping the extra warmth would help soothe the man.
Krycek dropped his head to rest against Skinner's collarbone. The
residual nightmare threatened to overcome him again.
He tried to swallow his fear, tried to remind himself that he was safe
— as safe as he could ever be—here in Skinner's
arms, not by some fire or hanging by some rope in a sound-proof studio.
Skinner could feel Krycek trying to control his breathing, his
memories. He pulled the head close to his chest, one big
hand just holding it there, the other gently massaging the tight neck
and shoulder muscles.
Krycek made a small noise.
"Hey, it's all right. You're safe here." Skinner repeated the words
over and over.
And because he wanted to believe it, had to, Krycek let the terror,
the fears not only of the nightmare, but of the past year,
flow out.
Skinner heard the first sob breaking from the man echo in the
trembling of his body. He wrapped his arms around the
weeping man, holding him even tighter, yet always aware of his physical
condition.
He held Krycek, gently rocking him in his arms, making soothing
sounds that weren't words. Rested his own head on
Krycek's, just letting the man get through his pain.
It took a long time for the sounds of weeping to soften, become
exhaustion, to fade into sleep.
All that time Walter Skinner held Alex Krycek until he too, just
before dawn, fell asleep.
The morning wasn't much better.
Krycek lay like a rag doll doing whatever Skinner told him to, but
other than that, nothing.
Fischer looked at his patient differently this morning. His face
still bore the signs of last night's nightmare and weeping.
He'd bitten his lip at some point. His eyes were almost black: Fischer
was certain that in bright light, Krycek would be
blind.
"Krycek." He tried to keep his voice even yet sharp, a way of
penetrating the fog the man was in. "Krycek. I'm going to
unwrap your arm. I need to see just where those ligaments are.
"Skinner here is going to help me. He's going to prop you up."
Skinner moved behind Krycek, sat so he could hold the man up. Fischer
started unwrapping the bandages that confined
Krycek's arm, talking all the while he was doing it, basically
describing every action of his hands.
"There, that's the last of the binding. Now, I've got your hand and
I'm placing my other hand on your shoulder. Okay,
Krycek, this is where I need you. I need you to bend your elbow. Nothing
else. Just bend the elbow. Pull up your hand.
Krycek! Do it!"
Krycek turned his head to the order. What did the voice want him to
do? Oh, yeah, pull up his hand. Could he do that?
"Alex. Pull up your hand."
Skinner's voice he recognized. And did as he had been told.
"Good. That's real good. Okay, now look at me, Krycek. Really look at
me."
Krycek focused on the voice, felt it pull him out of the fog.
"That's it. You're doing fine. Look at me." Fischer was happier with
the way Krycek was holding his head, was beginning
to squint with his eyes, even the way he swallowed. "Welcome back, boy."
"Now listen, because if you don't, this is going to hurt like hell. I
want to see just how far healed those ligaments are. I
don't want any heroics from you, understand? I need to know the moment
there's any pain. And I need to know just how
severe it is. Got that?"
Krycek nodded slightly. "No heroics," he rasped.
The next minute or so lasted forever. He had some movement in the
shoulder but nowhere near enough for Fischer to
leave the shoulder unbound.
"Okay. Here's what we're going to do. Krycek, are you listening to
me? The shoulder still needs to be kept immobile, so I
need to wrap it again. But this time I'll just bind you above the elbow.
You'll need to keep the arm in a sling, but you
should be able to use the lower half of your arm. On the condition that
you use it only to the point of pain. More than that,
the ligaments will take longer to heal. You got that?"
Fischer talked him through the binding, watching carefully as Krycek
fought off the panic that was never far away. When
he had finished, he helped Skinner prop Krycek up on pillows. Gave him
some water to drink.
"Now, I'm going to examine the other shoulder. And I want you to tell
me how that happened."
Krycek lay on the pillows, eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his
shoulder to diminish to a throb. His hand, freed against
his stomach, played with the waistband of the sweats they'd put on him.
The fingers felt stiff, but they were there, feeling
and being felt on his skin.
"Mulder told me about Tunguska," Skinner was speaking now. He found
it easier to focus when Skinner was the one
speaking. "I know what happened to you until you dropped out of the back
of the truck. What happened next, Krycek?"
It took a couple of tries before he could get the words out. The two
men listened, Fischer wincing when he heard how the
arm had been amputated and again when Krycek answered his questions
about follow-up care, the attempt by an
improperly equipped rural physician to clean up the mess. No anaesthetic
for the first, barely any for the second. No
wonder the man had nightmares.
