Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops

Authors: Erynn and Sally

Archive: LGM Fanfic Bunker, Ephemeral, Gossamer, FLO, WWOMB, all others ask.

Rated: R for grownup stuff

Spoilers: We assume you've seen the X Files series. Teensy bits from the Gunmen series may be mentioned in passing.

Disclaimers: We don't own these guys, but if we did, Langly'd get laid! They belong to the Usual Suspects: Carter, Morgan & Wong, John Gillnitz, Fox, 1013, and the actors who portray them.

Category: Gunmen romance, angst, adventure, humor

Keywords: Lone Gunmen

Summary: Black ops, assassins and 'rents, oh my!

Author note: Awesome Beta by Kickin' Kateswan and Mags the Magnificent.Consulting physicist: our beloved bi-boy Sean.

Stories in the Things Undone series:
TU 1: Things Undone by Erynn
TU 2: Mending the Tears, by Sally
TU 3: To Carry On, by Erynn
TU 4: Alchemy of the Word, by Erynn and Sally
TU 5: Snipe Hunt, by Erynn and Sally
TU 6: Road Trip, by Erynn and Sally
If you haven't read them, you'll be confused. Go do it!

Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops

by Erynn and Sally
______

"Someone who keeps aloof from suffering
is not a lover"

~~Sanai, translated by Coleman Barks -- The Hand of Poetry~~

MONDAY, JUNE 26, 2000
DEBORAH'S STUDIO, GEORGETOWN
3:30 AM

LANGLY:

"Ringo, honey, I have to go." Well, that's what I dreamed I heard.

"Mmm... uhmuh?" What time is it, anyway? Feels like it's the middle of the night.

There's a soft hand shaking my shoulder. "Sweetie, I have to go to work."

"Right now? We just went to bed!"

"That was hours ago. It's 3:30, and I'm on at 4."

"3:30?" Okay time to go to bed, but to get up? Oh, man, I have no clue how she does it, but she does it all the time. I mean, I'm tired just being on her schedule, and I can always go back to the house and crash. "Um, like, when you gonna get off again?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Deb says.

Ah the joys of dating a doctor. Is it worth the aggravation? Oh yeah. Deb's so awesome I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming her. But I'd rather be dreaming right now than dealing with her schedule.

"Lights, Ringo." She turns on the light as I squinch my eyes closed. "C'mon, babe. Tell you what. Drive me to work and you can have my car today."

"You sure?" Sounds a hell of a lot better than walking or taking the Metro. Usually I drive the van to Deb's, but right now it's spewing oil all over the place, so I'm sorta stuck.

"It's no problem, babe. It's not like I'm going very far during my shift."

That could be forever. Sometimes she ends up being there two or three days straight. I won't have much to do except work on those files Byers found and downloaded last week. Weird shit, some sorta experimental aircraft or UFO information that we gotta dig into more.

"Remember, I'm gonna be on at least 24, since I had to bargain hard to get Wednesday off."

"Wednesday?"

"Your birthday, you idiot!" She laughs at me. Okay, so I deserved that one.

"Oh... um... senility setting in."

"It never ceases to amaze me how men can forget all the important things," she giggles. "C'mon, babe, let's hit the road." We stop at 7-11, so she can have the first of her god-knows-how-many caffeine fixes of the day.

I could go for some, but then I wouldn't get back to sleep for a while... oh fuck it. When in doubt, do the caffeine. We're both pretty sleepy still. Deb says she's used to it, that she's almost forgotten what it's like to be awake. I'm starting to understand, but that doesn't mean she doesn't give one hell of a kiss goodbye when it's time to go. Tired as I am, I can still appreciate how good she makes me feel. Course, I'd like it better if we were home kissing, and then... but hey, she's gotta work. It's important. She's real focused and if I can't support her in that, I got no business being with her.

"I'll call you when I'm off," she says.

"Make sure you're really off, okay?" We've got this rule that she can't call and say she's done until she's actually out the door and headed home. If she's still inside the hospital, she's fair game, and I've already seen what happens with that.

She giggles. "I will, babe." She winks at me before kissing me one last time. "Drive careful. I worry about my car, y'know." She giggles again. Deb is such a gigglepuss. Frohike says it drives him nuts, but I love it.

"Have fun sloggin' through people's guts," I tease her. She laughs, gives me one more kiss, and dashes off; only got a couple minutes before she has be on the clock. Man, think about it, at least 24 hours of digging your hands in people's innards. Ewww. Well, at least I have the car. I wouldn't want to be walking home at this hour. It's not what you see, it's what you don't that's creepy.

I head south so I can get back home.

CRACK!

What the fuck? Sounds like somebody threw a rock through the window. Shit. I pull over and look at the damage. It's the rear passenger window, but that was no rock. Rocks usually shatter the glass into a bunch of pieces. This is a small round hole, and the glass is veined. Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck is someone shooting at Deb's car for? I mean, it's an Escort, for Christ's sake. *Nobody* kills for an Escort.

I pull into a 7-11 parking lot; they're lit up, and open 24 hours a day. I start feeling a little lightheaded 'cause I forgot to breathe there for a while. Well, your car gets shot at, you figure, what's a little thing like breathing? What the fuck is someone going after Deb for? I mean, she's been here two weeks. Yeah, she had some patients die on her, but those, they sounded like they were gone before she even got her hands in them.

Oh, man, she'll freak when she finds out. But I'm not gonna tell her. She's on 24, which usually means she's on longer. That gives me plenty of time to fix the glass. She'll never have to know. While that's happening, I can figure out who the fuck is after her.

Maybe I should tell her; maybe I oughta call her, tell her what's going on. Byers is always on about the honesty thing with the people we care about. What if somebody's got something out for her? Problem is, I don't want to make her paranoid. I got enough paranoia for both of us.

Maybe it's just a driveby. That would really suck, but least then it's just somebody with an attitude problem, not a grudge. People with grudges scare the shit out of me. We know way too many people with grudges, and some of them have 'em against us. What's even worse is, they have the means to act on them. This is very uncool... and then it hits me. I'm such a fucking dork: that bullet wasn't for Deb at all, maybe it was meant for me -- maybe they went after her to get to us. Well, they succeeded. Now to find out who the fuck it is and what they want.

Byers and Frohike are crashed when I get in. That figures. When I need them, they decide it's time to dance with the sandman. Why couldn't they have insomnia tonight? Any other night of the week and one of them would have been up doing something.

Meanwhile, my major debate is, what the hell do I tell Deb? I don't know. Is someone after her or me? The driveby thing looks remote. Carjackers go for somebody who looks like they got money, shoot up a Benz or something. What can I do to keep her safe? So far she's been a real sport -- all the shit that went down in April didn't scare her off, but somebody coming after her? Maybe Pennsylvania in winter doesn't look so bad after all. It's a hell of a lot less creepy than DC any time of the year.

I can't sleep, and I don't even know where to start making an enemies list since we've got so many, so I turn on the tube; 500 channels of nothing on. I flip to Technology Tonight, because it's a hair more exciting than the Weather Channel. Maybe it'll help me calm down. A beer might help too. I go to the kitchen, reminding myself to breathe, and pop a longneck. At least it's quiet; nobody's shooting at me here.

When the phone rings, I about hit the ceiling. Fuck! Who the hell'd be calling us this hour? Oh man, I don't like this. Mulder, if your ass is in trouble again, you deal with it.

"H'lo?" I don't much like answering the phone, but I put the tape on like always.

"May I speak with Richard Langly, please?" Some woman I don't recognize. I look at the Caller ID, and it looks like a GWU number, but it's not Deb's. And she's using my legal name -- that's never good.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be me."

"You're listed as the local emergency contact for Dr. Deborah SaintJohn?"

"Uh, yeah, why?" Suddenly, I'm freezing, even though it's 88 degrees in here. "She okay?"

"We had a shooter come in. She was injured in the incident. She's okay, but it looks like a bullet punctured her lung..."

"She's got a ripped up lung and you're saying she's okay?!" I'm shrieking and I don't care who hears me. God no, not my Deb. Oh man, shit, I should have called her, I should have told her. This is so my fault.

"When can you get here?" the lady asks me.

"Uh, like, right now!"

"Her parents are in New Orleans. Should we contact them?"

I don't even know them. The room's starting to spin, and the only reason I don't hit the ground face down is 'cause Frohike grabs my arm, and he's asking what the hell's going on. "I don't know yet," I bellow.

"Mr. Langly?" the chick on the phone asks.

"Uh, no. I'll do it." I won't, but the hospital doesn't have to know that. I mean, how will her folks feel about their kid getting shot up? I mean, like, mine wouldn't care. They'd probably figure I did something to deserve it, but Deb's folks, they'd be all 'see what you get hanging out with that loser'... assuming she told them what I do. I bet she didn't. She's tight with them, but there's always stuff you don't say. She doesn't tell them about all the cases she gets, for instance; she says they'd freak. Well, I bet they'd really freak if they knew what was going on with her now.

"I gotta go, man," I tell Frohike, and then I notice Byers is there, too. "It's Deb, she's all messed up."

"What happened?" Byers asks.

I snap at him. "Some fucker came and shot her up, right after they shot out her car window."

"Put some pants on, Frohike. There's already enough violence in the world," Byers says. Good call. Really, that's too much information.

"Since when did you become such an asshole?" Frohike snarls back. "Just give us a minute, Blondie."

"I don't have a minute!" I shriek. Oh God, please, don't let Deb die, pleasepleaseplease. We all jump in the Chrysler, and Frohike decides to be Mario Andretti, but he's still going way too slow. Byers keeps telling me to take it easy, breathe -- yeah, sure. Like I could breathe right now. I've got to calm down. Next thing I know, I'll be having an asthma attack, and he knows it.

"Her car got shot up?" Byers asks as he hands me an inhaler.

I take a quick puff, then cough and try to catch my breath. "I drove it home. She said I could take it if I picked her up
later. I was just leaving GWU and BAM!" I slam my fist against my other hand and Byers hits the back seat flat. We've been shot at too many times, I guess. "It's parked on the street." There's no room in the driveway for anything but the van and Frohike's gunboat.

"It could have been a driveby." I think Byers is trying to make me feel better. It's not working.

"Doesn't sound like it." Frohike, unlike Byers, isn't still an optimist at heart. "If they went for the car, then for her, it's probably someone really mad at her."

"Or at us." I mumble. "Man, if this has something to do with me, I'm gonna kill myself."

"Just find out how she is. We'll worry about everything else later. Go on, I'll meet you," Fro says. Frohike drops me and Byers at the ER entrance, then goes to park. I just about cream the security guard.

I don't really come here much, and the only time I was here for very long was one slow night. Deb said come on over, we can do the wild thing in the on call room. We did, and it was kind of cool. But she didn't tell me we'd have company. Nobody caught us in flagrante delicto, but we'd just finished and if we smoked it'd be the time you'd have a cigarette. So this other resident walks in, sees us in bed, says 'hi,' and walks out like nothing's out of the ordinary. I'm freaking, but Deb didn't think it was big deal. It's a common room. That explained the sofa and two sets of bunk beds. There's a TV in there too, and lots of empties. Not unlike my room.

You'd think it'd be quiet this time of morning, but there was a shooting here, so they got cops and media and people screaming all over the place. I gotta just about kill someone to get information about Deb. The person who called me doesn't work down here and the chick I talk to doesn't know jack about my being Deb's emergency contact, and she ain't gonna give me shit 'til she finds out if I'm legit.

Byers is with me, though, and lucky for me, Mr. Suit knows how to massage the system. It's instinct for him. I'm just praying I can see her, and fast, but of course, I can't. They dragged her off to surgery. Somebody says Gary Waldinger's doing it, her advisor. I've never met him. All I know is, he better be good, and he better do it right, or I'll kill him myself. I'm about to start shrieking but Byers taps my arm and says ranting about killing people is a lousy idea right now. He's right, of course. Asshole.

BYERS:

The hospital staff tell us where to wait while Deborah's in surgery. ESPN is on, but none of us are paying any attention. I'm trying my best to calm Langly, but this hits too close to home; my memories of Sari being taken away for surgery the last time someone shot at us still make me shudder. "She'll be all right," I assure him. I say it to reassure myself as well. "We've had enough experience with the staff here to know that." Langly is about to snap at me again, but Frohike intervenes.

"Did you call her parents?" Mel demands. He's not trying to be harsh, but it needs to happen soon.

Langly gives him a frantic look of death. "What, do I look like an idiot? You think I'm gonna call 'em and say, 'hey, I'm your daughter's boyfriend and oh, by the way, she took a bullet tonight?' That's gonna go over good!"

"You should call them, Langly," I tell him softly. "She's close to them; they need to know."

"They've got a right to know," Frohike adds.

"They're gonna freak!" Langly's shaking.

"Of course they are, but that's no excuse not to call them," I tell him, "this is a serious matter. It would be like not calling us if you got hurt."

Ringo's not ready to deal with logic yet. "They're gonna hate me!"

"If they have an ounce of taste and sense, yes," Frohike says, "but you still have to call them."

"Oh man. They are so gonna hate me." He's got his face in his hands and shakes his head.

"Langly, I just told you, they'll hate you anyway. What do you have to lose?" Frohike says.

Langly pauses. "Uh... my self-respect?"

"That and $3.25'll get you a mocha," Frohike says to me. "As long as you don't have to pay for the self-respect."

He's angry, and shouts, "I hate you guys! My girl got shot, I'm freaking, you want me to call her folks, and then you go and diss me? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?"

I look at him, trying to be supportive. His relationship with Deborah is just starting in earnest, and things are still developing between them. If Deborah survives, he may lose her anyway. "We're your friends, Ringo."

He looks like he hates me for saying it, but I know he'd be lost if we weren't here for him. We sit down on the waiting room couch and he sits between us, sulking viciously. I wish I knew what to say, how to calm him, reassure him, let him know how much we both care.

GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
5:00 AM

FROHIKE:

I'm trying to stay calm and be supportive, reassuring. Byers and I are doing our best to be here for Langly. Even with us, he seems to feel it's important to maintain the swagger. But with Deborah seriously, potentially critically injured, his pretenses have worn down and nothing's left but his most basic elements. No wonder he's terrified. He's more exposed right now than he could ever be in a strip search. We've all had personal experience with said phenomenon, and it's not pretty.

Byers is rubbing Langly's back with one hand, assuring him that Deborah is in the best hands, and that she couldn't have been in a better place when she went down than here. He's appealing to Ringo's logical side, a compassionate older brother.

My role, as usual, is to be Mommy. For some reason, they've adopted me as their parental unit. Maybe it's the fact that I'm so much older than they are -- 15 years older than Byers, 17 ahead of Langly -- but the fact is, I need to be their parent as much as they need it from me. I keep wondering how I'll manage when they don't need me anymore. I'll always need them.

"Byers, I think we could use some coffee." I'm hinting that I need to talk to Ringo alone. Luckily, density is not one of Byers' personal traits. He nods and tells Langly he'll be back shortly. Langly nods, barely raising his eyes.

"Hey buddy," I tell him, "it's okay. You're having a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation." But as usual, I've misfired; rather than calming him down, I've elevated him to a brand new level of totally pissed off. He gets up and heads for the washroom to scrub his face. I follow.

"Frohike, do you mind?" he snaps irritably, but I know what he's really saying. We both speak Guy, and if he thinks he can fool me in that language, he's sorely mistaken.

"Just making sure you're okay," I tell him, laying a hand on his arm.

"Oh, do I look like I'm okay?" he explodes at me. His temper has once again overridden his resolve. "How the fuck you think I am, man? I mean, Deb comes here, she's barely here
two weeks and she takes a bullet; how the hell do you think I'm doing?"

"It was a rhetorical question."

"Save it. And get the fuck out."

"Forget it."

"Oh yeah? You tell me what happened then." His voice is a mix of anger and resignation, bewilderment and pain.

"I can't, buddy. But I can tell you, her boss is working on her. She's in a good place here, and..." I hesitate.

He stares at me, his face eager, inquiring, confused. "Yeah?"

"She loves you, man."

His face displays the disbelieving awe of a small child. "You think so?"

"Believe me, she does." There aren't many things in the universe I can swear to, but this is definitely one of them. "I mean, there's no accounting for taste."

"Okay, okay. I know I'm a dick, you don't need to drive it home, Doohickey!"

Point taken.

"Langly," I finally say, "you know, if we don't get out there soon, Byers is gonna be really pissed that he spent ten bucks on coffee and no one's there to drink it."

"Cheap bastard." I think the boy will survive.

I just hope his girl does.

PART 2

"That is the fearful part of having been near death. One knows how easy it is to die. The barriers that are up for everybody else are down for you, and you've only to slip through."

~~Katherine Mansfield -- The Letters of Katherine Mansfield~~
______

MONDAY, JUNE 26, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
5:33 AM

BYERS:

I have to get away for a few minutes. The tension here is suffocating me, and though I'm very concerned about Langly and Deborah, right now the most pressing thing on my mind is that if someone's shot Deborah to get to us, are they going to be gunning for Sari as well?

Sari isn't usually up this early, but she'll be going into the office today and should be up in about an hour and a half anyway. I desperately need to call her before she gets out the door, and not over my mobile phone that Frohike keeps swearing he's secured. I've got the pocket scrambler and security system with me, and with it, I can make a secure call from any payphone in the place.

I dial; her phone rings five or six times, and with each unanswered ring, my anxiety grows. What if someone's already gotten to her? Finally though, she answers, groggy, her voice sleep-muffled.

"Whoever this is, it better be good," she grumbles, yawning.

My relief is immense. "Sari, it's John."

She groans. "It's... uhhh..." I can hear her grope for her glasses "...5:30 in the morning, John. You never call at this hour. What's wrong?" She's still not quite awake. I wish I didn't have to wake her with news like this.

"Deborah was shot about an hour and a half ago."

Her voice is suddenly sharp and alert. "Deborah's been shot? Is she alive? How badly is she hurt? How did it happen?" I can hear her breath quicken. "Is anyone else hurt?"

"It happened here at GWU, not long after someone shot out the window of her car. We don't know yet how badly she's hurt, but she's alive and in surgery. They said she had a punctured lung. No one else is hurt." I'm jittery thinking about it, but nobody needs to watch me freaking out.

"How's Ringo holding up?" I should have known that would be her next question.

I sigh. "He's badly shaken by the whole incident. So am I. Mel is too, but he's doing pretty well. Better than me and Langly, at any rate."

"Just keep breathing, John, you'll be okay. But why would someone shoot Deborah?" Sari asks, her voice cautious. Perhaps she suspects, as we do, that this had something to do with our work.

"I... we... we think someone shot her to get to us, but we don't know why. Not yet, anyway." I hear her sigh.

"Oh Gods, why did I know you were going to say that? You don't know that for a fact John -- not that it hurts to be cautious. Look, I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed and running on more than one brain cell."

That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. It may not be safe for her to leave her apartment. I have no idea where the shooter is right now.

"Sari, wait! How do we know that whoever shot at her won't be waiting for you, too?"

She's silent for a moment. I can feel the tension from her end of the line. "We don't, John. I'll be careful."

"No, Sari, I can't let you drive down here." Not by herself anyway. "Let me come and get you in Mel's car." It's not my favorite vehicle to drive, but I can manage it.

I can hear a quiet moan from her. "Every minute that thing spends on the road brings us one minute closer to global ecological collapse."

That may be true, but I'd rather go get her in Frohike's gunboat than have her risk her life alone.

"It'll be easier if I just drive down. You know it's not that far." She does live near the university, but I don't want her to take the risk.

"Please, Sari, just wait for me. I'll be there soon."

She sighs, resigned. I think she knows I'm not giving in on this one. We're both stubborn people and, this time at least, I win.

"All right. I'll be ready when you get here."

"Are you sure you want to bring her here, when we don't know who's gunning for us?" Frohike asks.

"It was either that, or she was going to drive herself. We don't know that whoever shot Deborah was working alone, or where the shooter is, and I'm not willing to risk Sari getting shot with no one around to help her."

"Oh, yeah, Byers, that's brilliant," Langly says. "Like what if they shot both of you? Where the hell would we be then? I mean, we 'd have to do our own QuickBooks!"

Despite everything, I manage a chuckle.

"We'll be fine, Langly," I assure him. "You know that I generally prefer to keep my head down. Frohike, keys?" I hold out my hand.

Mel proffers them to me wordlessly, then, as I turn away, he says, "Be careful. You two come back in one piece." Believe me, Mel, that's the plan. Of course, as Burns -- Robert, not George -- said, 'the best laid plan...'

LANGLY:

We wait. We wait some more. I don't wait good. I end up making a complete ass of myself that way. That's not what Deb needs right now; she needs me to be strong. Now there 's a joke. I 'm so pathetic it's way beyond funny.

Byers got back with Sari about an hour ago. They're sitting next to each other, talking real quiet. We're all drinking coffee, except Sari has tea. I'm about to be coffee'd out and the day's just starting. Frohike is trying to distract me, talking about next week's headlines. I mean, I know why he's doing it, but I just can't get into that space. Dylan said it in 'Wonder Boys' -- 'I used to care, but things have changed.'

Damn straight they have.

All I can think of is Deb and how lucky I am. Man, she's the real thing, I swear. I think about stuff with her like I never did before. I used to just think about getting laid and all. Well, I still think about getting laid, but it's always with Deb, and it's not just about sex, it's the little stuff that I never thought about before. Like how nice her shoulders are. She hates 'em, says they're too wide. Why doesn't she understand how nice it feels when I rub them? How
soft her skin is? How good she smells?

It's like Sari and that sandalwood oil she always wears -- I mean, you kinda have to be there right next to her to smell it, but it's always there. It's totally a Sari thing; she wouldn't be Sari without it. Deb doesn't use perfume or anything; she can't, doing what she does, but she's still got her own unique Deb-smell, and I love it; I love everything about her.

Why haven't we heard anything yet? It's been three hours now.
"Something's bad, man. Like why aren't they saying anything?"

"Langly," Byers is being Mr. Rational, which can be a good thing, but it gets on my nerves, "if the bullet penetrated her lung, you know it's going to be a lengthy procedure. She tells you about her work."

Sari nods and holds Byers' hand, silent. Doesn't she have to go to work soon or something?

"Yeah, but she saves the gory details for her doctor pals." We talk about her work, but she doesn't get down and dirty with me. You know, blood and guts, it can bother some people.

"Buddy, you need to get in touch with her parents," Frohike reminds me. I wince. I wasn't cut out for this stuff. Jesus. It'd be easier not to tell them. What're they gonna do, come running up to DC to be with her? Okay, yeah, probably. She's tight with them and her sister. Not me. I haven't talked to my folks in ages. But if I do try to talk to her people, what
am I supposed to say? 'Hi, Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn, guess what? Your little girl just got shot in the lung, and there's a good chance she got messed up 'cause of me.' Somehow, I don't think that'd go over real well. This is the last thing in the world I wanna do, but I'll do it -- for her.

Frohike hands me his cell phone, the one he modified so the signal is secure. Me and Byers have our own, but mine's at home. I step out in the hall, 'cause I really need to be alone to do this. I already made an ass of myself in front of people once tonight. I'd like to do the repeat performance without an audience.

I hesitate. Like, for one thing, I don't know her folks' number. I hate calling 411. I'm trying to remember where she said she was from. Covington? Something like that? Is there such a place there? I give it a shot. I think she said her dad's name was Gerard. I try that. Maybe they're unlisted and I won't have to do it.

"To connect at no charge, press one," the canned voice says. I hit the button. Shit. I hope her mom picks up. Moms are easier, I think. So of course a guy picks up, and since the only people who live there are her mom and dad, it's gotta be dad. I know she's told 'em about me, but I don't know what or how much.

"Hello?" He sounds kind of grumpy, like he hasn't had his first cup of coffee yet. I keep forgetting it's one hour earlier there, only 6 am right now.

"Um... uh... Mr. SaintJohn?" Wow, sterling delivery. My specialty.

"Yes?" He's getting annoyed; I can tell. "I'll tell you right now, I 'm not buying anything, so you can either speak up or take your business elsewhere."

"Um, like, well, you don't know me but Deb's told you about me I think..." God, that's great, Langly. Keep it up and you'll be a dead man by sundown.

"Who is this?" He's not sounding any happier.

"Rin... uh... Richard Langly."

"Her boyfriend, Richard Langly?"

"Uh-huh." Boy, I'm doing great here.

"Yes?" Not a real friendly guy, wonder why.

"Um, like, I'm calling... I... Deb... Deb got hurt." The last three words come out in a rush, half drowned. I gotta work on my delivery. Least I don't have to say it again.

"Deborah's hurt? How badly? Is she all right? How did it happen?" Oh man, he's shook up big time. I don't blame him. So am I.

"Um, she, like, got shot at work."

"Deborah? Shot? I told her not to work in DC, what with all the crazies up there. You did say shot, didn't you?"

"Uh, yeah... y'know, with a gun." Will someone just put me out of my misery now? "At work."

"Oh, my God. Sarah Jane!" That's Deb's mom's name. Well, I just ruined his day, now I get to ruin hers.

"Deborah's been hurt?" I can hear her mom shriek behind him. Oh man.

He gets back on. "Where is she?"

My voice is all shaky. "In surgery."

"How's she doing?"

"Uh... I don't know yet... we haven't heard anything."

"Well, find out!" he snarls.

"Hold on." I run back inside. There's this tall chick standing there talking to the guys and Sari; maybe she knows something. I cover the phone. "You here about Deb?" I'm ready to choke her for some 411. Then I recognize her as one of the people Deb works with, but I can't remember her name.

"This is Dr. Barbara McGee," Frohike says.

"I remember you, how're you doing, Ringo?" Well, she's way ahead of me if she can remember my name.

"How's Deb?" Christ, doesn't even sound like me.

"She's holding her own, critical but stable."

I uncover the phone again. "Uh, she's critical but stable, they say."

"Where can you be reached?" her dad asks.

I give him the number on Frohike's phone, and the number at the office, just in case.

"We'll call when we have our flight arranged," he says -- end of conversation. Well, what was I expecting, a thank you or something?

Barbara's a pretty cool chick. She's a year ahead of Deb, they work together a lot, and she's calm and all, so I feel a little less wrecked.

"Can I see her?" I know I'm whining, but I don't care.

She looks at the guys and Sari, then back at me. "Not yet. About two hours. They'll let you know. Did anyone call her parents?"

I wave the phone at her. "Just did. They're gonna call back and tell us when they're coming up."

"Oh, good, she'll like that. I gotta go, see you all later." Barbara takes off.

Sari looks over to Byers. "John, I'm going to have to decide soon whether I'm going to work this morning or not." She's gotta be in about 8 am. Then she comes over and puts her arms around me. It feels real good, but I sure wish she was Deb. "Ringo, how are you holding up?" I can hear in her voice that she's worried about both of us, Deb and me. But I'm so not in the mood.

"Would everybody just stop asking me that already?!"

SARI:

Gods, poor Ringo. He's so shaken, and very understandably so. All of us are, really. John's pacing, Mel looks like he's eaten a week's worth of things that don't agree with him, and I'm still a bit nervous myself, if you don't mind understatements. I knew when I met these men that this was what it was going to be like, but it doesn't soften the reality to be standing here with Ringo snapping at me. "It's okay," I tell him. "She'll be fine. She's in very good hands."

"That's what they say at the blackjack tables," he shoots back. I think we might do well to leave him be. Obviously, trying to talk to him is only elevating his stress levels.

"Richard Langly?" A tall balding man with glasses, dressed in scrubs, enters the room.

"Uh, that'd be me," Ringo offers, looking as if he's about to be knifed.

The man offers his hand, and Ringo takes it. "I'm Gary Waldinger, Deborah's advisor." The doctor's accent marks him as a Brooklyn native, rare outside the region these days.

"Is she okay? Where is she? When can I see her?" Ringo spits the rapid-fire questions, then holds his breath waiting for answers. His face is tight with concern and fear. I'm holding my own breath, praying for no bad news.

Dr. Waldinger's a no-nonsense kind of guy. "Messy but holding her own." Not big on the comfort factor, either.

"When you say messy, what do you mean?" Mel narrows his eyes, hands on hips, wanting more information. John stands quietly, fidgeting, with his arms crossed over his chest.

"She took three hits. Two of them entered her lung, one her abdominal cavity. The lung shots made the worst mess, but she did very well in surgery. She did lose a lot of blood, so you'll have to expect her to be very weak for a while. She'll probably be with us for about a week. You contact her folks?"

We all release our held breath, holding to the earliest definition of 'conspiracy' -- to breathe together.

"Yeah. I did. They haven't called back yet with their flight information, though." Ringo's still shuffling his feet nervously.

Dr. Waldinger nods. "Good."

"She's gonna make it, isn't she?" Poor Ringo sounds so small right now, so scared and exhausted. I wish I could find a way to talk him into resting, or at least just getting something to eat. He really needs that right now. Maybe there's some chicken noodle soup in the vending machine.

"It looks promising," the doctor says.

"Can't I see her now?" Ringo's whining, but I don't blame him. I would be too, if it were John, or my sister, or anyone else I cared for that much lying in there.

Waldinger groans. I can see he's worn and stressed by the night's chaos. "No. Not yet. I'll catch up with you later." He hurries from the room before Ringo can give him any more of the five year old treatment.

Ringo shouts, "I gotta see her!" and starts after him, so I rush over and put my arms around him again before he can get to the door. He's shaking hard and sweating.

"Ringo, you'll see her soon. She's doing all right. Hold on to that."

"You try it sometime, then tell me how easy it is to hold on."

PART 3

"Overland
the winds of change consume the land,
...
Omen-signs
in the shapes of things to come."

~~Dead Can Dance -- Severance~~
______

MONDAY, JUNE 26, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
8:30 AM

LANGLY:

Finally, Deb's buddy Barbara comes back and says she's in a room, I can go see her now. I've been waiting for this, so why the hell am I so scared?

"She's going to have a breathing tube, a chest tube, and a catheter. Basically, if there's an orifice, it's got a tube, and in the case of the chest tube, we made our own hole." Barbara sounds way too cheerful, but she always does. Deb swears she's never in a bad mood, or if she is, nobody knows about it. "I'm just going to run in and see how she's doing, but I've got another surgery I need to start in half an hour, so I'm not staying."

I follow her like a duckling, and Frohike, Byers and Sari all stay behind me. At least they're not asking me if I'm okay. If they haven't figured that one out by now, they're a lot denser than I ever guessed.

Good thing Barbara warned me about how she'd look; I still almost faint. I barely recognize my Deb buried under all that shit. She's totally wired for sound. Her mouth's all covered up with the tape that's securing the tube she's breathing through.

Oh God, I can't believe how white she is. She's always kinda pale; she's real light like me, but this is like all the blood got sucked out of her. Well, according to her boss, I guess it did. It makes sense, but it doesn't make me feel any better. In fact, I'm not feeling too good at all right now. I wish they'd all leave so I could lose it in peace, but I can't. I need to be here for Deb, gotta let her know everything's okay.

"Can she hear me?" I ask Barbara. God, I've developed this pathetic little kid voice today.

"Sure, but she probably won't remember anything for a while. She'll have a sense that you're here and everything's safe, though." Barbara pats my arm. "Listen, I need to bail. Ask the nurses if you're concerned about something; they'll be in here a lot for a while."

I tiptoe over to where Deb is. I wanna touch her so bad, but I'm afraid to, like she'll break or something. That scares me, 'cause Deb's a tough girl. Something in me counts on that. Oh man, this is so not cool. "Uh, guys? Like, can I be alone with her a minute?" I'm not trying to be a bastard, I'm just trying to save myself from additional abject public humiliation.

"Sure," Frohike shrugs.

"We'll be in the hall if you need us," Byers says real soft.

"Oh, and Ringo? She'll want this when they take the tape off her mouth." Sari tosses me a small container. Lip balm with beeswax. I laugh.

"What's so funny?" Frohike demands.

"You didn't know? Deb's a member of Lip Balm Addicts Anonymous."

"There's a webpage for that?" Byers looks amazed.

"Why not? They've even got webpages Frohike can enjoy."

"Some of us have taste," Frohike retorts back.

"I'm not even going there," Sari shakes her head.

"Hey Sari. Sorry I went off on you earlier." I feel like such a dick.

"Don't worry about it, Ringo. It's been a long day already."

I creep back into Deb's room. Not like I'm going to wake her up or anything. She looks pretty out of it.

"Hey Deb," I whisper to her. "It's me."

Her eyelids flicker a bit. She mumbles something.

"Sorry babe. Can't hear you." Duh. That's cause her mouth's got this tube stuck in it.

She's sort of groping around by me. I take her hand, and even though she's like totally out of it, she holds mine and squeezes it real hard. Girl hasn't lost her grip, even if I'm losing mine.

"Uh... like... I'm real sorry I got you into this mess. You shouldn't have a jerk like me in your life."

Her eyes open a little more this time. I think she's glaring at me. She holds my hand harder. Like, she'll cut off my circulation type hard.

"Y'know, like... oh, fuck it Deb. I love you. I need you."

This time she doesn't glare at me. She just shuts her eyes and drifts back out. The joys of Demerol. Don't they have emotional Demerol? I wouldn't mind being numbed out at this point, not thinking about anything.

Fuck it, it should be me in her place. And not because of the Demerol. She doesn't deserve this. She didn't do anything wrong. I made her think everything was cool despite what we do.

I'm such a fucking loser. If she's smart, when she's conscious again, she'll tell me to get the hell away from her, preferably someplace like Mars.

And I haven't even told her about the car yet.

I lay my head down next to hers, listening to her try and breathe. She's all gurgly. Guess you would be if you took two hits in the lungs.

I'm not sure how long it is, but some nurses come in and tell her to wake up and take a deep breath, and they pull the tape off her mouth. They yank the tube out, all this horrible crap comes out. Used to be, that'd be surefire gag for me. Instead, I just hold her while they do it. They stick oxygen in her nose instead.

"Ringo." Her voice sounds like it went through a meat grinder.

"Whatcha need, babe?"

"Lip... balm."

"You're in luck. Thank Sari for this one." I smear some on her lips. I get a smile.

She takes my hand again. "Don't... go."

"Hell, I'm not going anywhere." Although at some point I might have to take a leak. There's been an awful lot of coffee going down this morning. 'Til then, though, I'm here.

She keeps going in and out, but she holds on to my hand. I wonder if she thinks I'm the one keeping her safe right now. Oh God, how wrong she'd be.

And how hard I'm trying to be the man she expects me to be.

GWU MEDICAL CENTER
11:22 AM

FROHIKE:

I don't know why, but for some reason I get all the glamour jobs. They frequently consist of dealing with unfriendly people, taking nasty falls, dangling from wires, tweaking tetchy circuits, and in some cases, all of the above. Once in a while, just for kicks, I get to take on something that could potentially kill me. Considering that, I shouldn't be bitching.

This time, I'm just in charge of manning the phones. I say 'phones' plural because the office phones ring on my mobile line for the moment, ensuring that we will never miss a call, and be permanently chained by our electronic leash. Whoever said that technology would free us wasn't even close.

I left Byers to watch Deborah, and now I need to contact Moose and Squirrel. We want them to know because they're our friends, but on a more selfish note, they might also be able to help provide protection for Langly's chickadee. I've talked to hospital security; they said that when something like this happens -- it scares the crap out of me knowing they actually need a protocol for this -- the hospital posts guards at the patient's door. I've seen hospital guards: walked right past them, in fact, toting obviously illegal devices. They miss way too much.

One thing we have to be careful about is hanging out here. If someone's after our asses -- and I'm sure they are, if for no other reason than my highly developed sense of paranoia -- then we're vulnerable here. Langly should consider this if he's planning to take up residence. Thank God Sari dragged his ass out for lunch, at least.

I try Mulder's cell next. All I get is the opening bars of 'Shaft' followed by him doing a bad imitation of Isaac Hayes.

I hate leaving voice mail. For one thing, I have no idea why this occurred or who was involved, and let's face it, if someone wants to listen to voice mail messages, they can. I should know; I've been in Mulder's. How do you think I learned about Tiffany and Bambi and God knows how many other phone sex operators? I suspect that Mulder's proclivities are well known to the Bureau and shared by others inside as well, thus, they're ignored. There are plenty of other things they can pick on Mulder about anyway. He just begs for it. I tell him to call me as soon as he can get his dick out of whatever it's stuck in this time.

My next attempt is the luscious Agent Scully. She picks up on the second ring, her bell-clear, authoritative "Scully" making a fiber optic field trip to my ear.

"It's Frohike. Got a situation."

"Frohike, I'm sorry, it's going to have to wait. I'll talk to you later." That's another thing that's not making me feel all warm and fuzzy. Scully won't cut you off unless the situation's bad. Now I get to worry about her, too.

What if our shooter has them in the crosshairs as well? Shit. Shit shit shit.

Who to call now? Well, there's the Big Man himself, Walter S. Skinner. Not that I call him for every little thing, but somehow I suspect he won't consider Langly's squeeze taking a bullet 'every little thing.' Reluctantly, I dial his office, actually hoping to get his voice mail, but instead, I get a gruff, almost unfriendly "Skinner."

"Got a problem," I tell him. That's one of the things I like about Skinner; small talk isn't necessary. "Langly's chickadee went and got shot this morning over at GWU. She's finally out of surgery, and a real mess."

"Frohike, can't you just call and invite me over for poker sometime like normal people do? Oh, wait. I said 'normal people.'"

"You don't wanna come over for poker again. Byers ate you alive last time, and he can't play for shit."

"I'll let that pass. But I will get my revenge. Now why the hell are you bothering me again?"

"Langly's girlfriend took a bullet this morning. A few, in fact. And her car was shot at while Langly was driving it."

"She lets Langly drive her car? I gave the girl more credit than that."

"Listen, we need your help."

He's silent for a moment. "And this is a Bureau matter because?"

"I don't know if it is or not. I honestly don't know what to make of it."

"With most people, I'd ask if there's anyone you pissed off recently, but with you guys, I'd be better off asking if there's anyone you haven't," he groans. "So what do you want me to do?"

"A little help in the security department. I've seen the guards here and--"

"Frohike, I can't just pull agents to do guard detail--"

"I'm not asking for that, but maybe you have some... friends you could call?"

"You say she's at GWU?"

"She works here, on staff."

He groans, more loudly this time, followed by brief silence. "I'll see what I can do. And I thought Mulder was going to be the death of me."

"It's much appreciated, sir."

"Don't say I never do anything for you." He hangs up abruptly.

Having done that, I'm ready to throw down a few shots of my pals J&B, but they don't have liquor in the vending machines here, so I settle for the mud-colored excrescence they claim is coffee. I don't make it five feet before the phone rings. Maybe it's Moose or Squirrel calling back -- no, it's a 504 area code.

"Hello." I try to sound casual, nonchalant.

"Richard?" Male voice, southern, Caucasian.

"As in Richard Langly?" I ask cautiously.

"Yes. Is he there?"

"Not at the moment. I'm his associate and friend. You are?"

"Gerard SaintJohn." Oh shit, Deborah's father. Figures Blondie would be out at lunch with Sari while I get to deal with the parents.

"Yes, Mr. SaintJohn?" Nothing like a little kissing up. "I can take a message for him."

"We have a flight coming in tomorrow morning at 11:40 a.m. on Continental, Flight number 761. He said he would meet us."

"He'll be there," I promise, as I scribble it on the back of a bar tab from God only knows when. I get a description of the parents, as well. If I have to throw Langly by his nads, he'll be there.

"And you are?"

