From: "EPurSeMouve" Date: Wed, 02 Aug 2000 22:50:39 -0800 Subject: NEW: Damn Temptin' (1/3) by EPurSeMouve Source: xff TITLE: Damn Temptin' AUTHOR: EPurSeMouve [epursemouve@goplay.com] As a favor to EPur, Bobbie Collins did the headers herself. SPOILERS: Well, hon, "Requiem", 'course. And if you don't know who I am, then you'd better go read EPur's "Inquiring Minds", either the repost or at her website-thingamajig. CATEGORY: It's a story (S), darlin'. What else you need to know? RATING: See, it ain't like I swear like a sailor. But I get peeved off enough for a PG-13, I guess. KEYWORDS: Now, do you really wanna know how it ends before it begins? SUMMARY: I'm on the scent, and I always get my story. DISCLAIMER: EPur is telling me to say that everyone you know from the show belongs to 1013, and that everyone else belongs to her. But I got somethin' to say about THAT. DISTRIBUTION: Shucks, that's sweet of you and all. But we'd like it if you asked first. And then EPur says she'll talk a little bit at end. So... Damn Temptin' By EPurSeMouve epursemouve@goplay.com the http://www.goplay.com/epursemouve/ *November 1, 2000 Dear Ms. Scully, How are ya? I know it's been a while, but I really enjoyed our chat a few weeks ago, and wanted a chance to follow up. You were real nice about everything, so I figure you won't mind this little letter. Figured you'd be interested in knowing that my Crabcake Jesus story got picked up, and my editor gave me a few more assignments after that, and they went so well that I am now writing this letter to you from the comfort of my very own office (well, cubicle) in the Atlanta branch office of the Weekly World News! Patsy didn't mind moving, and Momma was able to sell the salon so she could come with us. So now we rent this real nice house and I get to go all round the country - they even fly me, sometimes! Anyways, I'm hoping this letter finds you well - I might be around or about DC later this month if you wanna arrange some get-together. The baby still on schedule? Any new happenings in your life? I'm not just asking in case there's story value, just so you know. Though remember that I am your friend and that, if at any time you feel like telling your story, we at the Weekly World News will treat it with the respect and journalistic integrity such a sensitive subject will require. Plus, we'll pay you. I stayed late at the office so I could write this, and I'm gonna be late for dinner if I don't wrap it up. You got my address - take care now and be sure to write back! Roberta Collins, but really it's - * "Bobbie?" "Good grief! Mr. Rudnick, you can't go sneaking up on a girl like that!" Yeah, it's late and dark and I should have left for home an hour ago. But Mr. Rudnick still ain't got the manners of a mule expelled from charm school. Guess politeness just don't come up much in the gospel - at least, the parts he likes to study. "I was just going to close things up," he says real quiet, blushing and trying to avoid looking at my bare shoulders. It's been hot recently, and I keep forgetting that around Mr. Rudnick, tank tops are a fashion don't. Got a button-down around here somewhere... "You know, I still don't see why we aren't a 24-hour office," I say to him as I shrug on a flannel shirt and grab my purse and my letter, fresh off the printer. "S'not like the news stops for us just 'cause we need to get some sleep. We should always be on the look-out, investigatin' new leads..." Like, say, about Ms. Scully and her mysteriously missing mystery man, whose name I can never seem to get out of her. His eyes finally rest on me, now that I'm properly covered up, and he's got that solemn preacherly look to him again, 100% in charge. "Don't you have a little girl at home, Bobbie? She's probably wondering what happened to you," he says. "And a good Christian woman should know better than to keep her family waiting." I look at my watch. And damn, it's late! I get the envelope addressed quick and sent off quicker. Momma hates it when I keep dinner waiting. Turns out she's mad as hell 'cause the pot roast burned, and Patsy wants some extra dough so she can buy a costume for the school play when she knows perfectly well that Momma and I could throw something together real cheap. By the time we've got McDonald's on the table and Patsy up on a stool being measured, Ms. Scully is all out of my mind. And what with one thing or another, it's a week before I give her another thought. ------------- "Now, Doreen dear, I know it's hard to talk about, but could you tell me what it felt like to be, s'cuse me dear... violated by the supposed Bigfoot?" Why it is I always get the Bigfoot stories, I have no idea. Mr. Rudnick probably thinks they need the woman's touch. At least he's stopped sending me on most of the Jesus and Elvis sightings. Poor Doreen, though. Frightened as hell. I can smell a phony a mile away, but she really believes what happened to her. "Well, it was kinda gross, and hairy," she stammers out. "And, I dunno how to say this, but he was, well..." "Bigger than most?" I fill in. She nods sadly. "Bigger 'n Davey, that's for sure." Davey don't look too happy to hear that, from what I can tell. He gets up and starts to tidy the apartment, which they've done their best with. It's a real nice starter place for two young kids just married, though it ain't much. Though it's a shame what happened to Doreen and all, the check they'll get from this story will probably help out plenty. Two sweet kids. He may be insecure, but Davey is real concerned about his wife. "You aren't gonna write about all the intimate stuff, right?" he asks suddenly. "Dory doesn't need everyone reading about that." "Don't worry, hon," I say, comforting as I can. "It's only for research." Well, that and accompanying illustrations. And BIGFOOT HUNG LIKE STALLION! might make a helluva headline, if Mr. Rudnick wasn't paying attention... "'Sides, Davey," Doreen sniffles. "She isn't asking anything I'm not comfortable with answering. Just like with those FBI agents, remember? I don't have to do anything I don't want to do." Yeah, I caught that. I'm not the leading Atlanta reporter for the