Skinner was the one who got him talking about Matherson's threats.
Krycek hadn't moved at all during the telling, voice barely changing
in tone. Now, his voice began revealing the fear he
was dealing with, with varying success.
"Matherson said he was going to cut off my arm. Use a blow torch to
cauterize it." He took a breath to get the fear back
down. Continued after a moment. "Ham-string me. He said he'd keep me
around to entertain him and his pals. When I
bored them, he might kill me. Or just pass me on to someone else."
"Jesus Christ!" Fischer glared at the unseeing man. "Nice bunch of
people you hang around with!" But he filled a syringe
and with a gentle touch, injected the drug into Krycek's hip.
"It's just a light dose," he explained to Skinner. "He'll sleep for
three, maybe four hours. Then, even though his ribs and
shoulder need the rest, get him out of bed. Move him downstairs, onto
the couch. Get him to watch TV, listen to music,
anything.
"And though I'd rather he not use the hand, get him to do a few easy
things with it. Maybe if he feels less constricted, he'll
be able to fight that depression off faster."
Which is how Krycek found himself, late Saturday afternoon, propped
up on Skinner's couch, watching a football game.
It wasn't a sport that interested him much. But the fact that for
Skinner it was more than a spectator sport was beginning to
penetrate even his foggy brain.
Skinner graphically commented on the action, the play selections, the
players, the coaches, the referees. Even argued with
the commentators. Krycek found himself watching the game so he could
understand Skinner's reactions.
At one point, Skinner went into the kitchen and came back with a
couple of drinks; beer for himself, a soft drink with a
straw for Krycek. It wasn't that easy for him to get the straw to his
mouth, but the fact that he could do so had the desired
effect: he relaxed into the pillows that were stacked behind him.
Skinner tried to keep supper to things Krycek could manage on his
own. Soup with a straw. Sandwich cut up small
enough for him to manoeuvre with a long fork without making a mess.
He'd gone out and rented some stupid comedy Fischer had recommended
just so the evening would be more relaxed. The
movie was so bad that for a few minutes Skinner was afraid that the idea
would backfire. Then, suddenly, Krycek came
out with the next line of dialogue before the actors did, and it became
a bit of a game between them as to who could guess
the next scene, the next bit of dialogue before the film itself.
So that getting Krycek ready for bed was less stressful for the man
than it had been up till then. There had been, for
Krycek, a sudden rise in tension when he realized that Skinner would be
sleeping in the bed with him.
"Sorry, Krycek, even for you I can't stand another night on that
couch." Skinner turned off the light, stripped to his shorts,
and casually got into bed. He pounded his pillow into the shape he
preferred, yawned, turned his back to Krycek. "
'Night."
Krycek wondered just how real all that was, fought off sleep until he
heard Skinner's soft snore. He hated to admit it to
himself, but the time downstairs had tired him out. He made himself just
a bit more comfortable on the pillows, and went
to sleep.
When the nightmare grabbed hold of him, Skinner was there to wake him
up before he got to the screaming stage.
Skinner moved so that he could hold Krycek back against him, arm around
the man's waist, anchoring him against his
chest. "Go back to sleep, Krycek. I'll keep the nightmares away."
On thinking about it, Krycek found he believed Skinner and slept
through the rest of the night.
The next morning, Skinner carefully unbound Krycek's shoulder and got
him into the shower. He didn't leave him alone;
Fischer didn't want him falling and re- injuring that shoulder.
For Krycek, the pleasure of just standing in the water far outweighed
the fact that Skinner had to wash him down. Still,
when he was covered in shampoo and soap, Skinner moved him under the
spray so at least he got to rinse himself off.
Instead of the sweats he'd been wearing, Skinner helped him don his
own jeans, now freshly laundered. One of Skinner's
old sweaters went on, leaving him with enough space to move his hand.
"You want that beard to stay on or come off?"
Krycek looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. "Off."
Between the shave, the shower, the clothes, Krycek thought that maybe
he might just survive after all.
The discovery that they both played chess helped put Krycek's brain
back into gear. The first couple of games were
basically time fillers, a way of getting through the morning until
Skinner's football game started on TV.
The third game, played during lunch, gave each glimpses of the
other's strategies. Skinner spent the afternoon looking up
for replays and trying to figure out just where Krycek was going with
his queen. Krycek discovered that though Skinner
was a traditionalist in his moves, he had more than enough military
experience to manipulate those traditions.