"The name's Frohike." I almost add the traditional epithet 'punkass,' but something in his voice tells me not to fuck with him. Besides, his daughter's been critically injured. I don't need to make his life any worse than it already is. "I'm very sorry about your daughter. Deborah's a fine young lady."

He's not interested in my opinion. "Tell Richard we'll see him tomorrow morning. And not to be late." I decide I'll cut him some slack. He's had a very, very bad day.

And now, the most difficult call of all. I've debated making it at all, but I think I owe it to the lady. If this shooting was the result of our activities, then anyone in our small circle could be at risk. I've got to let her know, even at the risk of losing her, and that could happen. Mel Scarlett is a practical woman. She can take risk and be comfortable with it, but this is pushing the envelope.

Reluctantly, I dial her work number. She's not at the desk, and the clerk offers to take a message. I think this is one time where it behooves me to wait until I can speak to her myself. It's not as if I don't have the minutes. We have a little 'arrangement' with the cellular carrier. Just because they don't know about it doesn't mean it's not in effect.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Every once in a while the phone rings back to the desk and the clerk picks it up, asking if she can help me. I wish you could, lady. Believe me, if there was something you could do, I'd pay you all the money we made off FPS to do it, and feel it was money well spent.

At twelve minutes, I'm still on hold, but when I finally hear a human voice, it's Mel. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. "Rough day?" I ask her gently.

"They're all rough days."

"I hate to tell you this, but it could get a lot rougher."

"Mel, are you all right?" Her tone becomes concerned, gentle.

"I'm fine, but... Deborah's been involved in an... an incident."

"Oh my God, no. What happened? Is she all right?"

"She was shot while she was suturing a patient this morning a little after 4 a.m. She's been through surgery. Hasn't come around yet. She's critical but stable and in a private room."

She draws in a hard breath, but regains her composure. "Unfortunately, that happens in ER's. Even out here in the boonies, we've had it happen, although thankfully it's been a few years. Every once in a while, a patient goes crazy..."

"We have reason to believe this was not a patient."

She stops and there's a long silence. "Are you telling me what I think you are?" She's a perceptive woman.

"We don't know for sure. All I'm saying is, watch your back. I won't blame you if you don't want to talk to me again."

"Knock it off, Mel," she snorts. "This could be anything. Deborah may not even have been the target. Could've just been some nut mad at the world."

Yeah, well, we seem to know an awful lot of them. "I just... I don't think I could stand anything happening to you."

"Listen, I'm a tough old bird, and yes, I'll be careful, but I'm not going to run and hide just because you think you might have ticked someone off."

I don't think, my lady, I know. "I'll email you later, okay?"

"I'd like that."

"And please, be careful."

"Mel, you worry too much about what could happen. Right now, let's worry about Deborah. Call me later to let me know how she's doing."

"I will."

"Give my love to Deborah when she's awake. I'll talk to you soon." She clicks off without waiting to hear me say goodbye. I know she doesn't have time for anything more involved. I wonder if I'd feel more at ease if she just told me to get lost and never to bother her again.

PART 4

"When they think that they know the answers,
people are difficult to guide.
When they know that they don't know,
people can find their own way."

~~Tao Te Ching, verse 65 -- Lao Tzu translated by Stephen Mitchell ~~
______

MONDAY, JUNE 26, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
6:36 P.M.

FROHIKE:

The delectable Agent Scully has finally arrived, much to my relief. She called me back half an hour ago to find out what I had called her for this morning, and when I explained about Deborah being shot, she said she'd come.

"I got here as soon as I could, guys" she says, slightly out of breath. "I've been out on a case all day."

For what must be the first time in hours, Langly looks up from Deborah's face. "Hey, Scully." His voice is thin and tense.

"How is she?" Scully asks, then takes the chart from the foot of Deborah's bed.

"Still not talking much," Langly offers quietly.

Checking the chart and the monitors, Scully does her own assessment. "She won't for a while, but the chart notes indicate that she's progressing well under the circumstances." She puts the chart back on its hook and pats Langly on the shoulder.

Langly nods. "Mostly she's just asking for ice."

What he doesn't mention is how many times she's woken asking for him, telling him she loves him. He tried to hide his response from me and Byers, but I caught him with a shimmering edge of tears in his eyes more than once after she'd said it. He turns back to Deborah and starts talking to her under his breath again.

"That's certainly to be expected in the condition she's in. Don't worry, Langly. She'll be fine. I've talked to AD Skinner, and he's arranging for two agents to spend the night here with her." Scully looks pleased, and her breath has slowed to normal.

"Who did he have to threaten?" I ask, letting a little of my relief show. The redhead of my dreams looks at me and shakes her head. It doesn't seem to matter what she does; every move she makes is beautiful.

"Has this become a Bureau matter, then?" Byers asks. He's still got his brain in straight, even if Langly and I don't.

"No, but half the stuff you three get mixed up in turns into a Bureau matter. I have no idea why I don't run for the hills whenever you call me." She gives me a faint frown, lightened by a twinkle in her gloriously blue eyes. "Bomb squad duty would be safer."

"Because you love us?" I ask.

She laughs. "Frohike, you're never going to give up, are you?"

I'm about to reply when a large figure darkens the doorway.

"Am I at the right party?" Skinner asks. He moves forward to join us. Langly just keeps whispering into Deborah's ear as he holds her hand, not even looking up.

"Thank you for coming," Byers says, offering Skinner a hand. The two shake, and Skinner bends over Deborah for a closer look.

"How is she?" His face is solemn and humorless.

Scully replies, "Doing well, considering what she's been through. What time will Fuller and Chen be here?"

"About half an hour," Skinner answers her. He turns to me. "Mulder says he'll be by later, and Scully and I will stay until the others show up. She'll be safe." We both know that what this really means is merely 'as safe as we can keep her.' We nod at each other, knowing full well that the protection offered by the FBI often falls terribly short of what's needed. I do have some faith in him; Skinner works hard to live up to his promises. "Now I want you stooges out of here. Let us do our work."

Langly snaps alert. "No! I can't leave her!"

"You know you can't stay here the whole time," I snap at him. "It's not safe for all of us to be in one place."

Skinner glares at Langly. One useful thing about the man is his innate talent for intimidation. Even Langly's usual whiny stubbornness can't stand up for long against it. "You're leaving, Langly. Do you really expect my agents to put up with you all night?"

Langly's face grows red with anger, but it has no impact on Skinner.

"You need to get some sleep, Langly," Scully says to him, taking his hand gently.

"You look like shit," Skinner says, reinforcing Scully's statement. "Go home before you fall asleep and drool on the poor woman." He jerks his thumb at the door and, reluctantly, Langly rises to his feet. Ringo plants a kiss on Deborah's cheek -- about the only exposed part of her body without something taped to it -- and leaves in a huff. Byers and I follow, after thanking the Fibbies again for their help.

OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN
8:02 P.M.

FROHIKE:

We made it back to the house without incident, thank God. Langly whined and snapped all the way back, the way a sleepy five year old does when he's exhausted and doesn't want to go to bed. I can't really blame him, but I do find it extremely annoying. If I were one of Skinner's agents, you couldn't pay me enough to sit in a room all night with blondie. I do it for free instead, stupid me. The things I do for my friends.

I made dinner for everyone, reheated potato leek soup from Sari's recipe. Langly wan't hungry, but Byers threatened to feed him, so Langly grabbed his bowl and sat down in the den to eat while he watched TV.

He's been there for almost twenty minutes now. At least he ate. Maybe the secret ingredient I put in his bowl will help him get some sleep tonight. I'm pretty sure his taste buds aren't working at the moment, so I doubt he noticed it much.

"Langly, it's about time you hauled your ass up to bed," I shout to him from the dining room.

"Fuck you, Doohickey," he spits, still perched on one of the big leather chairs in front of the TV.

"You have to pick up Deborah's parents tomorrow morning. Insomnia isn't going to make you any prettier or more charming."

"Yeah, like you're Miss America yourself."

"Look, you go to bed now, or I'm gonna kick your nads up those two flights of stairs and tuck you in myself."

"Oh God, anything but that." He groans and rises slowly to his feet. His movements betray his exhaustion and the slightly drugged state he's in. I may follow him up the stairs just to make sure he doesn't fall down on the way to his room.

"Do you need help with anything, Langly?" Byers asks. We both know Langly will refuse. He always does. Langly just shakes his head wordlessly as he stumbles by. Byers goes back to reading the files he's been perusing over his bowl.

After Langly disappears up the stairs, I turn to Byers. "We've still got a newspaper to turn out. What do you say we get to work?"

He looks up from the files and nods. "Yeah. I could use something to take my mind off the day's events." He waves the stack of paper at me. "This stuff I pulled down from Dreamland is amazing. I think we should go with this for next week's issue. I have about half of my stuff done for this week already."

I take a look at the proffered papers. "Hmmm. It does look interesting." That's is an understatement. He's got about two dozen printed files here from his hack last week, about various types of new stealth aircraft in development. Everything's here, from a radar-invisible coating to things that look like they could be modified alien tech. Mulder's really going to want to read the next issue if we can run this story.

"You sure we have enough info to back it up? You're usually the stickler for accuracy."

Byers nods. "Some of this mess is contradictory, to be sure, but if we leave out some of the more... unearthly details, it should be an excellent story. We still need to do more research to fill in the gaps, of course, but we've got a lot to work with here. And I definitely don't want to waste the effort that went into that hack. It was miserable to get into."

Well, that's true; it was a bitch. Last week, Byers spent six straight days working his way past the various layers of security at a site he'd found at Area 51 -- Dreamland. He pulled down more files than we had any hope of finding before they finally noticed him in the system. He'd gotten out ahead of their trace, but it was close... oh Christ.

I look up at him. "Byers, you think today's... incident has anything to do with these files?"

He turns chalky pale. "Oh my God."

"What if they knew it was us, and they're trying to keep us from going with this story?"

"I got out clean, Mel, I swear." Byers' voice is shaky, his normal confidence in his technical ability distinctly missing. "I'm sure they didn't get a trace on me." Doubt haunts his eyes now, and his voice is a whisper. "Oh God, what if this is my fault?"

Leave it to Byers to think the entire world is his personal fault. Unfortunately, in this case, it may very well have been his hack that called down this nasty attention on Deborah, and us. Both Sari and Mel wondered if it was possible that someone was genuinely just angry with Deborah, but I can feel it in my gut; this is something else. This is... retribution, I think. Whether it's for Byers hacking into Dreamland, or something else we've done to piss people off recently, I'm sure it's us they're really trying to get to.

We checked Deborah out, just like we checked out Sari -- and Mel. She's grated on a few people's nerves in the past couple of years, but we couldn't find anyone she could possibly have pissed off enough to do this to her. Nothing she's said in the last month or so would indicate that she's done anything more recently, either. The whole thing creeps me out.

"Whatever it is, Byers, we'll get through this. We always do." I put a hand on his shoulder, but he's really getting into the idea that he's personally called down the lightning.

"I never meant for anyone to get hurt, Mel!" He shakes his head and puts his face in his hands.

"Take it easy, Byers. We don't know it was this hack that did it. It could have been anything. For all we know, Monroe's decided to come out of hiding and try to nail us for screwing up his position."

"Oh, God. Not him again. It can't be Monroe. Nobody's seen a trace of him since we busted him a couple months ago." He looks up at me. "I don't even want to think about what he might do if he came up from underground." His eyes widen and he slips into his deer in the headlights look. "Have you talked to Mel? Is she okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, Byers, I talked to her this morning. She was fine. You talked to Sari on the phone an hour ago, and she was fine too. Right now, everybody's about as safe as they're going to be."

"Sari should be here. The security's better." His voice is shaky, and I know he's getting a little panicky. I also know Sari will tell him she's not about to run and hide every time something gets hinky around us -- she'd spend the rest of her life in hiding.

"Ease up, John. Sari's fine. We put in good security at her place. It stopped a burglar a couple of weeks ago, remember?"

His alarm increases. "How do we know that wasn't related to something we've done?" he asks, his breath quickening.

I shake my head. "No, this was the guy they arrested three days ago for a string of break-ins in her neighborhood. It had nothing to do with us, or with her. Now are you gonna take a deep breath and calm down, or do I have to get you a paper bag?"

That stops him cold. He takes a deep breath and releases a little of the tension he's holding, but doesn't say anything. I can see the little wheels in his head still whirling at light speed. I swear that boy's going to give himself a heart attack before he's 40.

"It's not always about us, you know."

"No," he agrees in a whisper. "I suppose it isn't. All the same, I'd feel better if I knew Mel and Sari were safe."

"They are. They're as safe as any of us." I don't mention that a horde of screaming death squad barbarians could come kicking the door in at any time and leave the three of us in bloody puddles on the floor. It doesn't matter how much security you have if your enemy is big enough.

"Come on, Byers," I say with a sigh, "let's get some work done on the paper. It's not going to write itself."

TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
OFFICE OF THE LONE GUNMEN
7:14 A.M.

BYERS:

For possibly the first time in history, Langly is up before 8 a.m. of his own accord. I don't see him, but I can hear the shower. Frohike's sitting here next to me. We're having coffee and perusing the headlines on a stack of papers, as we do every morning when we have the time.

"At least he slept," Frohike growls. "More than I did. Should've kept some of those drugs for myself."

"No kidding." I finally gave up trying and got up and went back to work. I couldn't sleep at all, since my mind was full of terrible visions of Sari being shot, or Mel, or any of the three of us. I know that insomnia will hit me later, and I'm not going to get a nap. My gut says we won't have that kind of day. There are already signs that it's going to be miserable. It's not even 8 a.m., and the temperature is already threatening to hit triple digits.

"I hope he doesn't do anything stupid in front of Deborah's parents." Frohike shakes his head as he loosens his Hugh Hefner robe. He's not being insulting; it's how Frohike shows his concern.

"What, like tell them what we really do?" I ask, sipping my fourth cup of coffee. It's threatening to send my central nervous system into overdrive.

"No, even he's not that stupid. I just hope he can be... tactful."

I understand. Langly has the social grace of a five year old. He hasn't mastered the art of the social white lie. While I can do it myself when the occasion demands, I do wonder why we as a society consider it one of the hallmarks of maturity.

As I check obituaries, Langly stumbles into the work area, his glasses askew as he rubs his eyes. "Is there coffee?" he asks with a yawn. He still looks terrible, but it's an improvement over yesterday.

"When isn't there coffee?" Frohike snaps.

I study Ringo. His face looks more gaunt than usual, and the circles under his eyes are a deep purple, but what's really jarring is the shirt. It's the orange one. It's hideous, better for traffic control than impressing people.

"Uh, Langly? I don't think... you probably don't want to meet Deborah's parents wearing that," I suggest.

He jerks his head up. "What do you mean? It's got a collar, just like Sari said."

"Well, yes, it does, but... the color..." He could be seen a good five miles away on a hillside in that thing.

"What's wrong with red?"

"Langly, that shirt hasn't been red since Bush left office," Frohike growls. It's a horrible, eye-mauling shade. The cuffs are shredded along the edges, and you can see the interface poking through the collar.

"I only got three collar shirts. This one's the cleanest," he whines.

"It's not going to work, Ringo." I try to keep my tone matter of fact. I really want Deborah's parents to see him for the decent man he is, not the questionable fashion victim he looks like.

"Let him use one of yours," Frohike calls as he brings out the coffee pot, refilling us and handing Langly a fresh mug.

"He's bigger than I am," I answer. I made that mistake once. My shirt came home with the sleeves ripped and the buttons popped. The cuffs don't come anywhere close to his wrists. Langly's got big, Nordic bones. I'm a lot thinner, not to mention slightly shorter and smaller boned.

"The blue one's missing a bunch of buttons," Langly grumbles.

"Not that it should ever be viewed in public," I mutter. His blue shirt is Hawaiian, and tackier than usual. "What about the checkered one?" Granted, that one will never make anybody's Best Dressed List, but it's the least offensive of his three 'dress shirts.' He even has a tie that sort of matches. Sort of.

"Wore it three times already. Deb says it needs washing." Deborah's been raising his standards, I see. Maybe there is hope.

"Why don't I ask Sari to get one for you? She's done things like that before." There must be something that could salvage his first impression with Deborah's parents. Sari won't be thrilled with my presumption that she'll do it, but I think she'll at least be understanding.

"It's just a fucking shirt!" Langly explodes at me. "Jesus, can't you guys ever lay off me? I mean, if I wanted to keep being hassled, I'd have stayed on the farm already!"

Frohike and I pass a look to each other. Langly rarely, if ever, talks about his family. Growing up on a farm in Saltville, Nebraska in a Pentecostal family wasn't an ideal childhood for the intelligent, imaginative, freedom-loving type he must have been. He hasn't spoken to his parents in even longer than I haven't spoken to my father. That's an uncomfortable thought.

Frohike steps up and places a hand on his back, and Langly jerks away. "I hope *you're* not gonna try and give me fashion advice!" he snaps.

I almost burst out laughing; the idea of Frohike giving anyone fashion pointers sounds like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone.

"Look, dude," Frohike keeps his voice soft. "We just want the girl's parents to give you a chance before they find out what a jerk you really are."

Langly shoots us the Look of Death, grabs his backpack, and heads for the door. "Fuck you both." He slams the door behind him without another word.

I shake my head and sigh. "I don't care what he says. I'm calling Sari."

Frohike looks over at me. "No wonder he stayed a virgin 'til he was 32."

PART 5

"Love is all we have, the only way
Each can help the other."

~~Orestes -- Euripides, Arrowsmith translation~~
______

TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
10:00 A.M.

LANGLY:

Deb's doing better. I feel like I can breathe again when I walk in her room and the nurse says, "She's improved a lot over night." Of course, that was after I had to do everything but get strip-searched by the FBI Nazis at the door. Yeah, it's for Deb's protection, but you'd at least think Skinner'd have the decency to tell them who I was. Okay, no, he wouldn't. He loves making me sweat, the bastard.

She's still really pale, but when I lean over and kiss her and say "Hey babe," she opens her eyes and blinks at me and gives me a ghost of a smile.

"Sweetie." Her breathing is still a little rough.

"Hey. I'm gonna pick up your folks in a while."

"Mom and dad? They're coming?" She blinks at me again.

"Well, duh! You really think I wouldn't call 'em?" I won't going to tell her I almost didn't.

"Ringo, you're so sweet." She closes her eyes again and falls back to sleep. I see we'll be having a real stimulating conversation. Oh well. She's still real sick and I have to be patient. I'm just glad she's doing okay.

I sit down by her bed and hold her hand. Sometimes I brush her hair off her face, and if she wants ice I bring it to her. They're still not letting her drink anything, the bastards. She's dying of thirst. I swear to God, as soon as I can, I'll bring her the biggest bucket of root beer on the planet. She loves the stuff.

Nurses and respiratory therapists come in and out so much I hardly notice that Sari's come into the room.

"Hey, Sari. I thought Byers wasn't letting you drive around." I heard him talking to her about it last night before dinner. He was getting pretty angry.

She shakes her head. "John's heart is in the right place, but I still have to live my life." She sounds kind of annoyed about it, but goes over to Deb and strokes her cheek. "How is she?"

"Doing better. She's still awful tired."

"She will be for a while."

"So they tell me."

She turns to me and squeezes my hand. "How are you doing today, Ringo?"

"I'm... I feel like somebody drugged me last night. I mean, I slept like the dead. Makes me think Frohike put something in my soup."

She smiles this Mona Lisa smile, but doesn't say anything. Of course, if Fro did drug me, she's probably in cahoots with him. I wouldn't put it past her. She's sneakier than Byers, and keeps a straighter face when she's up to no good.

"When are her parents due in?"

I check my Palm Pilot. "About 11:40 at Dulles. I need to go get them pretty soon."

Sari looks at Deb. "Ringo, she needs some lip balm. Her lips are all chapped."

"Oh, man, I forgot." I feel like such a moron. It's not Sari's fault or anything, I just am. My hands are shaking while I slide a little on with my finger, but it makes Deb open her eyes again.

"Sweetie," she whispers with a tiny smile, "thank you." She falls back to sleep. Three words is about all she can manage right now. I'm lucky if I can do that at the top of my game.

I check my watch -- 10:07 a.m. I'll have to bail in less than an hour if I'm gonna catch Deb's folks. Shit, I'm sweating. There's no antiperspirant in the universe that could fight what I'm going through right now.

"Are you off today?" I ask Sari. I don't think so, she's got a suit on.

"No, but I came by to see Deborah and to help you get ready."

"Get ready?" Believe me, nothing can get me ready for meeting my girl's parents. Oh God, they're gonna hate me. Then they'll make Deb think I'm a screw up and a jerk and she shouldn't hang with me. They'd be right.

"Here." She's got a bag I didn't notice when she came in. "Once again, my emergency shopper is at your service." She pulls out a shirt. It's blue with white stripes and it's got a collar. It actually feels nice. Guess sometimes you do get what you pay for. I hope she charged it to Byers, or maybe Mulder. Mulder would never notice a shirt on his card. I'm a little embarrassed to strip off in front of her, so I slip into Deb's bathroom to change. Sari nods when I come out.

"Very nice. Now for your hair."

"I washed it." Deb says she likes the way my hair smells.

"Deborah's parents are from New Orleans. Long hair isn't generally considered respectable there, but I think if we just brush it and pull it back in a ponytail, you'll be fine. Sit."

I get back in the miserable excuse for a chair I'd been sitting in, and Sari brushes my hair and pulls it back. Deb brushes my hair, and I always like it. It's kind of relaxing. Byers should have Sari do that for him sometime. I don't know what the hell he's waiting on.

"You look very nice, Ringo," Sari tells me. "Now relax. You'll do just fine."

Oh, not even.

DULLES AIRPORT
11:25 A.M.

LANGLY:

I think I know how people felt going to Auschwitz. My heart's in my stomach. Their flight's delayed by about 15 minutes. Not bad considering they're flying Continental. It could be worse. They could be on Northworst, and I could spend half the day waiting, only to find that the plane was misdirected and it's somewhere over Antarctica. Not that they have air routes over Antarctica, but the way things have gone since deregulation, you never know.

I keep thinking maybe they've decided not to come. Fat chance of that, though. Deb's their baby girl and they care about her. Hell would freeze over first. I think that's what I hate most about this. Meeting her folks, it makes me think about mine, and that's never a cheerful topic.

I consider going for a latte, but when I passed the cart, the line was all the way back to security. I should've brought some M&M's to munch on, for tension relief. I probably would have if Byers and Frohike hadn't decided to be such dicks this morning. You'd think they could cut a guy in my situation a little slack, but forget it.

Frohike's the one that talked to Deb's parents and got all their flight info. He said he described me, and I've got a vague description of them. I was told to look for tall. That doesn't surprise me. I just wonder what the hell Fro said to them. For all I know, they decided to take a different flight and avoid me altogether, but I couldn't get that lucky. Not this week, at any rate.

I'm trying not to fidget, and not to bite my nails, but it seems like since Deb got shot, I've reinvented the manicure. I can't have Deb's parents come and meet me with my hands in my mouth.

"Richard Langly?" I hear a guy's voice, and almost jump out of my skin. I realize I'm gnawing on my thumbnail. Crap.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be me." Wonderful. Sterling delivery. I'm sure I impressed them, but not the way I hoped. I look at the huge guy talking to me. He's standing next to a tall lady and he doesn't look too friendly. In fact, he's looking at me like I'm one of the Cardinal's hair balls. Yep, we're off to a great start. "You're... ah..."

"Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn," he says. Well, looks like we won't be getting all cozy. I offer him my hand.

"Um, hi." I should've had Frohike wire me so Byers could read me my lines. I'm improvising, and not doing it very well.

"Richard. So nice to meet you." Deb's mom's a little friendlier, and she reaches out her hand to shake mine. "I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

"Yes, ma'am." Oh, you have no idea, Mrs. SaintJohn. "Do you have any checked bags?"

"No, we carried on. Damn airlines lose them every time," Mr. SaintJohn says as he hoists his up. Maybe I should offer to carry hers.

"You want me to carry that?" I ask.

I get a big smile. "Thank you." Okay, score one for me. Of course, when you're with your girl's parents, any victory's bound to be short lived. Mine lasts until we get to the parking garage.

"This is Deborah's car." Her dad turns around and looks at me like I'm some major loser. He's right, of course.

"Mine, ah, kind of needs some work right now." I gulp hard, trying to stuff their bags into the shoe box that passes for Deb's trunk. Escorts were barely designed to carry people, much less luggage.

"What kind of car is it?" he asks. Sounds more like he's asking me where I was at midnight on the 31st of January, and can anyone verify my whereabouts. If I had a lawyer I'd be tempted to call him.

"It's a '72 Microbus." I say it fast, hoping he won't notice. Frohike's always telling me I should shut up. It figures that the one time I need to have an intelligent conversation, I can't get a decent word out. Her dad gives me a weird look.

"They're not very safe." Yeah, well, he should consider what we're driving right now. Lucky for me, Byers took care of the glass problem, so at least I don't have to explain that. Maybe the narc's not such a dick after all.

"Oh, Gerard, you have no room to talk!" Mrs. SaintJohn, at least for the moment, seems to be on my side. She looks at me. "He's got a '66 Pontiac LeMans convertible. He's got no room to talk about car safety."

I start the engine and get us out of the garage. Actually, I'd really like to know about his '66, but I don't think he's in the mood for that when the next words out of his mouth are "So how did this happen?"

Shit. I knew we'd get to that. "I dropped her off for her shift, and..."

"What time?" he interrupts. He might have been a firefighter, but he's got the manners of a cop. I'm no good around cops.

"She went on at 4."

"In the morning? And you were at her apartment?" He's grilling me now. The money on the shirt's been wasted. I'm sweating like a pig, even though the AC's on.

"Oh, Gerard, stop it! Deborah's 29 years old. She's not in high school." Thank you, Mrs. SaintJohn. Then she leans over towards me. "You were with her before that, weren't you?"

"Uh...yeah."

Both her folks glare at me. If their idea of fun is making their daughter's boyfriend sweat, they must be having a blast. I tell myself they're just real worried, it's their little girl, and I'd probably be real mad if it was my -- wait a minute. Keep your eyes on the road, boy.

Her dad speaks first. "So you dropped her at work. Did you see her go in?"

"It didn't happen 'til she went on shift. That's what they told me."

"Was she treating a patient?"

My brain cells have suddenly all died. "She was in the suture room, doing, um... sutures."

"Right." He snorts, all annoyed. "When did you get the call?"

"About half an hour after I got home."

"You didn't call us right away?" They say nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. I knew enough to expect this one, and I'm still not prepared.

"I... look, I wasn't thinking too good. I was worried sick about her, and I wanted to make sure she was okay." That sounds so lame.

"Gerard, relax. He was doing what he thought was best, and he did call us," her mom says.

God, do not let me be alone with her dad -- make sure mom is around. Of course, if they knew what we think caused this, they'd kill me and leave my by the side of the road. "Did you want to check into your motel first?" Frohike says they made reservations. "Maybe have some lunch?"

"We can't check in until 4, and I want to see my daughter now." Her dad isn't happy with me. I think at this point it's beyond repair. He'll never like me. If he knew the truth, he'd have some damn good reasons not to.

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMEN
12:10 P.M.

FROHIKE:

The door buzzer sounds.

"Can you get that?" Byers says, not looking up. He's still sweating over the stealth aircraft data files. We spent the night trying to figure out what the inconsistencies were, and what to believe in these files, but no luck.

"What, do I look like the maid?" I check the video monitor. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," I say as I unlock the door for Mulder.

"You shouldn't talk about yourself that way, Frohike -- not when you have so many of us willing to do it for you," Mulder says cheerfully. I feel like decking him, but then, I almost always do.

"We've been paging you since last night," Byers snaps. "Where the hell were you?" The boy's a bit testy because Sari refused to let him drive her to work today. He made a real pain in the ass of himself about it, too. I'm surprised she didn't tell him never to call her again.

"Hey, some of us work for a living," Mulder fires back.

"Like you'd know about that," I add.

"If you're calling me to tell me about Langly's amazon, I've seen her already. Twice."

"We figured Scully took care of that. This is something else. Come see what we've got," I urge him over towards Byers' computer. He doesn't take the hint and heads for the stairs, obviously intending to raid the kitchen.

"Frohike, what do you have to eat? I'm starving."

"What, you haven't had a cholesterol fix in the last twenty minutes? You've been here often enough, you know where everything is."

"Is that how you treat all your guests?" he calls out, already up the stairs and around the corner.

"You're not a guest," I shout, "unless you consider rodents guests."

"Mulder, come down here now!" Byers is really twitchy this morning. Unlike Mulder, insomnia doesn't become him.

"Gotta eat my power lunch first," Mulder says, coming down the stairs with a bag of M&M's and a classic Coke. Sugar, fat, caffeine and chocolate, all in one tidy package -- and he's got the lowest cholesterol of anyone I know. I hate him. "What've you got?" he asks with a loud yawn, then gulps down the Coke -- noisily, I might add. Byers looks about ready to strangle him.

"Take a look at this." Byers points to the data on his screen.

"What is it?" Mulder asks, tossing another handful of M&M's down his throat.

"It's one of a series of files on stealth aircraft," Byers says, "but it's not like anything we've ever seen. There are so many contradictory data files in here that I don't have any idea where to start."

Mulder peers at the screen. "What's this got to do with me?"

"Well, Byers pulled this down from Dreamland," I explain. "Didn't you head out to Nevada a couple years back? You were supposed to meet up with someone out there."

"Area 51? I was, but it never panned out. My contact didn't show up." Mulder continues munching.

I hope Langly forgets he had those M&M's, or Mulder's going to have to face Blondie all by himself.

"Don't you remember?" Mulder asks. "We went out there, then turned around and came home."

"And Scully didn't shoot you?" I mutter. The woman should be nominated for sainthood for putting up with him. "So there's nothing you can tell us about this."

"Afraid not. Sorry, guys." He yawns again. "But I'd love to take a closer look at the files for myself. Can you burn me a disc with the info on it?"

Byers flips a zip disc in his fingers, presenting it to Mulder. "I knew you'd ask."

"Thanks," Mulder grunts, pocketing the disc.

I look our G-man up and down. "Up late again?" Mulder's insomnia is legendary.

"Actually," he mumbles, "Scully and I sent Chen and Fuller home around midnight." He seems slightly embarrassed.

"You two stayed with Deborah?" I'm pleasantly astonished.

"Well, y'know." He finishes pouring the remaining M&M's into his mouth. "They'd been working all day, and they were getting kind of tired."

So were he and Scully. They were on a miserable case at the Lorton Correctional Facility. I doubt their day was a piece of cake.

He tosses the crumpled empty bag on Byers' desk. Byers just glares. "Thanks for lunch, guys. Gotta go. I'll be in touch." He heads out, and I secure the door behind him.

You wonder why we put up with him? There's your answer.

PART 6

"Now matter which way you ride, it's uphill and against the wind."

~~First Law of Bicycling~~
______

TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
1:35 P.M.

FROHIKE:

When we arrived in Deborah's room, I found scattered sunflower hulls around her bed; a sure sign of Mulder's presence. They remind me of rat droppings. It drives Byers nuts when Mulder spits them on the floor at our place. Once, Byers got so annoyed that he smacked Mulder with a whisk broom after sweeping up a pile of the damned things Mulder had spit on his desk. Mulder may not have entirely gotten the hint about hull spitting, but he did stop piling them on Byers' desk after that.

Langly should be here any minute unless traffic is worse than usual. Deborah's been in and out; more in today than yesterday. That should please Blondie to no end. It sure pleases us. She's managed to put together a few coherent sentences in the last hour. It's an encouraging sign.

Byers is still reading the files he's printed out, fretting and mumbling under his breath. I've been keeping watch over both of them. I examined the files closely. I'm convinced that something about this mess triggered the shooting. It curdles my stomach, and I've been dropping antacids the way Langly puts down M&M's. Every now and then, Byers marks or circles something with a blue highlighter, or utters a sharp, sotto voce curse.

Johnny's been wound up tighter than a mummy in a watch spring ever since he talked to Sari this morning. They had a fight over him driving her to work. At one point, I could even hear her shouting at him over the phone, though I couldn't make out the words. Knowing Ms. Thomas, I'm sure it was colorful.

They both dislike conflict and arguments as a rule, and he's still extremely upset over the whole thing. I know he wants to make sure she's safe, but she's spent the last three years of her life trying to hide. Now that her ex is gone, she's savoring her freedom and intends to keep it. Unfortunately, I can't blame either of them for their feelings, or their reasons for having them, and there really doesn't seem to be room for compromise.

"Uuh?" Deborah moans, waking again.

Byers is immediately alert and present, files momentarily forgotten, and I run a hand softly over Deborah's cheek. "How are you feeling, my dear?" I ask her.

"Shitty," Deborah says with a tired almost-whine. "Ringo here?"

Byers says "Not ye--" just as the door opens and Langly hurries in, followed by her parents.

"Stupid Fibbies," Langly mutters. They must have hassled everyone at the door again.

"Ringo," Deborah says, smiling. He's there in a heartbeat, kissing her carefully. Her parents are on his heels.

"I brought your folks, like I promised," he says. I can hear the strain in his voice. He looks like he's been through the wringer.

Gerard and Sarah Jane SaintJohn are shocked by their daughter's appearance, and extremely concerned. Her father is stern and angry, her mother anxious but relieved to hear Deborah's voice. They're shouting over each other, and while they don't shove Langly out of the way, it sure looks like they want to try. He stands his ground next to Deborah for a few minutes, holding her hand. When both of them give him a full-bore glare, he hurries over to me and Byers.

I hear him wheezing, and it's not lost on Byers, either. John hands him his inhaler, and Langly takes two hits. I hope it helps; he can't have more for 20 minutes.

"Are you okay, Langly?" Byers asks. He holds his hand out to accept the inhaler, but Langly pockets it. It's a cold day in hell when he's ready to carry his own inhaler. He must be anticipating that things are only going to get worse.

Of course, they do. "What's going on?" Mr. SaintJohn demands abruptly, staring at Langly.

"He has asthma. He took some Ventolin," Byers says.

Mr. SaintJohn snorts, and returns his attention to his daughter. "You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?" he says to her sharply. I don't think he means it. Sniping at Langly's probably about the only outlet for his distress, but Ringo looks like he wishes someone would kill him now. Mrs. SaintJohn snaps at her husband that he's being ridiculous, but he's obviously not paying attention and goes on and on about Deborah leaving "this godforsaken cesspool."

"Right. So she can go to New Orleans. Oh yeah, real safe there," Langly growls. New Orleans may not be DC, but it's still one of the cities with the highest crime rates in the US. Unfortunately, logic won't impress Mr. SaintJohn at this point.

"Did you say something?" Mr. SaintJohn snaps at Langly.

I need to put a stop to this right now, before Langly shoots his mouth off and Mr. SaintJohn gets completely out of control. The last thing Deborah needs is a screaming fight, and that's what I fear it'll come to in the next ten seconds.

I walk over to the man, who rivals Skinner in size and bearing. "Sir, I'm Melvin Frohike." I offer my hand. He ignores it, but I'll let it slide. "We spoke yesterday. Richard was there on time, I assume."

"Uh -- yes. Yes, he was." Mr. SaintJohn is off balance, but that's the idea; get him off his rant.

"I couldn't help noticing your jacket. Army, I see. You were at Bien Hoa, weren't you?"

He eyes me quizzically. "How did you know? Were you in country? "

"Yeah. Marines. Khe Sanh. I recognized your division emblem."

Khe Sanh was one of the bloodiest battles of the war. It gets a little respect from the Not So Jolly Green Giant. Finally, he extends his hand. "Mr. Frohike." At least he didn't call me Melvin.

Damage control is underway, but Langly, smart ass that he is, could easily stir the waters again. "Byers, get him some lunch."

"Hey, I just--" Langly protests.

Byers knows what I'm staging here. "Langly, I don't care if you're hungry or not. I'm starving. Let's go." He motions to the door.

Langly protests, but Byers grabs his arm and drags him out. Blondie may be pissed now, but he's gonna thank me later, assuming I can pull this off.

"Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn, I can't say how sorry I am about what happened to Deborah." I walk over to the girl's bed. She's crying silently. Her mother glares at Gerard.

"It would never have happened if she wasn't here," Mr. SaintJohn rumbles.

"Gerard, you don't know that!" his wife snaps. She's clearly irritated. If she's having similar thoughts, she's keeping them to herself for her daughter's sake. Her tone implies that he'd damn well better do the same.

"It's true," I tell them. "GWU's in a dangerous neighborhood, but as far as security goes, it's one of the best in the country. Not that this is saying much, but it's something. The staff reacted fast, and her advisor did the surgery. He's one of the best trauma surgeons in the country." You can bet I checked out Dr. Gary Waldinger. If I thought for an instant he wasn't on the up and up, I'd have insisted that Deborah be moved to another facility. Fortunately our encounters here, while not pleasant, have been consistently high quality. "Deborah will recover just fine, and she'll get superb training under him."

"And what good will it do if she keeps getting shot up?" he demands harshly.

"I don't think that will happen." Well, that's what I'm hoping. As long as she's around us, there will always be the potential for other incidents. I'll be damned if I'm going to say anything about it, though. It's Deborah's choice, not his.

"Are you a journalist, too?" Deborah's mom asks. She's still trying to calm her husband. I suspect she's had a lot of practice, but not with a seriously injured daughter to complicate things.

"I am."

Mr. SaintJohn rolls his eyes; obviously he has as good an opinion of the press as most Americans. Before he can say anything, though, there's a knock at the door.

"I'll get that," I tell him. I just hope it's someone we know.

Well, I know her, but she's not someone I want to see. It's Kate Sandridge of the Washington Post, Metro division. Kate is a bulldog crime reporter; she'll do anything to get a story. We had a one night stand some years ago, where I discovered she was considerably less interested in my sexual prowess than my background for a story she was having trouble researching. We've been civil since then, but barely.

"Melvin. Trying to scoop me again?" she says, with barely concealed ire.

"I'm not here as a journalist. I'm here as a friend."

"Who is it?" Mr. SaintJohn bellows, so loud that even Kate jumps back a bit.

"I'll take care of it," I tell him. I turn back to the current source of heartburn. "Listen, Kate, I know you want a story, but you can't come in."

"This is news. Who the hell are you to tell me where I can and can't go?" she demands irritably.

"Listen," I keep my tone low, "her parents just got here. The girl's conscious but she's still pretty shaky. I don't think your being here is going to help her."

"You're just trying to get the story out from under me," she hisses.

"I'm not getting any story out of this. Believe me, she'd be better off if you just leave it alone." I don't mention that my ass is in a sling too. It would only goad Kate into pushing me.

She stares at me, brown eyes hard, her full lips pursed. Make no mistake, Kate Sandridge is one fine looking woman. She wasn't a bad lay, either.

"Kate, if I find anything, you'll be the first to know." She knows how much she can believe that.

She glares at me for a moment. "Don't make me write something else about you on the wall in the little girls' room." She turns and storms down the hall.

"Who was that?" asks Mrs. SaintJohn, wiping her daughter's face with a cool cloth. Her husband is holding his daughter's hand.

"Daddy, that hurts," Deborah protests, her voice weak. He's got her hand in a death grip. I understand why he's doing it, but her hand is pierced by an IV, and it's got to be painful.

"A journalist. Washington Post." I don't really care to give any further details.

Mr. SaintJohn doesn't miss a trick. He's sly, I'll give him that. "Sounds like you know her."

"Well, you know, journalists tend to know each other." He doesn't need to know I've known her in the carnal sense.

He looks unconvinced but lets it go. "Why is the FBI at her door? Why not hospital security?"