Weekly World News for nothin'. "What FBI agents?" I ask carefully. Doreen sniffles again. Davey answers for her. "Oh, this man and woman from D.C. Over a year ago, I think. Doreen thought she'd been abducted by aliens - turns out she shouldn't have taken her medication before having a few beers. Lucky she pulled over to the side of the road to sleep it off." "They came to talk to her because Doreen thought she was abducted?" Davey nods his head. "Strangest thing I'd ever heard. But I'd rather the government look into stuff like this than spend another 25 grand on a toilet seat." "Do you remember their names?" I'm trying not to get too excited. But this could be it... "Doreen's got a better memory than me. You remember, honey?" She closes her eyes, furrowing her brow. "Ummm... Sully was the lady, I think. Something like that. And Mulder was the guy." She smiles a bit. "Quite a guy..." Davey frowns, and so with a quick scribble on my pad, I steer us back on track. "So, when you say the Bigfoot was hairy, Doreen, do you mean hairy like a dog, or hairy like a yak?" She sniffles again. ------------- Davey and Doreen live out in Norcross, low-rent apartment land, and the whole drive back to the office, that name is rolling through my mind. Mulder. Mulder. Mulder. Don't ask me why I keep coming back to this. Reporter's instinct is my best guess. Ms. Scully said it was complicated - a big word that means it could be so very big. And if there's one thing I've learned in the past six weeks, it's that you never let a lead slip through your fingers. Mulder. Mulder Mulder Mulder. It's a start. It's a name. Probably not too common, either. 'Specially for an FBI agent. Jervis, who wears just a little too much camo to be classified as normal, has the cubicle next to mine. And of course he's working late tonight. Man, if he ever finished something on deadline, then maybe he could go to even more of those durned gun shows. I duck into his cube after knocking on the wall. "Got a hot tip for ya, Jervis. The vice prez's gonna go door to door next week to take away our guns." He growls at me. "Don't even joke about that, Roberta. You know those goddamned liberals are conspiring against all us God-fearing Americans. That whole firearm-registration business is pure bull-pucky - they're cataloging us, keeping records. It'll all come out soon. I just need one more lead." "I'll let you know if Newt Gingrich calls, then." He scoffs. "Newt's a puppet. The goddamned liberals set him up so that they could have someone to tear down. Phil Gramm - now that's where the future lies." He slams down a couple of sentences on the computer, then looks up at me. "Didja want something?" "When you get a mo'. I'm trying to get some info on a guy - FBI agent named Mulder?" He turns towards me. "FBI agent?" That got his interest. So did the collar of my v-neck t-shirt, which he just stole a look down. "Sure, I'll ask a couple of buddies. What's he involved with? Domestic terrorism? Waco?" I shrug. "Nah. Aliens, more like." Jervis snorts. "Aliens. Now that's absurd." ------------- I'm positive that it's a sign from God when I get a letter from Ms. Scully the next day. Positive. *November 14, 2000 Dear Ms. Collins, It is nice to hear from you again. Although meeting you was a quite unexpected event, I did enjoy making your acquaintance. It was kind of you to think of me, while you make these large changes in your life. Regarding my current situation and your wish to publish it, I'm afraid I have to decline. Although I understand your position, I don't want any undue attention right now, and I don't think that it is a good idea for myself, my child, or its father. Please let this drop. I would not mind seeing you at some later date, if you do come to D.C. Write me with your travel plans, if the occasion arises. I hope things are well with you and your family. Sincerely yours, Dana Scully * I do some quick math in my head. She oughta be due in about ... holy cow. Two seconds later, I'm in Mr. Rudnick's office. "Hey, did you ever decide who to send to that training conference in DC?" Startled the hell out of 'im, but he stops stammering after a few minutes. "Um, yes, Bobbie. I was planning on sending Jervis - I mean, you're my first choice, of course, but I figured that with your daughter and everything..." "I wanna do it." He exhales. "Praise Jesus. DC doesn't need to think that we all carry unlicensed Uzis here." "Jervis means well, Mr. Rudnick. He's just a little strange about it, that's all." He gives me a funny look, and then hands me the travel vouchers. Dated for two weeks from now. I'm writing Ms. Scully about it faster 'n you can say EXCLUSIVE. After all, I can be a lot more convincing in person. And there's always more research to be done. ------------- Jervis is off hunting for a couple of days, and I'm just putting some final touches on a few stories, so I've been using my spare time at the office trying to figure out this Internet deal. Joan from Astrology says that you can find anything online, but I have no idea how the hell you get on whatever line she's talking about. String? Wire? Psychic transmissions? Finally, I just give up and drag Patsy into the office one afternoon. "See, Momma, this is Netscape - it's a web browser," she says, like some midget schoolteacher, all formal and calm on my lap. "It's an application, just like the one you use to write your stories. You start it up, and then you can browse other people's web pages, which have all sorts of information on them." She double-clicks the mouse thingy, and soon we've got a gray window looking at us. She types something into the little box at the top. "What's that there, sugar?" "Oh, that's the address for a search engine. You can use search engines to find webpages that have what you're looking for. What was that name you wanted to look up?" I watch the gray screen become white with pictures on it. "Mulder - I don't know his first name. Is that all right? Can we still do it?" "Yeah. It can look for 'FBI agent', too. You wanna search pretty close to what you're looking for, otherwise too many links just turn up." "Links?" "Just hold on, Momma." She