When the football game was over, Skinner filled his CD player with
jazz, ordered in Chinese, and settled down to warfare
with Krycek.
They went to bed late, still arguing a couple of moves from the last
game. And when the nightmare came, Skinner pulled
the still sleeping Krycek into his arms, who, once aware who was holding
him, settled back into a dreamless sleep.
Skinner got him up early the next morning. Helped him wash, dress,
showed him where things were in the kitchen. "Try
to keep the place passably clean, will you? And don't set any fires."
Krycek smiled. "Can I throw anyone off the balcony?"
Skinner glared at him as he was checking his briefcase. "Don't even
think about it. Fischer said he'll drop in on his way to
the clinic, around one. He's got a key to the place, but he'll buzz
before he opens the door."
Fischer was far better pleased with Krycek than he expected to be. He
was proving to be sensible about using his hand.
And he had to agree, Krycek did indeed seem to be a fast healer. The
shoulder was much better, he had far more mobility
than his last examination. This time, when he bound up the upper arm, he
left the bandage much looser so that Krycek
would have still more manoeuvrability.
"How's the other shoulder?"
"Twitches now and then."
"How bad is the phantom pain? And don't tell me you don't have any."
Krycek grimaced. "Sometimes bad. Starts for no reason. Goes away for
no reason. I get the feeling that if I could just rub
my hand, the pain would go away."
"Another operation might help with the pain level. And the frequency.
But from what I've read, the phantom pain thing will
probably be with you till they bury you."
Krycek grunted. Made no comment about the operation. Fischer didn't
let it go. "You should do some serious thinking
about that, Krycek. You need some clean-up to be able to wear one of
those new prosthesis. The old ones all require
harnesses and straps, and they're cumbersome.
"And you might like to remember over here I can guarantee you'd be
out completely for the operation. And the recovery
couldn't be any worse than what you're feeling now."
Skinner came home to find a fairly clean kitchen, Krycek watching
CNN, and the chess board set up for a game. He
changed into jeans and a sweater, threw a store-made lasagna into the
microwave, made a salad. They ate over the chess
board, Skinner challenging Krycek to explain "Just where the fuck are
you going with that move?"
Over the next couple of days, Krycek's ribs tolerated more pressure,
his shoulder more mobility. Fischer added some
gentle exercises to Krycek's routine: he had returned to his daily
regime of stretching and kicking, a sort of self-adapted
form of Tai Chi.
Thursday, Skinner came home with a foul headache, stinking of
cigarette smoke. He vented off to Krycek about that
"cigarette-smoking bastard" who had spent most of the day, sitting in
his office, polluting the air with his endless smokes,
"Looking at me all day long like he knew something, like a cat who knows
the canary is his."
He didn't notice Krycek's reaction to that.
Krycek sat on the couch, listening to Skinner grouch, slowly
exercising his arm all the while.
He knew his time here was at an end. That he should have in fact left
a couple of days ago. But it was a rarity in his life,
this feeling of safeness, the pleasure of taking time for a chess game,
playing it, analyzing it. Of sharing a bed, of being
held, with no mention of payment, with no expectations of performance on
his part.
Skinner had bought him another pair of boots to replace the ones
Matherson had sliced up. Had had his jacket repaired.
Krycek knew where Skinner kept his spare revolver, his real spare, not
the Bureau issued one. The ammo to go with it.
He was very quiet that evening. Skinner had files to read, so Krycek
lay on the couch, eyes shut, just listening to the soft
jazz playing in the background.
When Skinner took his shower, Krycek hid the gun and ammo in his
jacket, left his boots by the door. He took some
money out of Skinner's wallet, added it to his jacket. Made sure his
prosthesis was in the closet by the door.
Upstairs, when he undressed, he folded his clothes, added a sweater
of Skinner's to the pile, got into bed. He wanted some
more time between clean sheets.
Skinner went through his bedtime routine before settling down. Krycek
waited till Skinner's snores were deep and regular
before he slipped out. With careful moves so as to not alert the
sleeping man, he straightened his side of the bed so that it
looked as though no one had used it. Checked out the bathroom.
Downstairs, he dressed quickly, looked around so that nothing that
could be identified as his was lying around. He did
one last thing he hoped Skinner would understand, and then left.
A finger leaning on his doorbell woke Skinner up. It was barely five
o'clock. He turned to see if Krycek...the bed was
smoothed down. He grabbed his robe and went to see who was on the bell.
"Ah, Mr. Skinner. We seem to have gotten you out of bed."
Jesus! Shit!, thought Skinner, what the fuck is that bastard doing
here?