I don't want to explain that, either. "We have friends at the Bureau, and we called in a few favors."

He grunts. "Thank you."

Mrs. SaintJohn smiles at me. "We really appreciate it, Mr. Frohike."

"It's just Frohike, ma'am." I pause for a moment. "I'd be happy to stay with Deborah if you'd like to get some lunch."

"We're not going anywhere." Mr. SaintJohn is firm on that, but his tone is less threatening than it was before.

"Then perhaps I could bring you some of the finest cheesesteaks in DC?" I offer. I could go for a cheesesteak myself. It's comfort food.

Mrs. SaintJohn smiles. "That would be lovely, thank you. And you can call me Sarah Jane."

Mr. SaintJohn reaches for his wallet, but I assure him lunch is on me. As I head out I let out a long breath. Part One of Mission: Impossible is accomplished. Now for Part Two, the really impossible mission -- convincing them Langly's a great guy. I'm not exactly convinced myself.

BURGER KING
2:02 P.M.

BYERS:

"I'm not hungry." Langly's hands are stuffed deep in his pockets. His feet are planted wide, and his jaw is set in a hard line as we wait to order.

Two can play at this game. "Langly, do you know why we're here?"

"You're trying to make me eat."

"Exactly. It's because this is my preferred diet." I'd eat almost anything before I'd eat what passes for food here. For him, the usual: two Whoppers with cheese, no tomatoes, extra large fries and enough Coke to drown in. I settle for a limp salad, chicken sandwich and an iced tea. We sit, and Langly stares at the allegedly edible grease blobs in front of him, not touching anything.

"Langly, I paid for that. Eat it."

He glares. "Why won't you show me what you're working on?"

I almost drop my iced tea. With Deborah hospitalized and her parents here, the last thing I expected him to do was pay attention to work. "I don't even know what it is yet."

"But you think it's connected to why Deb got shot." His angry blue eyes bore into me. I flinch; I suspect it's true, but I don't have proof.

"I don't know." I'm sticking to my guns here. I can see the word 'liar' forming on his tongue when my phone rings. I grab it from my pocket, grateful for the rescue. "Byers."

"Been trying to reach you boys. Where the hell are you?" It's Mulder.

"In the Burger King on 33rd. Why?"

"Well, get your asses back to the office. I have something."

I want to ask him what it is, but not on the cell. I don't care how good Frohike says the security fix is, I still don't trust it. You might as well broadcast it on tv. "Give us an hour." I click off.

Langly eyes me, even more suspicious now. "What was that all about?"

"Not sure. We'll find out later."

He groans. "Great. I'm gonna spend all afternoon with the 'rents and no moral support."

"Eat something." I take a cautious nibble at the grilled chicken sandwich. It's awful, as usual. Ringo sighs and takes a bite. It's a small victory, but something tells me that they're the only kind we'll be having for a while.

LONE GUNMEN OFFICES
3:20 P.M.

BYERS:

Mulder was adamant that we meet as soon as possible, but as usual, he's late. "Should've figured as much," Frohike grumbles. "Between him and Langly, one of them's gonna be late for his own funeral."

The buzzer sounds, and it's Mulder, finally. "Where were you? We rushed back here and you don't even have the decency to arrive on time." I feel bad about snapping at people, but Mulder richly deserves it today.

"I'm trying to help you guys, and this is the thanks I get?" He whispers something to Frohike.

Frohike snorts. "With him, it's always that time of the month." I'd strangle them both, but I need to know if Mulder has anything.

"What have you got?" Frohike asks, taking the disk from Mulder.

"Took it over to a friend at the Pentagon, had him take a look at it," Mulder says, grabbing a soda from the office fridge.

"You have friends?" Frohike asks, his voice thick with irony. I can't help giving a sharp chuckle.

"Only when I pay them enough," Mulder says blithely.

None of this should have gone anywhere, and I'm growing even more deeply annoyed with him. Most of the time he keeps the stuff we give him closer than he keeps his skin. Well, unless it gets stolen. "The fewer people that know about this, the better."

"C'mon Byers, chill. This guy's righteous. He's helped me before. "

"So what did this 'friend' tell you?" I demand. I should be more gracious, but the knots that started in my stomach have worked their way through my entire body. My muscles are so tight they might snap. I wish Sari had left a message for me, but of course she hasn't. I'd call her, but after this morning, I have a feeling she'd slam the phone down without even letting me speak.

"Well, he says it's Air Force encryption."

"We knew that," Frohike snaps at him. "What have you done for me lately?"

"Boys, boys, a little patience, please. He tried to crack the algorithm."

"What algorithm?" I ask, confused. "We sent over plain text."

"I don't know. He started on it, but said it wasn't going to happen there. I told him to come over here. He should be here --" the buzzer sounds, "-- right about now."

The sound startles me and serves only to make me more irritated. "You brought him here? You told him where we live?" I'm about ready to deck him. Things just keep going from bad to worse.

"Relax, Byers. You know him." Mulder gets to the door first, with Frohike and I close on his heels. I stare at the face in the security camera.

"Kimmy?" I blink. I turn abruptly to Mulder. "You two know each other?"

Mulder begins singing 'It's a Small World.' Now that miserable song'll be stuck in my head all day.

"I see you're slumming again, Kimmy," Frohike says to him as he enters.

"Yeah, my social life's been in decline since I met you guys," Kimmy retorts. I almost laugh out loud. Kimmy's never had a social life. "Not to mention that one of these days, I'm gonna get fired."

"Kimmy, if you're not comfortable with this--"

He cuts me off. "I shouldn't even be here with you girl scouts. Every time I do something for you, my ass gets fried. I got no desire to end up like Jimmy." I cringe. Kimmy's twin brother Jimmy was killed last year, helping me find Susanne. "So where's Blondie? Still with the wife?"

"The 'wife,'" Frohike growls, "isn't having the best day of her life, either."

"Langly's a total wuss. Like last week, we were gonna game. I got the best new set of cheats around, too. So what does girly-man say? He's spending the day with her. God, he's whipped."

"Kimmy, shut up and get to work," Mulder says, "or no Jolt for you."

He sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. "Fine. I'll get it started. But once I break the encryption, I'm gone. I was never here. I never talked to any of you."

"We broke that encryption. Mulder, you're wasting our time!" I'm utterly irate.

"Not so fast, ladies. So you broke the first layer. Any pussy can do that. It's what's under it that counts," Kimmy says.

"What're you talking about?" Frohike demands.

"Ghost files."

I shake my head. "That was plain text in there!"

Kimmy smirks at me. "That's why I'm the king, and you're not."

Frohike snorts. "That's why you're a virgin, and I'm not." Kimmy gives him a murderous look, but doesn't deny it. Kimmy's never been laid in his life, and it's not just women that won't have him. As he once muttered, when utterly drunk, 'being bi means getting rejected by twice as many people.'

He starts working, then glares up at us abruptly. "You mind not breathing down my neck?"

Frohike smiles and snipes, "Just observing the master." He motions, and we head upstairs.

"Little tetchy, isn't he? You guys seem to have that effect on people," Mulder says, still calm.

"Please. I'm not in the mood for anyone's PMS today," Frohike groans.

"Frohike, do you have to be so offensive?" I snap.

He glowers at me. "Look, I'm sorry you got into it with your chickadee this morning --"

"For the last time," I bellow, "she is *not* my chickadee, and I wish you'd lay off!"

"Whatever, Byers. You've had your shorts in a knot since this whole thing started."

I hate today. "I'm worried about her! Aren't you even the least bit worried about Ms. Scarlett?"

Frohike closes his eyes and leans back in his chair with a groan. "Mulder, you packing?"

"Always."

He points at me. "Feel free to use it on him." And I thought the day couldn't get any worse.

PART 7

"To fear is one thing. To let it grab you by the tail and swing you around is another."

~~Katherine Patterson -- Jacob Have I Loved~~
______

TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
7:40 P.M.

FROHIKE:

Kimmy left about half an hour ago. It took him over four hours to crack the encryption on the ghost files, even with Byers and I working with him. Belmont's usually an arrogant bastard, but he was so freaked by the file contents that he ran out the door without a single snide comment. You know it's bad when he doesn't insult your manhood for ten minutes before he leaves.

Byers, Mulder and I are still looking over the contents when the phone rings.

"I'll get it." The phone's next to my elbow anyway.

Before I have a chance to speak, Kimmy's yelling in my ear. "You bastards, you're gonna get me killed just like my brother!"

"Whoa, wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about?" Mulder and Byers look up at me.

"I just got shot at, you stupid cunt!"

"You little punk, don't you ever call me a--" My brain registers what he just said and I stop to regroup. "Shot at?"

Byers and Mulder are both shouting now, asking what the hell's up and who's on the phone.

"It's Kimmy. He says somebody shot at him," I answer, then turn my attention back to our erstwhile colleague. "Where are you, man? What happened?"

"You think I'm gonna tell you where I am over the phone? You're insane! This is all your fault, you and your nutcase pal Byers. This is serious shit you got me into. I'm going underground man. Don't bother looking for me! Don't call me, don't come to my place, and don't fuckin' breathe my name again! I hope the asshole who shot at me is at your goddamn doorstep next." With that he slams down his receiver and I'm left with a dead phone in my hand. I stare at it for a few seconds, trying to get my wits together, then hang up.

Byers goes dead pale. "Kimmy got shot at? Oh, no."

It's not like Kimmy's never pissed anybody off himself, but this just intensifies that twist in my gut that tells me Byers is right. This has everything to do with these files, and so does Deborah's shooting. They know we have it. They know Kimmy's got better kung fu than anybody else with DoD files. They know he was here, and probably saw him leave, which means that our place has got to be under live surveillance right now. We have to find out who 'they' are, and fast.

"I'll go see if there's anything going down outside here," Mulder says. "Be back in a couple minutes." He checks his pistol and hurries out.

I stare at my younger colleague. "Byers, I don't think I've ever been one to back out of a story, but I'm really starting think we should leave this one alone."

"We can't just leave it alone." His voice is quiet and he's got that crazed look in his eyes he gets when he's on a rip about something. "We've had two friends shot at in the last two days. We have to figure out what the hell is going on, find out who's behind it, and try to stop it."

We snap to attention when the office buzzer rings and race to check the door camera. There's no sigh of relief when we see it's Sari; Byers slaps the locks, flings open the door, drags her in and slams it behind her before she's had a chance to get a single syllable out. Since his mind is elsewhere, I secure the locks.

"Please, don't tell me you just got shot at," Byers says, wrapping his arms around her. He might as well be a python, from the grip he's got.

"No, why would you ask that?" Sari's confusion is all over her face. "What happened? Is everyone all right?" She backs partway out of his embrace, trying to look into his eyes.

"Kimmy just called, not ten seconds ago." I inform her. "He left here about half an hour ago after cracking some encryption for us. Somebody took a shot at him, and we need to find out what the hell is going on, like yesterday. He hung up just before you rang the buzzer."

Her eyes widen, and she mouths an 'o' of astonishment.

"Did you see anything outside?" Byers asks.

"Just Mulder, coming out the driveway. There were a couple of guys at the corner. Other than that, it looked pretty quiet to me."

I check the cameras that monitor the grounds around the house. Unfortunately, we don't have anything right now that covers the end of the block. We will by tomorrow.

"Did the two guys at the corner look like they were... watching the house?" Byers asks.

Sari shakes her head. "I wasn't paying that much attention, John. For all I know, they could have been looking to score some crack. You don't exactly live in the best neighborhood. I didn't notice them specifically watching me drive up."

At that moment, Mulder enters.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Two guys at the corner. They disappeared when I got to the street," he replies. "I tried to follow them, but they split up. I tracked one of them a few blocks, but I lost him down an alley." He curses in frustration. "Look, I've got to go. I need to talk to Scully and Skinner about this. Those files you guys found seem to be radioactive. You need to keep your heads down for a while. Don't leave unless you absolutely have to, and if you do, don't do it alone."

"No shit, Sherlock. What about Langly? And what about Deborah and her parents?" I'm getting more worried by the moment. This just keeps getting uglier with every passing hour. I'm convinced now that somebody's trying to keep us from exposing what's in these files. The more we get into them, the weirder things get. I have to know who's behind all this, and sort through our new information to find out what they're trying so hard to hide.

"Believe me, nobody will be getting past the agents at the door. We'll make sure that Deborah's parents have an escort to their room, and I'll bring Langly home myself if I have to," Mulder says, stone determination in his hazel eyes.

"Yeah, well you and Scully should keep your own heads down too," I tell him. "It's not like you're unrelated to this issue, and if somebody's trying to shut us down, you're likely targets as well."

He laughs. "And this is different from my everyday life how?"

I shake my head. "Just be careful. You take good care of that goddess of a partner of yours."

"She's a better shot than me, remember?" He has a rueful half-smile on his face. I pat him on the back as he leaves, and lock up tight. Time for me to start setting up some surveillance cameras from Langly's attic windows that will angle down toward each end of our block.

BYERS:

I'm so relieved to know Sari's safe that I can barely speak. We've moved from the office into the den, away from windows and doors, and are sitting together on the leather couch. I know we installed bullet proof glass on the house, but it doesn't increase my peace of mind as much as I'd like, particularly under the current circumstances.

"Everything will be fine, John," she says. She squeezes my hand. "You know, I actually came by to see you this evening because I have good news. I know you're upset right now, but can I at least tell you about my day?"

I consider it for a moment. I could use a little good news myself, really. "Of course, Sari. What's up?"

She smiles. She lights up when she smiles, and it always makes me feel better too.

"I got promoted today," she says. "They're moving me from my lobbying position, and giving me the job as international coordinator of our lobbying offices."

"That's great," I tell her, truly pleased for her. She sounds as though the promotion is a mixed blessing, though. "What will that entail?"

"Well, I'm kind of wondering if the Peter Principle hasn't struck, and they're moving me to the level of my incompetence. I'll be the International Lobbying Director, instead of doing the legwork and research myself. I'll be traveling more, doing training at regional offices, speaking at national and international conservation symposiums and political conferences, and representing the Sierra Club as an NGO to groups like the World Trade Organization and the World Bank."

Suddenly, I'm not so happy with the situation. If she travels more, particularly internationally, it'll be that much harder to keep an eye on her and make sure she stays safe. This is a very bad thing. "You're not going out of town anytime soon, are you?"

She sighs. "No, they're giving me a couple of weeks to settle into the office and take care of some other things. After that, though, I'm going to be in Paris for a week presenting a talk on the current state of illegal whaling for an environmental law summit."

I have to broach the subject with her. "What are you going to do about your personal security while you're traveling?"

"If I'm going into a 'politically unstable' area, I'll be provided additional protection."

She doesn't get it. "This might not be the best time to be exposed in public," I say softly, at the risk of making a vast understatement. "The files we found contain a lot of conflicting information, but we pulled it down from the mainframe at Area 51. I'm beginning to suspect it may have something to do with UFO's."

"John," she says with a frustrated sigh, "you know as well as I do that 'U.F.O.' simply stands for 'unidentified flying object.' It doesn't mean it has anything to do with all these little green men you guys talk about."

"We're talking some very strange system designs here. It doesn't look like anything I'm familiar with, and I've seen an awful lot over the years."

"I'm not willing to believe this is alien technology. Human beings are sufficiently creative that I wouldn't put it past some government agency to come up with a unique, off the wall system all on their own."

"I'd just feel better if you'd keep your head down for a while."

Her face contorts with impatience and irritation. "John, do you have any actual proof that the files and these incidents are connected, beyond the fact that you know both people and the shootings have been in the last two days?"

"Well, no."

"Until you do, I'm not ready to just assume that they are."

"But Frohike and Mulder said--"

She shakes her head and interrupts me. "If you can find me one shred of proof that there's a genuine connection here, I'll reconsider, all right?"

It's a concession, at least. It doesn't ease the stone in my stomach, but it's better than nothing. I nod. "That'll do," I tell her. "But I'd really rather you stay here tonight. It's much safer."

She raises an eyebrow. "I don't think so John." She sighs. "I suppose this means that the dinner I'd planned on inviting you out for is unlikely to occur."

I shake my head. "I don't think it's a good idea, Sari. I don't want either of us getting shot at."

She opens her mouth to protest, but I have more to say. "I know you don't believe me right now, but please, at least acknowledge that two of my friends have been shot at in the last two days and that it's not unreasonable for me to consider that it might be more than a coincidence."

Sari's mouth closes and she nods. A deep breath, and she says, "All right. It's not unreasonable for you to consider it might be more than a coincidence, but I'm not willing to rearrange my life because of that. Besides, my parents are going to be in town tomorrow. They'll be here until Monday."

This is new. "Your parents?"

"Yeah, dad got a last minute invitation to be the surprise guest at an Asian Arts conference. He's doing a presentation on Hindu and Sikh mystic poetry. You might actually enjoy it, if you're not feeling too paranoid to poke your nose out of the house. Devi's hosting a party for them at the consulate on Friday evening. Everyone's going to be there; all our friends, and all of mom and dad's friends as well. I'd really like it if you and the guys could come, at least for a little while. I know that Ringo's not likely to want to, with Deborah in the hospital, but maybe he'll want a break by then."

Sari has always spoken very lovingly of her parents. She seems genuinely excited that they'll be here, and at least this is a safe topic for the moment. I probably won't go to the lecture, but I'm fairly sure the party at the Sri Lankan consulate will be safe enough for her.

"That might be nice," I tell her. I'm not much of a party person, but she's been introducing me to her friends for the past several months. Most of them have been very nice people; intelligent, thoughtful, and often very talented in one art or another. I've started to feel, if not exactly safe, at least reasonably comfortable around many of them. "If the situation isn't still in crisis by Friday, and we've figured out whether these shootings are connected to the files I've found, then I'll certainly consider going," I tell her. I'm fairly sure Frohike would like it, too. Maybe by that time, we'll know what's going on, and the situation will be resolved.

Sari smiles again, and I can feel a relaxation of some of the tension between us as she leans back into me. I'm starting to feel a little warm, so I loosen my tie slightly and unbutton the top button of my shirt. With a sigh, I put my arms around her again.

"So would you like to come to dinner with me to celebrate my promotion?" she asks.

The knot in my stomach appears again. "I don't think that's wise this evening," I tell her.

I can feel her stiffen in my arms. This has not been a good day, and it really isn't getting better.

"John, could you please at least try to put aside some of what you're worrying about?"

"I'm trying, but it's pretty overwhelming. My stomach's churning anyway, and I'm not sure I can eat anything at all right now."

She turns slightly and looks up at me. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"A little. I had some breakfast," I tell her. If you consider coffee and an English muffin breakfast. "And a few bites for lunch with Langly."

She tilts her head and examines my face. "You've got those dark, owly circles under your eyes again, John. Have you been sleeping at all in the past couple of days?" There's worry in her voice, but a certain amount of annoyance as well.

If I tell her the truth, it's going to upset her, but lying to her is only going to make things that much worse. She doesn't like it when I try to hide these things from her. Some days she's worse than Frohike.

"No, not really. I've tried, but I've been too worried about Deborah and Langly." At least she'll understand that. I know she has been too. She may be after me right now, but I can tell she hasn't been sleeping well either. It's made both of us irritable and snappish.

"I know you're worried, but you can't go around acting like this, not eating or sleeping. It's just going to make everything worse. You're going to start making mistakes in your research, and if you really believe we're in that much danger, you're going to slip and end up getting yourself hurt one way or another." I know she's concerned, but all I can feel right now is irritation: hers and my own.

I can't take it any more. "And you're tired too, Sari. Your judgment isn't the best right now."

She stands, and I stand with her.

"It's not safe. You saw two people surveilling the place when you drove up. How do you know the guys who were watching the place won't be back, just waiting..." I can't say anymore. The thought of her being hurt, no matter how angry I am with her stubbornness, is too painful to contemplate.

She leans in toward me and starts raising her voice. "And how the hell do you know they weren't just dealing drugs? Why does everything on earth that goes wrong have to be your personal fault? Isn't it remotely possible that your friends might end up getting in trouble through random acts of violence, or through their own involvement in something you don't know about?"

"I don't know," I reply, trying to keep my own voice down. The last thing I want right now is Frohike to hear us fighting. "And neither do you. I'd rather err on the side of caution here, considering that people are being shot at!" I don't want to be angry with Sari. I don't want to fight with her. "Your life could be in danger, and I don't want to see you hurt, or worse. I can't have anything happen to you because of something I've done."

She's still mad, but at least she doesn't shout when she counters me.

"John, I appreciate your concern for me, but where the hell do you get your martyr complex? Who died and made you the center of the universe, able to contort reality with a single leap of logic? I thought that was Mulder's job."

That hurts. "That's not what I'm saying, and you know it. All of this started within a day of my downloading those files. Somebody wants that information kept secret, and I don't want you to be next on their hit list. I care too much about you to let that happen."

"You said you don't even know what you have," she says. "Isn't it possible that someone is feeding you a bunch of crap to get you upset and off balance? It's happened to me before, believe me."

She crosses her arms and her face stills into that calm, rooted expression she gets when she's not going to be moved. When she's like this, not even the Golden Horde led by Genghis Khan himself could sway her. It's one reason she's a successful lobbyist. Right now, it's the most annoying thing in the world.

"Some of what Kimmy found seems to add more pieces to the puzzle. They're shooting at us, for God's sake!" I take her by the wrist, wanting to force her to pay attention, but the startled flash of fear in her face makes me realize my mistake -- the gesture is an aggressive one.

"No!" she yelps, and steps back from me a couple of paces, jerking her arm away. Her anger is broken, replaced by a lightning charge in the air between us.

"I'm sorry!" I say quickly. "I didn't mean to scare you, Sari. I'm not going to hurt you. God, I'm sorry."

She's quivering a little, nervous. I never want her to be afraid of me, and now look what I've done.

"Sari," I say gently, "please, don't be afraid." I hold my hands out to her, palms up, hoping that she'll take my hand, but her fear is turning to anger again.

"Damn it, John!" Her voice is quiet but intense. I can tell that her temper is about to leave her entirely. "You know better than that."

"I'm sorry," I tell her again, "I was just trying to get you to listen." I need to patch this up now, and fast.

"You have my complete attention." Her voice is icy.

I use my most conciliatory voice. "I'm just... Sari, I'm just very worried right now. Maybe I am going a little over the top, but please try to understand where I'm coming from." I offer a hand to her again, and she takes it, finally starting to calm.

She sighs, trying hard to let the anger flow away. I've seen her do it before, and it always impresses me that she's able to do that. "Yes, John. I do understand that you're worried about me. And I promise that I'll be more observant, all right?" Before I can answer, there's a knock on the door.

PART 8

"Fear is the cheapest room in the house.
I would like to see you living
In better conditions"

~~Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky -- The Gift~~
______

TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
8:30 P.M.

LANGLY:

What a day. And I don't mean it in a good way, either. After Byers forced me to eat when I wasn't hungry, I went back to Deb's room. The good news is, she was a lot more awake this afternoon. The bad news is, she was sick and puking the entire time. I was squicking, and a couple times I thought I'd lose it, but I made myself stay and hold her hair back and say things to her to try and make her feel better. All this, with her Mom and Dad watching me like they expected me to jump her bones right then and there.

Yeah, right, I'd really jump her bones while I'm in the middle of cleaning up after her. I bet you bucks they think I had something to do with her getting hurt. I just feel it in them. They don't say anything, but I can tell.

It got to Deb, too. Soon as they left, she burst out crying, and kept crying for like an hour. Crying women unnerve me. I never know what to do, especially when there's nothing I can do. I think Deb's glad her folks love her and all, but having them here when she's really hurting, and listening to them rant and argue and carry on, it's not good for her.

I think what really did it was when Deb was saying there's no way in hell she's leaving DC. Her fellowship's here, and then she said, 'Ringo's here.' I think that went over about like a bomb over Hiroshima.

Finally, it's 8 o'clock, and I hate leaving Deb but I'm so glad to be outta there. I had to run to the bathroom three times this afternoon to suck on my inhaler. After Mr. SaintJohn made a nasty crack the first time, I made sure he didn't see me. It's not like I want to have this stupid asthma. Made life hell on a farm, I'll tell you that much. Not that my folks cared, they were like, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I'm not dead yet, though I had more than a few moments today where I wished lightning would come down and kill me.

This would've be a good night to get stoned, and not on whatever that shit was that Frohike slipped in my soup last night. I know he slipped me something. I wouldn't have slept like that if he hadn't. I don't know if I'm grateful or mad as hell. Maybe both.

I really, really need some dope, so before I leave, I try to give Elron a shout from one of the pay phones, but no dice. He's not home, not answering his pages. Asshole. Then I try Kimmy. He's not around, either. I don't care what it costs. I need some, big time. I figure I could go check with the guys outside the 7-11 before I get home. They've always got good stash.

Unfortunately, that plan dives out the window in short order. Right when they give last call to kick us out, Mulder shows up. I'm kind of glad to see him at first, but then he tells me he's here to take me and the 'rents home.

They get real nervous, like 'what the hell's going on?' Mulder tries to play Mr. Cool, telling 'em it's just for their own protection 'til they get everything straightened out and find out who shot Deb. I don't think they're totally buying it, but hey, it's the Fibbies, and her folks respect that. Not me. I know Mulder too well.

We drop the 'rents at the motel, and Mulder gives them his card and says call him if they need anything. We bail real fast after that.

"Rough day, eh?" Mulder asks me. He's perfectly calm. He would be. He wasn't trapped for hours on end with his girl's parents, watching her get sick and cry and be miserable.

"Jesus, Mulder, are they giving awards for asking the stupidest question you can think of? And what's the trip, here? You never do anything for me unless you want something in return."

"Langly, you wound me."

"You mind telling me what he fuck's going on?"

"We don't know jack yet. That's the problem."

"Yeah, but you think something we did is why Deb got shot."

"I wasn't sure, but ever since Kimmy almost got hit tonight--"

"Kimmy? Kimmy got what? Where? What the hell?"

"He'd left your place, and about half an hour later someone fired on him."

"Oh, holy fuck." Kimmy's a total pain in the butt, but he's a bud. Well, he was. He might be getting tired of this shit. He wouldn't be the only one. After today, I'm starting to wonder myself. "So what the hell do you think is going on, Profiler Boy?"

"Something Byers dug up while you were off boffing your ladyfriend, no doubt."

"That Area 51 stuff? Hell, what could be there to get anyone so mad at us?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

God, I hate him. He's so... calm. "What the hell kind of crusade has Byers got us on this time?"

"Haven't got a clue. Not yet, anyway."

I smack my forehead. "Oh, this is rich." People are crazy and life is strange... and getting way too much so for my taste.

We pull up to the house. "Get some sleep, Langly."

"Forget it. I got work to do." Like any of these guys has my kung fu. Right.

"Just remember, blonde boy, I'm the man with the gun here."

"Oh yeah. Like you can hit the broad side of a barn with it." I hate the bastard. I really, really hate him.

I just want to head off to my room and die, but Frohike goes into Mother Hen mode as soon as I walk in. He's got dinner all ready, and what's even worse, he expects me to eat it. I'm not hungry. I'm tired of everyone shoving food down my throat. I'm tired of everything. Hell, I'm just tired.

"You drug my food again?" I snap at Frohike.

"I go to all the trouble of making you a nice meal, and this is the thanks I get?" He's doing his unappreciated housewife schtick. We get treated to this a lot. I'm not in the mood.

"You drugged me last night."

"And what of it? You slept, which is more than I can say for the rest of us."

I stand up and head for the basement. "I got work to do."

Unfortunately, I'm not quick enough. Frohike may be little, but he's got kung fu grip. He's got an arm lock on me.

"Forget it, Blondie. Get some sleep. You're not getting near this one 'til you do."

I'm seething with rage. I could so kill him right now, just snap his thick little neck. Choke Byers with his tie. Shoot Mulder with his own damned-- Shit, I'm really losing it. "Give me the drugs and I'll go quietly." This offer's good for one night only.

FROHIKE:

Mulder's been tremendously helpful, but I'm happy as hell he's not here right now. It's bad enough dealing with Blondie. The sleeping pill's working its magic, so I won't have to put up with him much longer. I think he knows he's strung out beyond the point of useful, or even sensible. My heart aches for the kid, and for his ladylove.

Sari and Byers are still locked in the den. I can't hear a word they're saying. Too bad it's not bugged. I'd love to be a fly on the wall right now. They've been in there for well over an hour. I realize that we're in a bad situation and there's a lot to discuss, but I keep hoping that Byers finally got smart and decided to jump her.

My illusions are shattered when I knock at the door and offer them dinner. Without so much as a 'just a minute,' Byers answers the door. The knot on his tie is loosened and the top button of his shirt's undone, but that's about as much undressing as they've accomplished.

"I'm not hungry," Byers says tersely.

"John, you should at least try to eat something." Sari's voice is weary and unhappy. "Whether or not people are getting shot at due to what you found in those files, you still need to eat."

They look at each other, sigh, and head for the kitchen.

It's a sad state of affairs when the only place a man can get some peace and quiet is in the office, but I have something to do, and I don't want an audience. I need to get in touch with Mel Scarlett and let her know that the situation's getting worse. I have no doubt in my mind that They know about her, and where she is. In the immortal words of Han Solo, I've got a bad feeling about this.

I sit down to email Mel, but I'd feel better calling. Fortunately, her line is now as secure as ours. My own custom modifications made that possible. She's also delighted with her lowered long distance bill. I haven't explained that one to her, and she hasn't asked.

She should be off work by now, although she often doesn't leave the floor until long after her shift has ended. I'm not sure whether I'd feel better knowing she was on the job or at home. Neither possibility warms the cockles of my heart. Not much does right now, but I do feel much lighter and at ease when she picks up the phone. Not only does this mean I'm immediately treated to the pleasant timbre of her warm, relaxing voice, it also means that I don't need to deal with either of her obnoxious children. This is always a plus.

"How's Deborah?" is the first question she asks, of course.

"Langly says she had a rough afternoon, couldn't hold anything down."

"Unfortunately, that's normal," she says. "But otherwise things are improving?"

"Improving is a relative term." I really hate calling her, both to tell her bad news and to unload on her about my day, but she needs the former, and I'll go insane if I don't have the latter. "This wasn't a good day, milady. Deborah's condition might be improving, but whatever the hell we got ourselves into this time, it's downright ugly."

I'd really feel better if she was here with me, but that's wishful thinking on my part. The fact is, she's probably safer in Harrisburg than she'd ever be in DC. I wonder if we'll ever reach a place in our lives where we can live together, and not be watching our backs every second.

"What happened?" It sounds as if she has something in her mouth. My suspicions are confirmed when she asks me to excuse her, but she hasn't had anything to eat all day, would I mind terribly if she ate while I talked?

Not at all, I assure her. I'm just glad she's there, she's okay, and she's willing to put up with me.

"Remember I told you to take extra care right now? I'm not kidding. A friend of ours was shot at tonight." One good thing about Mel; I never need to sugarcoat things. She'd be annoyed if I did.

"Oh, my Lord. Was he injured?"

"No, thank God. He's fine, if shaken up, but he's headed underground at this point." Suddenly, the idea that Mel is safe is exposed for the illusion it is. "Dear heart, is there any way you could take a vacation right now? Get out of town 'til this blows over?"

She chuckles. "I wish I could, but we're short of hands at work and unfortunately, I'm short of cash. They do say it's better in the Bahamas, though." We both laugh for no reason, but something about her manner relaxes me and levels my sense of everything. She brings clarity to me, a quality I could desperately use at this point. God knows the waters are muddied.

Her tone turns serious. "Mel, what exactly is going on? You keep talking about a 'situation,' but I have no idea what it is you're trying to warn me about, aside from the fact that you've had two friends victimized by gunfire in the last 48 hours. It doesn't even sound as if the two are connected. Does Deborah know this other friend? And where did it happen?"

"Only as an acquaintance, but I think we're the connection."

"It's admittedly odd that two people close to you were shot at in the last two days, but it doesn't logically follow that they're connected," she points out, and I concede that her logic is correct. The problem is that her premise is flawed. Of course, if I had a working theory to present to her, she might draw the same conclusion, but I don't have a single concrete fact to give her, only suspicions and hunches.

"We think it's related to something we're working on," I admit to her.

"And what's that?" Her question is casual as she continues to eat her dinner.

"That's a good question. We're trying to get some answers, but so far, nada. All we know is, whatever it is, someone doesn't want us near it. To be honest, I'd like to drop it here and now, but I'm not sure that's even an option at this point."

"Well, knowing what I do of you, Mel, that's all the reason you'd need to try and get your claws into it." Fortunately, in her own work, Mel is possessed of the same terrier-with-a-rat qualities. She understands. "Just be careful," she says. "We don't need anyone else getting hurt."

"I'm really spooked this time."

"Yeah, well, you never saw my ex in a push-up bra. Now that's spooky." We both burst out laughing. I know she takes my concerns seriously, but I value her ability to put a weird spin on it. The more I know her, the more convinced I become that she could be the one I've been looking for all my life.

"I wish I had more specifics. I could actually tell you what to be watching for," I say, resigned.

"Well, knowing what to be on the lookout for is always helpful, but in emergency medicine, life's always a surprise. I'm used to it."

I'm glad she is. I'm certainly not. At this rate, I doubt I ever will be.

We end up staying on the line for over an hour, and we switch to more mundane, comfortable topics. I inform her that Deborah's parents are in town and they haven't murdered Langly yet, though he thinks they were getting close. Mel laughs.

"I met Gerard and Sarah Jane one time. Really, they're good people. And you can't blame them for being upset right now."

"No, but then again, I somehow doubt they were expecting their daughter's boyfriend to be so... so Langly."

She laughs. "He's a sweet boy, and I know how much he adores Deborah. They'll come around." She pauses for a second. "Her mother will, at any rate. Her father? Maybe not in this lifetime." We laugh some more. "I tell you, compared to Mark, Langly's positively a prize."

"Mark hasn't gotten off the sofa yet?" Her son is an ill-tempered, lazy lout.

"Mark barely gets out of bed. The sofa's an accomplishment at this point." She groans.

"How's the wedding coming?"

"Now you're entering dangerous territory." Her laughter fills my ear. It's as warm and rich as though she were in the room. "At the present rate, Lisa may not live to see it. Not unless she learns the value of restraint around me." She pauses for a second. "You are coming to the wedding, aren't you, Mel?"

This is the first she's spoken of inviting me. I'm flattered, of course. "Assuming I make it through whatever the hell's happening around us, I'll be happy to come."

"You will."

I wish I had her confidence.

BYERS:

Sari and I sit at the table, pretending to have dinner. What we're actually doing is staring at the curried lentil soup and chapatis Frohike provided. We occasionally glance up at each other, hesitant to catch each other's eye. At this point I'm not sure what we are. Angry? Frustrated? Frightened? You could measure the dimensions of the tension between us with calipers. Sari takes an occasional sip from her bowl, genuinely trying to eat, while I'm mostly just letting the soup drip from my spoon back into mine.

"I know you're not eating, John," she says. "You might at least pretend you're swallowing once in a while." She says it with a slight smile, and it lightens my mood somewhat. I've gotten her to agree to at least be more careful, but that's not enough for my comfort.

I nod to Sari and sip at the soup. I'm sure it's fine, but tonight it tastes like wet, peppery sawdust. I can see the disappointment in her face. She wanted to go out tonight to celebrate her promotion, and she wanted me to go with her. I refused, and insisted that she stay here. Neither of us is happy right now. She understands that my concern is genuine, but I don't believe that she takes it seriously. To her, this is just another of my overly paranoid moments. There's nothing I can do to demonstrate that my paranoia has a basis this time, that she may be at risk of being shot or killed herself. She's made her concessions, and doesn't seem too likely to budge any further.

Finally, dinner barely touched, I can't keep my fear to myself any longer. "Sari, I'd really feel better if I could talk you into staying here for the night."

She looks up over her bowl and takes my hand. "I don't have anything with me to wear tomorrow, John, and I really can't stay here every time you get worried. I mean, you're always worried about something."

It's true. I am. "Well then, how about if I go to your place with you and stay on your couch for the night? I'm sorry, I just have a really bad feeling about all this."

Her face reddens in a deep blush. "Honestly, John, I don't need a baby sitter." She gets up and hurries into the kitchen to put her dishes in the sink.

"Sari, can't we talk about this?" I know there's still some residual upset about my grabbing her wrist.

"We've talked, John. When you have something more to show me, I'll be ready to listen some more. I've already promised to be more careful and watch my back. I don't know what else I can do right now and still maintain some kind of normalcy. I've only recently had my life back. I don't want to give it up to fear again." She gathers her things and starts for the door.

"Wait, Sari," I call to her. She pauses. "I just want to walk you to your car, okay?"

She nods, taking my proffered hand, and we walk out to her car. The night is quiet and no one is visible on the street. I feel slightly better, but I'm still convinced that I shouldn't be letting her leave here alone. After we share an embrace, she gets into her car and drives off into the night.

I stare down the street for a few minutes after she's gone. I hope I can find something to show her before she gets hurt. It's a possibility I don't want to entertain, but I just can't shove the images out of my head. I see the day we were shot at before her press conference, and Susanne being stolen off the street in front of me, jumbled and confused. I don't understand why Sari effects me like this.

Maybe she's right, and the stress really is getting to me more than I thought. I just wish she hadn't left alone. I need her to understand how important she is to me, how much her friendship means in my life. I need... I don't even know what I need. All I do know is, it feels like it's 3 a.m. in my soul.

PART 9

"While guilt burns
Like a fixed star
The sleepless man
Feels his blood
And the light of his eye
Drained"

~~Aeschylus -- The Orestea: Agamemnon, trans by Ted Hughes~~
______

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
7:20 A.M.

FROHIKE:

"Not even a good night kiss from her?" I comment to Byers as I put the coffee on. I saw them as Sari drove away last night, and watched through the window as he stood there outside when he knew we were under surveillance, mooning after her.

"Shut up, Frohike," he says from behind the Wall Street Journal, his voice tired and annoyed.

"Aren't we in a lovely mood today?" He doesn't look up, so I'm spared his Look of Death. What day is it, anyway? I've been somewhere between awake and asleep for a while now. I keep hoping all this bullshit was nothing more than a nightmare, but no joy. "Byers? What day is it?"

"Wednesday the 28th... oh hell." His head comes up with a start. "I completely forgot."

"Forgot what?" To tell Sari you want to take her to bed? I almost say it aloud, but that would hardly enlist the boy's cooperation.

"It's Langly's birthday. It completely slipped my mind."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd act on your hormones, your mind'd be clearer," I mutter. I forgot too. Not that birthdays are a priority item, especially at my age, but Langly will resent the hell out of it if we don't at least take note. He may say he doesn't care, but he does.

"Frohike, I don't need this," Byers grumbles.

"What, you don't need to get laid?" I swear under my breath, but before he can respond, we're interrupted by heavy footsteps, loud yawning, and a few sneezes. It's Langly, clad only in his wifebeater tank top and boxers, glasses askew and hair going every direction but the right one. He's wearing the expected surly expression.

"Don't suppose anyone knows what day it is," he asks, sullen, still yawning.

"Byers says it's Wednesday," I reply casually, checking the pantry for waffle fixings. I bought some fresh strawberries before all this went down, and mold doesn't seem to be sprouting from them yet.

This earns me a glare from Langly, who stumbles toward the coffee pot. "You suck, y'know."

"Happy birthday, Langly." Byers takes charge of damage control. Better him than me.

"Nothing happy about it," Langly snaps, but at least Byers said something.