does her 60 wpm routine, and soon the screen is full of underlined text and stuff. Patsy looks really surprised. I have no idea what to make of it all, though. "What happened? Did we find something?" I ask her. "Geez, Momma. Who is this guy?" ------------- Special Agent Fox Mulder - quite a name - has been a busy man. Jervis only confirms this for me when he gets back. His hunting buddies are also big on government watchdogging. "According to Delroy," he says calmly, fidgeting with the framed picture of his latest kill, placing it just so on his desk, "the guy's a bit of a nut. Believes in aliens, speaks at cons and stuff - generally knowledgeable." I shake my head. This is getting real strange. "So he's still around?" His forehead creases a bit. "Come to think of it, Delroy said he'd been damn quiet recently. Apparently, his secretary or somethin' canceled all his public appearances after May. No one's heard from him or seen him in a long time." Jackpot. Ms. Scully's chickenshit boyfriend, would you please come on down? Or not, as the case may be. "Tell you what, Bobbie," he says, leering at me. "I'll do you a favor. All you have to do to get information on federal nutjobs is send in an app under the Freedom of Information Act. I done it before - I can do it for you. All I can get on Mulder. No sweat." I don't really wanna say yes. Owing Jervis any favors ain't something I particularly want. But damn it, I have no idea how to do it myself... "Sure, Jervis," I kinda mumble. "Sure." ------------- It only takes Jervis a week or so. I'm packing up my papers for the DC con when he delivers the mother lode. It's a stack tall as my trash can, covered one-sided with all sorts of info. Receipt photocopies, expense reports. Incredible. "Thanks," I say, quickly stuffing 'em into one of my "briefcases" (we always say "paper" at the grocery store). "I owe ya." He just leers at me, and oh, gawd, if the stink of him didn't scream "smoker", his teeth would be shoutin' it from the mountaintops. "Bobbie, I need to give you your flight information," Mr. Rudnick calls from his office. "Would you please come in here?" Bless him! ------------- My flight goes smooth, although saying goodbye to Patsy made my heart hurt, and I'm outta the airport and into DC lunch hour traffic real quick. Ms. Scully's last letter (polite and factless as always) just said to come on by when I got in, and that's exactly what I plan to do. When I get to the hospital, I realize that I'm an actual guest now - I don't have to sneak in. But the downside to being legit, as always, involves waiting. While the nurses make me a badge, I see a little toad of a man lurking around a bit, staring at... Well, me. He seems to take special note of my camera. But as I get my badge, he scurries away. No big deal, I guess. I don't usually mind things that scurry - after some of the roach motels I've lived in, most everything else is pretty tame. I walk into Ms. Scully's room expecting the same sober scene as last time, when she was a swollen little thing trapped in a too-big hospital gown and a too-narrow hospital bed. Patiently waiting out a high-risk pregnancy, bored enough to want to talk to me. I'm expectin' quiet. But instead, it's chaos. Two nurses are standing by her, measuring and monitoring the machines beeping and buzzing all around. And the main attraction herself is full of motion, huffing and puffing, her face red and streaked with sweat. I'm thinking this is a bad time. But as I turn to leave, I hear a thin voice call out sharp. "Who's that? Mom?" I scoot back. "It's me, Ms. Scully. Bobbie Collins? You wrote and said I should stop by... But I'm sure you need to be with your family now, I can just come back." "Nnnnn...." Her face tenses, then relaxes. "No, don't leave. It's all right. I'd..." She breathes out, hesitantly. "I'd like the company." Jesus, but that's weird. I mean, it's not like we had a big emotional moment or anything last time. She can't like me that much... Maybe she's just so afraid of being alone... Wouldn't have known what to do without my momma when I was having Patsy... The nurses give me a silent and harsh once-over (what, they don't like cowboy boots?) before they make a little more room 'round the bed; I take a seat a bit nervously. Aside from Patsy, I don't have much experience with labor - looks like she's having a tough time of it. "How's it goin'?" I ask, 'bout as timidly as I get. She shrugs. "I'm dilated three centimeters. It's going pretty well. I want my mother here, though." Where is she?" "Stuck in traffic on the Beltway. Dr. Mulgrew says she'll make it in time, though. At the rate I'm going, I'm never going to get therrrrrr...." She drags out the r on another groan. Gawd, I don't feel the slightest bit sappy 'bout childbirth, and this experience ain't changing much. "There anything I can do, hon?" I ask when she's done breathing through the next contraction. "Just keep me company. Talk to me. Tell me about your work. I need a distraction." So I talk to her 'bout all the things I've seen through my job - Bigfoots who just want a little love and alien love children with tails and the revenge of Moby Dick's ghost. She chuckles a lot, through the pain. "You always get your story, Bobbie?" she asks through clenched teeth. "Or die tryin'," I joke. She takes it serious, though. "You haven't been looking into me, though, right?" She says it strong and bitter, like Shiner Bock, like she knows I'm lying if I reply positive. Time for all-out honesty, then. Sometimes, it's twice as effective as a white lie. "You're an interestin' person, Ms. Scully. Your story interests me." "Leave me and mine alone, Bobbie. Promise me that we'll stay out of the spotlight," she says, stronger than before, so fiercely, as she lets the contraction burn through her. They've been coming quicker and quicker. This itty bitty speck of a woman, hanging onto sanity by a thread, without a single friend, clutching my hand desperately as she prepares to bring a fatherless child into the world. Me, with my big ass and my acid-washed jeans and my camera and notepad, using even this moment as a means towards a