Date: 12 Jul 2006 12:32:38 -0700
From: magsrose@comcast.net
Subject: [all-xf] New - Decoding the Enigma - 8/20
Source: atxc

Chapter 8


Frohike looked up at the seemingly empty warehouse. He double checked
the address and turned a questioning eye on Monica.  "This is where
she works?"

"It's the address Yves gave me in case of an emergency," she replied,
no longer sounding certain. She grimaced when she saw a rat scurry
along the perimeter of the building before darting behind a trashcan.
"I can't imagine her working in this place."

Frohike shut the driver's side door.  "Let's go see what this
Professor Langly has to say."  

Taking Monica's upper arm, he guided her around the worst of the foul
smelling trash that littered the ally.  Frohike could see that the
area had at one time been well cared for but it was quickly falling
into disrepair.

Or abandoned.  This thought came unbidden to his mind as they climbed
some steps then descended to a small landing.  He knocked on the door,
waited then knocked again.  After a few seconds he tried the door.  

It was unlocked.  

Frohike gave the door a gentle push.   

"Professor Langly?" Monica called as they stepped inside. "Melvin,
this can't be," she said, distraught.  She moved further into the
vast, empty warehouse, turning 360 degrees.  Her voice reverberated in
the open space.  "What's going on?"

Frohike just shook his head.  It didn't make sense.  First, Yves' home
was destroyed in an obvious attempt to find something, now this empty
building. He scanned the area. From the differing layers of dust, he
deduced that there had been furniture there not all that long ago,
maybe up to a couple of days previously.  Had the same people who
recklessly searched Yves Harlow's house also removed everything from
the warehouse?  Had they found what they were looking for?  

Through his ponderings, he walked the circumference of the building
looking....for something.  Anything that would tell him what happened
in this building.  "Monica," he said knowing she would hate what he
was about to say, "are you sure this Professor Langly is real?"

Monica's gaze snapped to the detective, her cheeks flushed with anger.
 "What are you inferring, Melvin?  That my sister made everything up?"
 She shook her head. "Forget it.  I met the man.  Professor Richard
Langly is real as you or I."

"You never told me you met him.  When was this?"  Frohike looked up
from the wall he was studying to gaze at Monica.

"It was about a month after Yves moved to the States.  At that time,
we'd only been able to get together for dinner a few times.  I wanted
us to have a chance to really talk, so I suggested we go away to the
beach for the weekend."  Monica smiled for the first time since the
whole mess started.  "Yves loved the idea.   She told me that the
beach was one of her favorite spots to go on holiday."  Her smile
faded.  "But she insisted the professor come with us.  She said the
man was obsessed his work and never took time off.  

"I thought it was odd but I agreed."  Monica wrapped her arms around
herself and rubbed her arms.  "He seemed like a lost little boy,
unsure what to do with himself.  He roamed the beach carrying a
walking stick. Yves would call from her deck chair that, if she
discovered he was writing equations in the sand, she would toss him in
the surf. He would look so guilty."  

Monica chuckled.  "Like I said, it was very odd but I didn't mind. 
Yves and I talked and laughed all weekend.  It was good."  Her
amusement faded.  "I'm worried about her, Melvin.  What's happening...
what are you doing?" she demanded.   He was feeling along the wall
with his fingertips.

He didn't bother to look up.  "There's a hidden door here, I'm
trying...there we go." 

He managed to get the door open.  Monica joined him and looked inside.
 There was a cot and blankets, a small dresser and lamp.  Frohike
opened a dresser drawer.  It was empty.  He tried the next two and
found some clothing.  He picked it up then quickly shoved the men's
underwear back into the drawer.  He glanced at Monica who was
ostensibly looking away.  

He stared at the makeshift bedroom.  "He was working and living here."
 He shook his head in disbelief.  "Who the hell would want to live in
a warehouse?" he muttered.  He stirred from his musings. "Let's go.  I
want to talk to the landlord and see what he says about this Professor
Langly."


~:~:~




"I never met the Professor" Albert Simms said as he set two cups of
coffee in front of Monica and Frohike.  Monica smiled her gratitude
and took a sip. When they had first arrived on his doorstep, the man
claimed to have no knowledge of Yves but when Monica informed him Yves
was her sister and was missing the man relented.   

The burly landlord took his seat opposite his visitors before
continuing.  "I spoke to your sister twice.  The first time was when
she approached me to rent the warehouse for two months.  She paid in
cash - up front."

"What about the second time?"  Frohike asked. 

The man hesitated then shrugged.  "The second time she hired me to
clean out the warehouse.  Said she didn't want anything in there and
that I should burn everything.  Paid me a hundred dollars."  From his
expression and the gleam in his eyes, Frohike surmised the man had
never seen that much money in one place at one time.  Such an amount
could buy loyalty or silence up to a point.  

"Did she say why she wanted you do this?" Monica asked.

The old man looked at her sympathetically.  "She said she was leaving
to get away from a bad relationship."

"Boyfriend?"  Monica said softly.  Yves had never mentioned a
boyfriend.

Frohike glanced at Monica and, leaning back in his chair, asked
casually. "Did she say who this boyfriend was?"

"I figured it was the guy who showed up the next day looking for her."
The old man shook his head and said disdainfully, "Claimed he was a
reporter and that she had called him." 

It was obvious from the landlord's tone he hadn't believed the man's
story but it was Frohike's only lead. "Did he say which newspaper?" 

The old man brows knitted together as he tried to remember. "I believe
it was the Gazette. Yeah, that's right. The D.C. Gazette."

"Did he say what his name was?"  Monica jumped in before Frohike could
say anything.  "Please, Mr. Simms, my sister may be in danger."

Simms studied Monica. "He did," he said then leaned back in his chair
in imitation of Frohike's relaxed posture. Carefully, slowly, he took
a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it between his cracked
and weathered lips. He struck a match and held it to his cigarette. He
inhaled deeply, and then exhaled, blowing smoke in the air. 

Puzzled by the man's silence, Monica glanced from Simms to Frohike
with growing anxiety.  The two men stared at each other for a long
moment - a contest of wills - before the detective pulled his wallet
out of his pocket and removed several bills setting them in front of
the manager.

Simms snatched them up, making them disappear. "Spender. He said his
name was Jeffrey Spender."




* * * * * 



"I heard it was going to be 18 to 35," Dylan Walsh said, his
expression worried.

Jimmy frowned.  "You really think the Selective Service bill will
pass?"

"Amos Hendriks, on the political beat, seems to think it's a sure
thing and he's rarely wrong."  

"The Allies could still defeat Germany," Jimmy pointed out.

Dylan shook his head and spoke softly so only Jimmy could hear.  "I
heard England is bankrupt; they can barely afford to defend
themselves.  Russia is struggling and the rest of Europe..." he
shrugged, raking a hand through his shock of vibrant red hair.   "It's
just a matter of time before the United States gets involved in the
war.  And when that happens...two healthy guys like us...we'll be
seeing some action alright...on the battlefield."

"Maybe..." Jimmy's spine tingled with the feeling that someone was
watching him.  He glanced up positive he would see Spender glaring at
him.  

Surprisingly, it wasn't Spender.

"Who is that?" Jimmy asked.

"What?"  Walsh glanced down at Jimmy. "Who?"

"That guy..."  Jimmy started to point but thinking better of it said
instead, "The one in the trench coat and fedora."  The man watched
them a moment longer then turned away and slowly scanned the rest of
the bullpen as if searching for someone.  Around fifty, the man had
the face of a bulldog and a demeanor to match.

"Looks like a cop," Dylan guessed.

"Maybe," Jimmy murmured.  He continued to watch the man's careful
scrutiny before stopping a copy boy that was hurrying past him.  They
exchanged a few words then the copy boy pointed in the direction of
the private offices.   

Wondering who the policeman was there to see, Jimmy watched curiously
as he approached two men deep in conversation.

The short walk towards them gave Frohike an opportunity to study them
closely. One was in his late fifties, perhaps sixties with a craggy
face and droopy eyes. He held a lit cigarette between two nicotine
stained fingers.  The second man was younger, had a weak chin and thin
lips.  


"Jeffrey Spender?"  Both men turned their gaze to him but it was the
younger man who spoke.  

"Yes," Spender said, irritation passing over his face as he appraised
the newcomer.  "And you are?"

"Melvin Frohike.  I'm a private investigator."  

"I'll be in my office, Jeffrey."  The older man brought his cigarette
to his lips, inhaling deeply.  The thought crossed Frohike's mind that
the man was evaluating him in a more in-depth manner.  The man
exhaled, blowing a curtain of smoke out then walked into an office
that read 'C.S. Spender' on the door.  

Frohike turned his attention back to the younger Spender. "I'm
investigating the whereabouts of a missing person, a woman.  Her last
known location was a small laboratory in the warehouse district."

"I fail to see how this concerns me, Mr. Frohike"

 "I spoke to the landlord.  He said reporters from the D.C. Gazette
had visited her and her employer. He mentioned your name."

"I interview many people in my line of work.  It's what I do, Mr.
Frohike. Perhaps if you supplied a name."

Frohike slowly counted to five.  The man's superior and snotty
attitude was grating on his nerves and he felt the need to wipe the
man's smirk off his face.   Instead he smiled genially. "This is a
picture of the missing woman."  He took a photograph that Monica had
given him from his breast pocket, the only one that hadn't been stolen
since she had kept it on her desk at work.  "Her name is Yves
Harlow."

Frohike met Spender's glare with his own steady gaze until the man
lowered his eyes to the picture.  "I'm afraid your informant was
mistaken."  He looked at Frohike.  "I've never seen her before."

"Are you sure," Frohike pressed.  Had there been a subtle recognition
in Spender's eyes, a slight difference in the cadence of his words?
"The landlord said 'reporters'.  Perhaps there was someone else?"  

"Of course I'm sure."  Spender clipped the words

"She may be in danger," Frohike tried again. 

"Then perhaps her family should go to the police," Spender emphasized
the last word, his lips curling into a smile, "instead of a private
investigator."  

Intuition told Frohike that the man was lying but he sensed that no
matter how much he pushed he wouldn't get anything from Spender except
a rude diatribe.  Frustrated, he left the newspaper office. 

As he worked his way through the building, he turned the facts over in
his mind. What did he know?  Yves Harlow was missing.  Her home had
been torn apart. Why?  What had they been looking for?  Had they found
it?  And who were they - the F.B.I?  Or had someone else done this?  