"I'll make you a deal," I say to Langly. "Put some pants on, and you'll get strawberry waffles."

He blinks. "Did you say strawberry waffles? Really?"

"Only if I don't have to stare at your legs."

"You make everything so fucking hard." But we get a bit of a smile, the first we've seen in days. I'm hoping this is a good omen, but I should know better by now.

Breakfast is surprisingly pleasant. We all eat more in one sitting than we have in days. Byers manages to turn off his kamikaze mission expression, and Langly treats us to some smiles. We tease him about Deborah, gently, and he handles it gamely. He bristles a little when Byers kids him about trying to suck up to his future in-laws, but instead of an acid retort, he simply aims the can of aerosol whipped cream at Byers' nose.

"Langly, were you planning on having children someday?" Byers taunts him. "Because if you don't put that can down, you can forget about it!"

"You're dead," Langly starts to squirt the stuff at him, but we're interrupted by the door buzzer. For possibly the first time in my life, I'm hoping it's Mulder. It is.

"Looking to mooch a free meal?" I ask him.

"Well, now that you mention it, it's the least you can do for me for schlepping Langly all over town," he says, tossing his suit jacket over the nearest chair, revealing an obnoxious Mickey Mouse tie. Make yourself at home, Mulder.

"Hey, that's my birthday breakfast!" Langly balks.

"You have birthdays? I figured you just stalled at 17," Mulder wags his eyebrows at Langly as he places himself at the table.

"That's it." Langly's been diverted from Byers and unleashes the whipped cream all over Mulder. Byers bursts out laughing, which is a much more welcome sight than the deadly determined surliness that's covered his face for nearly three days now.

"Hell of a way to treat your ride," Mulder glares at Langly and Byers as he wipes whipped cream from his silk Disney tie and starched shirt.

"Your fault, man," Langly calls as he runs up the stairs to save himself from retaliation. "You're wearing the mark of Satan."

Mulder rolls his eyes. "What is it with you guys and Mickey Mouse?"

I don't really care to go into why Disney is the ultimate mind control machine. We've been through that before. "Byers, get this mess cleaned up!" I bark.

"Why? Langly's the one that made most of it." He's returned to surliness. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

"'Cause I'm the birthday boy, and I don't have to do shit," Langly's returned, dressed and carrying two laptops. Byers shoots him a withering glance. "Like, are you ready, Mulder? And do we have to pick up the folks?" His voice has taken on a whine. When I give him a querying look, he says he and Deborah are going to play Quake.

"Got them another escort this morning," Mulder assures him.

"Yeah, probably someone quieter," Langly shoots back. "Can we get out of here already?"

"Don't get your shorts in a knot, Blondie. You guys figure out anything more from what you pulled down?" Mulder asks us.

"No, and we're not going to." I pass a warning glare to both Byers and Langly.

"What do you mean, you're not going to?" Mulder's puzzled.

"Just that," I say, crossing my arms. Let any of them try to overrule me on this one. "It's over. No one else is getting hurt over this. It's not worth it."

"Wait a minute!" Byers yelps. "When was this decided?"

Mulder chuckles. "Going soft on me, Frohike?"

"No, I'm just tired of people getting shot at, that's all!"

Byers finally gets his chance to give me the Look of Death. "I think we're already in too far," he says quietly. "Backing off isn't the answer now."

"We're backing off. It's done. It's over." I'm not kidding about this one.

"Fine. Do it your way." Byers' voice is like cracked ice. "You're still wrong."

He heads for the office stairs. "Where're you going?" I call after him.

He stops to eye me coldly. "To get some work done. Someone around here should."

LANGLY:

"Frohike sure is spooked," Mulder comments as we drive off.

"Yeah, well, he's not the only one. I ain't too happy about Deb getting shot up, y'know."

"Think Byers is right? That you're already too far in?" Mulder asks me.

"How the hell should I know? It's not like Byers told me jack shit about what's going on. Frohike's no better, the jerk."

All I do know is, I'm not letting this sleep. I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and why. Byers and Frohike can do what they like, but I'm on it. That's why the laptops today. And maybe me and Deb'll play a little Quake, too.

FROHIKE:

I head for the basement, trying to think of our next headline. The Area 51 stuff was promising, but I don't like the direction it's taken. Not that Area 51 stuff is ever totally benign, but having two people near to us shot at isn't exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking of risk.

Byers is already there. He doesn't say a word to me. He's obviously pissed at the universe, and most especially me, for wanting to put the brakes on this investigation. I avoid talking to him while he works. I hope he's not back on the files I told him not to pursue.

"Frohike, where are the disks?" he demands.

"What disks?"

"The disks of the Area 51 stuff. I took them off the system and put them on zips."

"Didn't you put them in the safe?" That's usually where strategic stuff goes.

"No, I locked them in my bottom desk drawer." He knows that the only other people who have keys are Langly and myself.

"I didn't take them, honest." I didn't.

He's about to lay into me, but his thoughts and mine meld into two words -- "Oh, shit!" We start tearing the place apart. It was messy to start with. It's well beyond that when we're done ripping apart our desks, and Langly's. He won't appreciate having his mess tampered with, but oh well.

"I bet Langly has them," I say, ready to kill the boy if he does. Things are bad enough already, and Blondie may have been idiot enough to grab them. Taking them out of here could be fatal. We could lose him and the disks at the same time.

"I don't believe it. I don't believe he could be so stupid," Byers moans as we hurry for my ancient Chrysler.

"Believe it." You, of all people, should. You're not doing much better yourself, I swear under my breath. This is a moment where our own stupidity is going to get us killed.

GWU MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
9:00 A.M.

FROHIKE

We were going to pay Deborah a visit today, but since we're pretty sure Langly has the disks, it's a little sooner than we'd originally planned. Hope she's feeling up to company. We need to behave in a way that won't make the senior SaintJohns suspicious. God knows they're upset enough.

"No screaming," I warn Byers as we head up the elevator.

"Take that advice yourself," he retorts. He's looking real squirrelly right now, so I'll let it pass.

So help me, if Langly has the disks, I'll strangle him. If he doesn't, I'll strangle him later, after I find them. We're definitely not reacting well to anything today. Nobody's been getting enough sleep to stay sensible.

Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn are talking to their daughter as Langly occupies one of the chairs, wrapped up in his laptop. I swear the boy has no manners.

"Good morning, sir, ma'am," I greet them. It's obvious they didn't get much of a night's sleep either.

"Mr. Frohike," Mrs. SaintJohn is warm in her greeting. Mr. SaintJohn doesn't say anything, but does shake my hand this time.

"What're you guys doing here?" Langly's head pops up like a jack-in-the-box.

"We thought we'd come and see how you're all doing," I say nonchalantly, but pass a look to Langly that says, you're dead, boy. "Langly, can you step out for a moment?"

What I'd really like to do is take him by the scruff of his neck and drag him out as I berate everything from his computing talents to his manhood (not that there's much difference for him), but I employ some restraint. No point in upsetting the SaintJohns and their daughter.

"Ringo, hurry back," Deborah calls out groggily.

Byers and I drag Langly down the hall and shove him into a supply closet, with us close behind.

"Come into my office," Byers says as he shuts the door. He keeps his hand on the doorknob, to keep out intruders. We've gotten good at locating supply closets. They make great impromptu conference rooms.

"What the fuck? What're you trying to do, humiliate me in front of Deb and her folks?" Langly spits at us.

"Oh, I suspect you can do that quite well on your own," I return, with considerable vitriol. "Christ, Langly, one billion sperm and you were the fastest swimmer?" I'm ready to smack him upside the head.

"What're you doing with the disks, Langly?" Byers' voice is sharp and cold, like broken glass. "Taking them out of the office was insane. Are you trying to get us all killed?"

Langly's eyes turn to ice. His voice, instead of rising to a shriek, becomes a low, menacing growl. "Look, you guys said you were gonna give it up. Fine. Do whatever you like. But I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and if you don't like it, then I'll see both your asses in hell!"

"The answer may not be on there," I say quietly.

"Yeah? Where else do you suggest we look?" he demands.

"Hard to say. We seem to have a penchant for pissing people off in general." I shrug.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't *your* girlfriend that took a bullet!" Sometimes Langly can look so young and vulnerable, but those qualities are overcome now by age and rage. In this moment, he looks every moment of his 35 years, and then some.

"Dude, your job right now is to get your girlfriend well, not fuck around in something like this," I say harshly.

"I'm not letting it ride. Somebody's gonna pay for this."

Byers stares at him. "Give us the disks, Langly. We'll find out what's going on. Believe me, we're not going to let it go, either."

I protest. "Wait a minute. We agreed-"

Byers' face is hard. "We agreed to nothing. You tried to coerce me, and I went along with it, but I'm with Langly. We need to figure this out, and soon. We're wasting time here."

Langly sighs. "I'll get the disks. You better not be shitting me, Byers. I told the folks I was working, figured they might be a little more impressed with me. What am I supposed to do now?"

I shrug. "Play some Quake?"

He sighs, deflating. "Yeah, maybe I should. Man, I can hardly think straight with them in the same room. I wish it was just me and Deb. I mean, I guess her mom is okay, but her dad hates my guts. He's always glaring at me like it's my personal fault that Deb got shot. Hell, it probably *is* my fault."

Byers opens his mouth to reply, but I know what's coming and speak before he says anything. "It's nobody's *fault,* either of you. We're in a mess, and these files have something to do with it. It's pretty obvious that they're trying everything short of shooting us to keep us away from it."

"That's because they know that shooting us won't work," Byers says grimly.

I don't like the mood he's been in since Deborah was shot. There are times when his determination overtakes his good sense, and I saw him charge an armed man to save Mata Hari. Sometimes I think Byers has a suicide wish buried down deep. He may not realize it, but he sure acts like it in his more spectacularly stupid moments. Granted, sometimes that impulse has saved our lives, but right now, I'm genuinely afraid for the guy. He just can't seem to stand back from this one, and I wish I knew why. Right now, I'm not even sure that he knows.

Then again, if he's getting as attached to Sari as I think he is, he may be reacting to this situation the same way he reacted to Landau when Susanne was threatened.

"Okay, Byers, we get the picture," I tell him.

"I'm not backing off this until we find out who shot Deb," Langly insists again. "This is total war, salt the earth! Nobody hurts Deb without paying for it." Some days I think we've all been living together too long. Byers is starting to rub off on the boy, and not in a good way.

"All right!" I snap. "I get it. But we have to examine the new files before we know where to go from here. We still haven't had much of a chance to actually look at them since Kimmy cracked them."

"So let's get the damned disks and get on it," Byers says.

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMEN
4:24 P.M.

BYERS:

I've been working my way through the series of files all day. Their contents appear to be, if anything, even more confusing than they were before Kimmy supplied us with the new ones. One of them consists entirely of some kind of mathematical equations, and beyond recognizing them as hard-core physics, I'm at a loss to know what to make of them.

I can tell that there are two distinct sets of information here. The surface material gave us information on both an advanced, but more or less ordinary stealth plane, and on something that still looks very strange. The equations and the ghost files that I pulled down, however, seem to relate exclusively to the inexplicable, possibly extraterrestrial nature of some of the other files I got while I was in. I'm starting to suspect that the stealth files are just cover for the more bizarre material.

Frohike has been avoiding me, which has been fine with me, as I've been badly out of sorts. What little sleep I had was haunted by nightmares, flashing images of Sari, Susanne, and Deborah, the three intermixed in unstable scenes filled with blood and terror. It's as though they had all three become one in my subconscious last night, morphing into each other, faces and bodies in flux. Then there were the flashes of Langly in the foundry, and Landau gloating with a cartoonish evil overlord laugh. I dreamed of gunshots and torture, and all my friends dying around me, knowing that it was all my fault.

I refrained from calling Sari this morning, despite my feelings of dread. She may very well be right; my habitual paranoia, fed by two friends being shot or shot at, complicated by the lack of sleep and the nightmares I've been having again, are probably distorting my judgment. I don't know that Deborah and Kimmy's shootings are related. I believe they are, but unless I can find something to link them, it really could be just my guts being twisted by recent events. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I really should at least contact Sari now that the work day has mostly gone by.

A woman whose voice I don't recognize answers Sari's new number on the first ring. Probably her new secretary. "Ms. Thomas' office. May I help you?"

"Is Ms. Thomas in?" I ask. "This is John Byers. I'd like to speak with her if I may."

"Just a moment, I'll see if she's available."

I'm put on hold, with the inevitable music tape loop for background. It's innocuous, but annoys me to no end. Classical music done as muzak has never been my favorite genre. Eventually, Sari answers.

"John, how are you today?" she asks. I can hear in her voice that her day has been stressful, but she doesn't sound upset. This is a good sign.

"I'm fine. Been working on the project we talked about. Things are looking even stranger than last night. How has your day been?" I try to keep my voice neutral, despite my own stresses.

"Not too bad," she says. "I've been running back and forth between my old office and my new one, with a crew of people to move boxes. You're lucky you caught me at this number. I was almost ready to head down to my old office for the last load of packed files."

Now for a moment of truth. "Would... Sari, would you consider coming over for a while this evening? I've been thinking about what you said, and maybe I am getting a little overwrought about this. I'd like your opinion on some of the things I've found today."

I hear her draw in a deep breath, then sigh. "Sure, John..." She pauses for a moment, but I can hear that she isn’t quite done. "I don't suppose you'd be up for that dinner out tonight?"

My first instinct is to say no, but our conversation yesterday was tense and uncomfortable for both of us. She's offering me an olive branch here, and I should accept it. "I think we could," I tell her. "It'll depend on what Frohike has to say. He's been working on this too, but I don't know what he's found yet."

"I guess that's fair," she says. "I'm not working late, so I'll be out of here probably about 5:30. I could be at your place by 6:30, if you'd like."

I smile, feeling slightly less stressed already. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you."

PART 10

"Certainly the game is rigged. Don't let that stop you. If you don't bet, you can't win."

~~Robert Heinlein -- from The Notebooks of Lazarus Long~~
______

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
4:45 P.M.

FROHIKE:

We have a bunch of Area 51 data stored here and there in the offices from research we've done over the years. Maybe there's something in one of those old files that can help us make sense of what Byers found. We always store our most sensitive data in the safes, and the disks are arranged by subject and date of retrieval. Part of the problem is, I don't exactly remember when we got this stuff, and there are years worth of files. Not that it would help all that much right now; Byers and I tore the place apart this morning, and it more or less resembles Langly's bedroom in here.

"Looking for something?" Byers asks me companionably as he strolls into the work area. He sounds as if he'd never been pissed at me. He and Sari must have made up after their spat.

"You remember how we have a bunch of old information on Dreamland? I'm looking for those files."

Byers scrunches his face into a frown. "Yeah, I seem to remember there being quite a bit of it."

"Mind giving me a hand?"

"No, not at all." Byers sits amid the disaster and begins sifting through the various and sundry items around us.

I mop my forehead. The basement is almost cavelike in its coolness most of the time, but it's extremely hot today, and we've been doing a lot. "I could use a beer. Want one, buddy?" I almost say, you're not getting laid, you might as well drink, but I bite my tongue. He's in a good mood right now. I'd like to keep it that way.

He considers it. "Sure, I'll have one."

I head for the kitchen, pop two beers. When I return to the office, I hand one to Byers, who's moved over to my workstation. "Here's one, Frohike," he says, feeding a disk into the drive. He takes the proffered beer. "Ah, thanks. Whacked out data. Goon assassins. And now, it's Miller time."

I chuckle. It's good to have the real Byers back. Contrary to what most people believe, the boy most assuredly does have a sense of humor, and a damn warped one at that. Just avoid anything related to his genitals and you're fine.

Looking at what we've found, though, brings me up short. "This is weird. The disk is marked Dreamland, but most of this looks like black box info, flight telemetry, but with a really weird twist. Where the hell did it come from?" I ask as the files come up.

Byers is musing over the screen in front of us. "I have no idea. Didn't Mulder get a tip from someone at Area 51 a couple years back? I thought he and Scully made a trip out to Nevada to check it out."

"I... you know, I don't have a real clear memory of that, but I think you're right."

"The date on the disk is 8/6/98. Do you remember anything significant happening that August?"

"Not really. Let's take a look-see."

Byers muses over the files. "It's aircraft flight data, to be sure, but it's not like anything I've ever seen before. I mean, tachyon flux? Gravitational displacement? I don't know how the hell we could have this here. We've never had a black box in our possession, and certainly not one that would record this! And I don't know what the hell this analysis is." He blinks. "Let me run through this, and then do a comparison with the stuff I downloaded."

He's caught up in the task for some time, and it's over an hour before he speaks again. "I may have to knock off for a while. I promised Sari I'd go to dinner with her, to make up for last night. She should be here shortly." He shakes his head. "This is really confusing. I've got no idea where this stuff came from. The only thing that makes any sense is the analysis file."

Ah, no wonder he's in a better mood. "That's fine. Go; eat, drink and be merry." I was about to say, 'eat, drink and get laid,' but I'm trying not to piss him off, and that's all it would take.

"I do want to look at this stuff some more. I'm no physicist, but it seems to me there are patterns in each of these data sets that match. What's even stranger is that there's some kind of... temporal anomaly here. God, I sound like a Star Trek script. Why don't you take a look at them?"

"Sure. Temporal anomaly? This I've gotta see."

True to Byers' prediction, the office buzzer rings a few minutes later, and he returns to the computer with Sari in tow.

"Hey, Mel. How's it going?" She looks tired, and her hair is damp. She must have showered before she came over. Maybe I should consider taking a cool one myself. It couldn't hurt.

"Found some fascinating new data relating to our current investigation," I reply. "And you?"

"Spent the day moving files and arranging the new office. Tomorrow I get to spend interviewing people for my staff." She stretches and groans, unconsciously showing off her body through the gauzy skirt and tank top she's wearing. I have no idea how Byers can ignore how hot she looks.

"Oh, right, you got promoted yesterday. Congratulations!" I stand and give her a somewhat sweaty hug, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's nice and cool.

"Anything that helps give the files context?" she asks.

"Not yet," Byers says, "but we did find this." He pulls up a chair at his desk and motions for her to sit down as he pulls up a file. "What do you make of it?" he asks as she looks at the data.

"Some kind of heavy physics stuff, maybe a set of quantum equations," she says. "I don't understand a whole lot beyond your basic statistical modeling, though."

"This is way beyond me," he says, "and Frohike doesn't follow it either, but I think it may have something to do with superstring theory, gravitational field stuff. There's definitely some odd temporal stuff going on. And this analysis file looks like something I'd write."

"Guess I'm going to be doing some light reading tonight," I inform them. "A little Hawking, some Feynman, and maybe I'll at least have a vague idea of what's being done here."

"Well if it's quantum mechanics, temporal weirdness, and superstrings, I have just the guy for you. Sean O'Casey. He'll be at the consulate party for my folks this Friday night." Sari smiles. "I was going to invite all three of you anyway. Ringo might like a break, and I think you guys would like Sean."

"Sean O'Casey?" Byers says. "Isn't he the up and coming wunderkind in quantum physics these days? Works at CERN?"

Sari laughs. "Yeah, and quite the character."

"But is he... discreet?" I ask. It makes all the difference in the world.

This makes Sari laugh even harder, and she shakes her head at me. "Oh Kali-Ma, no. I'm not sure the word is even in his vocabulary. But he's the best you're going to find anywhere, and as far as things like this go, he doesn't publish anything unless and until he's damned good and sure it's the real McCoy. Everybody says he'll wind up with a Nobel one of these days. I'm pretty confident in him."

"Where did you meet this guy?" I ask her.

"One of his Ph.D. advisors at MIT is a friend of mine. I met Sean at a party a couple of years ago just after he got his Doctorate. He made a rather blatant pass at me. When I didn't go for it, he made a pass at Carlos, his advisor. The guy's incorrigible, but a real sweetheart. We keep in touch through email." She turns to Byers. "If he makes a pass at you, and you're not into that kind of thing, just tell him so. He'll take it somewhere else. But I can practically guarantee he'll have company at the end of the night."

Byers blushes, and chuckles. "I... um..." he says, his voice as close to noncommittal as he can manage.

"Sean's a cutie," Sari teases him.

He gives a longsuffering sigh. "It's not about cute," he replies.

Ain't that the truth. If it was about 'cute,' the boy wouldn't have been so hung up on Mata Hari for so long; he would have fallen for someone else years ago. It's not like he's never seen attractive people before, it's that he's too damned scared of himself to let go for anyone. I have no idea if he's ever been into guys at all, but in the last twelve years, he's only been with Susanne that I know of, and in all that time, he's only had three nights' worth of opportunity. Who the hell knows what happened between them? I only know he got royally screwed by her. It's about time he moved on, and thank God that seems to be happening.

"I don't care what it's about," I counter. "How do we know he isn't going to blow the story for us?"

Sari looks up at me. "Sean's got a healthy mistrust of the government, and it's a wonder he got a position at all, considering how far left his politics are. Makes the Anarcho-Greens look like stone age conservatives."

"Well, we do need help," I concede. "Let's just make sure we're not gonna get screwed in the process." The minute those two are out the door, I'll start a background check on our Dr. O'Casey. Just because he doesn't care for the government doesn't mean we're kindred spirits. If that was all it took, we'd be hooked up with those right wing militias that believe they've been sent to save 'The White Race' from any minority they happen to get their gun sites on. Believe me, we're as eager to get the skinny on those sickos as we are on the government conspirators.

"John," Sari says, "why don't we get out and have dinner while it's still light. You'll be able to keep an eye out for anything untoward while I'm driving."

Byers nods. "I can live with that," he says.

"Have fun kids," I tell them as they head for the door.

Sari turns and sticks her tongue out at me as she closes the door behind her. She shouldn't stick it out unless she intends to use it. Yeah; like she'd ever offer to use it on me. Anyway, I guess it's time to get hacking.

8:20 P.M.

LANGLY:

Pretty quiet in here. They must be down in the cave. "Hey! Where are you losers hiding?" I yell as I pop a beer for myself. Might as well celebrate. I mean, it hasn't been much of a birthday so far. Okay, Mrs. SaintJohn got some brioches for us, and she treated me to a chocolate brownie frapuccino (she asked me what I liked, even), and that was sort of my celebration, plus the waffles this morning. I just wish Deb had been more up for it. She was real bummed; she'd kind of forgotten and that made her upset. Oh yeah, like I'd expect her to remember right now.

"Who're you calling losers?" Frohike yells to me. "And bring me a beer while you're at it."

"Hey, it's my birthday!"

"Your point?"

Well, nice to know that some things in the universe are constant, like Frohike being a dick. I take him a beer. He better be grateful. "Whatcha working on?" He better be doing something about what's up with Deb. They made me lay off, and I only went with it on the condition that they were going to do something about it.

"Come over and have a look. Or was physics a class you slept through?"

"I didn't sleep through all my classes. I played D&D through some of 'em."

He snorts like I'm the bane of his existence. Well, I try. "Here. My eyes need a break."

I hand him his beer.

"How's Miss Deborah?"

"She's hanging. Think she might get out Friday."

"And her parents? How long are they around for?"

"That's the good part. Mrs. SJ has to teach on Monday. She's doing summer school. So they're going back Saturday."

I was worried I was gonna be stuck with them for the rest of my mortal life, which might not be long if Mr. SJ sticks around, but they said today they were leaving Saturday. I offered to take them to the airport. I hope I didn't sound too eager. "Bad part is, her sister's coming up from Raleigh for about ten days. Deb says she's cool, though." Personally, I have my doubts. I've had just about enough of the SJ's, except for Deb. I can never get enough of her, especially right now. "Can you believe, they're making us wait six weeks 'til we can do anything again? What am I gonna do?"

"Same thing you always did," Frohike says real dryly. Prick.

I look at the screen. This is Area 51 stuff I don't recognize. "You think this has to do with Deb taking a bullet?"

"I'm thinking somebody doesn't want us to know something. I'm wondering if this has anything to do with what Byers downloaded."

"This is old stuff?" I really don't remember seeing this. And yes, in spite of my stoner status, I do actually remember tech shit.

"Yeah. The disk is dated 8/6/98. Funny thing is, neither Byers nor I could remember how we got this."

"Don't ask me."

"You'll notice I didn't."

I scroll through. "Heavy duty physics stuff. Maybe I shouldn't have slept through that class. I mean, tachyon flux? Gravitational displacement? What the hell is that all about?"

"Now compare it with Byers' files." I bring up another set of screens. Thank God for 21-inch monitors. When you have as much real estate in front of you as we do, you want a honking big screen.

I look it over, but I don't get that far before we get interrupted. It's Sari and Byers, and they sound happy. They should. They're not gonna be sexually deprived for six weeks, except by choice. They're idiots.

"Happy Birthday, Ringo," Sari leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Nice, but I'd really rather have what me and Deb originally had planned for today. *Sigh.* Let's just say it didn't involve clothes.

"Thanks. Weird stuff here. I mean, yeah, there's some stuff I recognize as aircraft telemetry, but where the hell did we get this? I don't remember this. How are we gonna figure it out? "

"Well, we might be getting some help. I'm going to spend some time tonight studying the analysis section. At least I can figure that out." Byers motions for me to get up. "How're you holding up, Langly?"

"Okay." Not great, not bad. I mean, at least it's not as bad as the days before. Maybe things are getting better. Yeah, right.

"I checked out the young Dr. O'Casey," Frohike says to us.

"O'Casey? You mean like Sean O'Casey? The physics brain boy?" That dude's got some killer research going on.

"One and the same," Frohike says. "Interesting young fellow. Gifted, if a bit intemperate. He doesn't seem to have a preference for either girls or boys, but at least his file didn't say anything about barnyard animals."

"Sean has standards. They can be pretty low when he's stoned, but he does have them," Sari assures us.

Me, I don't care if he gives blow jobs to elephants, though he should have a damn good dentist if he does. All I care is, who the fuck did this to Deb, and how can we nail them.

"You notice the pattern similarities between the data sets in these files?" Byers asks me.

"Some." I haven't gotten that good a look. Give me some time, and I'll find whatever's there. It'd help if Byers would let me sit down again.

"Phone's ringing," Byers announces.

"Answer it, Langly," Frohike's just sipping on his beer, kicking back.

"God, we need a houseboy."

"And you're it." Frohike is such a pain in the ass.

I hit the record button and pick up. "Lone Gunmen, whaddya want?" I mean, really. It's been a long day. At least for me it has. Byers gives me an ugly look. Not the time to go prissy on me, Suit Boy.

"Stay away from the files." At least that's what I think the scrambled voice says. I put it on the speaker.

"Who is this?" I'm not feeling so good all of a sudden. Things were just starting to get better.

"Poor Blondie, it's a shame we had to hurt your girlfriend, but you're so hard headed about this stuff."

I'll kill him. So help me, I will reach through the phone and strangle -- whoever the hell it is. Frohike makes a dash for the call tracing equipment.

"Hey, FCC -- I hope you and your chickie had a pleasant dinner. I didn't know you were into vegetarian Thai. Going all wimp on me? Man, I can't believe you're still not doing her. What's wrong with you, are you clipped or just queer? Go for it! I would." The voice chuckles.

Byers looks like he's gonna faint, and Sari goes dead white.

"Sneezy, you tubby little dwarf," our caller goes on, "you seem to be the most sensible one of the bunch. Maybe you could convince the other stooges that this stuff isn't for you."

"Who are you, and what the hell are you talking about?" Frohike shouts at the speaker.

"You know what I'm talking about. You've got the files; stay out of them. I want them back. You'll hear from me again." The call ends abruptly.

Frohike looks up from the tracer. "Damn, he was out too fast. Not long enough for a trace. Langly, try to raise Mulder. Byers, you and Sari figure out what the hell she's going to do for the night. I don't think going home's an option."

"If you think I'm not gonna go see Deb tomorrow--" he's brain dead.

He turns around and cuts me off. "Listen, Blondie, we'll deal with your love life in the morning. In the meantime, we'd better get some idea of who we're up against, and fast."

Byers looks sick. "You were right, Frohike. Maybe we should have backed out when we had the chance."

Frohike's starting to type. "Nice thought, Byers, but there never was a chance. We're in it up to our ears. Something here smells really fishy. I bet the real story's in this flight data you found. I'm betting this black box data connects the stealth stuff with the U.F.O. files, guys. It must be from Dreamland, otherwise why all the ooga-booga shit? Now we have to find out who they are."

PART 11

"There is a way in which
I am a double of myself
My own mirror image"

~~Diane di Prima -- Loba~~
______

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
10:00 P.M.

BYERS:

I've spent most of the last hour and a half trying to analyze the voice from the phone threat. Mulder is here, talking with Langly and Frohike. Sari's been sitting silently on the red office couch, watching everything.

"I don't remember anything beyond going out to Area 51, finding nothing, and coming back," Mulder says. "Just ask Scully. And yet, something must have happened. I can't think of any other way to explain the black box data you boys found. Especially not the temporal anomaly stuff. Are you *sure* you didn't just download it from somewhere? Like some science fiction site?"

"Not a chance," Frohike replies. "If we'd hacked for it, the information about exactly where and how we'd gotten it would be on the disk with the telemetry data. We keep records of this stuff, in case we need to get in again later. And the analysis stuff? That's pure Byers."

"Are you sure this mess doesn't have Monroe's fingerprints on it?" Mulder asks. "I wouldn't put it past him to try to get even with you guys for knocking him out of the catbird seat a few months back."

"Not possible," I tell him. "At least not in terms of the threat. I can't match the voice to anyone yet, but believe me, Monroe was one of the first voices I tried. No match here at all, even allowing for the worst types of electronic distortion. And besides, the things he said aren't typical of Monroe's style or vocabulary. All we know right now is that it's a male voice, fairly deep. Beyond that, I don't have a clue."

"What about the material itself?" Mulder continues. "You guys know Monroe's style. Do any of the files look like his work?"

Langly looks up at Mulder, pausing from his continuing examinations of the files. "I hadn't thought about that, but it's worth a look." He turns his attention back to the files with renewed interest.

"Are you sure you didn't note anything unusual when you returned from your trip to Nevada?" I ask.

"Well, now that you mention it," Mulder muses, "there was that odd thing about the waterbed..."

"Waterbed?" Frohike's eyebrows rise and he grins. "Now this, I want to hear about."

"Yeah," Mulder says, looking back at Frohike. "When I got back, it was like somebody had snuck in and completely redecorated my place in the tackiest possible manner."

"And you'd know from tacky," Langly snipes, not bothering to raise his eyes.

Mulder snorts. "All I have to do is look at you," he responds. "But this was over the top. A four-poster waterbed with a mirror over it. Leopard prints. Some woman's underwear on my floor. All my files were removed from the place to make room for the damned leaky bed, too. I mean, I never used the room for more than storage before that. I'm out of town for a couple of days and all of a sudden, it's a porno set."

"That explains so much," Sari says dryly to herself. I would smile if I weren't so upset right now.

"The lovely Agent Scully wouldn't have had anything to do with this, would she," Frohike cracks, his lecherous grin set on stun.

Mulder laughs out loud this time. "She was with me the whole time. And face it, toadboy, as much as you'd love to think otherwise, Scully's not exactly a porn queen. Even if she'd been here by herself, why would she do that to my place?"

"'Cause you're so in need of a hint?" Langly asks, snickering.

Sari looks at him as though she'd strangle him, if getting up weren't too much effort for the end result. "You are aware," she says tightly, "that Dana isn't happy to be discussed in such terms."

Langly looks over at her with a vaguely guilty expression. "Sorry Sari. Forgot you were listening in."

"Not sorry for saying it in the first place, I note," she replies with a tilt of her head and the raise of an eyebrow. If she gets any better with that eyebrow-fu, we'd all better take cover.

As the others continue to banter back and forth, trying to explain the anomalies of August, 1998, Sari beckons me over to her.

"Do you need something?" I ask.

"I need to go home," she says. She looks uncomfortable, as if might be in some pain, and very much out of sorts, but I feel pretty much the same way. After the phone threat, none of us are comfortable.

I shake my head. "You can't, Sari. You know as well as I do that it's not safe to go out right now."

"I have to feed the Cardinal, and the anoles are due for another feeding as well."

"They'll all survive one evening without your personal attention."

She shifts on the couch. "I don't have any clean clothes."

"I'll go with you tomorrow to your place so you can change before you go to work."

"Devi doesn't know I'm here."

This is getting a little strange. She doesn't usually make such transparent excuses. "All you need to fix that is a phone call. What's really wrong, Sari?"

"I started my period about ten minutes ago, and I forgot to put any supplies in my purse today. Going home seemed to be the easiest way to cope with it. I don't suppose a trip to a drug store is likely?"

I can't say that this is the sort of emergency I'm used to dealing with. Bomb threats, shootings, potential kidnappings, alien shapeshifters, green toxic clone goo -- those I can handle. Sort of. This is a little out of my depth. "I... um... uh..."

She sighs and gives me one of those looks. "Look, I know you won't have anything here I can use. You're *guys* for Goddess' sake." Her eyes light up and she raises her voice. "Ringo?"

He looks over at us. "Yeah?"

"Do you know if Deb leaves any of her personal stuff here when she's not staying with you?"

He shifts a bit, leaning back in his seat, and peers curiously over his computer. "Like, ah, what kind of personal stuff? Clothes and shit?"

Sari shakes her head. "No, Ringo. *Personal* stuff. Female things. Like tampons or pads or anything."

Langly turns bright red, and Mulder and Frohike turn to stare at her. "I... uh... um... I dunno. "

Mulder just chuckles to himself.

Sari glowers at all of us. "What is it with men? You take a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence in a woman's life and turn it into something to blush over and hem and haw about." She snorts. "You guys cope with being shot at, exposing major governmental conspiracies, and threats to your life without hardly blinking an eye, but one little request for a menstrual pad sends you into a state of utter incoherence. What the hell is with that?"

"There are some pads in the top left cabinet in the second-floor bathroom," Frohike says.

"Huh?" Langly looks at him strangely.

"Found 'em last week when I was looking for a bottle of peroxide," Frohike explains in his most matter of fact voice. Langly just stares. "What? I cut my finger. I guess Deborah figured she was about the only one who'd be looking in a cabinet that high up."

"Thank you, Mel. I don't suppose you'd know if there was any Motrin or anything up there with them?"

"I believe so," he answers.

Sari vanishes up the stairs.

"No wonder she's been in such a mood the past couple of days," Frohike says.

"I heard that!" Sari shouts down the stairs from the main floor. "If any one of you makes another PMS crack, I'll personally run your penis through a blender!"

Everyone blanches. We all look at each other. Male solidarity requires that none of us ever mention this incident again.

After a few moments, I break the silence. "So Langly, how far did you get in looking for Monroe's fingerprints in the files? Need some help?"

THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 2000
LONE GUNMEN OFFICES
7:05 A.M.

SARI:

John insists on taking me to work this morning. In fact, he insists that I don't go anywhere without an escort until he and the guys find the identity of our unfriendly neighborhood assassin.

I'm used to looking out for myself. I'm used to watching over my shoulder wherever I go. I'm used to sussing a room before I enter, and checking the sidewalk before I leave. Years of dodging Barry taught me that. But Barry never carried a sniper rifle with a scope. I can't find it in me to disagree with John over this one. He's right, I do need an escort, but having him constantly with me is far too dangerous for both of us. Fortunately, my new position entitles me to security if and when the occasion demands. I'd say the occasion demands, and when I get in today, I'm going to have some words with the senior staff about assigning me a body guard.

Without clean clothes of my own, I'm dressed in one of John's shirts as a robe, partly open to dissipate some of the heat of the already tropical summer morning. It's time for my shower, and then some breakfast before we have to head out. I'm halfway down the hall when the bathroom door opens, and John emerges, a towel wrapped around his slender waist. He's holding his pajamas in one hand and the door knob in the other, but hasn't seen me. I must say, he has lovely legs. Then his towel starts to slip.

His bright blue eyes catch mine with a look of utter panic, but by the time his hand grabs for the edge of the towel, it's too late. The navy cotton terry has hit the ground, and he's entirely exposed for the world, or at least me, to see. I feel my face flush as he blushes all the way down his smooth chest. He's frozen for a moment, but soon collects himself enough to grab the towel, cover himself with it and his pajamas, and run for his room saying "sorry sorry sorry!"

I saw a good bit of him while he was laid up when I first met him. Hospital gowns don't conceal much, and he didn't always have his jammies buttoned all the way up, though he generally tended to when he knew I was in the room. I'll even admit that I've wondered what he looks like under those suits now and then. Unfortunately, the absurdity of the immediate situation has me giggling as I hurry the rest of the way to the bathroom. I might as well get started before Mel gets up and wants to use it too.

"It's all right, John," I say as I pass his room. "I won't tell if you won't."

There's a muffled whimper from behind his door. He's probably about to die of embarrassment. He's just that way. I don't generally blush in the presence of nudity myself. I've been naked as a hairless Chihuahua on the banks of the Ganges with thousands of other people, bathing at dawn. I'm not entirely sure what made this moment so different.

But he is rather... delightfully endowed; not hung like a horse on steroids, but not so small as to avoid notice in those jeans he wore before he felt like himself and started wearing the suits again, either. He really does look great in jeans. I'd like it if he wore them more often, in fact. Okay, so he's just a friend, but a girl is entitled to her fantasies. I'd probably even have some, if my cramps weren't having cramps. Gods, I need a Midol.

10:40 A.M.

FROHIKE:

Byers was pretty amusing this morning as he and Miss Sari headed out for her office. He'd barely look at her, and blushed the entire time. Under other circumstances, I'd suspect that he'd gotten some, but I didn't hear any evidence of hanky panky from that end of the hall last night, and she didn't look like anything had happened, so I have to wonder what's eating him.

Mulder came by about half an hour ago to take Langly to see Deborah, and Byers got back just before the two of them headed out the door. He told me that he'd gotten some breakfast on the way back home, and I'd seriously hassled him about spending time alone outside the office with at least one shooter known to be on our tail.

Right now, the two of us are examining the coding in some of this material for signs of Jack Monroe's presence. Mulder had a twinge of a memory about the voice from the phone threat last night, and even though we all know it wasn't Monroe, Mulder's suggestion to look into him has us hopping.

I'm just about to flip from one page of code to another when I get that feeling. "Byers."

He looks up from his desk. "Yeah?"

"Come look at this. I think I found something." I motion him over and turn my monitor so he can sit beside me and we can both look. I point to a line of code. "Look familiar?"

He leans in close. I think his eyes still aren't quite right after that retinal tear he took when Barry hit him. I should bug him about getting reading glasses, but I'm sure he'll do it himself if he starts to get too frustrated with it.

"You may be right," he says. "I think I saw this before, in one of the Black Widow hacks. We should probably check it out."

I nod. "I was kinda hoping it was my imagination, actually." The last thing I want is for that nutcase Monroe to be gunning for us again. Especially if he's in cahoots with somebody else. He almost got us last time, and I sure as hell don't want him trying again.

Then again, if it isn't Monroe, it's a total unknown, and we're really in trouble.

Byers gets up and pulls out a disk with some of Monroe's known coding on it. "Let's check it against this."

He slips the disk in, and we both go over the files. Sure enough, there are several matches. Some are in the black box coding. We find other fragments in the information about the weirdo drive. One file, full of what looks like programming for the drive, is rife with Monroe's style. If it isn't him, it's definitely someone who learned at his knee.

"I think we've got him," I say, looking over at Byers.

He nods. "Now we have to figure out who the other guy is, and what the hell is going on with this quantum mechanics stuff."