story's end. Been a long time, but I'm pretty sure that queasiness I'm feelin' is a trace of shame. "Ms. Scully, you have my word." I think it's the most serious thing I've ever said in my life. She smiles at me, sweat on her forehead and tears on her cheek, clutching my hand even harder, even though her contraction is over. "It's Dana. Call me Dana." End Part 1/3 Damn Temptin' By EPurSeMouve Part 2/3 They wheel her off to delivery pretty soon after that, and I figure it's pretty silly to stick around much longer. So I write her a note and leave it with her momma, who made it just in time, and head back to my hotel and the wine-and-cheese reception already in progress. Usually, you get me near free food and booze and I'm happy as a lamb. But I keep thinking about two things. The tears on Dana's cheeks, and the pile of documents on my bed, detailing the expense accounts of the amazing Agent Mulder's adventures. After having maybe a little too much wine, trying to forget the whole mess, I stumble back to my room and shove all that paper into my suitcase. I always keep my promises, I keep remindin' myself. Always. I'll just hold onto the papers until I can throw them away. That's all. ------------- I visit Dana and her new little boy in the hospital the next day, during lunch. They both look damn tuckered out, but given how high- risk the whole deal was, momma and baby are doing real good. "I can't thank you enough for yesterday," Dana says, cradling the kid gingerly, same way I did those first few days. Don't believe what they say about it all comin' natural. "I'm just honored I was there." I lean over and give the kid a chuck under the chin. "You got a name for him?" "I'm still trying to decide. There are a lot of options." Man, don't I remember. Still, I know this woman. She has to have an idea. "What's the front runner?" She blushes. "Joshua. Joshua Charles." "Good name." Her face gets stern, for just a minute. "But it'll look terrible in print." I know exactly what she's askin'. I lean over and pick the kid up, cradling him carefully. Joshua Charles Scully. "Good thing it'll never make headlines," I say. ------------- I leave DC with Dana's phone number and a roll of tourist photos to develop for Patsy, with one or two of Josh mixed in. Damn cute kid. "Who's that, Momma?" Patsy asks when we get 'em back. "That's the baby my friend had." "The friend you were writing the story about?" "Well..." I pull her towards me, give her head a kiss. "I was writin' a story 'bout her, but I'm not gonna any more." "But Momma! You always said that givin' up is a meal lost." I try and smile 'bout it. "Well, honey, we're doin' just fine right now. 'Sides, I could stand to lose some weight." ------------- Damn it all, Jervis has decided to get a crush on me. Christmas has come and gone since my DC trip. Josh is growing up quick and cute, according to Dana. My copy editor, Rayanne, has stopped shooting me such evil looks all the time, as it seems like my writing's been getting better the more I do it. I've been getting a few juicy assignments, Patsy's head of her class, and Momma's got a hot new boyfriend. Life seems pretty good. But once a week, without fail, Jervis will dump even more expense reports on my desk, offering them up as if the photos of Patsy on my desk were part of some big altar. It's too damn absurd. And, I have to admit, a little tempting. But I just take 'em home to Patsy for her to use as scratch paper. She's always practicing her equations. 25 = 3y + 7. She's a genius. Always able to figure out y. I call Dana on the phone once or twice, just seein' how she is, and of course, she's frazzled. But she tells me about how she's got a lot of support from her momma and some "acquaintances," she calls 'em. She starts calling me back a bit, and we talk more about diapers and solid food; bikes and book reports. It's all pretty mild stuff, but I can tell there's something bothering her, down deep. After the third phone call or so, she's able to spit it out. "Bobbie, let me ask you something. If Patsy had been a boy instead of a girl... Would the situation have been any different for you?" I give it a second or two to think it over serious. "Well, I think I know plenty about bein' a woman, but not so much about bein' a man. So I'd have to learn some. An' I would have asked my cousin Joe to hang 'round more often, give the kid someone to ask about guy stuff. But I think that in the long run, it wouldn't make much difference. All you can do is your best." She sighs. "Every child should have a father." I think about the latest story from Papua New Guinea. FATHER PUNISHES SON - BY EATING HIM! "All that matters is that they're loved." ------------- Nearly quitting time. I'm digging my desk out from underneath a week's worth of memos when Jervis comes by with this week's deposit. "Damn it, Jervis!" I finally exclaim. "Didn't I tell you to stop?" He frowns, clearly pissed off that I'm not kissing his feet in thanks. "Don't worry, that's the last of it. No more expense reports for that Mulder after last May. Damn strange, if you ask me." "I didn't," I snap, scooping up the papers and dumping them into another one of my briefcases. Gawd, but Jervis is persistent. "Is there anything else you need for your investigation? I make a great partner..." He starts backing me up into a corner. Bastard. "Get outta here, monkey boy," I snarl as I push past him. He grabs onto my arm as I try and move by, though. "You owe me, remember?" He ain't got any more of that slightly freaky charm any more, and when he leans in real close, I start feeling just a bit intimidated. "Better start treatin' me a whole lot nicer, or I'll make things unpleasant." With a little effort, I get my arm back from him and stare him down. "The only thing you can make unpleasant, Jervis, is the air around ya. Buy a toothbrush." And with that, I'm outta there. ------------- I didn't think the Jervis thing would be over with. When Mr. Rudnick calls me into his office a couple of days later, it's just confirmed. "Bobbie," he says, straightening the crucifix on the wall, "when you came to work for us, we didn't mind taking in an