Yves's place of employment was deserted with very little left to show
that anyone had ever even been there. Why was everything stripped from
the lab? What was so much more important in the lab that everything be
removed from there but not her home? And should they now be looking
for two people: Yves and her boss, Professor Langly?

He had no answers to these questions and neither did Monica. 

The only thing he did know for sure was that Yves Harlow had written
her sister, warning her of danger.  But while Monica confirmed it was
Yves's handwriting, the letter itself was suspect.  Had the woman been
forced to write it or was it penned of her own free will? And if she
had been forced to write the letter warning Monica about John Doggett,
should they then trust the agent and tell the man everything they knew
in the hopes that he might be able to help them find Yves?

"Mr. Frohike?" He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Startled, Frohike whirled around instinctively reaching for his gun in
its shoulder holster until he belatedly remembered it was locked in
the trunk of his car.  

"Whoa.  Hey!"  The man's eyes widened in startled fear, his hands
shooting up; fingers spread wide like they did in the movies. 

Frohike kept his hand in his jacket, as if at any moment he would
withdraw the nonexistent gun.  He eyed the man.  Tall and blond with
conventional good looks, he had an imposing athlete's physique yet
Frohike sensed no menace from the man. "Who are you?"

"My name's Jimmy. You're a cop right?"

He remembered seeing the kid in the Gazette bullpen.  "Private
investigator," Frohike corrected, taking his hand out of his coat.  He
tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt as he noted the obvious
relief on the kid's face.   "What are you doing sneaking up on
people?"

"I wasn't sneaking," Jimmy protested.  "I followed you outside
because..." he looked around then up at the building.  "Oh no," he
muttered, moving backing up towards the door.  Frohike followed the
other man's line of sight in time to see the blinds from one of the
windows move.  "If he saw me, I'm as good as fired," he muttered to
himself.  To Frohike he said, "Can we meet later?"

The kid's disjointed conversation was irritating Frohike.  "Why do you
want to meet later?"

"To tell you what I know about Miss Harlow and Professor Langly." 
Jimmy glanced nervously up at the window again.  "I get off at 6 p.m. 
Meet me at Henry's Diner on Lexington."  With that, he shot back
inside the building.

Frohike stared after the kid not sure whether to be elated or not.  He
decided to take him at face value. He glanced at his watch. He had
somewhere else he needed to be but if he was lucky, he'd have enough
time to take care of that matter before needing to meet this guy,
Jimmy, at Henry's.  

~:~:~

Jeffery Spender watched from his window as Frohike drove away.  He had
seen the detective talking to Jimmy Bond.  Bond had a number of pieces
to the puzzle and, while Spender wasn't worried about the photographer
figuring anything out, if he told the detective...

"I'll have someone take care of the photographer," Spender said.

"Don't be hasty, Jeffrey."

Jeffrey turned to face his father.  Spender Senior took a drag on his
cigarette.  "Let the photographer tell the detective what he knows." 
His condescending smile grated Jeffery's nerves but the younger man
held his tongue. "Perhaps Mr. Frohike will succeed where you have
failed."  He took another deep pull on his cigarette; burning it down
to the butt.  He crushed it out in the ashtray and when he spoke,
smoke curled from his lips. "Once the Professor and Miss Harlow's
location has been confirmed you can inform our contact at the F.B.I." 



* * * * *




Police Officer Fox Mulder was off duty. He paced back and forth
outside Lou's waiting for Frohike. He knew Kimmy was inside but, in
Mulder's opinion, the less time spent with the man the better. He
glanced at his watch; Frohike was late. Mulder knew his friend was
working on a missing person case and figured this was what had held
him up. 

Spotting Frohike's Ford Fordor drive past as he searched for a parking
place, Mulder leaned back against the wall knowing his wait was almost
over. He hoped that Kimmy had located the man they were searching for.

He experienced a moment of uncertainty. He knew his actions were
unprofessional. He should be handing over any pertinent information
about Molly Jennings's killer to the detectives in charge of the case,
but he felt the need to help Frohike solve this one. He also saw it as
an opportunity to prove he could do the job of detective. 

He wanted it for himself as much as he wanted it for Frohike.

Mulder heard approaching footsteps. He turned to see Frohike walking
quickly towards him. Without saying a word, they entered the
establishment together.

Kimmy was not at his usual spot at the bar. Mulder scanned the smoke
filled room but still didn't see him. Frohike backhanded him on the
arm and pointed to a far corner where there was a figure seated alone
in a booth. 

They approached him. "Sit down!" Kimmy the Weasel hissed testily. "I
don't want anyone to see you talking to me!"

Frohike quickly slid into the booth across from the snitch. Mulder
followed him in.  "Where's the money you owe me?" Kimmy asked.

"First the information," Frohike insisted. 

Kimmy held up a folded piece of paper. "I went to a lot of effort to
get this for you.  I want my money and the respect I deserve."

Mulder got up and moved around to the other side of the booth
effectively blocking Kimmy in. He nodded at Frohike who pulled an
envelope of money out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table.
"The respect you'll have to earn," Frohike said watching Kimmy
gleefully count the money. 

"Money is respect," said Kimmy, stuffing the cash in his pocket.
Frohike held his hand out, palm up. He gestured at Kimmy with his
fingers. Kimmy curled one disdainful lip at the private investigator
before placing the folded slip of paper in his hand. 

After quickly reading the note, Frohike handed it to Mulder. It said,
"Ernie Campbell -4 o'clock - Chuck's Bar and Grill on K Street."

"How will I recognize the guy?" Frohike asked.

"You'll know him," said Kimmy. "He insists on dressing like that
actor..."

"...Charlie Chaplin," Mulder finished his sentence for him.

"Yeah," Kimmy agreed, "right down to the ridiculous little mustache."

~:~:~

Mulder was familiar with Chuck's Bar and Grill. The management had
ceased selling food years earlier but never got around to changing the
sign. Besides, new signs were expensive and most of the patrons were
satisfied with the peanuts and popcorn that were provided for free
because the salty snacks made them thirsty for more beer. 

Entering the bar, they spotted the man seated at a table off to one
side. The old woman was right. He did look like Charlie Chaplin, right
down to the little, Hitler mustache. Mulder and Frohike approached
him. The man looked up at them questioningly as they each pulled out a
chair and sat down. "Hey, Ernie!" Mulder said cheerfully.

"I'm trying to have a private drink here," their suspect said. "What
do you want?"

"Rumor has it," Frohike said, "that you are the man to see about
fulfilling...certain needs."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said, suspicion
evident in his voice.

Mulder leaned forward, putting an elbow on the table. "Ah, come on,"
he said. "We got it from a pretty reliable source." He glanced quickly
around the room pretending to make sure their conversation was
completely private. "Ted Mead mentioned you could hook us up." Mulder
hoped that Frohike would trust him. This was not how they discussed
playing it out. Campbell was already suspicious of them and Mulder
hoped that giving him the name of a known pedophile would help earn
the man's confidence. 

"You know Ted?" the man asked cautiously studying first one face then
the other. 

"Yeah," Mulder smiled in a knowing way. "He said your specialty was
sweet young things."

Frohike nodded. "Yes, the sweeter and the younger the better." Mulder
watched Frohike's fingers curl into a fist then stretch them out flat
on the table. He knew how difficult it must be for Frohike to maintain
his undercover persona of a pervert. 

The man looked at them through narrowed eyes. "How do I know you're
not cops?"

Mulder leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Do we look like cops?"

This pronouncement was met with several seconds of silence as Campbell
thought about it. Mulder glanced sideways at Frohike remembering the
prostitutes on his beat and their assertions that Frohike looked like
a dirty old man. 

Turning in his chair, Mulder signaled the waitress. She walked over
and stopped next to Frohike. "What can I get you?" she said, snapping
her chewing gum. 

"You want another beer, Ernie?" Mulder asked.

Campbell glanced into his nearly empty glass. "Yeah, I could use
another."

"Make it a pitcher and a couple more glasses," Mulder told the
waitress. 



* * * * *


"Refill, Sugar?" 

Jimmy gave the waitress a distracted smile. "Sure." He watched as she
topped off his coffee for the third time. 

"It looks like your friend's not going to show."

Jimmy glanced at his watch, making a decision.  "Do you have a pay
phone?"

The waitress inclined her head towards the restrooms. "There's two of
'em back there."

"Thanks." He got up feeling in his pocket for the necessary change.

Keeping an eye on the front door, he dialed the operator. "I need the
number for Melvin Frohike." He listened to the operator.  "Frohike
Investigations?  Yeah, that sounds right." 

He waited as the operator made the connection. He counted a dozen
rings before he hung up with a sigh. He went back to his booth and sat
down. Glancing at his watch, he decided to give the man another twenty
minutes.




* * * * *



After two additional pitchers of beer, Campbell was getting very
talkative. Mulder and Frohike kept the suspect's glass full while only
appearing to drink with him.

They let the other man take the lead in the conversation knowing that
once he was comfortable with them he would come back to the reason
they had approached him in the first place. Mulder noticed Frohike
surreptitiously check his watch several times. 

"...now if you want a good steak, go to McNulty's. They have the
juiciest, most tender steaks in town." Campbell drained his glass and
set it back on the table. He watched Frohike refill it. "So," he said
lowering his voice and leaning into the table, "how sweet do you want
'em?"

Mulder and Frohike glanced at each other surprised by the sudden
change of topic. Mulder slung one arm over the back of his chair.
"What do you got?"

Ernie chuckled. "I don't have anything right now but I've got my eye
on tasty morsel you might be interested in."

"I've always had a preference for curls," said Frohike. 

"You and me both."  Ernie chuckled, getting a dreamy, far away look in
his eyes. "Recently, I found this one..." He stopped, obviously
savoring the memory. 

This is it, Mulder thought. "What was she like?" 

"She was ...special: skin so soft, she smelled clean and fresh,
untouched...well, at least until I got to her."

"Did you keep any mementos?" Mulder asked.

He smiled at them and reached into his pocket bringing out a folded
handkerchief. He set it on the table and gently turned back the folds
to reveal a single curl of light brown hair: the end of which was tied
in a pink ribbon.

Glasses went flying as the table was upended. Frohike grabbed Campbell
by the front of his shirt, yanking the man out of his chair. He
slammed him up against the wall. "You sick bastard!"

Campbell squealed in shock and pain, his eyes bulging in fear. He
flailed ineffectively at his assailant. 