"Yeah, well we'll be meeting Sari's pal Sean the physics boy wonder tomorrow evening." I remind him. "If he's anywhere near as good as his reputation, he'll be able to clue us in."

Byers shifts slightly, then leans back in his chair. "I wonder if Mulder or Scully have made any progress on their end."

I shake my head. "No way to know just yet. You want to call them?"

"They're probably still busy," Byers says. "But I did have this really weird dream last night."

"What's that got to do with this?" I ask.

"It was a dream about Mulder."

I poke him in the ribs. "What, not getting anywhere with Sari, so you're messing with Mulder in your dreams?"

He glares at me, blushing red, and whacks me on the head with a pile of paper. "Damn it, Frohike, when are you going to lay off about Sari?"

"Whoa, down buddy, it was a joke!"

This doesn't tone his glare down any. It's still on 'flay'. "Yeah, right."

"So what about this dream?"

He sits back and loosens up just a little, still tense. "It was... weird."

"Yeah, you said that already. Why was it weird?"

He looks at me, and I can see he's trying to frame the answer so I'll have some hope of understanding. This could be bad.

"It was Mulder, but it... wasn't Mulder. He was here... well, I mean, he was in our old office, but he wasn't acting like himself. Scully was there. She said he wasn't really Mulder, that he was someone else in Mulder's body. Said his name was... I'm not sure, but I think it started with an M. Murray. Morrie. Something." He looks at me and shrugs. "I've got no clue what it was about, but it seemed to have something to do with the black box data we found. I remember a black box in the dream. Scully brought it to us."

I just sit and stare at him for a minute. "That really *is* weird." What's weirding me out the most is that I almost have a memory of it too. I shake my head.

"What?" Byers asks.

"I'm not sure. Probably nothing."

He gets that look on his face, like he's onto something. "Are you sure it's nothing?"

"I'm not... oh hell, I don't know. It's almost like I remember that too."

He tilts his head like a bird. "You do?"

"Sorta. I think." I laugh. "That can't be possible, though. How the hell could I remember your dream?"

"Maybe I should ask Langly about it when he gets back this evening."

We look at each other. "Maybe you should," I tell him. I suddenly have the strangest sense of deja vu.

9:20 P.M.

LANGLY:

Mulder and Scully are here. I was sort of expecting Sari too, but Byers says she got a body guard from the Sierra Club people and she's with her folks, who got in today. Right now, he's telling Scully about his dream.

"And I remember..." Byers gets this embarrassed look on his face, "the not-Mulder saying something about making up the stories we print. He called Frohike 'Sneezy.'" He and Frohike trade this weird look. That's what our mystery boy called Mel yesterday.

I get this chill up my spine, like somebody just walked over my grave or something. Man, I can almost remember this happening. "Are you sure, Byers? I mean, like, we weren't all hallucinating this one night after a game or anything, were we?"

Scully reaches into her pocket. "It sounds ridiculous, but I did have this in my office drawer after our Nevada trip. I don't know where it came from." She pulls out this really cool looking fusion of a penny and a dime.

Byers reaches out his hand. "May I look at that, Agent Scully?"

He turns it over in his fingers a few times, and I can just see the gears in his head going about a billion miles a minute. "If the analysis of the flight recorder data is correct, and I'm sure it is, this could be a possible result of the... the space/time anomaly it mentioned. Something having to do with a warp or a tear in the space/time continuum that must have partially corrected itself at some point."

Scully shakes her head. "How can that be? We don't have the technology to do anything like that. I mean, I've read the files, and from the physics, I suppose it's theoretically possible, but someone would still have to be able to build a machine, a drive, to put the theory into practice, and then it would have to malfunction in a very particular way--"

"We're getting some expert advice tomorrow evening," Frohike tells her. "One Doctor Sean O'Casey, Ph.D., physics boy."

"O'Casey?" Scully asks. "From CERN? How on earth do you know him?"

"We don't," Byers says, "but Sari does. He's in DC at the moment, and will be at a party for her parents over at the Sri Lankan consulate tomorrow evening."

Scully's face lights up. "Can you get me an invitation?"

Byers looks over at her. "You're a fan of his?"

Mulder's been sitting there silent through all this, which is totally unusual for him. By now, I would have expected Spock jokes or something. When he smacks the desk he's sitting at, we all start.

"I remember now," he says, real serious. "I think I remember that voice. Can you boys play the filtered phone call again?"

"Things are starting to come back to me, too," I tell them. I never thought I'd be copping to some kind of H. G. Wells time machine gig.

Frohike plays the tape again.

Byers mutters, "Starts with an M --"

Suddenly it hits me. Everybody speaks at once. "Morris Fletcher."

"That fucking MIB," Frohike growls.

"Disgusting sexist bastard," Scully mutters.

I look up at Mulder. "Monroe *and* Fletcher? Oh man, are we in trouble."

PART 12

"I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate!"

~~Willa Cather - The Song of the Lark~~
______

FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
12:17 A.M.

FROHIKE:

"We're gonna find that bastard, and when we do, he's mine, man. I'm gonna truss him like a turkey." Langly's shouting and his face has gone bright red, somewhere between furious and livid. I can understand his sentiments. I'm having more than a few of them myself, but this is a time for cool heads to prevail.

Byers is in that mode, fortunately. Sari having a temporary bodyguard seems to have calmed him enough to think clearly about other things. He's sitting at his desk, chin in hand, an intent look on his face. "They're connected, Fletcher and Monroe. The question is, how?"

"I think first we need to find out where Monroe is and who's doing his dirty work," Scully says.

"I doubt he's in DC; he may be an asshole, but he's not stupid enough to resurface here after the Pinck debacle," I add.

Langly's voice rises. "He's got balls surfacing at all!"

Byers wrinkles his brow. "There's been no mention of him on the otaku boards, and believe me, everyone there watches out for him."

"Just because no one's seen him doesn't mean he's not there. Obviously he's around," I observe dryly.

"What if it was Fletcher, not Monroe, who was responsible for Deborah's injuries? He certainly knew of them." Byers is still analyzing the situation.

"Nah. We dug up some files on him. Not his style. Fletcher's a pain in the ass, but he's also a coward." That much is obvious.

"Moose and Squirrel seem to think Fletcher was the caller." Langly is still red, but he's lowered his voice, much to my relief. "All I can say is, he better not ever fucking call here again!"

Mulder and Scully look at him, puzzled but vaguely amused by the nicknames. "I think the stooges nickname is justified," she mutters to him.

"Actually, that's exactly what we want him to do," Byers says. "He knows we have something he wants."

A light goes on in my head. "Byers, when you went in, you didn't copy the files, you hijacked them."

He nods and grins. "The copy protection was massive. It was easier just to walk out with them." He shoots me an accusing look. "I don't suppose you'd have done it differently."

"No, actually, I wouldn't have," and that's the truth. If you can't copy it, just steal it. They say bad hackers imitate and good ones steal. I'd like to think we're good.

"I'm going in after him," Langly turns towards his work station.

Once again, Papa Bear must intervene. "Langly, how long till Deborah's parents leave town?"

"Saturday morning. Not soon enough for me," he grumbles.

"Mulder, are you having them protected once they're out of the area?" I ask.

Mulder shakes his head. "I don't think they're targets."

"Yeah," I say, "chances are they figure they'd be doing Langly a favor if they went after them."

Langly makes a face at me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm right, or if he realizes that fundamentally, the SaintJohns are getting a bad deal all around.

I sigh. "Langly, just be cool until they get out of town and land in New Orleans."

He crosses his arms and sulks. "Fine. But after that, man, total war!"

"Listen, buddy, we want him just as bad as you do," and ain't that the truth. Langly's gonna have to get in line to have their asses. If he thinks he's the only one whose life is being fucked up by these two jerkwads, he's got another think coming. "But it's late, and I'm declaring it a night."

"I agree," Scully says. She looks over at Mulder. "We have some things we need to deal with. Come on, Mulder."

He shrugs. "Later guys. Try not to stay up all night with the physics textbooks. Frohike's video collection's more interesting."

Byers looks up in protest as they leave. "Frohike, we've got way too much work to do."

Yes and no. "We can't get much further without assistance from the Boy Genius of Physics, and he's not here right now." I glance at Langly. "Why don't you let Deborah spend her last night alone with her parents? You should come along."

"I'm not going." His determination is blunted by a harsh yawn.

"Listen, buddy, you haven't left her alone with them all week. You owe her." Actually, I couldn't care less how they feel about it, but he sure as hell needs a break from them. I study them both. "No one's gotten much sleep this week, so I'm ordering everyone off to bed."

"Including yourself?" Byers eyes me skeptically.

"Especially myself." I'm not kidding. Byers and Langly glance at each other, shrug, and begin their way up the stairs. I follow along, my bones heavy with weariness. God, just one night of decent sleep. Please.

LONE GUNMEN OFFICES
9:15 A.M.

FROHIKE:

For a change, it was a peaceful night. We all slept the sleep of the dead, and did we ever need it.

Byers is sitting at the kitchen table, starting to wade through the stack of newspapers we receive every morning. He's looking fairly chipper, and the dark circles under his eyes have receded quite a bit. "Coffee's on," he says to me, his voice calm and peaceful for the first time since Monday.

"Looks like you finally got some sleep," I comment.

"You too," he answers. Oh yeah, and I won't mention those sweet dreams of Mel Scarlett.

"Oh, man, last day of the 'rents," Langly says, heading for the coffee maker. "All I gotta do is survive like 24 more hours." He looks better than he has in days. "You make the coffee, Byers?"

"Yeah," Byers says, not looking up.

"Thought so. I can't stand my spoon up in it."

"Blondie, you've got no room to criticize my coffee," I comment. "I happen to like a brew that puts a little hair on my chest."

"That ain't where you need it," Langly shoots back. His retort actually produces a strange feeling of calm. This is a normal morning. Life is beginning to get back on track. Then the phone rings. God, what now?

"Get the phone, would you?" I say to Langly.

"Why me?" He glares at me.

"Because you're up, and you're the youngest, and I told you to."

He sticks his tongue out at me as he slogs towards the phone. I smile. Yes, things are looking up.

Before I know it, Langly's waving at us to get the tracing equipment up and running. He covers the receiver and hisses, "It's him! The dick that called us before!" He hits the speaker button.

"I heard that!" The electronically altered voice snaps.

It looks like I spoke too soon. "Fletcher, you bastard, you can cut the shit. " I groan. I'm sure it's him. I hope it is.

"This isn't shit. I've got problems, and you boys are going to help me solve them." Even with the electronic distortion, we can tell he's trying to sound tough, but he comes off as fearful.

"Excuse me, but do we look like your slaves?" Langly retorts. "And why the fuck would we do anything for you, you asshole, after what you did to my girlfriend?"

"Hey, I had nothing to do with that!"

"Like hell you didn't!" Langly's losing his temper, so I motion to him to stay calm. I pick up the receiver and turn the speaker off.

"Listen, punkass," I growl, "you don't go around telling us what we will and won't do. And none of us are in any frame of mind to help you with jack shit, not after what you did to Deborah and Kimmy."

"Hey, it's not my fault that some people can't follow instructions. All I wanted to do was scare you guys. I had no intention of anyone actually getting hurt."

"I don't care what your intentions were, you jerkwad! You sicced Monroe on us --"

"That's where you're wrong, Sneezy."

God, I hate this man. I really, really hate him.

"I can explain everything, but I need my data back." He's trying not to plead, and doing a lousy job of it. Man would make a terrible actor.

"I'm listening."

"You bring the data, I'll tell you what I know."

"Uh-uh. If you can explain what happened, tell us now." I think we're being set up, and I don't like it.

"I'm not saying a word. Bring me the data, and we'll talk. Meet me at the Library Lounge at 11:30."

"No way, man." Not the Library Lounge. God knows who'll see us there -- or him. If Monroe's up to something, the last place we need to be seen is among the DC hoi polloi. The bartenders there have a habit of remembering things, especially things that look out of place. Byers is the only one of us who'd actually blend in there. "You meet us at the Limerick." That's our bar. Granted, our bartender sees all, knows all, but he can be persuaded to forget when it's convenient, or if you offer him cash.

"What, that dive?" he scoffs.

"I see you're familiar with it." Time to let him know he's not in charge. He's had his illusions for long enough. "You want to talk, you meet us in the Limerick."

"Excuse me, but I'm supposed to meet with one sizzling hot blonde in two hours, and if I miss this date --"

"And this would be my problem because...?" I have no interest in spending more time with that sleazeball than absolutely necessary, although getting him to miss a chance to philander might be worth it. I don't understand why jerks like him can always find good looking women to mess around with. It's just wrong. "Byers and I will meet you at 11:30 at the Limerick."

"You want me to meet you in Southeast DC? Unbelievable." He laughs, but he's nervous. He thinks he's fooling us; he's wrong.

"You want to talk to us, you be there," I tell him firmly.

"And bring the data with you."

"I said we'd meet you." And that's as much as I'm promising. I hope I don't regret that.

LIMERICK TAVERN
SOUTHEAST DC
11:50 A.M.

BYERS:

"This could be a set up," I warn Frohike.

"I'm well aware of that." He stares at the street ahead of us.

"We didn't have to agree to meet him."

He's driving the Chrysler, I'm in the passenger seat. He glares at me meaningfully. "Did you have a better idea? If you did, you should have said something earlier."

I groan. I really didn't, but this is giving me the creeps. "We're not handing over the data, are we?" I have the discs secure in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I'm beginning to think I should have left them in the safe.

He shakes his head. "Not unless we absolutely have to. It's still our best bargaining chip."

"I think it's odd that he didn't mention any of the hidden files. It's as if he's completely ignorant of the other data, and the black box material."

"He's completely ignorant, I'll give you that," Frohike snaps, swearing under his breath as he searches for parking.

"But don't you think he would have at least mentioned it?"

"I really believe he doesn't know shit. Maybe he doesn't know that Kimmy cracked the ghost files, and doesn't want us to know about them. Our memories were fucked about the black box data. I don't think he has any idea we have that." Frohike snorts.

"What if he's got his goons out in force? They've already gotten to Deborah and Kimmy."

Frohike snorts again. "Only mistake they made with Kimmy was missing."

"Frohike!"

"Oh, get over it, Byers. I like the little turd, even if he is a pain in the ass. Fletcher said he was just looking to harass us, but Monroe got crazy on his own."

We pull up to a space about a block from the Limerick. Bernie, the proprietor, is generous about extending credit on tabs, but the two parking spaces behind the tavern are his and his alone. "You don't actually believe that, do you? What if he's snowing us?" I ask anxiously.

Frohike eyes me as he opens the door. "Then we're fucked."

Now there's a warm, fuzzy thought.

"Your friend's in back," Bernie flicks a thumb toward the back of the tavern.

I want to tell Bernie he's not our friend, but I let it go. I'd also like to bag this right now and get the hell out of here. I'm still nervous that we're being watched, and I don't like the sensation.

"What, Blondie wimped out?" is the first thing that emanates from the mouth of the man sitting in the back booth. I try to come up with a snappy rejoinder, but all I can do is gape; he's dressed so badly he makes Frohike look like a Paris runway model. Whoever designed that Hawaiian shirt should be shot, after prolonged torture. I consider donning my sunglasses.

"Could you have made yourself a little more obvious?" Frohike snarls at him.

"Hey, you were the ones that insisted on slumming. I just dressed the part," he smirks. "Come on, sit down, it's noon somewhere in the world. In fact, it's only 8 minutes away right here." Bernie comes by quietly and the man we presume to be Morris Fletcher orders another Bombay Sapphire martini. I wince. Bombay is fine gin, but there's just something about a man who'd drink something blue, especially before lunch. I ask Bernie for a club soda with a slice of lime. Frohike doesn't order anything.

I'm tempted to note that there have been more than a few individuals in suits, aside from myself, that visit this establishment, and that they tend to be well-placed government higher-ups looking for an honest drink and discreet conversation, but I doubt Fletcher would understand the word 'discreet.'

Frohike wastes no time. "Start talking," he demands.

"What, not even a little 'hello, how are you?'" Fletcher clucks his tongue, condescending. "I was going to ask how Langly's sweet young thing was doing, but you won't even give me a chance."

"This isn't a social call," I say. "If you have information, we want it, and we want it now."

"What about my data?" Despite his bravado, the man is decidedly nervous. His eyes dart about and his fingers fidget with the drink.

"What's the deal with Monroe?" Frohike dives back in.

"Are you going to give me my files back?" Fletcher is almost whining now.

"That depends upon whether or not we like your answers," Frohike shoots back without missing a beat.

"You told me you'd give them to me," Fletcher pouts, not unlike Langly does.

"We said we'd meet you." Frohike eyes him levelly. "Now are you going to say something, or are we wasting our time here?"

"What do you want from me?" He seems wary, even more nervous now.

"We want to know what your connection is to Monroe," I say icily.

"I have no connection to Monroe." He fidgets uncomfortably. Of course, I'd be embarrassed in that shirt, too. Somehow, though, I don't think that's what's causing his discomfort.

"You said you did," Frohike stares at him.

"I did not. All I said was that Monroe got a little carried away. I didn't say I had anything to do with him."

"Then how did you know about what happened with Deborah? And Kimmy?" I demand. "Or where we all were the other night?"

"Look, all I want is my data back. You don't understand. My ass is on the line here," he pleads. "I really didn't have anything to do with Monroe."

"But you had his goons shoot at our friends," I say coldly, "and nearly kill Deborah."

"I did no such thing. I ordered my... well, we do have people trained to handle that sort of thing. But all they were supposed to do was scare her, so that you clowns would get nervous and back off. Apparently Monroe got wind of it, and decided to do a little work of his own, making it look like our people did it."

Frohike contemplates that one. "You know what I think? I think you're lying," he says, staring directly at Fletcher, who flinches under his uncompromising gaze.

"I am not lying to you, guys. Seriously, why would I want to hurt you? You guys are my heroes."

I make the mistake of sipping my club soda while he speaks, and end up spluttering the mess all over the table. Frohike rolls his eyes, muttering, "Gimme a freakin' break."

"Where's Monroe?" I demand sharply.

"How the hell should I know?" Fletcher snaps back. "I'm not on Monroe watch."

"You know where he is," I press.

"He went underground. At least that's what I hear," Fletcher continues nonchalantly, but he won't look at us.

"He was supposed to lose his job," I point out. That was part of the agreement with the Justice Department, or so we'd been led to believe. "We've been keeping an eye out for him, and believe me, so have our friends," I remind him.

"Yeah, your 'friends.' I've seen your friends," Fletcher snorts, motioning Bernie over to refill him.

It's past noon now. Maybe a liquid lunch isn't such a bad idea.

"Another club soda?" Bernie asks me.

"No, make it a Tanqueray and tonic, please. Extra lime." Frohike raises his eyebrows at me, shakes his head, and adds a J&B neat to the tab.

When our drinks arrive, we press on. "Where's Monroe?" I ask again.

"I don't know."

"Well, if you don't know, you're going to find out," Frohike growls at him.

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Tell us if he's working for you."

"He doesn't work for me!"

"Well, he's working for someone!" I fire back, my nerve enhanced by a little liquid courage.

Fletcher hesitates. "I don't know where he is."

"But he's in your organization." He has to be. "Despite the fact that he was supposedly fired."

Fletcher laughs maliciously. "You don't seriously think guys like him ever get fired, do you? I got news for you. People like him don't get fired. If his bosses want to get rid of him, they'll kill him. Much cleaner that way."

"So why the hell is he gunning for us?" Frohike says angrily. "He's got his job. He's obviously protected."

"Yeah, but you guys exposed him. And he's mad."

He takes another swallow of his drink, the third he's had since we've arrived, and he had at least one before we got here. "I'd like my files now, guys."

"Forget it," Frohike says coldly to him.

"I have to have them!"

"Oh, you'll get them," Frohike promises. "When you deliver Monroe's whereabouts to us."

Fletcher feigns disgust, but mostly what I see is fear. "And what do you plan to do? Expose him again in your silly little rag?"

"We're going to put him out of business, once and for all," I assure him, with more boldness than I actually feel. "We plan to make certain he never comes near us again."

Fletcher chuckles. "Right. Sure. You guys kill me. First you think you're the saviors of the free world, now you think you're going to take on Monroe."

Frohike smiles coldly. "You do need your data back, don't you?"

Fletcher says nothing.

"Find him. And get ready to deliver him to us. C'mon, Byers. Let's get out of here."

"Guys, you don't understand. If I find Monroe and hand him over to you... damn, I might as well cut off my testicles here and now."

Frohike shoots him one last, amused look. "You have testicles?"

PART 13

"Most real relationships are involuntary."

~~Iris Murdoch, from "The Sea, The Sea"~~
______

FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
1:30 P.M.

LANGLY:

Wonder what the guys are up to, and if they actually met up with Fletcher. I'm going crazy not knowing. We're busy getting Deb ready to go home because she finally got sprung. They pulled her IV line out about half an hour ago, and she's waiting for her paperwork.

I'm real glad Deb gets to go home, but even better is that her parents are leaving tomorrow. I hate leaving her alone with them, but I've had more than I can take of the SJ's. I'm supposed to go to this party tonight at the consulate. I asked Deb if she minded, and she told me I should go, take a break.

My only idea of a break right now is a long nap, with no parents and nobody chasing us. Fat chance of that.

DEBORAH'S APARTMENT
3:07 P.M.

LANGLY:

Deb is now a free woman, or at least, she's been sprung from the hospital. I get the unsettling feeling that real freedom comes when her folks leave for Louisiana.

Mulder insisted we go home with one of the Fibbies, which was both good and bad. Bad because I'd really have liked to take Deb home by myself and get her all tucked in and everything. Good because if there's someone else around, her folks try to be civilized. They don't get all over each other, and, more importantly, they stay off my case.

Less than 24 hours to go before I can dump them at the airport. Fortunately, Deb works a lot of holidays, so maybe we won't have to deal with them for Christmas. I'm tempted to tell her to sign up for Thanksgiving and Christmas just to avoid them. She's a fellow now, and in spite of her impossible hours, she's crawling higher up the food chain.

Of course, now that I'm in her apartment with the folks and all, I recognize that the car ride was a reprieve. They started arguing the second we got out of the car, and it hasn't let up at all since. Deb got tired just from coming home and watching her folks go at it. I have no idea how she survived growing up with this. I help get her snuggled in with her stuffed critters. Her folks aren't taking their eyes off me, but Deb glares over at them.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Ringo for a moment," she says, all sharp.

"Gerard, we do need to pack," Mrs. SJ says. She turns to Deb again. "We'll be back in an hour, sweetie."

That's just about the time I have to leave anyway, since I'm getting dragged to this soiree at the consulate tonight. Don't get me wrong. Devi's awesome, and her parties are a blast, I'm sure. I just feel like crawling in bed and collapsing. Maybe the guys won't notice if I don't go. I don't like strangers, anyway.

Deb looks like she's asleep for a while, but then she opens her eyes. "Are they gone?"

"Yeah, they're gone. For now."

"Thank God." She blinks again. "I love them dearly, Ringo, and they mean well, but I'm so glad they're leaving tomorrow."

You're not the only one, I think, but I don't say it. "You okay?" I stroke her hair. Kinda greasy, but mine's been worse. I mean, it's not like anything's nesting in it.

She shakes her head. "No. I'm not." She's got the tears in her eyes again. Oh shit, not the waterworks. What am I going to do?

"Uh... like... you want me to wash your hair or something?" I ask, not knowing what else to do.

She bursts into tears. "Oh, could you?"

I give her a hug. "Yeah, I think I can handle that."

She's still crying when I start off, and I get shampoo and water everywhere, but by the time I'm done, she's a lot calmer, and really tired. Probably just as well I'm not staying here tonight.

She looks up at me. "Ringo, thanks for being here for me."

"Why? It's my job, isn't it?" I mean, she's my girlfriend. I'm supposed to do that, right?

"That's not the point. I know my folks aren't the easiest people to get along with, but you did so well with them."

Fooled me, but we'll leave it at that. I take praise wherever I can get it. "I think you'd better get some sleep now," I say to her, helping her back in bed. She's asleep before I get out the door.

WASHINGTON, D.C.
SRI LANKAN CONSULATE
8:27 P.M.

BYERS:

"How many people did you say were coming?" I ask Sari as we enter the consulate. I was expecting a crowd, but nothing like what's before me.

"I honestly have no idea." Sari laughs. "Mom was born to entertain. She loves a good party. Devi comes by her talents honestly."

My brain is swimming from the sheer multitude invading the place. The consulate is immense, built for large scale entertaining, but this boggles my mind. Every inch of floor space seems occupied. Langly is standing to my left.

"I don't think there're this many people in Saltville," he mumbles.

Frohike snorts lightly. "Are you kidding? All of DC doesn't have this many people when Congress isn't in session."

Sari laughs. "You won't have to look too far to find a Congresscritter or two here."

"Most likely at the bar -- which I'm going to find." Frohike steps into the mob. Langly remains close to me, clearly exhausted. He's thinking about following Frohike, but he's suddenly accosted by Devi. Devi is not known for visual subtlety -- there's a reason Sari refers to her as Magpie -- but tonight, the blind would notice her in the strong turquoises, deep golden yellows, and fierce scarlet of her outfit. Apparently feeling the garment was insufficiently dramatic, she's added large quantities of colorful jewelry. I'm sure the stones are the real thing. Being married to the Consul General means she can afford the genuine article. On anyone else, the effect would be downright tacky, but this is Devi, and she wears it well.

I'm not a physical person by nature or upbringing, but when Devi plants a solid kiss on each cheek, it feels warm and natural, and I don't flinch. To my surprise, neither does Langly. She stands back from him, his face still in her hands, and observes him critically. All the while, she never so much as tilts her wineglass.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I haven't."

"Well, if this gets too much for you, there are guest rooms on the second floor and off to the left. Feel free to use one of them."

"Uh, thanks." He's almost incoherent at this point. One drink and he'll pass out, guaranteed. "I think I'm gonna check out the buffet table."

"A wise choice," Sari nods. Once he's gone, she says, "He's not looking good. He hasn't eaten much this week, has he?"

"Well, after Frohike drugged his food, I think he got paranoid about eating. Obviously, he has nothing to fear from Devi. I just hope he stays conscious long enough for us to make contact."

I scan the room, trying to pick out our wunderkind, Sean O'Casey, but no one I see resembles the photo I've seen of him. "I don't see him anywhere."

Sari laughs. "Do you seriously believe Sean would be here on time? He's the sort that needs to make an Entrance. Trust me, he'll be late, but he'll be here."

"I certainly hope so. We really need his help, and I'm praying this isn't the night he decides he needs to stay in his room, smoke every illegal substance known to God and man, and contemplate his navel."

"He'll be here. Sean won't miss a good party. He'll just bring his recreational substances with him."

I shudder at the idea. This room is loaded with... everyone. Hilda and Mark Thomas seem to have friends of every race, ethnic group, economic background, religious belief and political persuasion. I recognize two well-known political pundits speaking with each other. One is so far to the left that Marx would blink; the other is the head of a notoriously conservative think tank. I'd assume a discussion of this nature would come to blows, but their conversation appears lively, animated, and friendly. The room is filled with what would have been called 'good vibes' back in the 60s.

"Is there anyone your parents don't know?" I ask her, only partially kidding.

"Well, some of these folks are friends of mine or Devi's, but my folks don't know you yet, and it's time we remedied that." She puts her arm in mine and leads me over to a tall, buxom woman with honey blonde hair who is currently talking to a thinner but equally tall Hispanic woman.

"Mom," Sari calls out. The blonde woman extracts herself from the conversation and hurries over to her daughter, wrapping Sari warmly in her arms. She's dressed in a beautifully embroidered maroon silk skirt and cream silk shirt -- the style is Indian, if I'm not mistaken -- and a great deal of colorful jewelry. She jingles when she moves. She's a little more subtle, but I can see where Devi got her character. And her fashion sense.

"Sari, liebling, I'm so happy to see you!" she says, in a slightly German-accented voice. Hilda manages the embrace without tipping her wine glass, just like Devi. "And you must be John!" I'm treated to the same embrace she offered her daughter. "I've heard so much about you! What a pleasure to finally meet you!"

I eye Sari quizzically; I know she and her parents are close, but I have no idea what she's said to them about me. She's usually the soul of discretion.

Hilda sees my confusion and says, "Most of what I've heard is from Devi." She laughs. "Thank the gods not everyone in the family believes that discretion is the better part of valor. Although we do wish Sari had let us know sooner about that unehelich abscheulich ex-son-in-law of ours." She makes a distasteful face, but the light and laughter quickly returns. "I can't thank you enough for what you did for Sari."

I find myself blushing. "It's what we do, Dr. Thomas."

She shakes her head, waving her free hand. "To be technical, that would be Frau Doktor Professor Thomas, or you can call me Hilda. I'd really prefer Hilda."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Do -- ah, Hilda," I say, smiling.

She grins back at me. "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I require a refill." Hilda begins to make her way toward the bar, but stops to chat with everyone on the way. Getting a drink appears to be an involved procedure for her.

"Let's find my dad," Sari says. We wend our way through the crowd, and I watch for Sean as we move. I'm introduced to at least a dozen people whose names I'll never remember.

Still no sign of our contact, but that will have to wait; Sari is tapping the arm of a tall, distinguished man with long, thick salt and pepper hair drawn back in a ponytail. He's clad in khakis, a blue button down shirt covered by a worn tweed jacket with leather arm patches, and Birkenstock sandals with socks. Before Sari says a word, I know that this is her father. They share the same facial features, the same grey eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, but the most striking thing about him is the same serene gestalt that his elder daughter has.

Dr. Thomas turns and embraces his daughter warmly. His calm, quiet demeanor is a sharp contrast to his wife's exuberant gaiety, but he shares her affectionate nature. I'm beginning to understand why Sari is so physically affectionate with everyone.

"Dad, this is John Byers," she indicates me. "This is my dad, Mark."

"Dr. Thomas, a pleasure." He has a firm, dry handshake. While he's obviously a quiet man, he's not the least bit ill at ease in this environment.

"Please, call me Mark. We're not very formal, and it gets confusing when Hilda and I are in close proximity," he says with a soft, mellow smile; the same smile I so love seeing on Sari. "Let me take this opportunity to thank you for helping our daughter. I've been able to sleep much better ever since, knowing that she's out of danger."

I blush again. "It was no trouble at all, sir." This isn't true, of course, but the risks were worth it, personally as well as professionally. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Sari looks at me.

"Nonsense," Mark says, his brow wrinkling. "I understand you were hospitalized, and could have been blinded or even killed by the blow that bastard dealt you. You risked your life for my daughter, and I won't ever forget that. I hope you're fully recovered from the incident?"

I nod, caught in my social white lie. I have the feeling that the man rarely forgets anything important. "Yes, thank you."

"Devi says that you're a journalist," he continues, saving me further embarrassment.

I nod again, glad to change the subject. "Yes, my associates and I do investigative work. We were working on the Pinck story when I met Sari..."

FROHIKE:

It's a shame I can't take full advantage of the bar. Under any other circumstances, I'd be sampling each of the Scotches available. There are at least a dozen exquisite single malts, and ten blends. Unable to indulge my whims because of my responsibilities tonight, I stick to my usual J&B, but it's largely a prop. Damn.

I console myself by enjoying the view. There are lovelies here of all ages, shades, and sizes. I'd really prefer Mel's company, but she's in Pennsylvania. Still, just because you've ordered dinner doesn't mean you can't read the menu, and there's a feast for the eyes here. No sign of Sean the Physics-boy, though. I hate it when I have to work while there's such a wealth of beauty present.

I decide to explore the wonders of the buffet table. There's enough food here to feed several Third World nations, all of it impeccably presented. It smells delicious. I can understand why Devi's parties are legendary. At most parties I attend, on the rare occasions I do, the main attraction is the stripper, who usually looks a lot better after ingesting far too much booze. I doubt there are any strippers working here tonight, but I'd bet money there are women who engage in that line of work in attendance. There's no lack of representation of anything here; I don't see why sex workers wouldn't be included.

I smile at a buxom woman in a tight teal silk dress that leaves precious little to my already overworked imagination, but my view is suddenly blocked by my blonde partner in crime. I'm amazed at how little he's carrying on his plate. Normally, Langly requires two plates and both hands, and watching him maneuver is nothing short of terrifying, but this has hardly been a normal week for him. There's only a little food on one single plate, and plenty of open space.

"I don't think he's gonna show," Langly grumbles.

"He'll show." I'm reassuring myself as much as him. If O'Casey decides to ditch, we're royally screwed.

"Yeah, well, he'd better show soon. I'm fucking exhausted and I don't feel like waiting all night." Langly's condition has made him even more snappish and unreasonable than usual.

"Devi told you that you could use one of the guest rooms."

Langly snorts. "Oh yeah, right. Like I'm gonna go crash and then never hear the end of it from you dudes for bailing out."

I lay a hand on his arm and he flinches. "Listen, man. You're beyond burnt. You wanna take advantage of Devi's offer, I say go for it. Byers and I can handle it."

He looks mildly hurt at the idea that we could manage without him for a few hours, but he's so dragged out that he sets down his plate. "I'll get the laptop from Byers and take it up with me," he says, then wanders off into the crowd to look for our erstwhile companion.

In the meantime, I'm keeping a sharp eye out for the young Dr. O'Casey -- while enjoying the view, of course.

9:50 P.M.

BYERS:

I'm not a very social creature, but I've had the opportunity to speak with some fascinating and delightful people tonight. I'm surprised at my lack of awkwardness. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel quite at ease here. If I weren't waiting for our contact, I would just relax and enjoy the rest of the evening. Langly stops by briefly to get my laptop and let me know that he's heading for a bedroom upstairs.

"It's about time," I tell him.

"Shut up," he snaps. I let him leave without further comment.

Mark Thomas circulates my way again, and we discuss more particulars of the Pinck incident. He then asks me about our current investigation, which I confess leaves me feeling nervous. I'm not sure how much to disclose at this point, since I'm not even certain what we're dealing with. Fortunately, I'm saved by a petite, attractive woman in a dark navy business suit, her hair styled in a short blonde bob. She's probably an executive or a lawyer.

"Mark, good to see you," she says, shaking his hand.

"And you, Wendy," he says warmly. "I'd like you to meet a friend of my daughter's. This is John Byers. He's a journalist. John, Gwendolyn Barnett Banks."

"Journalists. I've met a few of those," she says, laughing. "A pleasure. Please call me Wendy. People can tell by looking at me that I'm a WASP. I don't want to drive the point home." She reeks of old money and lineage, probably DAR, yet there's nothing that suggests she takes herself with the ponderous seriousness of your typical blue blood.

"How's business, Wendy?" Mark asks her politely.

She laughs heartily. "As long as there are politicians, business will be good. And last time I checked, this town still suffered from far too many of them. If only the taxpayers knew where their dollars were really going. Anyway, I'm headed for the bar." She taps her empty beer bottle. "Nice meeting you, John."

Mark turns to me as she turns away. "Wendy runs the ultimate high class call girl ring in DC. She decided translating Chinese didn't pay enough, so she found something that did. At any rate, she keeps our legislators amused, which should count for something. She's old money. Her family's Barnett Oil. I daresay the service she provides is more honest and less environmentally damaging than that of the rest of her family."

I confess to being a bit shocked, but simply nod. Mark is not the least bit fazed by her unconventional occupation; why should I be?

Mark is about to inquire further into our activities when we're interrupted by a rumble in the crowd. Considering the previous noise level, it's nearly ear shattering. Apparently someone long awaited has arrived.

After a moment, I understand why. I believe our contact is here.

PART 14

"Secrets are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any program our fear has sketched out."

~~George Eliot, from "The Mill on the Floss"~~
______

FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SRI LANKAN CONSULATE
LATE EVENING

FROHIKE:

Jesus, what's all the commotion? I crane my neck to see if Cindy Crawford has made an entrance. Of course I can't see a damn thing, what with being vertically challenged and all.

Byers is cutting a rapid path toward me. "He's here."

"O'Casey? Shit, the way people are carrying on, you'd have thought we'd at least get Tyra Banks."

"For all we know, she could be here." He's scanning the crowd.

"No, I'd have noticed. Trust me on that one."

Byers turns to me. "Looks like we have some competition for his attention. Let's get a move on and distract him as quickly as possible."

"At least let the poor bastard get a drink." It seems inhumane to not allow him at least that much.

"We let him in here, and from the looks of things, we'll never get his attention."

"I thought Sari was going to take care of that."

"That's assuming I can find her. She wandered off to mingle a while ago. I don't even see her."

He looks forlorn. And they're just friends, right? Sucking up to his future in laws like that? Yeah, sure.

BYERS:

When I do see Sari, she's got O'Casey by the hand and is leading him in our direction. This relieves me immensely. He's quite young, with dark hair and a goatee, an average build, and a pleasant face. He looks about like you'd expect a science geek to look -- a bit pale and slightly out of shape. Not unlike my partners and myself, I suppose. He's flirting with almost everyone who walks by, and getting reactions ranging from smiles and laughs to snapped replies and looks of disgust.

"John, this is Sean O'Casey, boy genius. Sean, John Byers and our friend Melvin Frohike." Sean extends his hand, and I offer my own.

"Hey cutie," he says as he shakes my hand, "what are you doing after the party?"

You know, he's really not that bad loo... God, Byers, where is your brain? I can feel myself blush to my toes. The guys are right. It has been too long. I need to get a date -- with a woman. Unfortunately, I don't know that many women, and Sari is too good a friend for me to want to risk changing our relationship and losing her if it didn't work out. "Working, most likely," I lie, even though sleeping is more accurate, and I hope it will be very far away from one Dr. O'Casey, thank you very much. I think I can hear Frohike growling next to me.

Sean looks over at Sari. "You never told me your friend was a hottie."

"What," she says, "and deprive you of the pleasure of finding out for yourself?" The two of them laugh.

"Well if he's busy, what are you doing?" Sean asks her.

"For me, there may not be an 'after the party.' My folks are very likely to want my presence for the entire evening," she says.

Sean winks at her. "You always have an excuse."

Sari laughs again and hugs him. "I'm almost old enough to be your mother, sweet cheeks."

"More years, more experience, I always say." He leers at her, and I barely resist an urge to strangle him. Fortunately, Sari seems to be enjoying their flirting. If she were uncomfortable with the situation, I really would strangle him.

Frohike steps forward with a glower on his face that could kill cockroaches, and puts an end to their banter. "We're here to work, kid, not to get you laid by everything on two legs."

O'Casey draws himself up to his full height, which is about the same as mine, but still towers over Frohike. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'll have you know that I do have standards," he says with a wicked grin. "You couldn't pay me to sleep with a politician!" Even Frohike, annoyed as he is, can see the humor in this, and we all laugh. I'm slightly less tempted to strangle him now, but only slightly.

"So where are we doing this?" Sari asks.

"You shouldn't come," I tell her.

She gives me an annoyed look. "And why not?"

I take her elbow and pull her away from O'Casey and Frohike, then lean in and speak quietly to her -- or at least as quietly as one can in this kind of environment. "If this is anything close to as nasty as I suspect it is, it's going to be far too dangerous for you to know the actual contents of the file. Please, just give me the benefit of the doubt here. If it's nothing, it's nothing, but if it's something big, I don't want you in any more danger than absolutely necessary."

She sighs, but nods. "All right, John, I'll stay out of it, but understand that this is mostly because I have a lot of people I still need to see tonight, and my parents are going to want more of my attention than I've given them so far."

I think our argument the other night has mellowed both of us a bit, and I'm glad she's conceding this one so easily. It gives me a little breathing space in an already difficult situation. I'll have to remember to thank her properly later. "I appreciate this, Sari. Thank you."