unmarried woman, because we understood how a good Christian widow-" A little white lie like that never hurt nobody. "-would be having a hard time in the world, especially with a daughter to support, on her own. And you've become a very valuable member of the team over the past few months." "Is there a problem then?" I ask, innocent as pie. "Well..." He sits down behind his desk. "Jervis told me that you asked for his help on gathering information about a certain pair of FBI agents - part of a story you were working on, he was led to believe. However, he has reason to believe that you've stopped working on the story, and have no intention to follow through with the research already done." I try and keep up the innocent look, though my promise to Dana makes every other word out of my mouth a lie. "Mr. Rudnick, I've simply hit a bit of a wall with it, and I'm working on other stuff right now, tryin' to see if the situation gets better. It's a killer story - front page material for sure." "Bobbie, Jervis told me that you authorized the spending of over three thousand dollars to pay the fees for the Freedom of Information Act requests-" The protests march out my mouth with picket signs faster than you can say die-and-rot-in-hell-you-asshole-Jervis, which I plan on saying real fast the second I walk out of this room. "Sir, that isn't true! I know nothing about that - I didn't even know they cost money..." He just glares at me, the fury of Hell in him. "This completely unauthorized investigation of yours has cost the Weekly World News a considerable amount of money, and that's not even including the manhours you should have spent working on a real assignment." "But this is a great story, Mr. Rudnick, it'll be headline news..." He just raises an eyebrow at me, his fingers pressed together to make a little church steeple. Baptist prick. "Bobbie... Jervis also mentioned that you made an advance on him a few days ago. That you suggested to him things of a lewd nature that a proper Christian would never think of suggesting. Especially a widow raising a daughter alone." He swipes a look at my ring finger, which has never had a tan line on it. "Presuming you really are a widow..." Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ what is goin' on here? I have to keep remembering - breathe in, breathe out... "Mr. Rudnick, I'm assurin' you, right now, that Jervis is simply unstable, and that none of that's possibly true." I say it calmly as I can. But bam: "Bobbie, he has seniority, and while I do believe he can be a bit unbalanced on certain issues, he is not a liar. He even swore on a Bible." "Oh, Christ," I mutter, which doesn't help matters much. He's glaring at me, just like the second minister who told me I was gonna end up in hell. In fact, they look so alike it's scary. "We here at the Weekly World News pride ourselves on our high moral values," he lectures, just like during a Sunday service. "I simply can't let this slide. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask for your resignation." "NO!" I shout, jumping out of my chair. "Mr. Rudnick, I love my job and I can't lose it right now. You've gotta give me another chance." "Bobbie, I have no room for negotiation here..." "I've worked my butt off here for five months, and I brought you more big articles than anyone else in this office did in a year," I say, trying to keep my voice down but failing. "And because one nutcase starts lying about things I said and did, I'm gonna lose my job? That's just not fair. It ain't..." - I pause on the word - "...Christian." I've been waving my arms around and my jacket has slipped off my shoulders, leaving me with a tank top and Mr. Rudnick's suddenly nervous eye. It ain't quite the upper hand, but it's close. "Well," he stutters. "I don't think you're understanding the position of the paper completely..." I start speaking real fast, shrugging my jacket back on so I can keep his attention. "I understand that this paper needs stories - and good ones - every week. And you said I'm valuable - well, damn it, let me prove I still am. You have to give me one last chance. One more story. I'll turn it into headline news. 'Cause I'd never put anything before the paper. You gotta believe that." He frowns, thinking on it. Clearly, he's got an assignment like that waiting around. "I'm not sure about this, Bobbie," he says, back in fire-and-brimstone territory. "I'm not really sure that I can trust you. You're a representative of the Weekly World News when you're in the field. It's imperative you act appropriately, reflecting the good Christian values that I have always believed you had. And this story had better be good." "If a single thing bothers you, Mr. Rudnick, just fire me." Gawd, I wish I hadn't said that. We've already put in the down payment on Patsy's smart kids summer camp. She needs new shoes. The kitchen's falling apart. Momma's gonna KILL me... "All right, then." He pulls out a file folder behind him. ------------- Abductees. Scattered all through western Oregon. Freshly returned, within the past few days, finding 'em in forests and such. I have to interview 'em, get all the data I can. Abductees Return Home or Aliens Return Abductees - either angle's fine. And it don't matter if it's real, just so long as I get good copy from it. If it is real, it always makes for a better story - but I always stay skeptical going in, 'cause it rarely happens. Oregon in February. MAN, this is gonna suck. Jervis isn't in the office when I leave Mr. Rudnick's office. Good thing. For him. ------------- Christ. Oregon in February. It IS miserable. So are these abductees. They've been grilled by the police, by their families - and of course, by now they either don't remember a thing, or they've figured out that they don't WANT to remember. I've been driving all day, from police stations to hospitals all over the place, and I can't get a damn thing outta 'em. And I'm starting to panic, just a bit. I call home from my hotel room, barely able to dial the numbers. Damn, but it's only been one day, and I'm too tired to move. "Momma!" Patsy squeals into my ear. Does me good to hear her voice, I have