Startled, Mulder yelled. "Frohike, STOP!" 

Deaf to Mulder's order, his rage overwhelming his common sense,
Frohike smashed his fist into Campbell's face. "You killed that little
girl!" 

Mulder scrambled to locate the evidence. If it got destroyed, they
would have no case. Spotting the handkerchief containing the precious
lock of hair, he snatched it off the floor and shoved it in his
pocket. 

"Admit it, you filthy animal!" When the man didn't answer immediately,
Frohike hit him again. Blood gushed from Campbell's shattered nose. 

Grabbing Frohike by one shoulder, Mulder tried to pull him off.
Frohike spun around still clutching Campbell. The battered man fell to
the ground whimpering. He started to crawl away. 

Frohike shoved Mulder sending the cop stumbling backwards over the
furniture. As he fell, he saw Frohike fling himself at the bleeding
man. The PI seized one of Ernie's outstretched arms and flipped him
over.

Campbell stared up at Frohike with terror filled eyes. "Please," he
begged, "don't hurt me any more!" 

His pleas further enraged Frohike. He yanked the man's head up off the
floor. "Did Molly beg for her life? Did you show her any mercy?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Frohike struck him again. 

"Stop! Stop!" the man cried, tears mingling with the blood on his
face. "What do you want from me?" 

"I want you to confess," Frohike roared. "I want you to admit you
murdered Molly Jennings."

Mulder struggled to extricate himself from the upturned furniture. He
had never seen Frohike so out of control before. 

"All right, all right," the injured man implored. "YES, yes, all
right. I did it."

"No, you need to say it! Say, I killed Molly Jennings!"

Campbell was now crying in earnest. "I killed Molly Jennings," he
sobbed.

Frohike had been teetering on the edge of reason. This simple
confession pushed him over that edge.

Mulder watched in horror as Frohike began to smash the man's head
against the floor. He ran to them, wrapping his arms around Frohike's
chest from behind in an attempt to haul him off the suspect.
"Frohike...Mel, STOP! You're going to kill him."

Effortlessly, the private detective shook Mulder off. 

"Call the cops and an ambulance," Mulder yelled at the stunned
bartender. "NOW!" he ordered when the horrified man didn't move. He
barked at the other patrons, "Help me get him off!"

Two men, after a momentary hesitation, rushed to Mulder's side. Mulder
and one man each grabbed Frohike by an arm. The other man dragged the
now unconscious Campbell out of the fray. 

Frohike struggled against his captors. Mulder realized his friend was
running on pure adrenaline. "Mel, goddamn it, calm down! You did it.
You got the confession. He's going to jail for a long, long time."

Breathing heavily, Frohike's struggles ceased. Mulder's words had
finally broken through allowing reason to return.

He looked up at Mulder. "I'm fine. You can let me go now."

Mulder glanced at the bloodied man lying on the floor near the bar. A
worried look crossed the police officer's face. "I'm sorry, buddy. I
can't."


Chapter 9


An optimistic man, Jimmy Bond believed the best in people and any
given situation.  But as he strode into the D.C. Gazette, he had to
admit that the week had seriously taxed that positive outlook.

He loved his job at the Gazette but lately there was a sense of
trepidation whenever he went to work, the root of it all being Jeffery
Spender's apparent vendetta against him. He couldn't figure it out,
especially when Spender always viewed the photographers as beneath his
notice. Then there were his lost pictures.  No, he corrected himself,
they were stolen. Why were photographs of a scientist and his
assistant so important?  He thought of his encounter with Yves Harlow
a couple nights earlier...God, he had spent a restless night thinking
about her.  

He sighed in frustration, not only because he could still remember her
touch or the way she smelled but her reaction when he blurted out his
theory. She had given him a cryptic warning then fled the lab,
vanishing into thin air. It had left him confused and more determined
than ever to find her but he had no idea how to do that or where to
start. If only he could talk things over with Carla, but she had been
out of the office chasing down leads to her own story.  

Then he had a stroke of luck when that private investigator had shown
up at the paper asking for Jeffery Spender.  There was something about
the man that made Jimmy eavesdrop on the conversation.  When he
mentioned Yves Harlow's name, Jimmy thought his problem had been
solved. He quickly arranged a meeting with the man. But Frohike never
showed up at the diner.  

And to top it all off, after trudging home from the diner he
discovered he had forgotten his apartment keys at work. It was the
third time that month.  He had to go back to the office to get them.
He thought he had solved the problem by stashing them in his camera
bag. It made perfect sense since he never went anywhere without his
camera.  

If only he could say the same about the bag. It was sitting on the
worktable in the photography lab.  

A short elevator trip to the third floor and he was outside the lab.
The lights were on and Dylan, holding a magnifying glass was sitting
at a workstation peering critically at several photographs spread out
before him.  

"Hey," Jimmy greeted his friend, "What are you doing here so late?"

Not bothering to look up from his task, he said good-naturedly,
"Contrary to what some people think, the news doesn't stop at 6 p.m." 
He discarded a picture, picked up another.  "What about you?  Thought
you had a hot date or something."

Jimmy grabbed his bag and slung it over one shoulder. "Or something,"
he replied vaguely.  

"By the way," Dylan said, "I saw Carla Mason in the bullpen earlier. I
know you wanted to talk to her." He glanced up when there was no
answer. He was alone.  

Forgetting his apartment keys was the best thing to happen to him,
Jimmy decided as he jogged into the bullpen minutes later. Carla was
sitting at her desk, he noted, tapping her ever-present pencil.  

"Carla!" He paused to get his excitement under control. He wanted her
to take him seriously but if he went off spinning an incoherent tale,
she might brush off his concerns.  

Carla looked up. "Good evening, Jimmy."

"I wanted to tell you what I learned about Yves Harlow and Professor
Langly." It was then he saw her directory and personal address book
open on her desk, her notebook half filled with notes. He hadn't even
considered she might be working on her own story. "I'm sorry," he
murmured, embarrassed, "I'm interrupting." 

"It's ok, I can use a break." She closed her notebook, giving him her
full attention. "Why don't you have a seat and tell me everything." 

He dragged a nearby chair to her desk, sat down and proceeded to bring
her up to date. He told her about the missing photos of Langly and
Yves, Langly's empty lab, finding Yves in the photography lab late at
night and her reaction to the missing pictures. He told her about the
private investigator who showed up at the paper and their subsequent
scheduled meeting. 

"What's his name... the private investigator?" Carla interrupted his
tale to ask. 

"Melvin Frohike." 

"I know the name," said Carla. "Go on," she encouraged Jimmy. 

"He never showed up." Jimmy's voice filled with frustration. "I called
his office a couple of times but no one answered." His gaze drifted to
the darkened publisher's office. He slumped in his chair, his
expression troubled. "I don't know what to do next, Carla. And if
Jeffery Spender discovers I'm still looking into it, he's gonna get
the boss to fire me for sure."  

Carla's pencil tapped once. Twice. "If you're that frustrated, then
forget about it." 

Jimmy's gaze snapped toward her. Was she advising him to give up? He
sat up, squaring his shoulders. "I can't," he said fiercely. His voice
carried in the near empty bullpen, startling him. He glanced around
and, although the other reporters burning the midnight oil never gave
him notice, he lowered his voice. "I can't," he repeated.  

"Why?" 

Why? He stared at Carla as she waited for his answer. All the reasons
muddled about his brain. There were so many but he said the simplest
one, the one that explained it all. "I need to know the truth," he
said finally.  

"Good." The smile curving her lips confused him. "I did some digging
into this Professor Langly..."

The ringing of the phone interrupted her. 

Jimmy swore silently as she scooped up the receiver. Her face
darkening, her eyes flicked to Jimmy as she listened to the speaker. 
Barely a minute later, she hung up.  

His heart sank, heavy with disappointment. She was going to tell him
she had to leave, that they would have to continue their talk later.
These thoughts in mind, he was quite surprised when she said, "Got
your camera?" He held it up. "Good, let's go." 

"Where are we going?"  He jumped up, following her out of the bullpen.
 He hesitated briefly then added, "Who was on the phone?"

"An informant in the police department. Melvin Frohike was just
arrested for the attempted murder of a suspect in the Molly Jennings
case." 





* * * * *




"Don't tell me how to do my job!" District Attorney Byers was nearly
yelling at the Police Chief. 

Skinner got up to close the door to his office. "If it was anyone
else, would you even be pressing charges?" he asked returning to sit
behind his desk.

"Of course, I would." Byers insisted, lowering his voice. "You heard
what the witnesses said: it looked like he was trying to kill the
victim."

"The 'victim', as you call him, confessed to killing little Molly
Jennings."

"Only after your buddy beat him into it," Byers claimed. He threw the
folder he was holding onto Skinner's desk. "Look at those pictures."

"I've seen the suspect," Skinner said pushing the folder back towards
Byers. 

Picking it up, Byers selected a particularly graphic shot. Campbell's
eyes were blackened and his nose looked off center. The guy's swollen
face held stitches in three places. He brandished the photo,
illustrating his point. "Hell, I would have confessed to her murder
just to get him to stop. But he didn't stop did he?" He slammed the
photo onto the desk. "He continued to pummel that man until he was
pulled off and it took three people to do that." Byers shook his head.
"No, I'm going to charge him with attempted murder and if the man
dies, it will be first degree murder."





* * * * *



"Remember," Carla whispered to Jimmy as they entered the police
station, "Whatever happens, just follow my lead."  With that bit of
advice, they strode up to the counter.  

The desk sergeant on duty looked up from his paperwork, a bored
expression on his face.  "How may I help you?"

"I'm here to see the Chief of Police." Carla handed him her reporter's
credentials.

The officer studied the ID then eyed Carla warily before taking in
Jimmy and his camera. "Chief Skinner is in a private meeting with the
District Attorney," he stated. "I don't know how long they'll be.  If
you'd like, I'll inform him that you stopped by, Miss Mason." 

Jimmy glanced at Carla. She appeared unperturbed by the curt
dismissal. In fact, she looked pleased.

 "That won't be necessary," Carla said.  "I'll just wait.  Who knows,
maybe they will finish early."

"Suit yourself."  He shrugged, pointing to a row of chairs against the
wall. "You can wait there."

"Thank you," Carla said but he had already returned to his paperwork. 
 She flicked a glance toward Jimmy, silently reminding him to be
ready. "Could you tell me where the restrooms are?" 