"What do you want?" Skinner blocked the Smoker's way into his
apartment: he may have to endure him at the office, but
this was his home and it was off-hours.
One of the two men behind the Smoker pulled out a badge identifying
him as an agent with OPC. "We would like to
speak to you about a matter that has come to our attention. Assistant
Director Skinner."
Skinner sighed deeply, drawing out the moment. This explained the
smoothed half of the bed. He stepped back, silently
allowing the men in.
While one of them checked out the downstairs, the other went
upstairs. The Smoker took out a cigarette, was about to
light it when Skinner took it out of his mouth. "Not in my home you
don't." And held the Smoker's eyes till he put the
lighter back in his pocket.
"Who are you playing chess with, AD Skinner?"
Skinner moved into the living room, looked down at the chess board
that last night had been lined up for a new game. He
raised an eyebrow at the OPC agent who till now had not found anything
he was looking for. "It's a problem move that
I'm working out. Sort of like the problem you seem to be posing me. Just
what is it that you're looking for here, in my
apartment?"
The agent looked over Skinner's shoulder to the other man now
standing by the Smoker. "Sorry, Assistant Director. We
were given some information that we might find a known felon hiding
here. I'm sure you understand that we had to check
it out."
Skinner got that look that made so many of his agents under him
fidget. This man, as the silence grew, was no exception.
"Well," Skinner spoke very softly, "maybe next time you'll double check
your information before waking me up before
the crack of dawn. Are you leaving now?"
The man nodded once, stepped around Skinner who didn't move out of
his way. He and the other agent quickly left the
apartment. Skinner and the Smoker exchanged glacial glares.
The Smoker took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth. "Next time,
Skinner." He paused just outside the still open door to
light his cigarette.
Skinner waited till he heard the sound of elevator doors closing
before he went to shut the door.
He returned to the chess board. He had no trouble recognizing the set
up. Krycek was warning him to protect himself.
About a month later, Skinner came home to find a message from Fischer
on his answering machine, telling him to put on
the news.
The phone rang again as the hourly newscast began.
"You watching the news, Walt?"
"I just got in, Joe. Give me time to listen to it."
The lead feature was about a car bombing in which two men had died.
One of the men had a long list of arrests to his
credit, a man who had often used the name David Matherson as an alias.
The other dead man was as yet unidentified.
"Hold on, it gets better." Fischer said.
"In an unrelated incident, there was a second car bombing in which a
known drug dealer was killed."
"How is this better?" Skinner muttered into the phone, still mulling
over the details of the first bombing.
"Remember the night I was telling you how some new guy was whipping
up a war in the zone by the clinic. A guy who
didn't see the clinic as being a neutral part of the zone. The guy whose
goons had threatened a couple of my nurses. Your
boy was paying much more attention than we thought."
Skinner was happy that he had had the phone line checked out for wire
taps that morning. "What makes you say it was
my boy?"
"The guy and his goons were all in that limo when it went up. Rumour
has it they had just bought themselves a briefcase
full of crack. Paid for it in cash.
"Well, a case full of cash was dropped off here this evening, just as
I was closing up. I counted it. $327,635. And there
was a note in the case, addressed to me. Said 'Payment for services'."
His voice registered his appreciation. "Your boy is
good."
Skinner rubbed his eyes. "You going to keep it?"
"Shit, Walt, the clinic doesn't get any funding whatsoever, not even
a nominal amount from the city since cut-backs. What
the hell do you think?"
The next week, a parcel arrived for Skinner in the Bureau's daily
mail. There was a tape in it with a note: "Keep in a safe
place. Use as needed."
Skinner waited until he was home before listening to the tape. It was
a telephone conversation between the Smoker and a
voice that was often in the news these days, a man recently acquitted of
racketeering charges in Maryland.
Their conversation dealt with money laundrying, making it very
obvious that the Smoker was setting up a deal for the
racketeer, for a percentage. And part of the tape also made it clear
that this conversation had occurred after the man's
acquittal.
Skinner tossed the tape in the air and caught it.
Fischer was right: his boy was good.
This Being the First
kinner did a double-take.
He got to the door, slowly pushed it open, listened for any sound before
stepping out into the basement hallway.
The hand was tied to a hook on the ceiling by a cord the thickness of a
mooring line. With some difficulty, Skinner
shifted Krycek's dead weight to his left side, and rising on tip-toe,
managed to reach the knots that held the man up. It
took a lot of patience, a great many tries before the last knot gave way
and Krycek's arm flopped down.