to admit. "How you doin', baby?" "Good, Momma! You're in Oregon?" "That's right. Rainin' cats and dogs." "That's where they were, you know." I'm too tired to really keep up with her, but I make an effort. "Who, darlin'?" "Agents Mulder and Scully. The woman you were lookin' into and her partner. That new bunch of paper you gave me has lots of Oregon stuff on it." Oh, no. I'm not asking. I don't want to know. I really don't. I promised. And I always keep my promises. But what harm could it do? After all, I'd just be poking around a little... Oh, gawd damn it. "Do you know what area that was, baby? Was there a town they were at?" "Hold on, I'll check," she says, dropping the phone. I can hear her running off. Momma picks up after her. "Hey, darling. How are things goin' there?" Momma's voice does me good, too. "All right. Been drivin' most of the day, and I'm really tuckered out. How about there?" "Not bad. Patsy's ready for bed, and I'm ready to turn in, myself. She needs to talk to you, though, she's got this homework-" Patsy runs back before Momma finishes. "Bellefleur, Momma! That means pretty flower in French. I checked." Kid's a genius. I love her so much. "Thanks, baby. Time for you to go to bed now, right?" "But I need to ask you some questions for my homework," she protests, just whiny enough for me to tell she's up too late as it is. "It's due in two days!" "Tell you what, baby. I'll call early tomorrow and answer everything for you then. Right now, it's bedtime for you and me both." We both hang up sadly, and I turn on the TV and let sitcoms lull me to sleep. ------------- I get a phone call the next morning from a patrol man I smiled at extra nice the day before. They got another one. I'm off to the hospital lickety-split. Good thing I got plenty of experience sneaking into them. "So, Billy, tell me 'bout this place you were." Cute kid. Married? Just a little too young for me. But cute. "What kinda story is this again?" he asks, confused. Exposure will do that to you, I imagine. Four days in the woods alone. Poor kid. I feel sorry for him, but that don't mean I'm above taking advantage of his situation. "Oh, human interest stuff for my paper. Just tell me whatever you can remember." "Well..." He stumbles so hard over the words, he practically skins his knees. "It was bright, and cold, and there were others with me..." I'm scribbling madly. "How many?" "A lot. Only one or two of *them* though... And there were tests..." He closes his eyes, his face full of pain, his hands shaking, making his bruised, battered, and needlepricked arms quiver. "That's all I can remember. I'm sorry." "S'all right," I say, comforting him the best I can, given how much I'm cursing his Swiss cheese memory. Gawd - he makes this story seem actually real and then he stops there? Good grief, it could actually be real. A real legit 100% true story. Mr. Rudnick ain't gonna know what hit him. That is, if I can manage to get any more info, which given how much these abductees clam up, is highly unlikely. It's more than I had before, though. Clearly, the answer is to talk to 'em right off. I check his chart so I get his name spelled right. M-I-L-E-S. "When do you go home, hon?" I ask as I pack my stuff up. "Tomorrow," he says with a smile. "It feels weird to be even a few miles away." "Where's home, then?" "Bellefleur. Just down the highway." Well, I'll be damned. End Part 2/3 Damn Temptin' By EPurSeMouve Part 3/3 I'm done with Billy before noon, and I drive to Bellefleur right off, lunch steaming in a drive-thru bag on the passenger seat. It's a cute little town, but it seems to have taken quite a few blows over the years. There's a burned-out motel that it seems no one's thought to clear out. Graffiti's all over the place, even a big orange X sprayed on the road outside of town. And everyone keeps their heads down low, like they're all missing someone special. It's a town in mourning. Mourning for what, I dunno. This could be my angle, I realize. A town in mourning, slowly comin' back to life. 'Cause I can just see it, a couple of people rushing from drugstore to the grocery to their cars again, big ol' smiles on their faces. No way anyone's that cheerful in an Oregon February without a damn good reason. From a pay phone, I call all the police stations and hospitals I visited yesterday, where I saw all them abductees, waiting to go home. Turns out home for all of 'em is Bellefleur. Damn it all. Shoulda checked for that before I left. But I was just so panicked... I gotta get back to my motel, I realize. Gotta make that call to Patsy and then call Mr. Rudnick and explain how well everything's going and how I just need a little more time and effort before my story's in the bag. 'Course, I'll be talking out of my ass, but I'm sure Bellefleur is the link. Positive. As I drive back along one of them shady forest roads, my piece-o-shit rental goes haywire, radio buzzing and clock flipping madly. So I pull over, giving it a minute to settle down, but as I wait, I notice two things in the rearview mirror. That big orange X from before is right behind me. And on the side of the road, there's an arm beside it. It's dirty and thin and the rest of whoever it's connected to is hidden by the bushes, and I'm remembering this story I did on the Michigan Missing Link, and how when it was hungry it didn't think much of taking a bite out of your leg for supper. But hey, it's me, and I'm curious. So I get out of the car anyways. It ain't the Michigan Missing Link. It's a man, a thin one, wearing what looked like PJs once, probably. I can't tell much else 'bout him - he's filthy as hell and his hair's all shaggy. It might be brown naturally, but I can't tell with all the dirt in it. He don't look hurt - just worn out and starving. And his arms look exactly like Billy's. Christ on a cross. God's put an abductee right in my path. Man, have I got a story now. ------------- He's thin but tall, and it's hell trying to get him into my backseat, but Momma raised her daughter to manage. He's really passed out, but I checked his pulse and it was good and strong. Probably just needs a good long sleep in a real