The officer sighed as if he expected non-stop interruptions until she
left. But when he spoke his voice had the same courteous tone.  "It's
in the corner over there."  He pointed needlessly since Carla knew
exactly where they were: right next to the entrance of the detectives'
bullpen. At the end of that maze of desks, was the chief's office.  

With a satisfied smile and an obvious click of her heels on the tired
linoleum she walked with casual purpose.  Jimmy followed her lead.   

Not even pausing to look back, she bypassed the door to the bathroom
and walked directly into the squad room.

"Hey!"  She heard the cop shout. "Come back here!"  She ignored him,
weaving quickly among the desks, catching sight of faces and watching
for any sign that one of the plainclothes officers might provide
interference for the desk sergeant. 

She saw mild amusement from some but mostly they ignored her and the
desk sergeant's shouts. She wondered if one of them was her anonymous
tipster.  She reached the door. Wrapping her hand around the knob, she
paused when she heard a muffled yet familiar voice on the other side. 
In a controlled but angry way, it said "...I'm going to charge him
with attempted murder." 

"Miss Mason..." She glanced from the door. The desk sergeant and Jimmy
were several feet away and it looked as if the photographer was
simultaneously trying to block the officer from her and stay out of
his grasp.  "You CAN'T go in there!"    
Oh no? She thought. Yanking the door open, she stepped inside
interrupting the heated conversation between the two men. Jimmy
stopped in the doorway, blocking the desk sergeant's entrance.

"Chief Skinner," the sergeant said in a flustered voice, "I'm sorry.
I'll take care of them."  

Skinner's gaze took in Carla, recognition on his face before sweeping
his gaze over Jimmy to land on his officer. He waved a hand. "It's
alright, Randy." The man frowned, glanced at everyone then stalked off
after closing the door firmly behind him. 

"Good evening, Miss Mason," Skinner said affably as if reporters
regularly stormed his office.

Carla didn't reply, only raised a questioning eyebrow at the sudden
flash of insight before focusing on the District Attorney.  "John, why
you are holding Melvin Frohike?" she demanded.

John Byers stiffened. "I'm sure you're aware he nearly killed a man
tonight." 

"A man," Carla said the word with obvious disgust, "that kidnapped,
raped and murdered an innocent child." 

"What should I do, ask the mayor to give him the keys to the city?"
His well-modulated voice remained even but there was no mistaking the
current of anger beneath. "Should we turn a blind eye to every
vigilante who takes the law into his own hands?" 

"You are so narrow-minded..." Carla started before biting off the
words.  She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, reminding
herself to stay professional. "As you know I'm covering the Molly
Jennings case. In my next story, I will explain to the public how Mr.
Frohike single-handedly succeeded in stopping a man who preyed on
their children when the entire police department failed. In that same
article, I will inform them that their District Attorney threw him in
jail. Jimmy?"  

Jimmy didn't have to ask what Carla wanted. He raised his camera and
snapped several pictures of the District Attorney. For good measure,
he snapped one of the Police Chief who wore an expression that held
both bemusement and concern.  

Byers' lips thinned. "Melvin Frohike has a history of violence  " 

"That was an accident." Skinner's voice boomed in the office.  

"He shot and killed a little boy," Byers continued as if he hadn't
been interrupted. 

"And he was cleared of all wrong doing by the shooting review board.
You know that yet you insist on bringing it up at every turn!" Skinner
visibly collected himself, lowering his voice. When he spoke next,
regret was obvious in every word. "But he could never forgive himself.
He lost everything. His job. His family." After a moment's
consideration, Skinner added, "And his self respect."  

"Gentlemen," Carla cut in smoothly before Byers could fire off a
scathing retort, "Could we please return to the present issue?" she
asked shifting her focus from one combatant to the other.  

"Thank you," she said when she saw she had their attention. "When I
write my next article, the public will see Melvin Frohike as a hero."
She gazed steadily at John Byers. "The public just may ask for a
recall of their overly zealous D.A."  

Byers folded his arms and glared at her. "Neither the District
Attorney's office nor I will bow to media pressure," he replied.  

No, he wouldn't, Carla thought. John Byers was a principled, stalwart
man with an unyielding moral compass. He also had an idealistic streak
in him. She wondered how he managed to retain those ideals while
dealing with the harsh politics of his office.   If he didn't loosen
his stranglehold on this grudge against Melvin Frohike, she worried it
would color how he preformed his job, if it hadn't already.  

If he followed his threat...and he would...he could become a victim of
those politics just as Melvin Frohike had been almost half a decade
ago. She didn't want that to happen to John. He was often rigid and
infuriating in his black and white view on things but he was a good
man with a good heart. She would miss... 

She tamped down the errant thought but it wouldn't stay quiet,
demanding recognition.  She enjoyed verbally sparring with him,
considered it a bonus when his self-possessed composure slipped,
revealing the fire of his convictions inside.  

She knew then that, if she was going to get the man to ease his rigid
stance, she couldn't antagonize him.  She needed to appeal to his
heart. 

"I don't condone Mr. Frohike's actions, John," she said stepping
closer to him, trying to get him to look directly at her, "but I do
understand them. I did the background research, interviewed relatives
and neighbors but failed like you and the police to further
investigate the one lead that led Melvin Frohike to Ernie Campbell." 

She could tell that the admission of her own failure was getting
through to him but he still hadn't met her gaze.  "Mr. Frohike's
daughter was Molly's best friend. They walked home from school
together every day. It could just as easily have been her and not
Molly."  

For a fleeting moment she saw a profound sorrow in his blue eyes that
intrigued her professionally as well as personally.  Before she could
consider this, it disappeared and the tenacious DA was back but his
rigid posture eased.  When he spoke, he looked directly at Carla. 
"I'll drop the charges against Frohike because of extenuating
circumstances but only on one condition..." 

"What condition?" Skinner asked warily. 

"That Ernie Campbell doesn't die." 

Byers jammed his files into his briefcase like a man who had been
thwarted from finally attaining his desires and was not unsure how he
felt about it.  He glanced at Carla; she was speaking to the
photographer.  The young man didn't look too happy but after a moment
he nodded to something she said, started to turn then gave her a quick
hug before trotting out of the office.  

 "I'll see you tomorrow to get a copy of the full report on Campbell,"
Byers said to Skinner. "And I do mean full. If he wakes up and sticks
to his confession, I want to know about it right away. Don't leave so
much as a comma out of place." 

Skinner frowned.  "You're planning on trying the case yourself?" 
Usually the Assistant DA tried the cases while the DA guided and
advised from the sidelines.  

"That little girl and her parents have suffered enough," Byers said
tightly, "I don't intend to allow that man to get off because of a
technicality from tonight's fiasco.  Good night, Chief."  He strode
from the office. As he passed Carla Mason he noted her pursed lips and
thoughtful expression.

"John."

He continued walking, pretending he hadn't heard her.  The click of
her heels on the grungy linoleum was purposeful yet she kept her pace
slower then his.  It was obvious she wanted to talk to him but
intended for their conversation to be private.

While he wasn't in the mood, his curiosity was aroused.  Normally a
patient man, he suddenly couldn't wait until they were outside so he
stepped into an empty interrogation room.  Carla Mason entered a few
seconds after him, pausing to close the door behind her.

She studied him carefully.  "I wanted to thank you, John."  

"I did what I felt was right," he said.  There was something else she
wanted to say to him, he could sense it but when she didn't continue
he said.  "Was that all you wanted because..."

"No," she interrupted.  "There's something else."  She stepped toward
him almost cautiously.  "I'm not sure how to put it."

"I wouldn't let your editor hear that his star reporter is at a loss
for words, especially with me.  It wouldn't bode well for job
security. What?" he asked, puzzled when surprise glanced off her blue
eyes.  

Since when, he demanded of himself, did he notice the color of her
eyes?  

"I..." she started to say she had never heard him crack a joke before
but stopped herself. It wouldn't do to let the conversation wander
toward a more intimate direction, however much the thought intrigued
her.  What she needed to say was difficult enough, especially to
someone as private as John Byers.

For as long as he had known her, Byers had never seen Carla as
anything but confident and self-assured.  Her hesitant demeanor made
him uneasy and he slipped back into his familiar and safe role of
district attorney where he didn't think about the color of his
adversary's eyes. "Miss Mason, if you'll excuse me, I have a case to
prepare for.  I only hope I can undo some of the damage Melvin Frohike
caused."

Carla continued to stand in front of the door, blocking his exit. 
"John, if you persist in this vendetta against Melvin Frohike, it's
going to ruin your career."

"Vendetta?"  Byers chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "I don't have a
vendetta against that man." 

"No? Then explain why you had him arrested tonight." Carla held up a
hand, stopping him as he drew a breath to speak. "Alright, I
understand that but I've seen how you always tear apart his testimony
on the stand even when he's a witness for the prosecution."

 She continued. "I'd hate to see Ernie Campbell get acquitted because
you gave the jury a reason to doubt Melvin Frohike's testimony. 
You're a good man, John.  One of the best I've ever met," She paused,
laying a hand on his arm and holding his gaze, willing him to see what
he was doing.  "But if you continue on this path, it will destroy
you." 

The concern Byers saw in her eyes was more than a professional
courtesy.  It was for him. And he could see she had no motive other
than concern for his well-being.  

For the first time in almost ten years he needed someone to
understand. He needed her to understand.

"It's not Melvin Frohike I hate," Byers began.  The words stuck in his
throat.  Just thinking about it brought back the memories and with it
the pain he'd learned to live with.  "It's his methods.  Or maybe it's
what they represent. I'm not sure if there is a difference anymore."

 Carla studied him with that quick intelligence of hers. "What
happened, John?" she asked softly.

There was a long pause. "Susanne was beautiful, smart...so alive," he
said eventually.

"Susanne was your wife?"

Byers swallowed.  "We were never given that chance," he said regret
lancing his words. "She was coming home from work one night when she
was mugged.  When she tried to fight back, her attacker killed her."

"I'm so sorry," Carla said. "Did they catch her killer?"

"Yes, but someone messed up and no one caught it, not the police, not
the DA prosecuting the case."  Sadness filled Byers' face, "The
bastard was released on a technicality because proper procedure wasn't
followed in the investigation."  He took a steadying breath. "I was
numb from Susanne's death and when I saw him walk out of that
courtroom a free man..."

"What did you do?"