She nods again, then gives me a warm hug and a peck on the cheek, and heads off into the crowd.

FROHIKE:

I can't believe we're entrusting whatever the hell it is Byers found to someone barely post-pubescent and severely oversexed. The young Dr. O'Casey has managed to hit on just about everything that moves at this party and a few that don't. He hit on Sari, which I could understand, but he also hit on Byers. Byers managed to handle it gracefully, but I could tell he was thrown off balance. It's not as if we aren't off balance enough in this mess already.

There are an awful lot of attractive women that would normally be grabbing my more lecherous instincts, but what I've had my eye on for the last hour is a small man dressed in rabbinical garb. He seems to be showing up every so often, way too close for my comfort. Maybe my lack of inebriation is making me even more paranoid than usual, but I'm twitching when he watches us make our way to the stairs.

"You do realize that it's party time, so this better be good," Sean says as we make our way to the guest room where Langly's crashed. We were attempting to be discreet about it, but as Sari has pointed out, 'discreet' is a concept sorely lacking in the young man. He managed to hit on three people just walking up the stairs. Let's just hope he's as bright as he's alleged to be.

"It'll be worth your while," Byers promises.

"It better be, especially if I end up leaving alone because I was busy working."

"Oh, I doubt that'll happen, punkass," I mutter to myself. So far, he hasn't made a move on me. Age and ugliness can be remarkable deterrents in some cases, though I haven't noticed he's particularly discriminating. Maybe it was the 'try that again and you're spam' look I gave him after he hit on Byers.

We open the door and Sean flips on the light. It's been rigged to a small desk lamp. Langly doesn't even stir as we enter.

Sean examines the lanky blonde curled up in a fetal position on the bed, a small fleece blanket covering his legs, with a look of consternation on his face. "Bad trip?"

"Don't even go there," I growl at him.

"Got your laptop?" he asks Byers, who was in charge of toting the equipment.

Byers looks around, then grabs it out from under the bed where Langly'd stowed it. We never leave home without our laptops. Or our bug sweepers. I make a quick scan of the room with my pocket model. I'm sure the place is swept frequently -- it is a consulate, after all -- but as Susanne Modeski once said, and it may be the only honest thing she ever said: 'No matter how paranoid you are, you're not paranoid enough.'

"It's clean," I assure them, and Byers begins to set up.

"This better not be one of those problems students would come to me with as a TA, screaming that there was no way they could solve it," Sean sighs. He then pulls something from a pocket. It's a small baggie of perfectly rolled pencil joints. "Mind if I smoke?" he asks.

"Yes, I do. Can't you wait till you've seen this?" I snap.

He holds up his hands in a truce gesture. "Hey, peace out. I was gonna share, you know."

"Let's just hold off for a few, shall we?" Byers is being far more diplomatic than I am. I should be nicer, but if I have to deny myself those lovely 20-year-old single malts behind the bar, he can hold off on whatever goodies he's brought along.

"Fine, we can hold off on the smokes. Care for a microdot?" He reaches into his pockets again, and pulls out an even smaller baggie containing several tiny purple pills.

"Just take a look at this first, please," Byers says softly, trying to be patient with the young man.

"Hey, I've done all my best work tripping," Sean assures us, but I'm not comforted.

"I think you'll trip when you see this," I tell him, more sharply than I'd intended. God, do I need a drink. I'm still nursing my first scotch of the evening, and I've barely had two sips from it.

Byers boots up the computer and inserts the disk.

Sean tilts his head, shaking it slightly. "Weird looking shit, man."

"Oh, it gets weirder," I tell him, allowing myself another sip of Scotch. What I wouldn't give to be in Mel Scarlett's living room right now (assuming we could move her errant son from the sofa), drinking beer, watching old movies, and eating heavily buttered popcorn. Anywhere but here. Anything but this. My nerves are shot, and I'm just hoping we can trust Physics Boy, and that he can help us figure this out.

"Just start at the main directory," Byers says to him.

"Well, duh!" Sean doesn't look up, but I can see he's thinking 'what's with these geezers?' If he's as good as he's alleged to be, he's about to find out.

He clicks open the main directory and begins pulling up files at lightning speed. He doesn't say a word for a long time, but eventually his mouth hangs wide open, his eyes like saucers behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

"God damn. Where the hell'd you get this?" he says, sounding very young and quite astonished.

"Where we got it isn't important at the moment," Byers asserts. "What we need to know is, have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"Well... not exactly like this... but fuck me, if this is what I think it is."

"Can you help us?" I ask, this time more gently. I'm really trying not to lose patience with the kid. We are, after all, in need of his services.

"I can help you, man, but I gotta think on this. I'm gonna need some time."

"We don't have much time," I remind him, and the urgency creeps back into my voice.

"Hey man, gimme one night, okay? I'm gonna need some chemical reinforcements, though." He pops a microdot. "Whatever this is, it's heavy. I gotta think this one out carefully."

"And you're going to do it by ingesting recreational substances and hitting on anything animal, vegetable or mineral?" I eye him suspiciously.

Sean gives me a big smile. "We'll get together on this tomorrow. Man, if I can come up with a theory about this -- Nobel prize, you are so *mine*!"

"We don't mean to be curt," Byers says, "but right now, our primary interest is in staying alive. We'd appreciate it if you kept this quiet."

We expect him to blink at us in disbelief, but he just shakes his head. "Half the biggest PhD's on the planet are downstairs. You think I'm gonna share something like this? Get real. Software and soda aren't the only places where first to market counts."

He's not quite getting it. "We've had a lot of problems since we discovered this. See that lump on the bed?" I point to Langly.

"Too comatose for me. Not into necrophilia."

"I don't care if you find barnyard animals attractive. His girlfriend was shot shortly after we stumbled on this. I think they were gunning for blondie."

He's a bit chastened. "So where do we meet?"

Byers steps in. "Sari will get you to our place. Meet up with her."

"Oh, I'll meet up with Sari anytime," Sean has regained his playful tone. "Any way, shape or form."

Byers bristles but says nothing. After all, they're just friends. Riiiiiight.

"I'll make the arrangements with her," Byers says carefully. "We really need your help."

He grins. "Of course you do. But I know some federales downstairs who're waiting to try out my stash, and I need to keep them happy while I go over this in my head."

"Just keep your mouth shut," I reiterate.

"As long as I don't have to keep my hands to myself." He gets up and heads for the door. "See ya tomorrow, guys." We hear him mutter, "Nobel prize, you are sooooo mine," as he walks away.

I turn to Byers. "Think we can trust him?"

"Unless he shouts equations when he comes, I think so," Byers says, blushing. I laugh.

"I think, even for physics boy, that would be a stretch. You ready to go?"

"We can't yet. It'll be too obvious."

"Whaddya mean? It's more crowded down there than a K Mart Blue Light Special."

"I really... I promised Sari I'd meet some people. And it would look strange. Besides, did you notice that guy with the beard? The short, thin one?"

"You saw him, too?"

"He makes me nervous."

"Same here. Well, if we're going to stay, I'm going to sample the wares at the bar. No point in letting good Scotch go to waste."

"Remember, we have to work tomorrow."

"I'm trying to forget." What better way to do it than by sampling the splendid selection of Scotch? I check to see if Langly's showing any signs of life. From what I can tell, he's moved even less than usual. I adjust the blanket over him and head for the bar. I'm really not in a partying mood, but if I have to be here, I might as well make the most of it. Some anesthetic to dull the pain will help.

After sampling three single malts, one of them 50 years old, I'm starting to feel that maybe things will be all right after all. We've enlisted the help of the best known physics prodigy in the world. He's young and hungry, and while his motives for not revealing what he knows aren't ours, I don't really give a flying fuck. It's obvious that the only thing he'll open his mouth for tonight is to go down on somebody, but as long as it won't be me, that's just fine.

Byers has migrated into the crowd. I know that Sari is trying to get him to be more comfortable in social situations, and maybe it's working. I'm doing exactly what I need to be comfortable here -- getting quietly shitfaced. I'm not bothering anyone, and I don't feel like talking to anyone either, after the week I've had. If the Scotch wasn't so damn good, I'd have followed Langly's lead and crashed in another bedroom.

The only thing that's annoying is the occasional reappearance of the little guy in the bad suit. If he thinks he's fooling anyone into believing he's Hasidic, he's out of his mind. Fuck him. Let me drink in peace.

"Melvin, since when did you stop drinking rotgut and switch to something humans actually consume?"

Oh hell, a woman's voice -- and not someone I want to see. Shit!

"Don't worry, Kate, I'm not going to sleep with you this time, no matter how drunk I get." It's Kate Sandridge, one of my Bigger Mistakes.

"You're depriving yourself of one of the finer things in life." She signals the bartender. "I'll have what he's having."

"An ulcer and high blood pressure?"

She clucks her tongue. "Well, considering what happened to your blonde friend's main squeeze..."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "You seem to forget, Melvin; I'm a reporter."

"Fooled me."

"I'll let that pass." She takes her drink from the bartender, not even thanking him. Jesus. Since when do you not thank your bartender? The woman has absolutely no class. I can't believe I slept with her, even once. "Provided, of course, you let me in on what's going on."

"What makes you think anything's going on?"

She laughs; a harsh, ugly sound. I shudder. "Well, it's come to my attention that a certain Dr. Deborah SaintJohn was seriously injured by gunfire early Monday morning."

I refuse to comment. She stares into her drink, then raises her eyes again, trying to be coy but only accomplishing an expression that spells threat.

"I've also learned that she happens to be Langly's main squeeze. Granted, I was a bit surprised; don't you think she outclasses him by a few miles?"

I swallow the rest of my Scotch as if it were water and signal to the bartender that I need a refill. He asks what brand I prefer.

"Surprise me," I say to him.

"I thought you hated surprises, Melvin." Kate fondles her glass.

"I do." Especially when they're alleged journalists trying to scoop us. It's only slightly behind having life and limb threatened. I don't think Kate would appreciate what we've been through this week, even if I were inclined to share any information with her.

"I also happened to see you and your bearded buddy, who seems to be dallying with the Grand Consul's sister in law, heading upstairs with one of the leading lights of modern physics. Were you two planning on fucking him, or consulting with him?" She takes a sip of her drink. Her face is a mask of triumphant gossip-hound.

My blood pressure takes a sudden steep rise at her snide comments. If I wasn't a gentleman, I'd deck her. If she's starting to make connections here, we could be in a world of shit, and fast. Between this and the fake rabbi hanging around all too close, I'm getting extremely paranoid.

"Javier, a Gewurztraminer, please." The German-touched voice of Hilda Thomas comes from behind me. She turns and sees Kate and I talking. "Ms. Sandridge. How nice to see you." Hilda is being courteous, but I'm not so drunk I can't tell she's putting it on. "I didn't know you covered social events."

"I don't," Kate says, her voice sly. "I was just curious about how Melvin got here. This isn't your usual circle, is it?" She stares at me.

Hilda, a very tall woman, draws herself up even further. "*He* was invited, unlike some others." She gives Kate a pointed look then turns back to me. "I do hope you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Frohike."

"It's just Frohike, ma'am," I say again. "A lovely gathering."

"Yes, it is. Come along, I'm sure there are lots of people you haven't met yet."

Normally I'd welcome this about as much as a root canal, but anything to get away from Kate. Hilda offers her arm, and I take it, walking into the crowd and away from my nemesis. I glance back quickly, noting the look of utter envy on her face. I'd gloat, but the problem is, Kate's a shark. She'll stop at nothing for fresh meat, and she wouldn't be here unless she thought she could get a story. Unfortunately, it seems the story she's after is ours. And who the hell tipped her off? As if I don't have enough to worry about already.

Just before I turn away, I see Kate catch the eye of Mr. Fake Rabbi. He nods subtly and turns to continue a conversation. Lovely. She has an accomplice. This is just what I needed to complete the day. God only knows what the guy has overheard in this crowd.

"Are you acquainted with Ms. Sandridge?" Hilda asks as we try to make our way through the swarms of humanity.

"I know her." I'll skip the fact that I've known her in the Biblical sense. From the tone of her voice, I get the impression that Hilda is not incredibly fond of our Kate. She wouldn't be the first one.

"My condolences." I'm surprised at first that Hilda would be so frank in her opinions -- then again, I know Devi. You'd never have to say 'Tell me what you *really* think' to Devi. Also like her daughter, Hilda enjoys her alcohol. We're simpatico on that. "Such a distasteful woman. I assure you, she was not an invited guest."

This is good to know. "Well, thank you for having us. Your hospitality is appreciated."

She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. "You've all helped our Sari so much. The least we can do is invite you to our little party. You know that you and your friends are welcome in our home at any time. We are so grateful to you."

If this is her idea of a little party, I worry about what she considers a major get together. "Thank you," I tell her. I don't think we'll ever end up taking her up on that offer, but you never know.

"Where is your other friend -- the blonde one? Mr. Langly, isn't it?"

"Yeah. He's asleep in one of the guest rooms. He's had a hard week." Once again, no details, but unlike Kate, Hilda would never think to press.

"Poor child," she clucks her tongue.

"I should probably get the guy home soon," I say. "I need to find Byers."

"Oh, John, isn't he just a liebchen? He's done so much for Sari. She's so much happier now. I daresay that -- if she were ever to get involved with a man again -- I hope it would be someone like him."

I almost choke on my drink. She's not blind. She must have noticed. Then she gives me a wry grin that says, 'I know and you know, and we're both going to pretend we don't until they figure it out for themselves.'

"Mr. Frohike, do you dance?" Hilda asks me. There's a band that's been playing dance tunes most of the evening, although I have to say I've barely paid attention. They're starting a swing number.

"Why, yes, in fact, I do."

"Would you care to join me? Mark hates to dance, but I love it."

"Madam, it would be an honor."

PART 15

"This is no time for making new enemies."

~~Voltaire~~
______

FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SRI LANKAN CONSULATE
LATE NIGHT

BYERS:

When I finally track Sari down, she's in a cluster of her friends, some of whom I've met at her house a few times. I recognize at least half a dozen of them. They greet me by name, and I get hugs or handshakes from the people I know. I get introductions to the others, though their names go right by me. I'm still rather uncomfortable with all the hugging people seem to do around Sari, but I'm beginning to get more used to it. The conversation is rapid fire, and goes on around me in fragmented, confusing torrents.

"... and the guy with the rabbit said..."

Sari smiles. "Are you done with business for the evening, John?"

"Well, yesterday Betty had a customer with..."

I nod. "Yes, and now I can relax for a little while, though I think Frohike wants to leave soon."

"... Mahmoud's daughter... the chili sauce was..."

"It's still way too early to leave," Linda, an comic book artist, says. She's one of the few people here whose names I remember. "You've hardly talked to anyone yet."

"... didn't you?"

"I was waiting to meet someone, and wasn't sure when they'd be here," I answer.

Willson, a landscaper, offers me a glass of red wine from a tray making its way by, and I don't see any reason not to indulge. One glass won't keep me from driving for more than half an hour at most. I'm not really much good at small talk, but I've started getting to know these people, and can at least make conversation with them while Sari seems to effortlessly carry on half a dozen conversations at once.

"Did you hear the one about..."

"... and the poetry was exquisite, but..."

As Linda and I discuss computer modeling and graphics design programs, Hilda makes her way over to our cluster.

"...later, darling!"

"Oh, John, I was looking for you," Hilda says happily.

"When was the last time you talked..."

Hilda wraps me in a hug.

"... but Harry said he wasn't ready for that kind of commitment yet."

I return the hug.

"...was always sort of an asshole anyway. Didn't he..."

"You were looking for me?" I ask.

"Yes," Hilda replies, "I was hoping to speak with you for a moment."

"Rita's got the best recipe for..."

"Would you join the family for brunch tomorrow, John?" Hilda says.

It actually sounds like a good idea. Sari's parents are interesting and comfortable to be around, and I certainly like her sister and brother-in-law well enough, but we have to meet with Sean early tomorrow, and brunch will be impossible. "Unfortunately, Hilda, I have some pressing work to take care of tomorrow during the day, so I won't be able to make it."

"I wish that you could come," Sari says, "but I know how important your project is right now."

I take Sari's hand and squeeze it. "So do I."

"... Margot's nose swelled up like..."

"What's the project?" Mahmoud asks. He manages a local bank.

"Project... uh, I'm working on a story at the moment, very difficult investigation, and I really can't talk about it now."

"And Yeats really did have it right in..."

"Then you must come to visit with us on Sunday. We will be having lunch after Mark speaks at the conference," Hilda says. "It's too bad you won't be able to attend his lecture. I think you would really enjoy it. You seem to be a man of discerning tastes."

I blush. "Thank you. I'd be delighted to join you."

"... and the guy from Seattle says, 'we've got way too many Californians around, and besides, I have to recycle the bottle.'"

Hilda beams. "We shall expect you and Sari at 1 p.m. then!"

"Yes, of course."

Sari's laughter rings next to me. "You should have seen the Pinck executive's face when I showed the hearing that file," she says, as several people listen attentively.

From the corner of one eye, I see Frohike approaching. The small man in the suit is nearby, watching him. Suddenly, I'm feeling very uneasy. Frohike grabs me by the elbow.

"It's time to go, Byers. Let's get Blondie and get the hell home." He's obviously extremely inebriated. He's starting to slur, and he's wobbling a bit as well. "Ran into Kate Sandridge, the bitch, and she's got her nose up my ass. I think the Rabbi's in cahoots with her."

"...took three hours to convince the Senator..."

This would explain his current state. Sandridge is a very unscrupulous reporter, and not a particularly pleasant human being. I scan the room for her, and see her watching us from near one of the buffet tables. She looks away as I make eye contact. "That's not good news," I mutter into Frohike's ear. "Do you have any idea what she wants this time?"

He blinks. "Not here, not right now. Too many eyes and ears."

I turn to Sari, who's now three people over from me. "Sari, I really need to be going now. Frohike's had a few too many, and we're going to have to carry Langly out to the car."

"...wasn't that hard, though."

She and Hilda turn to me.

"I'm sorry you have to leave so soon, John, but I do understand. I'll see you tomorrow when I bring the boy genius over," Sari says. She hugs me and kisses my cheek. I return the favor, and once again notice the light scent of sandalwood on her skin. Just that hint of scent relaxes me a little, takes the edge off my uneasiness.

"...and shall see you at lunch Sunday," Hilda adds. I wish I'd been able to catch the first part of her sentence in all the noise here.

The sooner we're out of here, the better. I get a last hug from Hilda, and several other people shake my hand and say their goodbyes. Sometimes I think this social life thing is a lot more trouble than it's worth. Then again, if I were still at the FCC, I'd probably have enjoyed the evening much more -- if I'd ever been lucky enough to meet Sari in the first place.

This is the sort of life I think my father wanted me to have; rubbing shoulders with the upper classes, superficial party conversations, and probably a wife and a house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog, too. The sort of thing I dreamed of having with Susanne, minus the superficial party conversations. But if I'd lived that life, I never would have met Mel or Ringo, never would have met Sari, never would have known the truth about all the things I know... and I never would have found the files that caused Deborah to be shot, or put us in danger, never would have known Mulder and Scully, never would have alienated my father... I force the thoughts from my mind and go to get Langly and my laptop so we can leave.

SATURDAY, JULY 1, 2000
LONE GUNMEN HQ
LATE MORNING

FROHIKE:

They say that great insights come at a great price. In this case, I learned that good booze doesn't give you a better hangover, merely a more expensive one.

My agony is intensified when I attempt to make my way to the bathroom to get some Alka-Seltzer. Not only do I smack into the doorframe, worsening my headache, but I discover there's no Alka-Seltzer in the bathroom. God dammit. How am I supposed to survive a hangover, let alone work with the Sex Maniac Physics Boy, if I don't have Alka-Seltzer?

I drag my aching frame down the stairs. I should kill Mulder for talking us into a multistory house. It just makes the journey to the kitchen all that much more painful.

Byers, having not imbibed heavily, is fully dressed and seated at the kitchen table, his face well scrubbed and pink, sipping tea and perusing the morning papers as though this was a perfectly ordinary day.

"Where's the Alka-Seltzer?" I snarl at him.

He doesn't look up. "Where it usually is."

"It's not there."

"Then we're out."

"Byers, you're supposed to keep up on this stuff! We depend on you!" I'd yell at him, but in my present condition, it comes out as a hoarse whisper.

He looks almost smug. "I wasn't aware I was in charge of hangover control."

I'm almost ready to smack him, until I hear the front door open with a loud clatter. It's accompanied by heavy foot clomping. The noise reverberates in my head. Maybe I should smack Langly instead.

He tramples into the kitchen like a rampaging herd of elephants, tossing his blonde locks back, an immense look of relief on his face. "God, if they didn't get on the plane, I was gonna have to do something drastic."

"Jesus, Langly, keep it down to a roar," I snap. I see that he's carrying a latte cup. "I don't suppose you brought any of that back."

"I'll make some," Byers offers.

"Good, Langly's brew would poison a tyrannosaurus."

Byers loads the drip coffee maker and waits while it brews.

Langly shoots me an evil glare. "Looks like somebody overdid it last night."

"How would you know? You slept through the whole thing. If you'd been awake, you'd probably have been out in the ozone on one of O'Casey's microdots"

"O'Casey was there? And he had microdots? And you didn't wake me up?!" Good. He's as irritated as I am.

"Langly, you know how Deborah feels about those substances," Byers clucks his tongue. I'm going to kill both of them. Then I decide to wait and see if O'Casey shows up, and produces as good as he promised. If he doesn't, I'll take out my ire on him.

"Listen, Blondie, I don't think an earthquake would have woken you last night. Now shut the fuck up and let me suffer silently."

"Yeah, well, you might try doing the same." He shoots an unpleasant look at me. "Y'know, Frohike, hangovers only decrease what little charm you have."

"Langly," Byers holds up a hand, "Dr. O'Casey will be here soon. Why don't you set up for him?"

"Fine. And he better bring drugs." Blondie stomps out of the kitchen, I'm sure for my benefit.

I hold my head in my hands. It feels as big as the Capitol Dome. "Is he ever going to grow up?" I mutter.

Byers sticks a mug of black coffee in front of me. "Probably about the time you do."

I hate these guys.

LANGLY:

We're just waiting for O'Casey to show his ass up. Hope he's got some wares with him. I can't get away with acid, but a little ganja wouldn't hurt. Deb doesn't have a problem with the happy weed. Says they should legalize the stuff and allow some serious medical research on it. I'm totally in favor of that.

Frohike's finally out of the shower, looking a little less ugly than he did before he went in. He's not moaning quite as much, though he's still cursing Byers for not having any Alka-Seltzer on hand. Guess that would annoy me too, but if he wants sympathy, he can look it up in the dictionary under S.

I decide I'll give Deb another call, instead of listening to Frohike bitch. I gotta admit, I'm schizzy from all this. She's probably asleep and yeah, I know she needs to rest, but I keep checking up on her. She got hurt real bad and things aren't good around us, so she really can't blame me.

I dial her number and get her on the third ring. "Hello?" Her voice is thick and sleepy.

"Hey, babe. How's it going?"

"About the same as it was when you called... 45 minutes ago." She sounds annoyed, but I'm just relieved to hear her voice.

"No weird phone calls, anything like that?"

"Only from you." She yawns. "Sweetheart, I'm fine. I just need to sleep. Don't be so paranoid. Honestly, Ringo, you're worse than my father."

"Sorry... I'm just worried. I'll get over there soon as we finish up here."

"Don't worry about me. All my vitals are fine, babe. Really. I do have some knowledge of these things. Besides, Rae will be here in about two hours anyway. It's not like I'll be alone all day."

"I know. Sorry..."

"See you soon, sweetheart."

Not soon enough. I'd feel a lot better if I was there with her. I'm still waiting for the next shoe to drop, and if the person who rang the door buzzer is who I think it is, that should be right about now.

"I'll get it," Byers says. Fine with me; I'd rather nurse my coffee, anyway.

"Yeah, let him get his hello kiss in private," Frohike mutters.

I can hear Sari's voice, and the voice of a guy that I hope is Sean O'Casey, Boy Wonder. He better be a Boy Wonder, at any rate. We got problems here.

Frohike stands up when they come down the stairs. He tells me you're supposed to stand up when a lady comes in the room. What for? First time I met Deb I was barely conscious. Didn't seem to hurt us any.

I pass by Frohike's workstation as I'm walking over to Byers, Sari and O'Casey. I notice he's got an email from Mel Scarlett. It's only one line: "Mel, are you drunk?" Shit, he must've written her last night before he passed out. I shudder. I know what Frohike's like when he's smashed and lonely. And he better not have said anything to her about what the hell's going on here. Then again, *we* don't know what the hell's going on. Maybe O'Casey can clarify that little mess and get our asses out of the sling.

"Dude, you missed an awesome party last night," O'Casey says when I'm introduced to him.

"I hate parties where I don't know anybody," I mutter, and it's true. Unless it's the post party for a Battlebots competition, forget it. And when's he gonna offer some stash?

"Langly's had a very exhausting week," Sari explains -- as if she needs to. All I'm sorry I missed were the drugs. She gives me the customary hug and peck on the cheek, and asks me how Deborah 's doing.

"She's okay, her sis is coming in a couple of hours. Let's get moving, I wanna get back over to her place," I tell her.

Sari bails -- she's got brunch with her folks. Now, free food I could handle. Frohike sweeps the place, just to make sure nobody got near our stuff while we were out last night. We don't get nailed very often, but we tend to get hurt when we do.

"I think I can solve your problem, dudes. Nothing like the most sensational menage a trois to get..."

"Y'know, O'Casey, that totally falls under the definition of Way Too Much Information," I snark at him. Seriously, we don't need the details of his sex life, especially when the details of mine are nonexistent right now. I hate being reminded.

"Would you like some coffee?" Byers, Mr. Gracious Host, asks.

"No, no, nothing caffeinated for me. I much prefer something to slow things down"

"You got any weed?" I ask him.

He brightens up. "As a matter of fact, I do. But your friends here seem to object to my toking in their presence, despite the fact that oftentimes, a little high causes things to make so much more sense."

Nothing makes sense right now. I look at my cohorts. "You wanna smoke some weed, okay by me."

He smiles. "Excellent."

He lights up a blunt and passes it around.

Byers passes because he doesn't like to work stoned, but Frohike decides to take a hit. "For medicinal purposes," he says, "I understand it helps with headaches and nausea." Uh-huh. I take a hit when it comes to me, and man, did I need it. It makes the round a couple more times before O'Casey puts it out and stuffs it into a little Altoids tin.

"You ready to do some work now?" Frohike looks at him, not quite as mean as he was before he got a few hits in him.

"I'm ready. The question is," O'Casey smiles at us, "are you?"

Me, I doubt it.

BYERS:

Our physics whiz starts off by getting into a state in which I simply cannot imagine concentrating, much less dealing with serious work. I understand that some people manage it, but I have no idea how. The thought makes me uneasy, as I far prefer being in control of my faculties as much as possible. We have no idea if someone is going to come kicking the door in during the next five minutes. If we were all in O'Casey's condition, how would we cope? I just hope Frohike and Langly have the sense to not smoke too much for this. Whatever it is, I'd hate to try to explain it to them when they come down.

O'Casey pulls the disk out of his pocket and sticks it into a drive. He opens a file and begins.

"Well, dudes," he says, his mood rather more sober than I would have expected, "what you have here is some completely out of this world stuff. I mean that quite literally. I've never seen anything like it before, but from what I can tell... it's a workable theory regarding the operation of a superstring-based interstellar drive."

PART 16

"To assess the damage is a dangerous act."

~~Cherrie Moraga -- This Bridge Called My Back~~
______

SATURDAY, JULY 1, 2000
LONE GUNMEN HQ
EARLY AFTERNOON

BYERS:

"Superstrings?" Langly says.

"What?" Frohike asks.

Langly practically chokes. "You mean, like with UFO's and shit?"

I can't speak, and feel myself going white. I was right all along. It really was a UFO drive -- one that had been modified and installed in a stealth plane, whose black box we apparently acquired somehow in August of 1998. It's a miracle nobody is actually dead yet, and that probably has more to do with Fletcher being unaware that we have the black box info than anything else. I pull a chair under me and sit down.

"Oh, man," Frohike says, shaking his head and chuckling, "Mulder's gonna love this."

I'm feeling extremely claustrophobic right now, as though the walls are leaning in to listen.

"This one was definitely a three microdot problem," O'Casey continues, his face a combination of excitement and uneasiness. "Feynman said that nobody understands quantum mechanics. To a great degree, he's right. But I think I came a step closer last night. He'd shit himself if he were still around to see this. These equations are a thing of absolute beauty."

He settles himself in a chair, puts his feet up on the desk, and props his hands behind his head, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Langly and Frohike sit as well, and takes a deep breath before diving in. "Do any of you guys understand superstring theory at all?"

Frohike and Langly shake their heads. "Apparently, not enough," Frohike offers.

O'Casey looks at me.

"Well," I say, "from what I understand, it's a unifying theory that encompasses Einstein's theories and the effects of gravitation, as well as electromagnetism, the nuclear force, and the 'weak' force, and also seems to account for the proliferation of elemental particles like gluons and such. It proposes that the elemental particles are essentially 'string loops' at a Planck level that vibrate in different harmonics within ten dimensional space, beyond our perceived four dimensions of height, depth, width and time. I understand that some work has been done postulating multiple universes based on these theories. I know enough to recognize some of the equations, though I really have no idea how to interpret them. But how could some kind of... operational interstellar drive be derived from equations demonstrating the theory?"

"Not bad for an amateur," O'Casey says, nodding at me. He turns to talk with all of us, sounding more like a physics professor with each passing moment -- in tone more than content. "What the cute one says is essentially correct on a basic level, though of course I could quibble with all sorts of minor details. See, any form of space travel has to take into account Einstein's theory of special relativity. In order to go fast enough to get through interstellar distances in a reasonable amount of time, so that you're something younger than a pile of dust by the time you get there, you have to accelerate pretty darn close to the speed of light, at least in comparison to any speed anyone travels at on the surface of Earth."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down a second here. Just exactly how fast are we talking?" Langly asks.

"Well, the speed of light is just under 300 million meters per second. A typical jet plane will get up to maybe 300 meters per second, on the outside -- that's 0.0001 percent of light's velocity. We're talking a difference that makes it look like slugs and cheetahs would tie in a race. Going at the speed of a jet plane, it would take you up to 15 years just to get to the sun, and most of the interesting places in space are probably millions or billions of times farther away than that. Light, on the other hand, takes 8 minutes to get from the sun to us. But the problem is that when you accelerate enough to get up into the useful speeds, like maybe a few percent of the speed of light, Einstein's equations start to kick in and time dilates."

"So what you're saying is, what looks like 8 minutes to you traveling through space may seem like 15 years to your friends and family back home," I observe.

"Exactly. And any alien society that sent its astronauts off into deep space only to not see them come back for centuries or maybe millennia would never have much of an opportunity to learn anything or communicate with us at all."

Frohike snorts. "So useful space travel in a reasonable time for a society of biological life forms is pretty much impossible. We knew this, Mulder's ideas notwithstanding."

"In normal space, yes. But here's the thing -- Einstein's theory of relativity is derived from classical physics basically by adding a dimension: the three-dimensional space of width, length, and depth is assumed to be only a part of a four-dimensional space-time continuum. Without that extra dimension, even the time-dilation thing that lets the pilot of a ship age less than his comrades back home wouldn't be there, and the only way to travel through space would be to put people into suspended animation for hundreds, thousands, even millions of years at a time. So by essentially broadening space to include time as a dimension along with the three of space, we still have serious problems with space travel, but it's become one step closer to being doable."

Langly says, "So maybe if you add even more dimensions to space and time, you could figure out a way to make space travel easier? Like all those extra dimensions Byers mentioned."

Sean grins and says, "Give Blondie a Nobel prize!"

"For what," Frohike says, "stating the obvious?"

"Hey, he's trainable," Sean continues. "Just as Einstein's theory of relativity brought physics from three dimensions to four, modern theories, including superstring theory, take it up from four to ten or eleven -- maybe even twenty-six in some formulations. The theory is that we don't notice these extra dimensions beyond space and time because the Universe is really really small in those directions. It's like Flatland; a two-dimensional being living on the surface of a piece of paper would notice its length and width but not its thickness. So if there really are these extra dimensions out there, we can do the same thing to Einstein's space-time that he did to Newton's separate space and time: make it just a part of a larger Universe."

"So how does this make long-distance space travel possible without Einstein's time dilation effect, then?" I ask.

"Think of it this way. Let's say you're Trotsky in Moscow right after the Revolution, and you want to send the Red Army directly into Washington to spread workers' rule to the States. You might run into a problem taking the Pentagon by surprise, because the shortest distance from Moscow to Washington along the surface of Earth -- a great circle path -- is still thousands of miles. But imagine that you had some kind of tech that allowed you to burrow straight through the Earth -- pop into the ground and dig a tunnel straight through. You would be traveling a straight line in three-dimensional space; the shortest path in three dimensions instead of the shortest path in two. You could get there much more quickly, not to mention having the element of surprise on your side. Of course, this hypothetical scenario would probably never work because you'd have to go right through the Earth's inconveniently placed molten core, but if you take the analogy and move into ten- or twenty-six-dimensional space --"

I see where he's going with this. "And an alien Moscow could send their Red Army straight to Washington through a hyperspace tunnel without actually traveling through the millions of light-years of space in between."

"Abso-freaking-lutely, cutie." He winks at me.

"Will you cut that out," I snap. I'm really not in the mood for his attitude toward me. The last thing I want is for him to attempt to end the afternoon by groping my ass.

"Just like Star Trek," he continues blithely, ignoring me. "Instead of creeping along in four dimensions through impulse at less than the speed of light, you kick on the warp drive and take a shortcut through sub-space as fast as the multidimensional Universe would allow. You might even be able to travel from an entirely separate four-dimensional Universe into our own through the higher dimensions linking them, if the cosmos is set up that way."

"Aliens from the Universe Next Door," Frohike says with a snort. "So tie this into your theory, punkass. You're wasting our time."

Sean snorts and glares at Frohike. "Well, my geezer friend, superstring theory posits that the basic structure of all matter, energy, space and time is these little strings and loops, as well as claiming that they vibrate in, like, twenty-six different dimensional directions. So if you're in a spaceship that's made up of all these little vibrating strings and loops, and you're wanting to slip all the little pieces of matter in the ship 'sideways' into a few of those extra dimensions instead of hanging around in these four, what would be the easiest way to accomplish that?"

I grin, suddenly understanding. "Just send some energy into those strings and loops to make them vibrate in different directions than they normally would." Unfortunately, my glee is short lived. This is scaring the crap out of me. The implications leave me with an icy lump in my stomach.

"Bingo. The problem is that these superstrings are reeeally fucking tiny. I mean, dude, the individual atoms in an apple are to the size of the fruit as the apple is to the entire planet Earth; the superstrings are just as much smaller than those atoms as the atoms are smaller than the apple."

Frohike whistles in appreciation. "That's pretty goddamn tiny."

"Yep. It's totally cool. I told you those other dimensions had to be pretty small for us to not notice them. So you see, the technology to actually do anything like this hyperdimensional space drive is, like, way down the line from where we are now. The amount of energy you'd need to manipulate objects that tiny at controlled frequencies and directions," he squeezes his thumb and forefinger together and looks closely between them, "I mean, like, it just completely blows my mind, dude."

"Awesome, man," Langly says, peering at Sean's fingers.

They're obviously very stoned. We need to focus. "Can we please get back to the information on the disk and refrain from the groovy commentary from the peanut gallery? This is serious, guys."

"Right, right, of course." O'Casey turns back to the screen, tapping it with a forefinger. "So this technology to travel through space fast and easy is far ahead of anything we're even remotely close to having. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years ahead of us. That's why the information here is so unbelievable. You see, this is essentially the blueprint for a working star drive that actually can produce enough energy and manipulate it minutely enough to do exactly what we were talking about; make all the superstrings in a ship vibrate sideways into a higher dimensional space so that the ship can, to all intents and purposes, just 'vibrate' from their alien Moscow right to the White House lawn in the blink of an eye."

"So, you mean it's... it's sorta like an oscillation overthruster?" Langly asks.

O'Casey grins. "Two points to the Blue Blaze Irregular!" he says, giving Langly a high five. "Yeah, that's essentially what's happening. Like Buckaroo Banzai's jet car, the ship slips into the 8th dimension or something, and ends up on the other side of the galaxy before you can say 'no strike teams, Tommy.'"

"This tech has got to be extraterrestrial. There's no way the boobs in the shadow government could come up with this on their own," Frohike says, looking around uneasily, suddenly far more sober than he was a moment ago. "This is what Mulder's been looking for all these years. This disk is material proof that the government is not just in contact with aliens, but experimenting with their technology as well."

O'Casey nods. "You got it. But that's not all this is. It's also proof that there are alien races out there with technology -- with the power to pop across interstellar distances in an instant and send as many of them as they want, wherever they want."

This makes me very, very nervous. No, actually this terrifies me. "Just like the Red Army tunneling through the Earth to topple the democratic way of life."

Sean nods, subdued and rather uneasy himself now. "I hope, for the sake of everyone's ways of life, that the alien races we're talking about here subscribe to an ideology as much based on freedom and equality as Trotsky's version of communism, because with this tech, they could just as easily perform a Stalinist purge on us, or eat us all for breakfast, or turn us into mindless Borg drones with no individual identity -- with nothing more than the push of a button."

We all turn to look at the computer screen. The files displayed there have taken on an ominous tone, and the coded information, the graphs and tables that are usually a day's work to me, now fill me with an overwhelming sense of dread. It's become obvious that not only are we in mortal danger, but the entire human race as well. It shakes me and leaves me feeling as frightened and helpless as I've ever felt in my life.

I have no idea why Monroe or Fletcher, or anyone else, for that matter, could possibly want to collaborate with forces of this nature. Then again, the lust for power is so strong in some people that they'll do anything, cooperate with anyone, to get it. Spender, the smoker, is precisely the sort of man who would sell his soul for power like that. Assuming the aliens don't just decide to have everyone for breakfast, collaborator or not.

I remember Mulder's tales when he returned from Antarctica after rescuing Scully. I'm not keen on being a breeding machine for the greys. The idea of my friends, my family, of everyone I've ever met, and of all the billions of people I haven't, turning into gelatinous gestation pods for an alien species turns my stomach. If I have to face Monroe to keep this from getting back into the shadow government's hands, I will.

I turn to O'Casey. "Unfortunately, from what we can determine, they're not exactly Ghandian pacifists. Is that all you can tell us?"

He nods. "Unless you guys want to spend a few years getting post-grad physics degrees, yeah."

"Then I guess your part of this is done."

He pulls the zip disc from the computer and starts to pocket it. "Okay guys. Thanks for the fascinating conversation. I'll just be packing up my Nobel prize, and I'll see you at the awards ceremony."

I snatch it from between his fingers. "Sorry. This is too dangerous to go anywhere. If we manage to survive this mess, maybe you'll see it again. In the meantime, if you have this and anyone finds out, you're likely to wake up one morning dead." I turn to my desk and call him a cab. The dispatch is about three blocks from here, so it should be here soon.

O'Casey blinks. "Hey man, that's my Nobel you just snagged. I may be easy, but I'm damned sure not cheap. No freebies here."

Frohike looks at him. "We were under the impression you did it for the challenge, and as a favor to Sari."

He grins. "Mmmmm yeah, Sari. Wonder if she's busy tonight?"