bed. And whaddaya know, but my motel room's got twins. And the whole trip back to the motel, the whole long struggle to sneak him into my room, all I'm seein' is headlines. REPORTER RESCUES REFUGEE! ALIEN EXPERIMENTS EXPLAINED! ABDUCTEE TELLS ALL! A Bobbie Collins exclusive! As I get him on the bed, I start mentally outlining the story - a big section for this guy, a bit on the others, a paragraph on Bellefleur... And then more on this guy. He's the payola. The granddaddy. The Grammy. The Big Kahuna. All I need to do is wake him up and start pumping him for details - half an hour of talking and we're set... I'm ignorin' the memories of Billy's shaking arms, and the therapists in the police station, so carefully talking to the abductees, trying not to push 'em into dangerous territory. They didn't have mouths to feed. They didn't have a job depending on this. Maybe the bit on Bellefleur belongs in the middle... He's waking up, turning onto his side, as if he's expecting someone else to be there. That somebody is me, today. I grab the first piece of paper I can find. "Hello, sir, how ya doin'?" I say, cordial as I can, crouching by the bed. "My name is Bobbie, Bobbie Collins. You're safe here. I just wanna ask you a few questions..." His eyes open, just a bit, real unfocused. "Scully?" he mumbles. And then he passes out again. Scully? What the hell does that mean? And then it hits me. *Joshua's nose.* This guy has Joshua's nose. And those eyes are just like the eyes in that badge picture Jervis included in the third bunch of papers. And the hair really does seem to be brown. And what did his file say, 6'1"? DAD-TO-BE ABDUCTED BY ALIENS! I never woulda believed it. Never. But... Oh my gawd. It actually is real. Looks like Dana's chickenshit boyfriend had a decent excuse after all. Crap. Dana. Dana, asking me to stop, asking me to give up. "Leave me and mine alone." Sweet li'l Joshua, in my arms. Gawd damn it. She'd understand. I'm desperate. Desperate times - desperate measures. This guy is my meal ticket. I got nothing without him. Besides. God. The STORY. *Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI was an expert in all things alien, a true believer searching the stars for answers to questions most of us would never dare to ask. But while investigating a case in Oregon, aliens ripped him away from his home and his loving partner, long thought sterile but really miraculously pregnant with his baby. She waited patiently for him to return, always looking at the skies, raising their son-* I can't write his name. I can't. *-to remember his daddy always. But this reporter, hot on the trail of Agent Mulder's disappearance, was able to keep him from prying eyes, learning all the intimate details of his experience, before turning him over to the proper authorities-* The proper authorities. I can't call them. They'll take him away and give him therapists and doctors and leave me with nothing but the holes where his memories were. And I can't call Dana. I call her and my story's completely sunk, and I'm driving the Toyota across the country every week, living off fast food and freelance checks, and Patsy loses out on so many opportunities. The doctors can wait. Dana can wait. A week. That's all I need. He'll be fine. I'm sure. Positive. *But this reporter, hot on the trail of Agent Mulder's disappearance, was able to keep him from prying eyes, learning all the intimate details of his experience, before writing this story and keeping her job and being able to go back to the office triumphant and kick the hell out of that asshole Jervis. * I think it's time for some pictures. But as I get my camera, the phone rings. "Momma, you said you'd call!" "Hey, hon." Crap. Patsy. It's six o'clock here. Nine there. I said I'd call a lot sooner. "This ain't a great time, baby - can I call you tomorrow?" My meal ticket is waking up again, looking all bleary at me with those sweet hazel eyes (the same as Joshua's, something evil in me notices), staying awake a bit longer before collapsing again. DAMN it, Patsy... "No, Momma. My homework's due tomorrow. It won't take too long..." I sigh. "What is this?" "Well..." Hmmm. She's shy. Patsy's NEVER shy, usually. "I have to write an essay about my family. And I know all about you, Momma. But Grandma won't tell me anything about Daddy." Crap. Crap. Crap. I do NOT wanna do this right now. Not with Agent Mulder starting to wake up. Not with my conscience REALLY starting to gripe about this. And this is the first time she's ever really asked. I mean, I never hid a thing from her. But she never got around to asking, until now. And it wasn't a conversation I was looking forward to. "Well, honey... Your daddy was a good friend of mine. He didn't have a job, but he did some construction when he got a chance, and when I was pregnant with you..." Mulder starts moving his lips together, looking thirsty. I give him a sip from a can of warm Diet Coke. "What, Momma?" "Uhhh..." Oh, god, how do I tell her about this... "He got a job in Cleveland, sweetie - a really good job. But he had to go away. And he didn't come back." And here comes Patsy's favorite question... "But why?" she asks. And I can hear so much in that soft little voice of hers - it's just like the crying sounds she made late at night, after we first got her home, when she would scream out, wondering why no one was there, loving her. Abandoned sounds. *Every child should have a father...