Byers saw the worry in her face; a wan smile touched his lips.  "I
vowed to make sure what happened in that courtroom would never happen
again.  I quit my job at the law firm I was with and applied for one
with the DA's office.  I've worked hard trying to make sure that
another killer or criminal didn't get off because of a technicality.
But five years ago..." 

When he didn't continue Carla asked. "What happened five years..." She
stopped.  She knew what had happened.  It had been in all the local
newspaper for weeks.  "That child's death was an accident, John.  No
one, not even Melvin Frohike knew the little boy was there."

Byers stepped back from Carla, anger flaring in his face. "He didn't
wait for back up. Instead of following procedure, he decided to play
the hero and went in shooting. The little boy died because of it! If
he had waited for the other officers to arrive, the man would have
given up and that little boy would still be alive today!"

"That bank robber should never have tried to elude police with his own
son in the backseat," Carla said forcefully. 

"No one paid for that little boy's death," Byers ranted. 

"Damn it, John," Carla snapped, volleying her own anger at him.
"Melvin Frohike isn't to blame for that any more than you are
responsible for Susanne's killer getting away.  The world isn't black
and white.  If you can't see that," Carla shook her head, "then maybe
I was wrong about you.  Good bye, Mr. Byers."

Byers watched her open the door and walk out.  The door closed softly
behind her but to Byers it felt as if she had slammed it shut with the
force of her anger.  She was wrong, of course.  The world was black
and white, good and bad.  Ever since Susanne's death it had been so
clear.  

But if he was right why did he feel so empty?


Chapter 10



Frohike watched as the officer behind the wire cage dumped his meager
possessions out onto the desk. "Thanks, Paul," he said grabbing his
wallet and  putting it in his hip pocket.  

"No problem," said Officer O'Brien holding out the clipboard for
Frohike to  sign, which he did before putting on his belt and necktie.
 

Watching him, O'Brien said, "To tell you the truth, Mel, I'm amazed
the DA let  you go. He's always had it in for you."
 
Scooping his car keys and loose change off the counter and depositing
it in his  pocket, Frohike nodded. "He does but Skinner tells me the
suspect woke up and  started confessing to everything." 

"Everything? You mean killing the Jennings girl," Paul clarified. 

Frohike nodded. "Not only did he confess to killing little Molly but
three other  girls in Maryland and one in Virginia." 

O'Brien swore softly.  "Tough news about Mulder," he said. "Suspension
without  pay.  Should have given him a medal.  Should have given both
of you medals for  ridding the streets of that pervert."

"I'm not proud of what of what I did," Frohike said as he turned to
leave.  

Stepping out into the ally behind the police station, Frohike stood
for a moment  looking up at the sky. It was a cloudy, starless night. 
He had spent the time  in jail thinking about what he had done.  The
fact that he had been able to lose  it so completely scared him.  If
Mulder hadn't been there...

He heard a voice call out to him. 

"Mr. Frohike!" The young man he'd met outside the newspaper office ran
up to him  with a huge grin on his face.  He had to search his memory
for the guy's name  

"Jimmy," said Frohike finally remembering. "What do you want?" 

The smile faded from Jimmy's face. "We were supposed to meet
earlier."

"Yeah, well, something came up," said Frohike moving away.  

"I know," said Jimmy walking quickly to keep up with him. "I heard all
about it.  You found that little girl's killer. You're a hero." 

Frohike stopped abruptly causing Jimmy to nearly run into him.
Struggling to  hold his frustration in check, the private investigator
said, "Look, can we talk  about this later. It's been a very long,
difficult day and I just want to get my  car and go home." 

Jimmy smiled again, "I have my car. It's right over there." He pointed
down the  street the other way. "Come on," he urged, "I can give you a
ride." 

Frohike hesitated weighing the chances of catching a taxi.  The empty
streets  didn't look promising. "All right," he decided. 

"Great, and I can tell you what I know about Yves Harlow and Professor
Langly."

Talking about Yves and the Professor would help take his mind off the
day's  events. "Works for me," he said.  
 
 




Saturday, September 28, 1940


Monica willed her phone to ring. Frohike had called her the previous
afternoon  with the news that his visit to the newspaper office had
been a waste of time.  She had not been able to accompany him because
she simply had to go back to the  office to get some work done. 

Mel did say he had one more lead but he wasn't too hopeful that it
would pan  out. He'd promised to call her when he had any more
information. 

She had hoped to hear from him long before this but calling his office
would be  a waste of time. It was Saturday. There wouldn't be anyone
there.  

She could only wait. 

At about 9:30 a.m. her phone finally rang. She picked it up on the
second ring. 

"Monica?"

"Yes, Mel?"

"Would you mind if I came by later? I've found someone who has some
information  about Yves."

Monica gripped the receiver a little tighter.  "You can come right
now!"

"There's something I have to do first that can't wait. I'm sorry."

Monica swallowed her disappointment. "No, I understand. Why don't you
come  around noon then? I can make us some lunch."

There was a short pause as Frohike spoke to someone in the background
before he  said, "Lunch works for us and thank you for the offer."

Shortly before noon, there was a knock at Monica's front door. Looking
through  the peephole, she saw Frohike and a younger, blond man
standing in the hallway  outside her apartment.

Monica quickly opened the door. "Hello, you're right on..."

Frohike cut her off. "You're supposed to ask who it is!" He and the
other man  stepped inside so she could shut and lock the door.

"I looked. I knew it was you," said Monica in her own defense. She
glanced at  the other man wondering who he was and why he needed to
talk to her.

"You know me but you don't know him," said Frohike hitching his thumb
at his  companion who smiled at Monica in an unspoken greeting. 

"You said you were bringing someone with you," said Monica getting
irritated at  the nagging. 

Frohike's scowl deepened. "You shouldn't make assumptions with all
that's been  going on. For all you know, he could've had a gun at my
back to force me to get  you to open the door." 

Tired of the scolding, Monica drew a breath to tell him he was being
ridiculous  but he had taken off his hat and she got a good look at
his face. She saw  sadness deeply etched into the lines of his cheeks
and dark circles under his  eyes. This made her realize the strain he
was under and the worries he was  forced to deal with, some of which
were hers. 

Monica knew then that he was correct and she wasn't making things any
easier by  arguing with him. "You're right. Next time, I'll ask." 

"It's for your own safety," he said, removing his coat. His companion
did the  same.

"I know," said Monica as she hung them in the closet.

Frohike turned to his silent companion. "This is Jimmy Bond. He works
for the DC  Gazette. He's one of the reporters who talked to your
sister and her professor."

Jimmy stepped up to Monica offering his hand. She shook it. "Nice to
meet you,  Monica," he said. "Actually, I'm a photographer but I've
been trying to find  them, too."

Frohike interrupted. "I figured the easiest thing to do would be to
get you both  together, see what we know, what we need to find out and
what to do next."

"I made some coffee, would either of you like some?"

"Yes," Frohike said immediately. "Coffee would be great." 

After getting an affirmative response from Jimmy, she was glad she'd
made a full  pot. 

 While Monica poured the coffee, she encouraged Jimmy, "How did you
meet my  sister?"

"The professor called our office saying he needed to spread the news
about  something he was working on.  One of the reporters, Jeffery
Spender, went with  me to see what he had to say."

"Yves was there?" Monica asked sitting down on the couch with
Frohike.

"Yes, but she seemed very uncomfortable about us being there. Mr.
Spender was  convinced the Professor was a nut. So, he left. But I
thought there was a story  and hung around for a few minutes. I took a
couple pictures until your sister  made it very clear that I should
leave, too."

"Was Yves in any of the pictures?"

Jimmy took a sip of his coffee then nodded. "Well, that's the next
part of the  story. I saw your sister again at our office late the
next night after almost  everyone had gone home. She had broken into
the files where we keep the  photographs. When I found her, she said
she was looking for the pictures of the  professor. I told her it was
too late, the pictures were already gone."

He glanced at Frohike before continuing. "I've talked this over with
Mr. Frohike  and we don't think your sister is just a scientist's
assistant. There's  definitely more going on here than that."

Monica was stunned. None of this made sense. She looked to Frohike,
someone she  could trust, for confirmation. "You actually believe
this?"

Frohike chose his words carefully because he had no proof to back them
up. "His  story does explain a great deal."

Monica sat back on the couch shaking her head. 

"Think about it," he went on, ticking the reasons off on his fingers.
"You're  being followed for no apparent reason." He touched a second
finger. "A man comes  to my office asking me to find his long-lost
cousin who turns out to be you."  Third finger. "You're apartment is
broken into but the only thing taken is your  correspondence with your
sister." Fourth finger. "Your sister and her boss have 
disappeared without a trace." Fifth finger. "Her house has been
thoroughly  searched." He continued ticking off the points on his
other hand. "And we found  the FBI crawling all over it."

Frohike did not mention the fact that Monica and Yves's files were
stolen from  his office. She didn't need the added stress. 

When Monica still did not seem convinced, Frohike continued. "Didn't
you find it  more than a little odd that she wanted to bring her boss
with her on vacation?"  Monica's gaze flicked to Frohike's face. "Why
would anyone bring their employer  on vacation?" He paused. "With what
Jimmy told me, it all started to make  sense."

"What was that?"  Monica clearly looked worried.  

"As I said its speculation "

"Mel, please don't coddle me," Monica snapped. "What is it?"  When he
continued  to hesitate she turned her gaze on Jimmy.  "Well?"

Jimmy shook his head apologetically. "I didn't understand a lot of
what the  professor was saying but I think the gist of it was it's
supposed to help figure  out how to break the Nazi codes." 
 
"I don't see what Yves bringing her employer with her on vacation has
to do with  " She stopped, her eyes widening in disbelief.  "You think
that's why the FBI  was following me, searching her house and asking
me questions?"  

She got up, walking over to the fireplace. "No.  Nothing you say will
convince  me Yves is a Nazi."

Frohike quickly rose from the couch and went to her in the hopes of
calming her  down. "No, Monica," he said gently, "I don't think she's
a Nazi."

Monica searched his eyes and saw he was telling the truth.  "Then
what?"

"She had to bring the Professor.  She was protecting him.  I think
she's with  the British Intelligence."

"British Intelligence?" Monica exclaimed. It sounded just as ludicrous
as Yves  being a Nazi spy.  "She would have told me.  She's my
sister."

"She probably couldn't," Frohike said softly.  "And like I said: it's
all  speculation.  We won't know anything for sure until we find
them."