"Her parents are still in town," I snap at him. "I suspect she'll be quite busy with them until they leave." Frohike and Langly look at me and get stupid grins on their faces. "And don't either of you get started with me. We have some serious work to do once the Doctor here is gone."

Sean frowns. "You're fucking with me, dude. Gimme back my disk."

"I can't. I'm serious. I'd really rather you didn't die for it."

"God, why is everybody so fucking melodramatic all the time?" he snarls.

Langly looks at him. "My girlfriend got shot up over this, dude. It's some fuckin' serious shit. You should know that better than we do. You know what this means. You know a lot of people would kill for it."

O'Casey nods, slightly more sober. "Jesus H. Christ, all right already. But don't think I'm not coming back for this when the coast is clear."

I nod. "Fine," I tell him. Anything to get him out the door and out of our hair. His assistance has been invaluable, but I don't want him to become a liability, or a responsibility.

"You sure you won't go out to dinner with me?" he asks, eyeing me with far more interest than I care for.

"Not tonight," I tell him. "I'm washing my hair."

He snorts. "Like I've never heard that one before."

The buzzer rings, and I look up at the front door camera display. It's one of the Sikh drivers from the cab company.

"C'mon, Physics Boy, you've saved the day and your work is done," Frohike says, taking Sean by the shoulder and guiding him to the door. "Go home and forgot you ever met us. It's the safest damned thing you could possibly do right now."

When he's finally out the door, I collapse back into a chair, the guys gathered around me. "We have to destroy this stuff."

Langly's eyes open wide. "What?"

"You've got to be out of your mind, Byers," Frohike says. "That's our ace in the hole."

"It's the key to a bloodbath I don't even want to imagine."

"Or what'll save our asses from the aliens," Langly says. "If they can get here with it, maybe we can get there, and blow their fuckin' grey butts off before they can kill us all."

I sigh and look up at him. "Langly, we have to know where 'there' is before we can go there and do anything, much less 'blow their fuckin' grey butts off'."

He blinks. "Oh. Right."

They're too stoned to understand the true implications of our situation. If Fletcher knew about this, we'd be dead already. I think Monroe does know -- his digital fingerprints are all over the files -- and that's why he's been after us, though for him I think any excuse would do. Why he hasn't succeeded yet is the puzzle. Then again, he's probably more of a hacker than an assassin, and I thank whatever deities might be out there for that mercy. The cold lump in the pit of my stomach just gets bigger. Nothing feels safe right now.

"I have no idea how we're supposed to protect ourselves while we have this information, guys." Or anyone we care about. I think of Deborah and Mel Scarlett and Sari, of what we brought them into when we let them into our lives. We told them about the dangers, but none of us ever conceived of something like this happening. I pull the disk out of my breast pocket and look at it. I'm holding the most dangerous information on the face of the planet in my hand. It burns.

"The same way Skinner did with that DAT tape Mulder got," Frohike said.

I look at him. "Albert Hosteen and the code talkers?"

"Not exactly," he replies. "But the same principle applies. We have to get this information out as widely as possible, spread it everywhere, so that it can't be buried. O'Casey already knows about it, and he actually understands most of it. We have an advantage already."

"Only if Monroe doesn't know we consulted him, man," Langly says. "Otherwise, Physics Boy is gonna be road pizza. Just like us. We gotta keep this under wraps until we figure out what to do, and find some hole to hide in. I wanna hide us all deep, and pull a rock over us."

"I still think we need to destroy it," I tell them.

"No way, Byers," Langly says. "They'll kill us anyway, just on the off chance we actually saw the important stuff. And besides, if we destroy it, then there's no way in hell that this planet's gonna have a prayer of defending itself when the shit hits the fan. This is the key, dude. This can keep everybody alive, and get us out from under the shadow poobahs."

"If it gets published, and if O'Casey explains it so that people know what it is, every government on the planet will be rushing to build one of these things for planetary defense," Frohike urges.

That's only one side of the argument. "Or building one to destroy any other government they see as a threat. Can you imagine one of these in the hands of Iraq? Or Libya? And what about India and Pakistan? I mean, look at what our own government was planning on doing with Pinck in Indonesia, for God's sake!"

"It's a bigger threat than any human government, Byers!" Langly's shouting now. "We know what's out there. Mulder's seen what those things are capable of. Lunch, man. Every goddamn single one of us is gonna be lunch! All fuckin' six billion of us! Do you think they won't understand that?"

Frohike nods. "He's right, Byers."

"But the only part of this we have proof of, Langly, is the potential to build interstellar ships. You know Mulder and Scully haven't got any concrete evidence. What little they had went up in smoke last year when their office got firebombed. Who's going to believe any of it?"

Frohike snorts. "Anybody with the brains to know that this proves the existence of intelligent extraterrestrial life, and the fact that it's been here."

He has a point. It may not convince the masses, but a lot of the top scientific minds on the planet would have to be convinced by this. "Maybe we could take it to the United Nations and see if they'd create a special council to coordinate a global effort," I suggest.

"Yeah, right," Langly says. "I got two words for you. Marita Covorrubias."

My stomach twists. Frohike pipes up again. "That's why we need to take it public, Byers. It needs to be out there for everyone to see. All of it. The black box data, the analysis you did, the equations -- everything."

"That's going to take about a week to arrange, guys. How do we stay alive in the meantime?"

"Like, Fletcher still doesn't know we have this. He's hanging back still, hoping we'll give it to him if he keeps up with the threats," Langly says. "So we just keep stalling him. Tell him we're thinking about giving it back, but he's gotta call off Monroe. We tell him we need a week to make up our minds or something."

"Tell him we need a week to be sure we're safe and he's kept his word about leashing Monroe, you mean," Frohike replies. "Get a brain, blondie."

"That might work." I think for a few moments while the guys debate about how to approach Fletcher with the 'deal.' Fortunately, Frohike's too hung over to get into a shouting match with Langly, so I'm spared that particular pain while I'm working things out.

"Okay guys, here's what I think we'll need to do."

They quiet and look back at me.

"We need to make a bunch of copies of this. Two for the safe, one for each of us to carry at all times. Several for safe deposit boxes. One for O'Casey--"

Frohike interrupts me. "Wait a minute. You want us each to carry one around? That's nuts!"

"Is it?" I look Frohike in the eyes. "If they get one of us, they get the information back and maybe they'll think that's the only copy, and they'll stop looking. I don't know if they'd be satisfied with that or not, but even if one of us is injured or... or killed, it might protect the other two. And it might protect Deborah and Mel and Sari, at least until the information can go public. After that, it'll be too late. They won't have any reason to hurt any of us."

Langly shakes his head. "Except for revenge."

"They might do that even if we gave it back to them without making any copies," Frohike says. "Either way, we're screwed. Byers may have the right idea here. Maybe all they care about is getting the information back. Maybe we should give a copy to Fletcher? We could tell him it was the only one."

I tap a corner of the disk on the table nervously. "Fletcher's said before that he thinks we're too useful to kill. Even if he thinks we're buffoons, we might use that to our advantage. I'm sure he'd believe it if we told him that Monroe scared us, and we would give him back the info if he'd rein the man in."

"We should contact him Monday," Frohike says.

"Why Monday?" Langly asks.

Frohike looks at him as though he's grown a second head. "You think for a second that guy's gonna be in his office on the weekend? Get real. He's gonna be out porking some poor unsuspecting chickadee."

"Stupid as it sounds, I have to agree with Frohike's analysis."

Langly looks at both of us, then nods. "You got a point. What now?"

"You get over to Deborah's. Frohike and I will stay here and start burning copies of this thing. You'll get yours when you get home later."

His eyes light up and he smiles. "You mean it? You're not gonna make me stay here and work?"

I shake my head. "Get out of here before I change my mind. Oh, and take a cab. You're too stoned to drive." I only wish I could spend the rest of the afternoon with Sari and her family, but this is not to be. Frohike and I have too much work to do. We need to get on it.

PART 17

"She lied with fluency, ease, and artistic fervor."

~~Agatha Christie -- They Came to Baghdad~~
______

LANGLY:

Damn, I got off easy on that one. Figured after all the shit PhysicsJerk poured down on us, I was gonna be swimming in it. Sometimes even Frohike and Byers are human beings, though. It's rare but it happens.

Deb's on the sofa when I get there, she's all bundled up with her blanket and her stuffed animals.

"Hey babe." I want to just grab her in my arms, but I do that, I could do some damage to her, not to mention piss her off, and that would just not be good. That, and I hope she doesn't notice I'm stoned. Deb's a doc. She's not big on recreationals. Really weird, me with a girl who's like totally straight that way, but I like it. After taking a bullet last week, I'm surprised she's still talking to me, let alone happy to see me.

"Thank God they're gone," Deb murmurs into my shoulder when I kneel down next to her. "I love them, but they make me crazy."

No comment. It's okay for her to diss them. It is not okay for me to do the same.

"You got Rae coming in a few hours." Her big sister's coming up from North Carolina to look after her.

"Don't worry about Rae. She's totally mellow."

"You mean there's a remote possibility she won't think I'm a jackass?"

"She'll definitely think you're a jackass, babe. Which you are. But she'll like you anyway."

Damned with faint praise again. Which is a lot more than I probably deserve from her after this shit.

"Wow, she loves me," I joke, rolling my eyes. Hey, it's just the way me and Deb are. "Want anything?"

"I'd love some root beer."

"I'll get you some." I stand up to head for the kitchen. Knees are a bit rubbery here. That was good shit Sean brought over. Never mind what a pain in the ass he is.

"I'm out," Deb calls after me.

"Well, I can get some." I mean, there's a Circle K around the block from her place. No problem. I hope I've got cash. Or at least my ATM card. And maybe there's even money in my account. "You need anything else?"

"Tampons."

"Come again?"

"Tampons."

"I can't buy those!"

"Why not? I have some money in my wallet if you need it."

"Well, uh, no, it's not that--"

"Ringo, they're just tampons, and I really, really need them."

"Can't you like wait for Rae to get here?"

"No, because I'm out of them!"

I'm going to die. I just know it. If the shit from this afternoon doesn't get me, embarrassment will.

***

I decide on the Eckard's instead. They have root beer. And tampons. Maybe enough guys buy tampons in here so that nobody'll notice.

Shit! What kind am I supposed to get? Frohike says women are a mystery. In more ways than one. For once we both agree.

Regular...Super...Super Plus...I'm trying to think what I've seen in her bathroom and what she brings over with her...Oh man...

"Langly, aren't you in the wrong department?"

What the fuck?!

I swing around to see who found me here, and it's not as bad as I thought. It's worse.

Kate Sandridge.

She starts laughing at me. I know I'm red, and it's not just from blushing. This woman is a total bitch! If Frohike hadn't been so stupid as to have a one night stand with her, we'd probably never have this shit from her. Remind me to kick his ass when I see it next.

"Oh, let me guess. You're getting them for your girlfriend. My, she has you trained, doesn't she?"

I wish it were legal to clobber people at moments like this. However, assault is a felony, and I've already been there, done that and gotten the T-shirt. Okay, so it was only house arrest, but for a year, I had to have all the gaming done at my house, so I had to feed everyone for a year. Which really sucked.

"Shut up." I used to pride myself on coming up with fast ones. Seems as if I've lost my touch. Or maybe I've just lost it. Sandridge could make someone lose everything, lunch included.

"Or is it because she's incapacitated at the moment? I heard that something had happened to her--"

"Mind your own fucking business."

She tries to play coy, which, by the way, she sucks at. Sharks should never try to do coy. Doesn't work.

"Now is that any way to talk to a lady?" She puts her hand on my arm, which is about as appealing as being chowed on by a viper. I pull away.

"How the fuck would you know, since you've never been one?"

Really, she should get the fuck out now, because she's pissing me off and the nice high that kept me mellow a little while ago has totally worn off. Not only does she come and embarrass the hell out of me, she kills my buzz.

She clucks her tongue at me like an old schooteacher. "Langly, where are your manners?"

"Hey, at least I got 'em so I can leave 'em at home when I'm around you!"

She does this big tragic sigh. "You know, we really could help each other out."

"Negatory." When Kate Sandridge talks about helping someone out, she's only got one person in mind and that's her.

"So how is Dr. SaintJohn?"

This would be unbelievable coming from anyone else, but from this bitch, it's standard issue.

In desperation, I grab a box of tampons, I'm not even sure what kind, I just hope Deb can use 'em 'cause no way in hell am I going out to do this again. You think she'd take a hint, but she follows me to the cash stand.

"Isn't it kind of slumming for you down here?" I glare at her.

"How do you know I don't live here?"

I know exactly where she lives, and this ain't her neighborhood. Fucking bitch is spying on us, I swear to God.

And then she has the balls to cut in front of me in line. I didn't notice her pick anything up, but sure as hell, she's got a tube of AstroGlide. I'll have to share that one with Frohike when I kick his ass for having such crummy taste in women. This is the guy who said there're no ugly women after 2 a.m. He must've really been beyond blind drunk the night he did it with her, or he'd have noticed.

Then she's waiting for me after I get my purchase rung up. Lucky for me the counter clerk doesn't say anything. I don't think the counter clerk is conscious, actually, which suits me fine.

"Listen, Langly, I happen to know that you and the guys have something. I could help you with it."

"Nobody's got the clap." Which is about the only thing she could give us, assuming we'd let her get close enough.

She keeps blocking me. I wish she were a guy in the Limerick Tavern. I'd just slug her.

"Someone shot at your girlfriend, Langly."

"Yeah? They get a lot of crazies at GWU."

"I heard it wasn't random."

"You heard wrong."

"Then what were your friends doing talking to Sean O'Casey last night?"

"How the fuck should I know? I was sleeping."

"Really? Then why was he coming out of your place just a short time ago?"

Oh, she is so dead. Spying on us. That's low. That's beyond low, actually. Then again, she's a total bottom feeder.

"Y'know, maybe we oughta get a restraining order against you."

"I don't think you'd have much success. It's not as if you're well regarded by some aspects of the law enforcement community."

That much is true. I don't think the cops we drink with at the Limerick would be able to help us much, either. Good guys, and they've helped us out before, but they're kind of stuck with what they can do, y'know?

I climb into Deb's car. "I'm outta here, bitch. And don't be showing your ugly face around us again. Got it?"

"So you do have something."

"All we got right now is trouble. Mostly from you."

And with that, I slam the door and gun the engine. Well, as much as you can gun a 4-cylinder Escort, anyway.

***

Deb and I watch Battlebots, and then she crashes out again.

My cue to call Frohike. I take her cordless, which I've scrambled, out to her lanai and dial the HQ.

"Lone Gunmen Newspaper Group, Byers speaking."

"Put Frohike on."

"Langly, is something wrong?"

"Just put the old bastard on, got it?"

A couple minutes later Frohike gets on. Figures he'd keep me waiting.

"There a problem?" Frohike asks me, all innocent like.

"You bet your sorry ass there's a problem. I was over at the Eckard's getting Deb some stuff and guess who shows up?"

"Don't tell me Scotty's jacking pharmacies again." Scotty, our favorite druggie, has been known to pick pharmacies as his targets when he can't con the rest of us anymore.

"No, maybe if you'd think with something other than your dick, Kate Sandridge would leave us the fuck alone!"

"Don't talk to me about thinking with my dick, boy, because that's all you've done lately."

"She saw you with O'Casey last night."

"There were a lot of people at that party. For all she knows, we could've been having a threesome with him." He makes this gagging noise. For once we agree. Not an image anyone needs.

"Yeah, well, she also saw him leave the house."

"What the fuck?"

"She's spying on us."

"I talked to her last night and blew her off."

"Apparently you didn't blow her the right way, 'cause she's out slumming. And you better do something about it!"

He does the tragic sigh he's so famous for. "I make a lousy choice in a one night stand and I'm reminded for it the rest of my life."

"And you deserve it!"

Line goes silent.

"Frohike? You better not have hung up on me!"

"Against my better judgment, I'm still here. I think what we have to do is find out where she's getting her intel."

"I don't think she's got any. I think she's trying to worm it out of us."

"Sandridge may be unethical as hell, but she'll have intel. We need to find out from whom and where she's getting it. And use it."

"Well, I'm kind of like with Deb right now, you deal with it."

"Fine!"

Now that time, he hung up. No question about it.

FROHIKE:

One night stands are supposed to be just that -- one night stands. Cheap, easy, no strings attached.

I've had exactly two in my life. One was in Bangkok with a hooker. A simple business transaction, right?

Yeah, sure. I got interest on that account, in the form of the clap. You'd think I'd have learned from my mistakes. But I always was a slow learner.

After Nikita, I was lonely, and I was drunk, and I was at a party with a bunch of other drunken journalists. ("Drunken journalists," in case you are not aware, is a redundancy.) Kate Sandridge was one of the few who even had proper gender on her side, let alone looks. So of course I had to talk to her. She was certainly flattering. I was amazed that she would even talk to a little troll like me, let alone suggest we get a room.

I later found out why. Hurt worse than the clap ever did and lasted a hell of a lot longer. Some things don't clear up with a seven day course of antibiotics. Kate's not like an infection. She's more like a kudzu plant; never gets cleared out and strangles everything in her path.

It'd be nice if Mel was here, but right now, I'm glad she's not. Saves me from having to explain an indiscreet liaison, although labeling it as such is dignifying it far more than it ever deserves.

"Frohike?" Byers calls out to me.

"What is it, Byers?" Really, I'm not in the mood.

"We've got a lot of work to get done!"

"So get to it, boy!"

"I could use some help here!"

"That's what I'm about to do!"

"Well, then, why are you getting ready to leave?"

"Because I have to find out something!"

"I thought O'Casey gave us what we needed."

"Not everything."

Not by a long shot.

***

I'm off to where I do my best thinking, as well as my best drinking. The two go hand in hand. I've got one hangover in progress; shouldn't hurt to add another one. I head for the Limerick Tavern.

"Frohike, you're looking in fine form," Bernie says to me with an evil smile as I plop myself at the bar. "Some hair o' the dog that bit ya?"

"Just bring the whole damn coat, fleas and all." Hell if I care. It's been a long day and it's not even close to sundown. It is, however, past noon. I certainly don't need to feel guilty, even if I were capable.

"Better take the corner booth. Can't have you scaring off the regulars," Bernie says, bringing a bottle of J&B around the bar.

"Bernie, your regulars make the Ten Most Wanted look like choirboys." I drag my sorry ass over to the corner booth. Okay, so it's more comfortable than the barstool. "You seen Skinner around?"

"Not today."

"Dammit."

"Anything I can help you with?"

"Bernie, there's nothing in it for you, so don't worry about it." He's a good bartender and can keep his mouth shut, but he's also not likely to do something for you unless he can benefit.

"And how would you be knowing that?" The wicked smile again. For a guy who's drinking himself to death, Bernie's pretty sharp.

The place is nearly empty right now. It'll be another hour before the regulars begin to trickle in, and at least another three before the view is obliterated by cigarette smoke. This means I can't kick Bernie out from my table, especially since I owe him on my tab.

So we sit and drink together in silence. Guys can do that. Women seem baffled by the fact that two guys can sit there all night and not say anything other than 'pass the peanuts.'

A couple of the local beat cops come in and that forces Bernie to get up. Support your local police. I know these guys, actually, and they're all right. They don't bash on the hookers in the area and they've normally got enough violent crap on their shifts that we fall under their radar.

I dig my cell phone from my pocket.

Dammit. Batteries are almost gone. I pull up the phone list and head for the pay phone in the back, which hasn't been replaced since 1970 and probably hasn't been cleaned since then, either. The '5' key sticks.

Well, the bastard's not at work, and he's not picking up his cell. If he's having hot sex I'll have to hurt him the next time I see him.

I could try Mulder, but the problem is that he'd show up. I really don't think I can cope with Mulder and a headache at the same time. It'd be nice if he could answer our questions and get a life as well, but I've nearly given up hope for that moron. And there's no way I'm going to bother the lovely Agent Scully with this. For one thing, she'd tell Mulder, and he'd find me, and then I'd still have to put up with him.

Wonder if Sandridge showed up here recently. I doubt it. This isn't her usual watering hole. She prefers bars with ferns and clean restrooms and bartenders that know how to make a cosmopolitan. The Limerick most assuredly does not feature ferns, the plumbing -- assuming it works, which is rare -- hasn't seen anything remotely resembling disinfectant in decades, and if mixed drinks are your bag, you don't come here. Order a cosmopolitan or any other girlie drink and you'd be laughed down the block.

Plus, if she has been here, the last thing I want to do is let the word out that I'm asking after her. She might get the wrong idea. Like I'd be willing to exchange information for sex, for example. If she'd stick to vibrators, she'd be doing every male in the city a service. I've been tempted on more than one occasion to send her one, and have gone so far as to look at them on line. And let's not even consider that she isn't worth the $12.95.

Fuck. What am I doing here? I was hoping to catch up with Skinner. He slums on weekends frequently, except when there's a woman involved. Then it's the beach house, bubble bath and champagne. Traitor. In the meantime, I should head out. Mulder's been known to show up here in search of anyone that will listen to him, and there have been too many times when I've been an unwitting audience --

"Frohike, you gonna share or do I have to buy my own?"

Too late. I knew I should have left while I had the chance.

"Cheapskate," I mutter at him. "What brings you here? Nothing good at the Love Machine?" That's our local XXX rated theater. It's too filthy for even my standards, but Mulder loves it.

"Already seen 'A Decade of Dirty Delinquents.' Twice."

I'm tempted to ask why he doesn't do something worthwhile, like invite Scully out for dinner, but I suspect she sees enough of him as is. And while it's a sore subject, it won't do the job of getting rid of him. No, as if having Kate Sandridge on our ass and the world's worst hangover to boot wasn't enough, now I'm cursed with his presence.

"So see it again. Or check out the Candy Apple. They have naked female mud wrestling on Saturday nights."

"Seen it. With you, I might add."

"Well, since I know you don't have any friends, I won't suggest getting together with them."

"Oh, that was cold, Frohike."

Bernie comes over. "You gonna order something, Mulder?"

"Yeah. Gimme a double shot of Jose. Put it on Frohike's tab."

"Asshole."

"You're flattering me, Frohike."

"Mulder, really, you should get out of here." I really don't want him getting into the meat of what's troubling us. It'd create a mother lode of problems for him with Skinner. Which is why I wanted to call Skinner first. Not to mention that Skinner's a much better drinking partner. He knows how to shut up.

To my amazement, after Bernie brings his drink, he manages to keep quiet for a while.

"What's going on, Frohike?" He finally asks.

I stare at him.

"About?"

"What we talked about earlier this week."

"Oh, that. No... "

"Where is my goddamn data file?" We're interrupted by hissing and spitting, a familiar voice behind the bluster. Christ. Can this night get any worse?

Mulder leans back. "Do we know you?"

"Oh, you most certainly do, my friend."

Mulder appears genuinely puzzled. "Frohike?"

"I'd like to deny ever having been in his presence. Mulder, meet Morris Fletcher."

I'm waiting for Mulder to pull his Sig Sauer, or at least jump up and strangle the bastard, but instead, he smiles congenially. "So we meet again."

This knocks Fletcher more off balance than ever. "What do you mean, again?" He blusters. "We never met."

Mulder smiles more broadly. "Oh. Perhaps I mistook you for someone else. C'mon, sit down and have a drink. Frohike here's buying."

Of course I am, you cheap bastard. You're always willing to spend other people's money.

"Uh -- I should really get going... "

Mulder pulls him by the sleeve and forces him into our booth. "No, no, have a drink with us." He signals to Bernie. "The best in the house for this man, Bernie."

Well, he's getting Bud on tap.

"I really don't have time... "

"What? You come into a bar and have no time for a drink? What's wrong with you, Morris?"

"Listen, not that it's any of your business, but I have a date with the hottest brunette in DC tonight... "

"Well, certainly she'll wait a few extra minutes for a man of your caliber."

Mulder, what are you thinking? This is the last person I want around me at this time!

"I don't think so--"

"Then call her. Here, use my cell." Mulder proffers the phone from his pocket.

"Amazing. You haven't lost this one yet."

"Hey, just got it last week," Mulder grins like a kid at Christmas time.

"You've kept it a whole week? New land speed record for you."

"Frohike, you have no manners," Mulder chides me. I almost spit my Scotch across the table. This is really the pot calling the kettle black.

"Look, I really have to go!" Fletcher is really beginning to sweat. I smile a bit. I'm seeing where Mulder is going with this. "I have business with Sneezy here, and I'd like to get it done!"

"Oh, what sort of business would that be?" Mulder inquires, all wide eyed innocence.

"That's between him and me," Fletcher hisses.

"Oh, but Frohike and me, we have no secrets," Mulder is just having a blast, toying with him. "Do we, Frohike?" He kicks me under the table.

"Oh. Right." Fuckhead had the nerve to call me Sneezy. He's going to pay for that one. We'll see if he gets his files now.

"So if you want to do business with Frohike, you can do it right here with me."

Fletcher turns to me and in a harsh whisper, spits at me, "Gimme my files and give them to me now."

"Oh, these wouldn't happen to be those Area 51 files?" Mulder smiles like he just made a free throw.

Fletcher doesn't answer.

"You knew the deal. You give us Monroe. We give you the files." I'm playing this one.

Fletcher looks desperate. "I'm telling you, I have no idea what Monroe is up to."

Mulder smiles at him. "Oh, but I think you do."

"I don't! I'm telling you, I don't--"

A cell phone rings. It's Fletcher's.

"What?" He hisses into it. "I'm sorry, I've been held up, I'll be there as soon as I can." He flips the phone into his pocket. "Listen, that was my date and she is pissed. Now if you gentlemen will just hand over the files--"

"When you hand over Monroe, you get your toys back," I say levelly.

Fletcher gets up angrily. "You're going to be sorry you did this."

"Not half as sorry as you're going to be for calling me Sneezy."

"So who do you think he's seeing tonight?" Mulder asks, downing another shot of Jose. "Enquiring minds want to know."

"Generally he picks ones whose IQ's are smaller than their shoe size."

We drink in silence for a while longer.

"If he ever calls me Sneezy again, feel free to shoot him."

"Why? You do kind of look like Sneezy."

I hate this punkass. I really, really hate him.

PART 18

"It's a sign of your own worth sometimes if you are hated by the right people."

~~Miles Franklin -- My Career Goes Bang~~
______

FROHIKE:

We're headed for DuPont Circle and the Farragut Hotel. I happen to know this is one of his favorite watering holes. The problem is that he has almost as many favorite watering holes as he does women, which is to say, all of them.

"Would be nice if we had the night vision goggles," Mulder muses as we head into the city. It's not too bad; the Congresscritters have all left for summer vacation. We'll have to start pulling together material for that issue soon--every fall, we run a 'What I Did on My Summer Vacation' issue, illustrating some of the more dubious deeds of our 'elected' officials -- but needless to say, I think the one we're currently working on is somewhat important.

"Would be nice if you'd get around to returning them someday!" How many years has he had them now? It's got to be at least six. And those babies were expensive. Mulder's as efficient about returning our equipment as he is about giving me back my videos.

"Haven't got 'em."

"Oh, you've got 'em. You're the last person we lent them to." Hell, he's the only person we lent them to!

"Frohike, maybe you should try Metamucil."

"Listen, you may be driving, but I can still push your ass out on to the street. I doubt anyone would miss you."

"You would."

"Don't bet on it."

We hand our keys to the valet, who doesn't even look at us. Half the town tools about in government issued Tauruses in bland colors. We're hardly worth noting.

Well, maybe not for the valet, but the doorman certainly noticed. "There's a dress code here," he snaps at us.

"There's something in it for you if you drop it," Mulder smiles, pulling 2 crisp 100's from his wallet. I'm really worried now. I hope the cash works. Mulder certainly can't count on charm.

I guess times must be tough, since he motions us through.

"How much are you carrying? They might not be here."

"You said this was his favorite bar."

"This, and probably a dozen others."

"Hey, he's just a poor civil servant like me. Not like we can afford the Library Lounge or the Watergate on our salaries."

"He might not be as cheap as you are."

"I'm not cheap. I'm frugal."

"You're cheap."

The bartender is everything Bernie's not. He looks at us as though someone pulled us out of the dumpster out back, but he's happy to take our money. I order the Scotch so as not to piss off the bartender, but I stick to the water. What I wouldn't give for some Maalox about now.

"So are we just gonna barhop all night?" I growl at him. I'd really like to get home, thank you very much. Collecting intel is one thing. Getting work done is another.

"You have a better idea?"

We drink up. No Fletcher. I throw down a tip and we head out, this time for the Belmont.

"You don't think he'd be tacky enough for the Marriott?" Mulder asks.

"Tacky is what Fletcher's all about."

"Yeah, but what about the woman?"

"If I knew who it was, I'd have a better idea."

My stomach knots up as we head towards the Belmont. It was in this very bar that I was willingly seduced by Kate Sandridge. Needless to say, this does not hold warm fuzzy memories for me.

The doorman is about 18 if he's a day and stoned beyond belief. No wonder he doesn't mind wearing the stupid uniform. We pass him without incident. The Belmont actually offers self parking, as if they imagined such a thing would exist in DC, but it works for us. $9.00 for 24 hours. A bargain here.

"At least it was cheaper this time," Mulder muses.

The only problem with the Belmont is that it has not one, not two, but three lounges. This entails being seen by a lot more people.

No dice. No Fletcher in any of the bars.

"They've got two restaurants, too," Mulder observes.

"And a disco."

"They've got a disco here at the Belmont? The end of the civilization must be imminent."

We duck into the pay phone area while we work out whatever passes for a plan. We didn't exactly have one beyond jumping into the car and following Fletcher down.

"I'm thinking Fletcher's not the type to want to spend the bucks wining and dining the girl. He wants dessert as quickly as possible."

"And that's what you learned as a profiler? I could've told you that."

"I was just saying that checking out the restaurants is going to be a waste."

"I think we should find out where he's checked in. Hold on a moment." I dial one of the pay phones, using our illicit but oh-so-useful calling card. General Motors will never know the difference.

"Lone Gunmen, it's Saturday night, get a life already," Langly growls into the phone.

"Speak for yourself. Got a job for you."

"Byers is already cracking the fucking whip."

"Too bad. This is priority."

"Well, if it's so fucking important, spit it out already!"

"Find out where Fletcher's checked in."

"As in, what hotel?"

"Ding ding ding! The boy gets 5 points!"

"Aw, c'mon, man, database searching's a pain. And what if he's not checked in under his real name?"

Oh man, didn't think of that. However, I'm not sure he's all that clever.

"Just do it, and call back on Mulder's cell."

"Aww, what's wrong, Mel not here, so you gotta date Mulder?" His tone is that of a mocking 5 year old.

"Fuck you. And get busy." I like having the last word, so I hang up before he can slip in.

Mulder shakes his head. "Frohike, has anyone told you you're just a regular Mr. Warmth, Charm and Personality?"

"No."

"There's a reason for that, you know."

"Shut up, Mulder." And be happy I don't call you anything worse. I'm only being nice because he's my ride. "So what now, G-Man?"

"I think we should boogie like it's 1975."

Aargh!

***

I missed the disco years, and now that I've been immersed in them, I'm glad I did. How can anyone even think in here -- oh, wait, that's not the point. You wouldn't need to. The songs all have one line repeated 753 times with the same obnoxious bass that is only serving to enhance my headache.

Worst of all, though, is how not dressed we are for this gig. We stand out like supermutants amidst a sea of mutants.

How can anyone dance like this? It's completely undignified. No style, no grace, no class. Now the tango. There's a dance that takes real skill. People here are simply flapping their arms like pathetic penguins desperately seeking flight.

We take a table on the upper level. The better to see you with, Morris Fletcher. Unfortunately, it's not the better to hear anyone with.

I order a club soda and Mulder orders a Slow Comfortable Screw. I think he just likes the name.

"That's a girlie drink!" I yell to him.

"Do you see him?" I think is what he yelled back. I think he deliberately ignored the girlie drink slam.

I peer over the dance floor. The disco ball strobes the light. This is a marvelous place--if you're in the market for developing a migraine. Trying to pick out individual forms in this den of debauchery would be difficult enough without it.

"Hey cutie, wanna dance?" A twentysomething, made up to the gills and draped in the finest of polyester, has come over to our table. In view of the lighting, it's really hard to make out what she looks like, but I'm thinking a younger Tammy Faye Bakker. Mulder certainly knows how to attract 'em.

"Sure, why not--" Mulder begins to rise, but she holds up her hand.

"Not you, Ken doll. Your friend here." She points a lacquered nail at me.

"Uh...well..."

This is a child accustomed to getting her way as she drags me to my feet. "C'mon. All the other guys here are so plastic."

Mulder makes a face at me as I head, as though a lamb led to slaughter, to the dance floor.

This is not what I had in mind.

***

We dance on the upper level, which is a smaller floor, but I don't believe it's giving us any relief in terms of the music volume. My head pounds right along with the beat.

Fortunately, the next tune is 'The Hustle,' a dance that I actually know how to do. I attend the occasional wedding.

I'm trying to keep my eyes pasted on the other patrons which is no doubt annoying my dance partner. Not that I care. I'm here to work as opposed to flopping about and getting wasted. If I wanted to simply get wasted, I'd have stayed at the Limerick.

I want Fletcher's ass and I want it soon, or I'll go blind, deaf and insane in here.

I turn to see if Mulder's been hit on yet. There's a surprising number of unescorted women here, but none of them have approached him. Despite the fact that my partner is strictly third rate romance, low rent rendezvous, I at least got hit on. Maybe they can tell he has cooties. I smirk at him.

He's on the phone, but then he tries to catch my eye back. He's jabbing his finger down towards the other dance floor.

"Hey, where you going?" My partner shouts at me over the din.

"Sorry, I prefer boys." I rush back to our table, which is perched near the railing. I stare down in the mass of bodies swirling below.

Son of a bitch. It's him. It's got to be him. Doing a horrible imitation of John Travolta. The only thing he's missing is the white polyester leisure suit.

What's even more horrifying, however, is the woman he's dancing with.

It's none other than Kate Sandridge.

If we weren't in the situation we're in, I'd feel that there was some poetic justice in the world.

"Houston, we have a problem," Mulder says. "So now what?"

"Let's see if they get a room."

"Langly didn't find him checked in anywhere in town."

"So he's staying under an assumed name. We have his aliases on file. Call Langly back."

"Forget it. You deal with the little twerp. Just because he's not getting any this week doesn't mean he has to take it out on all of us."

"You should know, Mulder. You don't get it any week."

I dial while he comes up with a witty response. We leave the disco for the men's room off the lobby, where I never realized how peaceful the sound of running water actually was. It may be days before I lose the beat in my head, but at least the volume's down.

"I'm not sure how following them to their room is going to help," I remind him.

"What about your portable bugs? You don't leave home without them, right?"

"That's not the point! We have to get it into the room!" I shake my head. "You're an idiot, G-Man."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me recently."

"Or maybe you could just try being clairvoyant, Mr. Supernatural."

"I study clairvoyance. I don't practice it."

"So what do we do now?" I groan, unhappy at how this night is turning out.

"I don't know about you, but I've had enough disco dollies for one night."

"For once, we both agree." This should be a national holiday.

"So let's wait outside here."

"Oh, that's delightful. What if he has to come in here?" Condoms. Only a buck at the vending machine in here. Then again, maybe he comes prepared. God knows he's got a new conquest each time he's in town.

"You got a better idea? We can hide in a hurry if we need to. We can catch him red-handed--"

"Listen, you've got a gun. I don't."

"Oh, I'm not looking to shoot ol' Morris. I just want to toy with him for a while." He wrinkles his brow. "You really think Sandridge would sleep with him?"

"If it means getting a story out of him? Count on it."

***

Two hours pass before we're kicked out for loitering. Even Mulder's FBI badge didn't help, especially when he said that he couldn't make that knowledge public and no, security could not call his supervisor.

"Why can't you call Skinner? He knows what's going on. More or less."

"This isn't really official business."

"That never stopped you before."

"I prefer to start Monday morning not getting my ass chewed out."

"Why make it different from any other Monday?"

"Look, we're wasting our time here."

"I think you're wrong about that," I assert.

"You wanna go back in the disco?"

About as much as I want to enter the seventh circle of hell. "Fuck. Let's go."

***

BYERS:

"What the hell's he doing wasting his time following Fletcher? I thought he was going to give him the disk if he saw him and be done with it!"

Frohike is really ticking me off. Why the hell is he tailing Fletcher? With Mulder? Nothing but trouble in that sort of sport, and right now, we have all the trouble we can use, thank you very much.

"Maybe Fletcher found him," Langly suggests. "Sounds like it to me."

"He should have given him the data and left well enough alone."

"I thought he was supposed to give us Monroe."

I can't believe I'm listening to this. "Langly, nobody is going to give us Monroe. Nobody. If we want him, we're going to have to go after him ourselves. And right now, I think that's a terrible plan."

"Byers, the only plan you think is a good plan is where everybody shakes hands and goes back and plays nice."

"I prefer negotiation to blood."

"Who doesn't, dude? Problem is, you don't like it, find another line of work. Like go back to the FCC."

Oh, as if they'd really have me. I've never been tried, never been convicted, but the fact of the matter is, in the eyes of the law, I'm a felon. This factoid bothers Langly and Frohike considerably less than it bothers me. But there's law, and there's what's right, and we're in business to do the right thing.

Right now, I'm not sure what the right thing is. I'm not even certain we should have taken it this far. I'm having a lot of misgivings about our involvement with this whole project. Needless to say, however, it's a little late for that. Once again, it's the difference between ham and eggs: the chicken is involved. The pig is committed. I think we're not only committed, we're eaten. Our friends and loved ones are certainly being devoured by this.

"It just keeps getting uglier," I groan.

"Speaking of ugly, check out the security cam. Guess who's back?"

"That is a horrifying sight." Mulder and Frohike in one shot. Both trundle down to the work area.

"Got any coffee working, Byers?" Frohike asks me.

"Screw the coffee! What the hell were you doing tailing Fletcher?"

"Hey, he found us first!"

Oh great.

"And guess who he's with?"

"Another high-priced DC bimbo," Langly offers up.

"Actually, she looks pretty cheap to me," Mulder chimes in.

"Shut up, Mulder. No, this one's as expensive as they get. Our old pal, Kate Sandridge."

Langly pounds the worktable. "Oh, fuck, that bitch is all over us! This is all your fucking fault, Frohike!"

"Excuse me, I was against this whole thing from the start!"

Okay, that changes things. For the worse.

"Where did he run into you?" I ask Frohike.

"Where I always go to collect intel. The Limerick, of course."

I glare at Mulder. "And you, of course, happened to just come along."

"Hey, nothing else to do on a Saturday night." He shrugs.

"Try a hand job," Langly suggests.

"You're probably getting plenty of practice," Frohike shoots back at him. "Maybe you can give him pointers."

"Shut up, this isn't helping!" Jesus, these guys can't stop their bickering long enough to let me think. Talk about migraine central. "Frohike, he knows we hang out at the Limerick. Some of us less than others," I add pointedly, which is childish, but right now, I'm feeling more than a bit infantile and irritable, not to mention terrified. To my intense surprise, they comply with my demand. I should mark this on the calendar, it happens so infrequently.

There's coffee, and everyone pours themselves a fresh cup. I haven't told them, but it's decaf. I think we're all sufficiently wired to stay awake as long as necessary.

It dawns on me too late that we've totally screwed this thing up. "We should have cooperated with Sandridge from the start."

"When pigs fly," Frohike snorts.