* Oh, shut UP, Dana-the-voice-of-my-conscience. You have a job. You're doin' just fine. And Joshua's very well loved. And that's all that matters, remember? "Momma, you all right?" No, baby, I'm havin' a breakdown here. "I'm fine, honey," is what I say. "I'm just tryin' to remember." Trying to remember, trying to think up a good lie. Take your pick. See, Dana? You'll never have to do this. You'll never have to tell your child that his father didn't want to be a part of his life, and you'll never have to explain to your child that because you worked with and for assholes, he doesn't get everything he oughta have. I NEED your Mulder. I need your Mulder so much more than you do. Really. Positive. "So why didn't Daddy come back?" Patsy asks, once more. I sigh. "I asked him not to. I loved him and he would have loved you, but he wouldn't have been a very good daddy. So I asked him not to come back, and I asked your grandma to help me take care of you. You should really be writin' about Grandma. She helped me when no one else would, and she's better at taking care of children than anyone else in the world." She seems much bouncier at this. "Grandma is really nice. She let me have two desserts last night!" Momma always warned me she'd spoil Patsy rotten. Half the reason it's all worked out so well. Really, when you think about it, all a daddy really brings to a family is an extra holiday and some plumbing skills. And I got a wrench. "But Momma?" Patsy says, quieter than before. "What, baby?" She blurts it out. "Sometimes, I do wish Daddy hadn't left." Oh, FUCK. She had to say that, didn't she? I just barely choke out, "Me, too, baby. Me, too." *Every child should have a father...* Damn it all. I'm watching my beautiful headlines fade away. "Momma? Grandma's wavin' at me. I think she wants to save money on this call." "Hold on a minute, Patsy. Give me to her." She drops the phone and runs off. Momma picks up right after. "Momma? Do me a favor. You know where I keep my phone numbers?" "You mean that jar you stuff Post-its and notecards into?" "Yeah. Could you get the one that says D.S. on it? I think it's green." Momma walks off, grumbling. My former meal ticket is still all bleary-eyed, but he starts to open his mouth a bit, ask me a question. I silence him with a wave of my hand. "Just hold on one minute, Agent Mulder. I need to make another call." ------------- I haven't smoked since Joe left, but there's something about ruining your own life that just makes you crave one more cigarette. With the early dawn air, coolly kissin' my skin, the cigarette smoke feels just like it always did, but better. I'm perched on the concrete stoop of the motel room, watching the sun rise and waiting for Dana. After all, time zones and red-eyes are amazing things. Two rental cars (much nicer than mine, of course), come squealin' into the parking lot, only eight hours after I made the call. What a world we live in. Dana's brought a whole entourage, it seems. Four men slam out of the cars, running behind her, all of 'em headed directly towards me. I'm shocked to see how short Dana is, never having seen her out of bed before. But she moves much faster than the men. Those little legs of hers pump right up to me. "Where is he?" she huffs, out of breath. Motherhood does get you out of shape. I nod towards the door. "He's asleep. But I'm pretty sure he won't mind if ya wake him up." She darts through the door, letting it slam behind her. Her companions move to follow, but my cigarette hand reaches out to block 'em. "Give 'em a minute," I say. And I'm shocked to see them listen. There's an uncomfortable silence. I stub out my cigarette. "Where's Joshie?" I finally ask. The bald one speaks. "She left him with her mother. Josh isn't a very good flier yet." I nod. "Who are y'all then?" Baldy reaches down a paw, looking like he finally just started breathing a whole lot easier. "Walter Skinner." The other three give me a strange sorta look. I just wait. "You're Roberta Collins," the blond nerd says. "Reporter for the Weekly World News," says the beard. "One daughter, never married," pipes in the toad I saw scurry away, all those months ago. There's apparently a rhythm here that these three have been practicing for a long time. "Based out of Atlanta." "You did the best coverage we've ever seen on the government's use of decoy UFOs as plausible fakes." "In a tabloid, that is." "Super," I mutter glumly, tossing away the rest of my Virginia Slims. No way can I afford to start again, now. We're all standing around, waiting for some all-clear sign - but finally I get fed up and barge in. Dana's on the bed, curled around Mulder, while he holds onto her like a long-lost teddy bear. Her eyes break away from his to lock onto me. "Thank you, Bobbie," she whispers, stroking his hair. "No problem." I almost mean it. The others file in quietly, respecting the mood. Mulder shifts his hands on her, grabbing even tighter. I feel like crying, screaming to God about how unfair all of this is. "That was my big story," I mutter to myself. "Now I'm screwed." A flutter of movement catches my eye, and I turn to see the three stooges bobbing their heads at each other, then towards me. "Well? What?" I cry out. "I'm gonna lose my job and you feel the need to stare?" Freaks, loonies, and a happy ending for everyone except me. This simply ain't my day. They all seem a little put off by my mood. But finally, the beard speaks. "Do you want a job?" I give these three a quick once-over. They look fairly normal - compared to Jervis, at least - and the beard's wearing a decent enough suit to imply some real money being involved. And Patsy did love D.C. Hmmm. Just one thing... "Are you guys Baptists?" END A note from EPur: I took a sip of Diet Coke, watching my companion gulp down half a Shiner Bock as I spoke. "See, Bobbie, here's the thing. There's nothing original in it. Post-"Requiem" has been done to death. I don't have a heartbreaking reunion scene to make people cry. Hell, there isn't even any sex! No one's going to care." She smiled. "EPur, honey, don't worry 'bout none of that. It's just a story. And you enjoyed writin' it. That's all that matters." "I guess. But it just seems so silly to go ahead with it." She looked appalled. "But hon! Think of cofax and Marasmus and Sarah and Sarah's husband and Jodi and..." -she took a deep breath - "...JET and Livia and Shawne! They put so much hard work into makin' this story work. They'll be fixin' to come after ya with pitchforks if you don't post! 'Sides, posting is just for fun, too, innit? I'll take care of all your feedback for ya, even." "But no one's going to send feedback!" I exclaimed, miserable. She just gave me a sharp look and polished off her beer. "Darlin'. It's ME." And there was no way I could argue with that. Comments to epursemouve@goplay.com. And thanks so much for reading.