"I can't believe she would lie to me like this," Monica said in a
pained voice.  She'd suffered enough betrayal from family members.
Yves was last person she had  expected it from, someone she thought
must understand how she felt about the way  their father had lived his
life. Her brother refused to believe it.

"Monica," Frohike said placing his hand over hers on the mantle.
"Let's go back  and sit down." He waited for her to move ahead of him
to the couch. 

Monica sat, picking up her coffee and stared into the brown liquid as
if she  could find some answers there.

Jimmy broke the momentary silence that had developed among them. "I
have a  question," he said to Monica. "If you don't want to answer it,
I'll understand."

"What is it?"

"You say that you and Yves are sisters but she has a British accent
and you  don't."

"We're half sisters. We share the same father." This answer would have
been  enough of an explanation but Monica continued as if telling the
whole story  might help make some sense of recent events.

"My father was an ambassador. When I was not quite a year old, he was
assigned  to the American embassy in London. My mother wasn't willing
to move away from  her extended family while I was so young. At least
that's what she said. My  father couldn't give up such a prestigious
placement and moved to London without  us." Monica sighed.

 "So your parents got divorced?" Jimmy surmised.

"No, they remained married; we just didn't live together as a family.
As I got  older, I begged my mother to change her mind and let us go
to live with my  father. But she became pregnant with my younger
brother, Jacob. When I realized  what this would mean, I asked my
father to let me come live with him even if my  mother refused. He
told me that he loved me but that my mother needed me to help 
her with the new baby and maybe when my brother got older I could come
stay with  him, at least for a while.

"This went on for years, promises were made and broken. Sometimes we
even made  plans for my brother and me to join our father for the
summer or the holidays.  But something would always come up at the
last minute, some international crisis  that would make it impossible
for us to visit him in England. My mother was  always sympathetic but
never seemed surprised by his actions.

"I'm beginning to believe now that my mother knew all along."

Jimmy watched her closely, puzzled by her last comment but he let her
continue.

"She died four years ago. Shortly after this, my father retired and
moved back  to the states permanently. These few years were my first
chance to spend any  time with him. He died a year ago but, literally
on his deathbed, he finally  told me the truth.

"He said he'd been very lonely in London. He missed my mother and me
terribly.  He was so lonesome he turned to another woman, a woman he
grew to love. Her name  was Christine Harlow. He never told her about
his family in the states. They  married and had a daughter, who, as
I'm sure you can guess, was Yves."

"When Christine found out about my father's second family, his
infidelity, she  left taking Yves with her. He begged me to find Yves.
He hadn't seen her in  years. It was his hope that we could be a
family, the three of us, Yves, Jacob  and me. 

"I was stunned and hurt by his revelations but I agreed to try to find
my  sister. At first I did nothing. But a few weeks after his funeral,
I was going  through his papers and came across some photographs of
Yves as a child and  decided she was as much a victim of my father's
poor choices as my brother and I  were. 

"I made some inquiries but had no luck. That's when I hired Mr.
Frohike," Monica  said turning to glance at the private investigator.
"I used some of the  inheritance from my father's estate to send him
to England to find her. He's the  one who figured out that Yves had
taken her mother's last name and managed to  track her down."

"It took a bit of convincing," said Frohike telling his part of the
story, "to  make her believe that Monica should not be held
responsible for their father's  actions. She agreed to read the letter
from Monica that I'd brought with me."

Monica continued. "I was very excited to receive the first letter from
her. We  corresponded for a couple of months when she announced she
had gotten a job here  in the states and would be moving to DC."

"Her job with Professor Langly?"

"Yes."

"What about your brother?" Jimmy asked. 

"Jacob's in the Army and is stationed on the west coast. He's never
met Yves. I  told them about each other but neither of them as even
tried to contact the  other." She sighed again. "I can't force them to
be close. It's up to them." Her  face fell. "That is if we ever find
Yves."

"We're well on our way, here," said Frohike in encouragement. "We know
a lot  more now than we did yesterday."

Monica nodded. "She's hiding...they're hiding. But from who? And
why?"

"It sounds like the professor made a big mistake in calling the
newspaper," said  Frohike.

Jimmy agreed. "When I went back to talk to them again they were gone.
It was  after that I found Yves in the newspaper office looking for
the photos."

"What did she say to you?" asked Monica.

"Nothing... but her actions spoke for themselves. She was worried and
willing to  do anything to get those pictures back."

"What we need from you," said Frohike, "are any thoughts you might
have on where  she would go. Obviously the FBI is looking for her, so
she didn't get any help  from them. Where would she feel safe and
secluded?"

Monica thought about it but nothing leapt to mind immediately. 

She heard an odd noise and turned towards the sound. Jimmy had a
sheepish grin  on his face, his hand on his stomach. "I'm sorry," he
said. 

"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Monica insisted. "I've kept you
talking for so  long. I have lunch ready."

They talked through lunch, all of them suggesting possible places
where Yves  could have taken the professor. When they were done eating
and the dishes were  cleared away, they still hadn't come up with a
satisfactory answer. Frohike had  written down some places they wanted
to check out but so far they had failed to  come up with one location
that stood out as a best place to start.

Monica made a second pot of coffee since Frohike couldn't seem to get
enough. As  it was brewing, he had a revelation. "Wait a minute. I've
got something in the  car that might help." He got up and walked
quickly out of the apartment. 

Jimmy and Monica just looked at each other, neither having any idea
what he was  talking about. 

Two minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Jimmy chuckled as
Monica got  up to answer it. "Make sure to ask him who it is," he
said.

Monica turned to smile at him. "Don't worry. I will."

She stood with her hand on the knob. "Who is it?" 

"It's me, open the door," growled Frohike. When he stepped inside the
apartment,  he noticed that Monica's smile lacked the sadness that had
been prevalent all  afternoon. He handed a large manila envelope to
Monica.  "This is the envelope  the letter from Yves came in. Look at
the postmark," he said pointing to the  upper right hand corner. "It
meant nothing to me but maybe you can think of some  connection that
might give us a clue as to where they are hiding. "

Monica looked closely at envelope. She could barely make out the
letters. When  she finally did, she turned to smile at Frohike saying,
"I think I know where  they might be."




* * * * *





C.B. Spender glanced up at the knock at his door. He snubbed out the
cigarette  he was holding leaving the butt in the company of several
of its brethren that  were huddled together in the overly full
ashtray. 

"Yes?" he said knowing full well who it was.

His secretary opened the door. "Mr. Fletcher is here to see you,
sir."

"Send him in."

Morris Fletcher entered the office and sat in the chair Spender
absent-mindedly  pointed out to him, his attention on a stack of
papers on his desk. Fletcher had  the good sense to wait until he was
spoken to before he began defending himself. 

Spender picked up a pack of Morleys off his desk and, with an expert
flip of the  wrist, coaxed a single cigarette forward. He took it
between his lips. He didn't  offer Fletcher one but this was not
expected. He lit it taking a deep drag.  "Have you found it yet?" He
asked smoothly not bothering to look at the other  man while waiting
for an answer. 

Fletcher shifted uneasily in his seat. "Uh, no, sir. I haven't found
it yet."

"What seems to be the problem?" His exhaled smoke drifted upwards.

"That private investigator who wouldn't play ball got himself thrown
in jail for  beating some guy senseless. He's not going anywhere, so
that's a dead end."

"You're certain of that?" Spender asked blowing smoke in Fletcher's
direction. 

"I can't follow someone who's in jail."

Spender tossed a folded copy of the most recent edition of the D.C.
Gazette into  Fletcher's lap who picked it up with a confused look on
his face. "Look at the  headline."


                            Local PI Catches Child Killer


Fletcher quickly scanned the accompanying article by Carla Mason. It
detailed  how Melvin Frohike had apprehended a serial child molester
and murderer. The  mayor and the city council were proclaiming him a
hero. 

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know. I didn't think..."

Spender snubbed out his cigarette. "Obviously," he said, his tone
menacing. 

Fletcher made as if to stand. "I can find him again. He's probably
gone home or  is at his office." 

"Don't bother," said Spender. "I have something better for you." He
held up a  small stack of handwritten sheets. The papers were smaller
than regular  notepaper and the writing had a woman's flowery touch.
"I've been doing some  light reading. I believe I know where our
elusive Miss Harlow has taken her  charge."  

"Where?"

Spender held up a framed picture of two women.  They were standing
side by side  each with one arm wrapped around the other's waist. They
were smiling for the  camera. Behind them, Fletcher could see the
breakers of the Atlantic Ocean.  Spender set the picture down and held
out a folded piece of paper. 

Assuming it held the address of where he was supposed to go, Fletcher
stood and  took the paper. "Take one of our friends from the FBI with
you," said C.B.  Spender. 

Fletcher turned to leave. "I want this problem solved." He stopped and
looked  back. There was a short pause as Spender lit another Morley.
"Permanently."

Chapter 11


"Shouldn't we go knock on the door instead of sitting in the car?"  

Frohike glared at Jimmy Bond, attempting to quell his irritation from
the endless string of questions and comments that began when they left
D.C. Unfortunately the young man, who was sitting in the passenger
seat, was facing away, watching the beach house intently and missed
the private detective's sour look.  

Frohike slowly counted to ten, regretting the decision to allow the
kid to come with him.  He had already argued for a good half hour with
Monica about the same thing, just barely managing to convince his
client it would be best if he checked out this lead on his own. 
Exhausted from too little sleep and too much caffeine, he hadn't the
energy to argue with the kid, especially since he sensed the big oaf
just might try to follow him.  Losing him wouldn't have been too
difficult but he would have wasted valuable time so he gave in,
ordering the kid to do exactly what he said and not get in the way.

"We need to make sure they're in the house," he finally replied.  "If
they're not, we could give ourselves away if they return while we're
in there.  Then," he said the next slower, partly to get a handle on
his impatience and partly to make sure the kid understood,  "they
might disappear and we'd never find them."

Jimmy didn't take his eager attention off the house.  "What if they're
not here?  I mean Virginia has hundreds of mile of beaches.  What do
we do then, Mr. Frohike?"

"We'll figure that out if and when we need to," Frohike replied.  "And
for God's sake stop calling me Mr. Frohike.  Just Mel or even Frohike
will work."

Jimmy glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back out the
window.  "Sure," he said.  "Hey!"  he whispered excitedly seconds
later,  "did you see that?  The curtains moved!"