"All this time we're trying to keep her from scooping us, and in the end, we just end up biting off our noses to spite our faces. What if she's got stuff we could use? We could have exchanged information with her."

"You don't share meat with a piranha," Frohike points out. As if any rational argument would get him to change his mind.

"This is major stuff, though. It's not as if there wasn't enough to go around. And how do we know that the Post would even print it?" Their legal department would likely pitch a fit and keep the story from ever going public.

"Excuse me, but what's the first rule of investigative journalism?" Langly crosses his arms and pushes his long frame back in the chair.

"Get there first," I respond.

"Yeah, and we got there first, and we don't have to share. Like Sandridge'd ever help me find who shot Deb," Langly is completely irritated.

"She probably has all the data you gave him by now, " I mourn to Frohike.

"Au contraire. No data was exchanged in the making of this motion picture." Frohike looks triumphant for a moment. This, however, merely aggravates my indigestion.

"Frohike, that wasn't the deal!"

"Sure it was. He was to give us Monroe. He had nothing. So no Monroe, no data."

"Frohike, there was no way he could give us Monroe on a silver platter."

"Exactly. And if he knew that, then he shouldn't have expected us to come through on our end."

Playground games. That's what this is. Playground one-up-manship with potentially lethal consequences.

"He should know something about Monroe, though. Like where he is." Langly muses on this.

Mulder shakes his head. "Monroe's been a moving target for years. I somehow don't imagine that's changed in the last week. Besides, what if it was Fletcher, not Monroe, that was arranging the warning shots on Deborah and Kimmy?"

"I don't think Fletcher has the cojones," Frohike grumbles.

"Yeah, but he sure as hell knows somebody who does!" Langly is becoming very agitated.

"Hey, listen, we've had the best people in the Bureau on him for years and--"

"Spare me. We know all about your best people!" snaps Langly.

I look over at the screen that I've been working on, tiring of this exchange.

Wait a moment. Something's wrong here. The cookies have changed. I'm sure of it.

"Langly, you said we were offline!" I'm sure he said it. I was explicit about being offline while we were working.

"We are, dude. What kind of moron do you take me for?"

"I'm not going there," Mulder says.

"Shut up!" I sit back down at my workstation.

"Byers, what the hell's going on?" Frohike's voice rises from discontent to alarm.

I gulp. Tastes like bile. "Don't look now, guys, but we're being hacked." My hands race over the keyboard, trying every trick I know to stop our unwanted visitor in his tracks.

"Fuck, I'm on it," Langly is at his workstation, typing vigorously before I even finish my sentence, and Frohike joins in.

"Mulder, do us a favor and don't touch anything," Frohike reminds him.

"Hey, I'm not touching anything!"

"Just make sure it stays that way."

"Shit, I can't stop this asshole!" Langly shouts.

"Yeah, well, neither can I!" I yell back.

"What the fuck?!" Frohike shakes his head.

"Monroe's got us by the short and curlies, man," Langly moans.

"No. This isn't Monroe. Monroe would have burned the rig by now." Monroe's style isn't this elegant. He's got a slash and burn approach. This is a lot more like poison.

"Then who the fuck is it?" Frohike demands above the clatter of our keyboards.

"Frohike, go on the otaku boards. Find The Ferret. See if she knows anything about this." The Ferret is a fellow hacker, just about on par with the Thinker. Goddamn him for not being alive right now.

"The Ferret might not be on. She's usually not," Langly warns.

"Then see if you can get Amazon directly." Amazon has never been seen by anyone. Ever. For all I know, she could be about as human as HAL 9000. I don't care if she's an elephant with purple spots, just so long as she can give us our hacker.

"Amazon doesn't like anyone contacting her directly unless it's a life and death emergency." Mulder has made contact with Amazon over the years periodically, as have we, but never through direct request.

"I'd say this qualifies!" I retort.

"Forget it. We're shutting down!" Frohike yells.

"No way in hell, man, if this gets me to Deb's--" Langly butts in.

"This isn't about you!" I shout back.

"Then get out!" Frohike clamors.

"No way. I'm going to nail this bastard!"

"Guys, it's my professional opinion... " Mulder offers up in his calm psychologist voice.

"SHUT UP!" The three of us manage to be in unison that time.

"Byers, if this is one of Monroe's goons, it's not just our rig that's gonna get fried!" Frohike is almost pleading with me.

He can plead till pigs fly. I'm going to follow this down to the last. We've suffered enough. It's time to even the score...

"WHAT THE?!" The screen before me dies. Fades to black. Langly and I both swing around to glare at Frohike, standing there with a power cord in his hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"Keeping our asses from getting fried," Frohike snarls at me.

"You asshole, I was on him." Langly is about ready to throw a few punches. I could join him.

"You don't wanna be on him."

I'm really, really angry at Frohike. "Since you've appointed yourself Napoleon, what do you propose?"

"We feed the source text to The Ferret and Amazon."

"I tried raising The Ferret. She's not on."

"Well, get Amazon!"

"She's gonna be pissed," Langly warns.

"I don't give a flying fuck!" I can't recall the last time I shouted this much. This whole thing is turning me into a raving lunatic. If I follow this down, I'll be a maniac. If I don't follow it down, I'll be a maniac.

Not a hard choice.

***

It takes most of the night to retrieve the source code, and even longer to raise Amazon, who was, as expected, irritated to hear from us, but agreed to check it out.

"Think it was Sandridge?" Mulder asks.

Frohike snorts. "Sandridge has to have her assistant boot up her word processor. Fat chance of that."

"People like that are too stupid to live," Langly snarls.

Then it dawns on me. "Guys, if she's been with Fletcher, chances are she went back to her office and started typing."

"Thought you said she couldn't turn on her own equipment," Langly remarks snidely.

"Sandridge can do a lot of things when she wants something. Even turn on her computer," Frohike mutters.

"Or seduce losers," Langly chides back.

"Langly, button it." I can't believe that came from me instead of Frohike.

"Not your girl that got shot at!"

"If you don't knock it off--"

We're interrupted by the chime that indicates that Amazon is back with us. We all lean over our screens intently, reading her terse messages.

"Found your hacker."

I type back. "Who is he?"

"Not he. She."

"She?"

"Yves Adele Harlow."

"Never heard of her."

"You have now."

With that, she signs off. That's all we're going to get from Amazon.

We shake our heads. "A woman," Frohike muses. "Unbelievable. We're gonna be outnumbered."

"It's a good thing the women aren't here to hear that, or you'd have your testicles in your mouth," I snap. I turn to Mulder. "Go make yourself useful for a change and find out who this Yves Adele Harlow is."

He rises up. "Sure, why not? I never sleep anyway."

It may be awhile before we sleep again as well, so I'm not about to feel sorry for him.

PART 19

"The more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is."

~~Marguerite de Valois -- French Wit and Wisdom~~
______

FROHIKE:

"Well, maybe Mulder will turn up something useful for a change," Langly snorts.

"Hey, we wouldn't have half our headlines without him," Byers reminds him tartly.

"You make us sound like we're no better than that Sandridge bitch."

"Are we?"

I'm not in the mood for Byers' moral postulations. "What matters is getting the story away from her," I remind them.

"Heh. We can get her copy, but not her resource material," Langly shoots back. "She can always go back to Fletcher."

"That's where you're wrong, boy," and I know this to be true. "Sandridge'll toss him out faster than a used jiz rag. Trust me, she won't go near him again. She's not that stupid." That's precisely the problem with people like her. They're not stupid. If they were, they wouldn't be such a problem.

"So we still get to scoop her," Langly looks unimpressed.

"Look, she has to get it through her editor, through legal, the whole nine yards. And deadline's past at the Post for the Sunday edition."

"Fortunately, we don't have those sorts of problems," Byers snaps. "Is anyone else planning on doing any work around here tonight? Because if you're not, I'd appreciate it if you'd all just shut up and let me grab Sandridge's copy."

"You got copy already?" Langly stares at him, looking a lot more dead than alive.

"She's typing it now."

"And when she goes to save her file--"

"She'll see all of it when she saves, but when she hits send for the editor, it's all going to be gone, gone, gone." Byers seems surprisingly satisfied about this. Apparently his holier-than-thou attitudes can vanish with the proper target.

Langly and I are still trying to check out the invasion we've just suffered at the hands of one Yves Adele Harlowe. Be nice to have some 411 on her. We've been scrounging but can't seem to find anything. Amazon might know more -- or not, and it doesn't matter, because once she's signed off, it means, don't bother me again with this.

"What're we gonna do about Fletcher?" Langly whines.

"We're not going to do anything about him. We won't have to. We bring this story to print, his bosses are gonna be all over him like white on rice," I advise him. We won't be bothered anymore by Mr. Man in Black Morris Fletcher after that. If he knows what's good for him, he'll keep a safe distance from us, which shouldn't be a problem once he's safely ensconced in whatever correctional facility he's sent to.

"Guys, just in case you forgot, this was his data in the first place," Byers points out as he continues to type in an animated fashion.

"No way in hell. He latched on to this stuff, hoping to sell it to the highest bidder and cash out. Any of you bother to look at his finances?" And Byers prides himself on being detail oriented. Ha.

"I haven't exactly had time," Byers' voice drips acid. Langly snorts in response.

"Well, just for your edification, I thought I'd add that our boy is ass deep in debt. More like drowning in it."

"Visa. It's everywhere you wanna be," Langly looks up, becoming interested.

"Worse that that. Eight major credit cards, all maxed. Twelve department store cards, also maxed. Took a second on the house in Rachel when it was at the height of its value, and now that it's been downgraded, he's in the red on equity. Lost a bundle on margin calls. And bankruptcy doesn't look too good to his bosses."

"So now we have the real motivation," Byers turns and stops clicking for a moment. "But who did he sell to? Sandridge?"

"Sandridge couldn't have come up with the kind of dough he needs to shovel himself out."

"Then who? The Russians? The Chinese?"

"Who the hell knows. All we know is, US citizens should have a look at their tax dollars at work." I shake my head. "It always comes down to money."

"You said it always comes down to sex," Langly whines accusingly.

"That too." Amazing how the two become perilously intertwined on so many occasions.

"Okay, looks like Sandridge is done with her copy," Byers says. "She's starting to boot down."

"Wonder what loser she yanked out of bed for that," Langly mutters bitterly. He blinks his eyes, then pushes his glasses up so he can rub them. "So you're telling me Fletcher's been in it for the cash all along. That Deb got shot up because he took a major trip down Debtor's Alley." The last sentence is uttered in a tone that's unbelievably hard, even for Langly.

Not a kid anymore. He's playing for keeps, just like the rest of us. It's hard to be charitable when you've got that much at stake.

"What about this Yves Adele Harlowe that Amazon talked about?" Byers frowns, as if thinking is causing him pain. Wouldn't be a surprise. Thinking is starting to hurt all the time these days.

"I'm betting it's a nom de guerre. Nobody names their kid that," I grumble.

"Sure. Like nobody names their kid Melvin, either," Langly mumbles, just loud enough for me to catch. At least he didn't call me Sneezy. He'd have seen the end of those long blonde locks.

"Wait, I'm getting something from Mulder," Byers breaks in before any further damage occurs.

"If it's the naked fit Oriental twins, I've seen it." It wasn't that great, either.

"No, it's -- he's sending another ad over for Viagra."

"He's the one that needs it." If he can be around that luscious partner of his for that long and not get it up, there's something seriously wrong with him, which we already know there is, but I don't think that part of his anatomy is completely inoperable.

"Probably how he encrypted what he sent," Langly suggests.

"Then you decrypt it," Byers fires at him.

"Not in the mood."

"Great." Byers groans and begins to enter a decryption algorithm. Within four minutes, he's broken the code, but the results aren't promising. "Oh, wonderful. All he's sent is the list of the FBI's hit list of known female hackers."

"Good, maybe we can find out Amazon's real name," Langly retorts.

"I don't give a crap what her name is. Why she's such a bitch would be more useful," I snarl.

There are 13 names on the list. The girls are definitely moving in.

"No Yves Adele Harlowe," Byers sighs. "I think we're going to have to raise Amazon again."

"She'll fry our rig if we do that," Langly warns. "I've heard what she does when she gets pissed off."

"She can put her PMS on hold for an hour," I growl. "I'm raising her again, and I don't care what her problem is."

Byers spiders down to where she operates. We don't know if she's on, since she always operates in invisible mode, but we ding her.

And wait. It takes several interminable minutes before she comes on, and it's not pretty.

Amazon: What? You bothered me once tonight already.

Byers: We need more info on Yves Adele Harlow.

Amazon: Don't have any. Ask the Ferret.

Byers: She's not on.

Amazon: That's not my problem.

"Well, she's certainly a cooperative soul," Byers snaps.

"Lemme try to find the Ferret. I'll offer her some new cheats for Mafia," Langly offers.

"I thought you hated that game," Byers looks at him, mystified.

"I do, but hey, she loves organized crime, I guess."

"Do what you have to do, but get her."

"Fine, fine! I just have to find where she's gaming."

"If she's gaming. She didn't show on anywhere."

"She's gaming. It's Sunday morning early. Not like she's gonna be asleep."

"What if she's not playing Mafia?"

"Then she'll be playing somewhere else! Jesus, gimme a freakin' break, would ya?" Langly is beyond his usual petulance.

I doze off while he checks out the various game rooms. And there are a lot of them. She could be in any number of places. Or maybe she took the night off. Maybe she got a life.

Nah. Doesn't happen in this world. Most of us are scared to get a life. That's why we do this. And you know what? It's a good thing most hackers don't go for it. Watching what happens to people you get close to is far uglier than watching it happen to yourself.

"Okay, okay, I found her, she's in 'Third World Takeover,'" he announces.

"Can you get her attention?" Byers demands.

"I'm trying!"

Fifteen minutes later, a line of text appears in the box he's left open for her.

Ferret: You know, I had the most beautiful coup d'etat staged. I've been working it all night, and you had to come and spoil it. I was about to be dictator of all of Southeast Asia.

Lord_Manhammer: You play such boring games.

"Langly, would you not antagonize her?" Byers hisses.

"She DOES play boring games! I mean, who wants Southeast Asia?"

"Apparently she does. Get to it, boy." I mean it, too. This night isn't getting any shorter. Daylight is starting to creep across the sky, thin streams of light appear through the window bars.

Ferret: You owe me for this one.

Lord_Manhammer: I got something for you.

Ferret: It better be good.

Lord_Manhammer: New Mafia cheats.

Ferret: Hand them over.

Lord_Manhammer: Not yet. We need some 411 on somebody.

Ferret: What do I get for that?

"Christ, a mercenary in real and virtual time," Byers mutters.

Lord_Manhammer: I already told you! I have cheats.

Ferret: That was for interrupting my game. What else are you going to give me?

Lord_Manhammer: What do you want?

Ferret: Cash is always nice.

Lord_Manhammer: You are talking to the wrong guy.

Ferret: Then this conversation is over.

Lord_Manhammer: Look, we're in a bad spot, help us out.

Ferret: If you're trying to appeal to my better nature, just remember, I haven't got one.

Lord_Manhammer: What do you know about Yves Adele Harlow?

Long pause. Very long pause. But at least she hasn't left.

Ferret: You're really in over your head, aren't you?

Lord_Manhammer: You thought I was shitting you?

Ferret: Why should this be different from any other time?

Lord_Manhammer: What can you tell us?

Ferret: What do you want to know?

Lord_Manhammer: Not what, who. What do you know about Yves Adele Harlow?

Another very long pause. I'm relieved to see the message that she's typing.

Ferret: You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?

Lord_Manhammer: She picked us. Apparently.

Ferret: She hack you?

Lord_Manhammer: Duh!

Ferret: Not someone you want to mess with.

Lord_Manhammer: Obviously.

Ferret: She's got skillz.

Lord_Manhammer: We figured that out already. Who's she working for?

Ferret: Yves only works for one person, and that's whoever's the highest bidder.

Lord_Manhammer: Can you find out who she's working for?

Ferret: That's your job. I'm in the middle of a game, which you so rudely interrupted.

Lord_Manhammer: Well, we're in the middle of getting our asses messed up.

Ferret: Occupational hazard.

Lord_Manhammer: Got her real name?

Ferret: What makes you think that's not her real name?

Lord_Manhammer: We're just guessing.

Ferret: You and me both. Find out who she's working for. That's your only bet. Now if you'll excuse me, it's my turn to go again, and I'm not in the mood to lose another round.

"That was useless," I sniff. She didn't tell us much more than we already knew.

"She did indicate that this was someone definitely in it for the money," Byers comments.

"Her and everyone else," I snort. Who isn't in it for the money?

Oh, right. I forgot. Our bank balance generally suggests that we're not.

"We got her story, right?" Langly asks, yawning desperately.

"We did," Byers assures him. "Didn't even have to decrypt it."

"Well, duh. It's not like Sandridge would have a clue about little things like that," Langly sneers.

"What are we going to do about Harlow?" I ask.

"Whaddya think we're gonna do? We're gonna hack her back," Langly snaps, returning to his keyboard. "I'm not about to let some hacker bitch outdo me."

"You think that's wise?" I ask, expecting Byers to back me on this one.

"In this case, I think it's our only choice," Byers answers, to my chagrin and surprise.

"And we've got a story to get out," I sigh. "Let's get to press."

***

By late morning, we have the story ready to print. We've unsuccessfully tried to retrace Yves Adele Harlow's steps.

"Let's put a rush on this," Byers says as we finish the layout and putting the edition to bed.

"We'll have to pay the printer double. It's Sunday."

"I think it's worth our while."

"I think this whole thing sucks, and lemme tell you, if I didn't need to get back to Deb's so bad, I'd hunt down Hacker Bitch Barbie and kill her," Langly rants. "Fact, I'm taking my laptop."

"Just be careful." I know he's secured the phone lines in Deborah's apartment, but even with our setup, we're apparently vulnerable. We're going to have to do something about that, but such tasks are best performed when one is more than barely conscious.

Byers has an opening and doesn't miss it. "I guess you're not getting much action from Deborah, are you?" He winks at Langly.

Langly looks as if he's about to throw the laptop at Byers' head. "Fuck you."

"No, he wants Sari to do that." And I don't care how he reacts. I'm tired and punchy and he deserves it.

"Fuck both of you with a chainsaw. Anyway, I'm due at brunch in an hour. I really don't want to look as if I've been up all night," Byers hisses through clenched teeth.

"Ah, yes, interview with the in-laws," I hassle him.

Byers looks as if he could issue a square one to me in the jaw right now. Instead, he simply glares at me and says, "Are you going to the printer or not?"

BYERS:

One quick thing to do before hitting the restaurant with Sari and her family: a dropoff to Dr. O'Casey. I should have phoned in advance but don't feel comfortable discussing it, so I'll simply drop it off at the address Sari gave me.

It's a bit nerve wracking that no one answers the door for several minutes, and when it is finally opened, it's by a young, shapely woman wearing nothing but a towel.

"Sorry you missed your chance to conserve water," she winks at me seductively. I want to ask her if she's cold dressed like that but the temperature is already in the mid-90s.

"I'm sorry, but I was under the impression Dr. O'Casey was here." I try to maintain some sense of composure.

"Oh, he's here." Another attractive young girl, clad in only her lingerie, comes up behind Towel Girl, giggling every inch of the way. "Seanie-poo! Some stiff here to see you!" She chimes out.

"Would you like to come in?" Towel Girl asks obligingly.

"Uh -- no, I don't think that will be necessary," I stammer. Seanie-poo? Please. A night of coffee and what I'm carrying in my pocket is already giving me indigestion.

Sean appears a few moments later, clad only in a pair of Mickey Mouse boxers. I shake my head.

"Come now, Byers, I've got nothing you haven't seen before. Or perhaps not?" He winks at me. I am not in the mood for his shit, not at any time, but especially not right now.

"I have what you asked for. We're going to press. You have first publication rights." I thrust a jewelcase containing a CD-ROM into his hand. "Thank you for your help." I hurry off, but he calls after me.

"Sure you don't want to come in and play? These girls could make you the sandwich of a lifetime."

"Thank you, but I'm already late for lunch."

LANGLY:

When I get to Deb's, she's conked out on the sofa. Rae's watching cartoons. Cool. Rae's a lot easier than her folks to get along with.

"I love Anime," she admits, kind of embarrassed.

"Cool." I kind of like Anime myself, but this way, she won't mind if I hook up and do some work.

"You working?" She asks me, not like suspicious or anything.

"Yeah." On nailing Hacker Bitch Barbie and her pal Kate Sandridge to the wall.

"Deborah says you're a journalist."

"Yep." That, and a few other things we won't go into here.

Rae watches Anime, Deb snoozes away with her feet in my lap, and I keep scanning and breaking down firewalls and jamming routers. At this point, I'll settle for revenge any way I can get it. You don't go around harming my girl and get away with it. And I don't care if you're an accessory and not the main player. You're dead, whoever you are.

Two hours of hammering away, and finally --

"Got her!"

Rae looks at me a little strange, but doesn't say anything except, "Would you like some lunch?"

FROHIKE:

I really should give up the cell phone. No sooner do I get into Spies R Us and it jangles, especially my nerves.

"What?" I bellow into it.

"I got her!" It's Langly.

"Got who?"

"Harlow!"

"You're kidding."

"Say it."

"No."

"Say it!"

"I'm busy right now!" And with that, I click off.

The story is now at the printer's. This is ordinarily a coup.

Right now, I couldn't feel a whole lot worse. The story of our careers, and I don't even feel like celebrating.

Maybe I need a trip to Fry's. That should cheer me up. Yes. Fry's.

And turning off the phone might help as well.

BYERS:

"Delicious lunch. Thank you very much for inviting me," I say to Hilda and Mark, trying not to yawn as I do.

"We hope to see you again," Hilda says, rising up to give me a kiss on each cheek.

"Be well," Mark shakes my hand.

Sari and I step into the light of day.

"Why don't you stay with your family? I'm very tired, really. All I want to do is go home and rest for a while," I tell her.

"I'm quite aware you're tired. That's why I'm driving you home."

"I can manage the Metro. Really, it's not a problem."

"Maybe not for you, but for me, well, friends don't let friends take the Metro when they're exhausted. Come on," she coaxes me, and I follow.

"I don't want to take you away from your parents when they're only here such a short time."

"I'll meet them back at Devi's after I take you home. Will you be joining us for dinner? You know you're invited." Sari's parents have invited me to dinner at the home of a friend of theirs from American University. Under any other circumstances, I'd accept, but I'm beyond tired, and not much up for socializing after what we've been through.

"Sari, I'd love to, but I'm pretty useless."

"I can see you're exhausted."

"I don't want to be rude to your parents."

"Trust me, they understand completely."

It's probably a good thing she offered to transport me, because as soon as the engine starts, I'm asleep, and I don't wake up until I hear her let out a shriek.

"John! Wake up!"

I'm having a hard time becoming conscious again, despite her entreaties.

"What is it?"

"John, I do have the right address, don't I?"

I look up, blinking. I glance at the street around me, and yes, it's our street, all right.

The only thing is, where our house should be, is blazing flames and smoke.

"OH SHIT!"

PART 20

"There are those who have discovered that fear is death in life, and have willingly risked physical death and loss of all that is considered valuable in order to live in freedom."

~~Virginia Burden Tower -- The Process of Intuition~~
______

BYERS:

Jesus Christ. "Mel!" I can't help it. I just shout into the air. He could still be in there. "Where's Mel?"

"Oh, gods," Sari whispers.

She starts running toward the house. I follow her. There's no way I'm letting her go in there. God knows she would. We're stopped by an officer as we get closer.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks.

"Mel!" Sari shouts, pointing to the house, struggling to run closer. We hold her back.

"I live here," I tell him, breathless. "One of my roommates was in there. Melvin Frohike. Have you seen him?" I gesture. "Short guy, middle aged, balding. He's got glasses."

The officer shakes his head. "No, haven't seen anyone answering that description, and the firemen didn't bring anyone out."

"Oh, no." I feel my knees wobble, but I won't fall down. I won't.

Sari's got me by the arm now, holding tight, tears streaming down her face. "No, Mel..."

"You got any idea what could have happened here?" the officer asks.

I do, but nothing I want to share with law enforcement right now. "No. I need to find out if Mel was in there."

"Had any wiring problems?"

"No. I need to find Frohike!"

"Got any enemies?"

Only enough to paper a wall. "My roommates and I... we're investigative journalists." I can barely think, I'm so worried. "Please, we need to talk to someone who's been in there. I need to know if Mel was in there. He might have been asleep."

He asks me a few more questions regarding my whereabouts during the previous hours before he directs me to the firemen's supervisor. I know this is the sort of thing Langly gets tetchy about, but I understand it as being part of his job. Furthermore, this is not the time to alienate the man. We need him on our side if we're ever to prove this was arson, which it is.

I can only imagine how Mulder and Scully felt when their office went up in flames. Everything you have, everything you work for, and in our case, our home. God, what if Mel was in there?

I need to stop watching, need to talk to the supervisor, and yet I can't. It's the same morbid fascination one feels watching a horrible accident. As the flames billow towards the sky, crusted by thick black smoke, my fear and anger burn in similar fashion.

"I should have just left the story alone," I shake my head at Sari.

She looks at me, questioning. "You think it's that?"

"I know it's that. Look at everything. Our home burnt down. Deborah shot. Mel... god, what if he's in there? What's next?" I almost blurt out, "you," but stop there. I don't think my mind should go there right now.

I'm momentarily distracted by a ruckus at the end of the block. The entrance to the street has been blocked off, and someone is arguing loudly with the officers stationed there. It's Frohike.

"Oh, thank god!" I run over to him, Sari right on my heels.

FROHIKE:

"Whaddya mean, I can't enter? I live here!" The officer is barricading the street because of a house fire. Sadly, it's our house.

"Your license says you live elsewhere."

"That's because I haven't had time to get to the DMV yet!" Well, okay. I haven't bothered to hack the DMV. You think I'd go stand in line with the great unwashed when I can do it from the comfort of my ergonomic chair?

In this case, putting off till tomorrow what I should've done a number of yesterdays ago isn't helping my cause.

"Frohike! Thank God you're all right!" Byers is there with Sari close behind him, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or even more freaked out.

"Tell him to let me in, Byers."

He looks at the cop. "He lives here."

"Fine. But leave your car here."

I'm about to protest but think better of it.

Byers throws his arms around me, and he's shaking like a leaf. Sari looks just about as bad. "Frohike, you were right. I should have left it alone."

I back away from him. "Save it. We all decided to go in on it. So quit hogging all the guilt." Byers actually looks chastened for the moment, although I suspect this is unlikely to be a lasting situation.

We head back to the curb across the street from the charred, flaming monstrosity that was once our monstrosity.

The officer questions me as to my whereabouts. "I was enjoying a little retail therapy," I explain.

He has a confused expression. Clearly not the brightest bulb in the socket. "I went shopping, if you must know."

"Where were you shopping?"

"Electronics stores," I mumble. No need to explain that one of my stops involved heavily damaging my Visa account at Spies R Us. Retail therapy. It's not just for women. I was feeling pretty damned good till I turned the corner here. I'd love to say it's a new miserable experience, but alas, it seems to be the story of our lives.

Talulah, our neighbor, has been talking with the police. She comes over to us when they've apparently finished with her.

"Mr. Frohike, I coulda sworn there was a bomb going off," she shakes her head. "Real loud like, this boom, and then, whoosh! Place is burning up."

I shudder, not so much at her description but at the knowledge that in all likelihood, it was a bomb, but I don't say that to her. Talulah's lived on this street since she was a girl.

"'Hood's gone to hell," she mumbles. "First the dopers at the 7-11, then the gangs, now this. It ain't right. I been living here since I was this high, and used to be a place where you could raise a family. Now..." she sweeps her arm across the scenery, "my granddaddy would roll in his grave seeing what be happening."

"I'm sorry, Talulah," I apologize to her, and I mean it. She's in her 50s, takes care of her grandbabies and a bunch of other kids. She brings us sweet potato pies when she bakes. I feel guilty for adding to urban blight. She's always been suspicious of our occupation. She considers journalists slightly less acceptable than the crack dealers, but a notch above the gang shooters. On the other hand, all of us are above the police. I don't think she spoke with them voluntarily. Not only does this destroy our home, but it's a blight on a neighborhood that the locals are struggling vainly to hold on to vestiges of.

"Makes you wonder if it's worth it," she mutters crossly, echoing my thoughts exactly.

"We'd better notify Langly," Byers jolts me back to earth, and the destruction before us. Babylon being destroyed couldn't have felt worse than this.

I pick up my cell, reluctantly, and dial Deborah's house. The phone is answered by her sister.

"Hold on," she says politely. She returns a moment later. "Sir, he says he'll call you when Battlebots is over."

"Tell him to get his sorry ass on the line now!" I bellow, more harshly at her than intended. Bad move.

I wait until the surly voice pops on. "This better be fucking good!"

"You wish. Get your ass over here right now, Blondie."

"You interrupted Battlebots!"

"Yeah, well, right now that should be the least of your worries."

"Look, I'm so not in the mood for any interstellar warp drives or people with automatic weapons..."

"Langly, the house burned down!"

Silence. I always wanted to leave the kid speechless. Now I know why they say be careful what you wish for.

When he does recover composure, he's a lot more subdued. "On my way."

***

LANGLY:

Christ, can my life get any worse?

Bad enough that Deb took a bullet. And she took it for us, and that makes it even worse. Now somebody's brought the house down. Fuck.

I pull up and Byers is there. "I didn't think you'd updated your license yet," he tells me.

"Fuck that -- oh man!"

It's not just a fire. The place is totally torched. Majorly. My CD collection. My Ramones poster. My brand new computers. My Disney movies. Like, gone.

"Hey, I had nothing to do with this!" I hiss at Frohike, who should probably be making some snide comment about my wiring talents at this point. Except he looks too bummed. He just says, "Save it, Blondie," like he doesn't even really mean it.

"Guess they're not gonna be able to save anything." I don't believe this. We finally have a place that's decent enough to bring women to, and this is what happens.

"We should be able to get the safe, at some point," Byers says quietly, so that no one else can hear.

"What about the data?"

Frohike pats the pocket on his Godawful Hawaiian shirt. "Got it here."

"We should never have gotten involved in this," Byers is doing his lament. "I'm so sorry, guys."

Jesus, that pisses me off. "Byers, you asshole, quit acting like it's all on you! I mean, it's Deb that took the hit! You think I wasn't gonna follow it down?"

We stand there, not saying anything. This is just too weird.

"Don't suppose this is a good time to tell you, but I hacked Harlow," I tell them.

Frohike and Byers both stare at me, hard. They've got their eyes wide open.

"Well, hell, don't act so surprised or anything! You know my kung fu's best."

"What time did you hack her?"

"Few hours ago." Oh shit. She probably got my footprint -- no. No way. That was as clean as it gets. A virgin doesn't get cleaner than that. "You saying that was a bad idea?"

Frohike looks about a hundred years old. "Haven't heard any good ideas yet. Not in a while."

The cops want to talk to me. No, I'm not gonna say anything. I mean, they're cops. Like they'd get it or something. Even the cops we drink with at the Limerick, I wouldn't put this on 'em. They're cool dudes but they're still cops. They don't look real convinced when I tell 'em I guess what Byers and Frohike told 'em, yeah, we do investigative journalism, yeah, we've got enemies, no, nobody's threatened us. Yeah, right. Even me, a practiced liar, had trouble on that one.

"We've got to get the safe," Byers looks all, pardon the expression, way burnt out.

Frohike shakes his head. "We won't be able to touch it for days. Whole thing'll be hot for days, and we've gotta figure out how to get to it through all this rubble."

"So what will you do now?" Sari asks.

"Maybe a beer is in order," Byers says tentatively.

"First good idea I've heard in ages," Frohike agrees.

FROHIKE:

"Did you get hold of Mulder and Scully?" Byers asks me again. We're into our third beer, probably only among the first of many to come.

"Got their voice mails. Told them where we were." I think I've repeated this at least three times so far, one to match each beer.

Langly's been silent the entire time. "So what're we gonna do besides sit here and drown ourselves?"

"You got a better suggestion?" I don't.

"Well, for Chrissake, I thought you'd want me to get this hacker bitch Harlow," Langly grumbled.

"I'm sure we'll need to use her information. Just not right now." Byers winces and signals to Bernie to bring us another round. "I think the big question right now is, do we publish?"

"We've already published," I tell him. "It's just a matter of distribution."

"Yeah, well, O'Casey better keep his fucking yap shut till we figure this out," Langly snarls.

"Sari's talking to him. I suspect she can reason with him." He takes a long pull on his Sam's. "Well, I hope."

"Yeah, well, if she can't reason with him, she can probably make him an offer he can't refuse," Langly taunts Byers, who shoots him a withering stare. Please, not now.

We're so busy feeling sorry for ourselves that we don't even notice Skinner pulling up to our table. He grabs a chair and signals to Bernie to bring him the same and to put it on our tab. Which, I would like to point out, we can't afford to pay right now.

"When do you guys plan to stop screwing up my life? Between you idiots and Mulder, whatever I did in my youth, trust me, I've made up for it." He slaps his ample forehead against his hamlike hand.

Langly glares at him. "You didn't have the kind of day we did, so shut up."

"Langly, I have days like this more than you'd care to imagine. Now are you planning to share your ideas on why this happened or do I have to get Mulder over here to go on about the life, universe and everything?"

"Oh please. Anything but that," Byers moans.

"Fine. So since Dr. SaintJohn's unfortunate incident, I'm guessing that you turkeys wouldn't have done anything so sensible as leave well enough alone."

"Oh, like you'd just say, well, my girl got shot, but I'll let it slide!" Alcohol doesn't necessarily mellow Langly out until he's had significant quantities of it.

"Will you keep it down, Langly?" Byers hisses at him, before I can smack him across the mouth. If I had the energy.

"What the fuck for? We published it!"

"All we published were the scientific findings," Byers retorts.

"What scientific findings?" Skinner demands. "Would you care to fill me in? Either that, or I'm going to find a better table to drink at."

Christ, explaining this debacle. Where to start?

"Well," Byers draws out the word, indicating that he's rapidly becoming intoxicated, "Deborah was shot right after we, uh, stumbled on some data."

"What kind of data?" Skinner's beer is not making him mellow. I signal to Bernie to keep them coming.

Byers takes another long pull.

"Byers, that kind of heavy lifting takes practice, and you haven't had it. Slow down." I mean, we still need a designated driver.

He ignores me as he draws in a deep breath and begins, slightly slurred, "Data for an interstellar drive."

Skinner blinks, shakes his head. "You guys are too much. Next thing you'll tell me is that Jack Monroe is behind all this."

Byers looks at him. "Actually, we think he is."

He gulps down the rest of his beer and starts the second one. "And I thought Mulder told me unbelievable stuff."

"We have proof. We had the data analyzed," Byers continues.

"By whom? One of Langly's gaming buddies?"

"No. Our investigator was Sean O'Casey."

"The CERN wunderkind? How the hell... no, don't tell me, I don't want to know. And he was able to verify this?"

"He's just waiting for a call from Stockholm," I say. "If he doesn't get his ass shot off first."

No one speaks for a long, long time.

"So you're going to print," Skinner mutters.

"Already done it. At the printer's as we speak."

"The public has a right to know," Langly whines. "And I'm gonna get even with this bastard."

"Not on my watch, you're not."

"So what are we supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for Monroe to come for us again?" Langly is getting very agitated again.

"Don't you guys get it? Monroe is dangerous! We've had our best people on him for years, and we haven't been able to bring him down! What makes you think you're gonna do it?"

"Maybe we have a better shot at it than you do." Byers must really be drunk to make that sort of claim, right in front of the Big Guy.

"At what price? Don't you guys ever wonder if this is worth it?"

"Only all the time," I comment dryly. There are barely perceptible nods from my cohorts. Skinner would miss it, but I wouldn't.

"So you thought this was worth it."

"I made a mistake," Byers says, shamefacedly.

"Oh, stuff it, Byers. We're all in it. Remember? It's not all about you!" Langly seems insulted.

Byers seems both embarrassed and angry but doesn't shoot back at Langly. Maybe he's had enough alcohol to be numb by now. I'm trying to get there. I'm wondering how much we won't be able to afford by the time I've had enough.

Skinner stares at the longneck in front of him. For complaining that we're screwing up his life, he's certainly not drinking enough.

"Hey, don't tell me we're late for the party and you guys started without us." Oh Christ, I'd recognize that voice anywhere, the annoying cheerfulness Mulder only displays when everyone else is miserable.

"What's going on, guys? You said you might need our help," Scully, bless her, always manages to abate my irritation with her partner.

"They've had a little problem with overheating," Skinner remarks in a dry voice.

"Hey, not my fault!" Langly pipes up. He's a little defensive about his rep as a firestarter.

"What happened?" Scully asks, pulling up her own chair and giving Mulder a meaningful 'if you had any class at all you'd do this for me' look.

"Does this mean I'm not going to get the fit Oriental twins you promised me, Frohike?" Mulder winks. I'd like to smack him. Why do I put up with him, anyway?

Oh yeah. Occasionally he bails us out. And provides us with some of our more interesting headlines.

"Mulder, get a beer and shut up," I order him. With an emphasis on the shut up portion, I add silently.

We tell our sordid tale again, this time with a bit more detail, although not as much as we could have. Mulder, of course, grows animated as we discuss the interstellar drive, but his enthusiasm is tempered as we reveal that the house he helped us so lovingly to locate is no longer.

Scully has been extremely quiet, listening carefully as she sips her beer, but now turns to her errant partner.

"I don't know about you, Mulder, but I smell setup a mile away."

Mulder looks skeptical. "Why would you say that?"

"Think about it. They virtually led these guys to the files. It's almost as if they wanted them to discover them. That would give Monroe, if it is Monroe, an excuse to go after them."

I try to take in what the lady is saying. I'm intoxicated enough that I don't react immediately. It's almost too much to think about.

"Are you saying we've been had?" Langly's voice rises in an angry pitch.

"I'm saying someone wanted you badly enough to reel you in," she says steadily.

The three of us eyeball each other. Shit. What if we've been duped?

Not just damaged, but fooled. That's almost worse. Except that usually if you're fooled, you don't lose your house over the deal or have friends shot at.

"Someone really hates you guys. And if it's Monroe, and he's surfaced again, you have more problems than you know about." Skinner tosses two twenties on the table and gets up. "If you don't mind, I have work to do. Keep me advised." He vanishes out of the bar.

"So what're you guys going to do now?" Mulder asks.

"I'll call Sari. She said I could stay there with her and the Cardinal. And the lizards," Byers says, trying not to blush.

Moose and Squirrel exchange a private glance that Langly and I can translate, but fortunately, it's lost on him, or he'd probably start protesting out his ass.

I'm still trying to absorb what Scully has insinuated. Unfortunately, it makes a lot of sense.

"I'm gonna head for Deb's. I'll metro there."

"I'm going that way. I could drop you off," Scully offers.

"Nah. I need to think. Clear my head."

She nods.

Langly says goodnight, he'll call later. Byers is on the phone to Sari.

The agents offer to take me anywhere of my choosing, but I decline. I'm not sure where I'll go at this point. I think I'll just stay here awhile. Till last call, anyway.

"Call us when you've made a decision, or if you have any problems," Scully says gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Frohike."

"Yeah," Mulder echoes. "What're you going to do about publishing?"

"No decisions yet."

"Hard to make decisions when something like this happens," Scully sympathizes.

"Oh, I've made one decision," I announce.

"And that is?"

"Mulder, I am never letting you pick out real estate for us again!"

FINIS