Frohike swore under his breath, focusing his attention on the house. 
"You sure it wasn't just the shadows from the trees?"  The sun was
sinking towards the horizon and he bet that's what the kid saw:
shadows moving over the window.

"The curtain moved," Jimmy insisted vehemently.  As if he intended to
prove it, he opened his door.  The sound of the surf, turbulent and
forceful filled the car.  

"Jimmy," Frohike hissed through clenched teeth. "Get back here!"  But
the photographer was already making his way down the sloping driveway.
 "Dammit!" Frohike scrambled out of the car. And the kid wondered why
that reporter, Spender, had it in for him, Frohike thought as he
rushed after the younger man.  

Bond's long stride ate up the distance quickly but Frohike, though
older and with an expanding girth, was no slouch and caught up to him.
 He grabbed Jimmy's arm and said in a harsh whisper, "If you want to
get killed, by all means rush in there."  

His words had the desired effect.  Jimmy stopped abruptly, casting an
uneasy, indecisive look at the house.  

"We need to approach this slow and easy," he continued.  If Yves
Harlow was in that house then it was already too late.  She knew they
were there.  But if...and this was a big if... Harlow was the British
agent he thought she was, then the fact they were still alive and not
laying face down in the grass with a bullet in their brains heartened
Frohike.  

It meant she recognized him and deduced he was working on Monica's
behalf.  Why else send the letter to him?   But after all the lies
Yves Harlow told her sister, Frohike wondered how the woman would
receive him.  

If it really was Yves Harlow in that house.  

There was one thing Frohike hated more than unanswered questions.  It
was someone using an unwitting person to further her agenda:
especially family members.  Monica Reyes already had enough of it from
her parents.  Shunted aside by a father who had juggled two families
and a career, a mother who in all likelihood knew of her husband's
infidelity and used her daughter as a pawn against her husband.  And
Monica's brother, once the infidelity had been exposed on his father's
deathbed, had refused to accept the truth, estranging himself from his
sister.

Searching for a familial connection, Monica had been used and
manipulated by her sister and consequently placed in peril because of
it.

Suspecting what he did about Harlow, Frohike would have chosen to
leave the woman to defend herself.  She was obviously capable of it. 
But if something happened to Yves because he didn't so much as warn
her of the danger closing in on her, it would crush Monica.

And Monica didn't deserve the grief.  

His anger burned like a slow fuse.  He understood about losing family:
the void it created in your heart and your life.  Maybe that was why
he was now ignoring his own advice and striding to the door with Jimmy
trailing in his wake.  The woman better damn well be worth it, he
thought.

Frohike resisted the urge to pound on the door. That might attract
unwanted attention. Instead, he knocked softly, carefully watching the
curtains on the window near the door where Jimmy swore he'd seem
movement earlier. 

He paid for his inattentiveness of the door when it was yanked open
suddenly. He barely had time to register the steely grip of a hand on
his collar before he was pulled roughly into the house and slammed up
against the wall. The cold metal of a gun barrel jammed firmly under
his chin was unmistakable. 

Frohike heard Jimmy suck in his breath and sent a silent prayer that
the kid wouldn't do anything rash.

The look of blind fury was evident in Yves's eyes. "What..." she said
through clenched teeth, "do you want?"

"Your sister sent me," Frohike managed to say. "She's worried about
you."

She pushed the gun tighter against his neck.  "Message received," she
said slowly. "Now leave before I ventilate your throat."

They stared at each other, the tension thick in the air.  He had
little doubt she would follow through with her threat but he had made
a promise and he was going to keep it.

"You won't pull the trigger, Sugar" Frohike said mustering a
confident, nonchalant tone despite his racing pulse.  

Yves raised one eyebrow.  "Oh?  Why not?"

"The neighbors will hear the gunshot for one," Frohike said. "Second:
talk of it will bring a great deal of unwanted attention your way. I'm
sure you know exactly who I mean. Now, why don't you put the hardware
away and we can have a little chat."

Yves studied him a moment, then the pressure against his throat eased
as she lowered her weapon. She stepped back allowing him to stand on
his own. Frohike pushed away from the wall, and shrugged his coat back
into place, giving himself time to calm his jangled nerves. He turned
to see Yves with one hand on the still open door blocking Jimmy's
entrance into the house. 

"He's with me, Sugar," the detective said to further lesson the
tension that radiated off her. "Don't worry, he's harmless."

Yves narrowed her eyes at him. "Your recommendation is reassuring,"
she retorted but she opened the door further to allow Jimmy to enter.

She closed the door, locked it and said dangerously. "And Frohike? I
don't care who hears but if you call me 'Sugar' one more time, I will
shoot you."

When Langly saw Yves enter the kitchen with the two men he jumped to
his feet, crumpling the piece of paper he had been working on. "Who
the hell are they?" he demanded.

Yves noticed the befuddled scientist routine that he'd employed off
and on since she first met him was distinctly missing. She raised an
eyebrow at him, keeping her tone calm. 

"I'm sure you remember Mr. Bond. This is Mr. Frohike. He's a private
detective sent to find us."

Langly's face turned ghost white. "A private dick?" The anger in his
voice barely masked the fear. "How did you find us? Why were you even
looking for us? Do you realize how much danger you're putting us in?"

Frohike, taking an instant dislike to the man, turned to Yves. "Can't
you send him away to play with his chemistry set?"

"Chemistry set?" Langly sputtered, outraged. "What I do is far more
important than..."

"Um, guys," said Jimmy interrupted the tirade. "...the bad guys."

"Where?" Yves' gun made a sudden reappearance as she stepped closer to
Langly, pulling him away from the windows. 

Jimmy raised his hands and shook his head. "No. No," he said quickly.
"I just meant...shouldn't we be talking about why we're here?" 

"I'm not a chemist!" Langly complained refusing to let the insult
slide. 

"Of course not," Yves said in a soothing tone that sounded as if she
was reaching the end of her patience. "But Mr. Bond is quite right."
Her gun disappeared once again and she crossed her arms over her chest
to gaze at Frohike. "Why are you here? 

"I told you. Your sister hired me to find you when she couldn't
contact you. She's worried sick."

"You can tell her I'm fine "

"Fine?" Frohike interrupted, "Not from where I'm standing."

"We've had no problem until you barged in here," Langly shot back.

"Langly," Yves warned, shutting him up. To Frohike she said, "I can
take care of myself as you discovered earlier. I can't explain further
but I have everything well in hand."

"I know who you are," he said. It was a bluff but he wanted to hear
her confirm his theory she was a British agent. But Yves simply gazed
at him. "Deny it or don't deny it," said Frohike, "I don't care but
you need to go to the F.B.I."

Yves scrutinized his face. "Tell me Mr. Frohike.  What were you doing
talking to Agent Doggett outside Monica's apartment building?"

Talk about being blindsided!  Frohike hadn't seen that question
coming.  But he hid it, saying smoothly.  "Blondie made a serious
tactical error when he called the newspaper. We know about the German
codes."  If he hadn't been scrutinizing her face, he would have missed
the ripple behind her eyes.  Even then he nearly missed it.  He had to
admit she was one cool customer. But all it took was one well-placed
bullet. 

"I can play that game too, Sugar.  Shall I tell you what else I know
or can we have an honest discussion here without the one-upmanship?"
It was complete bullshit, he had used his trump card and he was afraid
she knew it.  

Jimmy spoke up then. "You can trust us," he said softly,
compassionately.

Yves turned, appraising him coolly.  "That remains to be seen," she
said then sighed. "The F.B.I. can't be trusted."

"Are you sure?" Jimmy asked.

"Yes. After your little visit, I decided not to take any chances and
moved the Professor. When I went back to get a few things, I saw
several men hanging around the lab. I recognized their type.  I
assumed they learned about the Professor from the article the reporter
wrote." 

"But Spender didn't write an article," Jimmy pointed out.

"I didn't know that at the time," Yves retorted.  "All I knew was the
Professor had been compromised.  I called the F.B.I. and arranged a
meeting." 

"Let me guess," said Frohike,  "it was a trap."

Anger burned in Yves' dark eyes as she remembered her narrow escape. 
"Yes."

"Which explains the cryptic letter to your sister," Frohike said. "You
think Agent Doggett is a mole?"

"I don't know for sure," Yves admitted, "But he's everywhere I turn. I
have to think he's a likely suspect."

Jimmy was puzzling over something.  "If the FBI has a mole, then how
did those men know you were at the warehouse before you called the
FBI? Wouldn't it be the other way around?"

Langly snorted, breaking his silence.  "Jeez, some reporter you are. 
The FBI mole is working for someone else."

"The person who stole my photographs," Jimmy said then wrinkled his
brow.  "Why would they take my pictures of Yves and the Professor and
then break into Monica's apartment to steal all the pictures of
Yves."

"Someone broke into Monica's apartment?" Yves looked worried. She had
suspected they would follow her sister in hopes she would lead them to
her and thus Langly but this she hadn't considered.  

Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, they took all your letters to her as well as
Frohike's files."

"Jimmy shut up," Frohike growled.

Yves looked from Jimmy to Frohike.  "What files?"  

Frohike ignored Yves question. "Look, you're not safe here. We can
talk about this somewhere else."

Yves wasn't going to let him put her off.  "What files, Frohike."

The private detective sighed, realizing she was immovable on the
subject.  "My files of you and your sister when she hired me to find
you the first time."

Yves stared intently at him.  "Do you have any idea who stole them?"

"Yeah.  Some guy who tried to hire me to locate Monica under the
pretense of an inheritance.  I put him off but, when I tried to check
him out, I couldn't find anything on him."

"This man...what was his name?"

Why did Frohike have the feeling she already knew who it was?  "Morris
Fletcher," he said watching her closely.  "Who is he, Yves?"

She ignored the question, asking one of her own.  "How did you find
us?"

 "I think it's your turn to answer a quest..." 

"How did you find us?" she interrupted, eyes blazing.  

Frohike stared at her deciding to pursue the answers to his questions
later.  Whoever this Fletcher guy was...he was bad news.  "From the
postmark on the letter you sent.  Monica noticed the town was only an
hour away from the family beach house.  And when she told me how much
you seemed to enjoy it when the two...make that three of you," he
added glancing at the still scowling scientist, "vacationed here it
seemed a logical place to begin. I considered the possibility that it
was a red herring but she also said you mentioned the beach was your
favorite place to go to think when you were a child." He smirked at
her.  "Old habits are difficult to break, Sweetheart."

"You talked to Monica today?"

"Yes," answered Frohike, "right before we headed out here."  

"You fool," Yves spat angrily, striding to the nearest window and
looking out.  "You probably led them right to us!"  She searched for
anyone lurking around the grounds but the dwindling light and shadows
made it impossible. 

"No one followed us," Frohike said.  "I watched the house for a while
before we approached.  They would have had to pass us on the road but
no one did."

Yves turned from the window.  "I'm relieved by your assessment of the
situation," she said sarcastically.

"Where are you going?" Langly asked in a panicked voice as she strode
out of the kitchen. 

"I'm going to take a look around outside." Yves palmed her weapon.
"Pack it up. As soon as I get back, we're leaving and for God's sake,
stay away from the windows."

Langly hurried off to do what he was told. He wasn't happy about it
but he did trust Yves's judgment. He began packing up the Enigma
machine and all it's parts replacing the wooden casing and closing the
lid. Another smaller box lay nearby. 

Jimmy watched him. "Do you need any help?"

"No, I've got it under control," Langly said not looking up from his
work. He had two of the screws in place and was working on a third. 

Jimmy bent to pick up the fourth screw, which had rolled onto the
floor. He held it out to Langly who snatched it out of his hand then
inserted it into the wood casing. "I really don't need your help,"
said Langly twisting the screw into place. "I actually can take care
of myself."

Jimmy could sense that Langly resented their presence - his and
Frohike's. "We just want to help you," said Jimmy. "We want to make
sure you're safe and can finish your work."

Langly paused for a moment to glare at Jimmy. "If that was true, you
would have left us alone." Everything had changed so much in the past
few months.  Before he had solitude, numbers and endless time to do
his work.  Then Yves showed up challenging him with the Enigma.  And
now he was in hiding and on the run with this terrible fear shadowing
everything he did.  He just wanted to figure out this puzzle and maybe
help win the war in Europe.  Well, that and stay alive.  That would be
good, too.

"I'll never get my work done if I have to run off every few days
because some big, dumb reporter and his pals just can't keep their
noses to themselves."

"Hey, you called me!"

"And I'll regret that decision until the day I die!" Langly closed his
eyes. If only he'd talked to Yves before he'd made that call. None of
this running and hiding would have been necessary. He returned his
attention to Jimmy. "And besides, Yves told you to drop it. You
should've just minded your own business." 

He realized he probably sounded irrational but he plowed ahead.  It
was the only way to keep the growing uneasiness at bay. "What I'm
working on is important and I don't really need you interfering with
it." He turned his back on Jimmy at that point, who heard a distinct
click as Langly locked down the wooden lid of the machine. 

Jimmy left him to his work and returned to the kitchen where Frohike
was looking at the papers the professor had been scribbling on when
they came in. "Is he ready to go?" Frohike asked Jimmy as he set the
paper he'd been holding on the table. 

"Yeah, just about," said Jimmy. "Boy, is he in a bad mood."

Frohike snorted. "It's probably from living with the queen of
happiness for so long."

A loud racket on the deck facing the beach cut off Jimmy's response. 

"Langly!" Yves yelled, sprinting into the house.  Behind her, the
sliding door slammed shut with a crash then bounced back on the track.
 "Langly!"

"Yves..." Frohike came out of the kitchen, Jimmy behind him.

"Get out now!"  She snapped brushing passed them. "Langly!"

"I'm here. I'm here," he muttered, lugging the Enigma machine, the
other wooden box and a small black bag.  He saw her face and stopped.
He had never seen her look anything but cool and composed and now
there was fear on her face.  "What?" His voice was barely a whisper.
"Oh God, are they here?" 

Spoiling for an argument, Frohike barked. "We're not going anywhere
until..."

Yves whirled to face Frohike. "There is a bomb," she hissed. "We have
less than two minutes to get out."  With those words, she turned to
back to Langly who stood as if paralyzed, his eyes like an owl's
behind his thick glasses.  "Go!" She pushed him toward the front door.
"Professor!" she urged.

He snapped from his paralysis, and took off for the door like a
racehorse coming out of the starting gate, his long legs pulling ahead
of Yves, clutching the heavy Enigma machine to his chest.  With his
arms full and no free hand to open the closed door, he stopped. Yves
grabbed the handle, sweeping it open. "My car is across the street in
the neighbor's drive."

"My car is closer," Frohike shouted from behind her. "A Ford Fordor on
this side of the road."

Yves would have ignored Frohike if she was alone but she wasn't.  And
she had no idea where the person or persons were who'd set the bomb. 
"His.  Don't stop," Yves clipped the orders when Langly paused.  He
made a whimpering sound but did as he was told.  

With Jimmy behind her and Frohike bringing up the rear the quartet
raced out of the house.  Yves had lost track of how much time they had
but knew the countdown was close. But they were quickly putting
distance between themselves and the bomb. They were going to make it.

They had to.  

"My notes," Langly shouted frantically, skidding to a stop.  "I forgot
my notes!"  

"Leave them...Langly, NO!"  Yves yelled.

 Langly dropped the Enigma none too gently then abruptly turned and
raced back toward the house.  She started after him when she felt
Jimmy's arm snake around her waist pulling her backwards into his
chest, restraining her. She could feel his heart pounding with fear. 

"Yves, no!" Jimmy's worried voice said in her ear.  "Frohike'll get
him." 

He was right.  She saw the private detective sprinting after the
Professor.  But Yves couldn't stand back.  The professor was her
responsibility.  She rammed her elbow into Jimmy's stomach.  He
grunted in surprise, relaxing his hold.  She shrugged him off and tore
after Frohike and her charge.

"Yves!" 

She heard Jimmy shout and then his footsteps somewhere behind her. 
The man was either extremely daft or very brave.

And then the beach house exploded.  

The force slammed into Yves, flinging her backwards.  She crashed into
the ground, gravel biting into her skin.  Her breath whooshed from her
lungs, stunning her.  Intense heat licked her skin and debris rained
down on her.   She threw her arms protectively over her face.  Rubble
struck her arms, her legs.  It continued for what seemed an eternity
but in reality she knew it was only a few seconds.

She crawled to her knees hearing only the roar of the fire.  Pain
lanced through her shoulder where something hard had struck her,
ripping her jacket and drawing blood.  "Professor," she gasped,
tasting thick, acrid smoke. She struggled to her feet. He had been so
much closer to the house when it blew.  

Then she saw Frohike kneeling next to the prone scientist who didn't
appear to be moving.  Yves sprinted the remaining distance ignoring
the pain in her shoulder.  

Frohike glanced back when he heard Yves' shout.  The woman ran up to
them, skidding to a halt then dropping to her knees next to him. 
"Professor."

"He's unconscious but alive," Frohike informed her, watching as she
checked the unmoving man on the ground. His glasses were gone, either
knocked off when he fell or blown off by the force of the blast. "I
think he was struck in the head by debris.  We need to get out of here
before the police arrive."

She tilted her face to gaze at him. The fire was bright enough that it
gave Frohike a good look at the damage done to her. She had cuts and
scrapes, her clothes were torn and pieces of rubble were tangled in
her dark hair.  

He felt as bad as she looked.  His own clothes were dirty and ripped. 
There was a gash in his leg that brought searing pain when he put his
weight on it.  His face stung from a number of cuts: some felt deep
enough to draw blood.  But the thing that hurt the most, he thought
ruefully, was the loss of his favorite hat, which had been blown away
in the explosion.

"We need to get out of here before our 'friends' realize we didn't
perish in the explosion," she retorted.  She glanced up as they heard
footsteps on the gravel. 

"Guys?"  Jimmy looked shell shocked but other than that he barely had
a scratch on him. 

"Help me get him up," Yves said.

Unquestioningly, Jimmy crouched down to haul the unconscious Professor
off the ground.

"Wait.  Leave him," Frohike said quickly before Yves could object. 
"We don't know what kind of injuries he has.  Carrying him might make
them worse."  

He dug into his pocket. "Jimmy!"  Frohike tossed him his keys.  The
kid caught them two handed when they bounced off his chest.  "Go get
my car.  Now!"

Jimmy took off at a dead run, vanishing into the darkness.  

"Listen," Yves said, her voice straining with tension.  "Sirens." They
were barely discernable over the roar of the flames. 

"Police," Frohike identified grimly. They were still a ways off but
the last thing they wanted right then was to answer a bunch of
questions. He glanced at Yves.  She withdrew her gun, meeting his gaze
with a cold look of determination that made him shiver.  Where the
hell was Jimmy?

He heard his car making its way slowly down the driveway seconds
before the flames from the burning house illuminated it.  Jimmy hadn't
turned on the headlights, which in another situation would have been
good thinking, but the fire raging behind them made it pointless.  

Leaving the engine running, Jimmy hopped out of the car and jogged
over to them.  Together, he and Frohike easily lifted Langly but had
to struggle to put the unconscious man in the car without doing
further injury to him. Yves ran behind the car to snatch up the Enigma
from where Langly had dropped it in the gravel.

"Hurry!" Yves warned tossing the two boxes carelessly onto the floor
in the back seat. "Someone's coming!"

Frohike cleared Langly's feet of the door, shut it, then turned to see
car beams at the end of the drive slowly making their way toward them.
 The firelight reflected off the windshield of the car making it
impossible to see who was in it.

One thing he knew for sure though... it wasn't the police.  

"You drive," he told Jimmy, circling to the passenger side.  "Let's
go, Sugar, we're leaving."

Shooting Frohike a dirty look, Yves jumped into the backseat with
Langly. "Go!" she shouted.   

With the other car blocking their only means of exit, Jimmy had only
one choice:  to go toward the burning cabin then loop around.  He just
hoped Frohike's car could handle driving on the beach.  

The car shot foreword, gaining speed as Jimmy tried to put as much
distance between them and the other car as possible.  

"No!"  Yves practically shouted from the backseat.  "There's a
seawall!"

"A what?" Jimmy's gaze darted back at her incredulously.

"Watch where you're going!" Frohike snarled. 

Jimmy tore his gaze back to his driving and what he saw filled him
with cold, liquid fear. A half-dozen yards ahead the bright scarlet
blaze of the fire illuminated the drop-off.  Beyond that he could see
frothy whitecaps and the black void of the ocean.

He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right.  The tires spit gravel
before crashing into the tall privacy bushes.  He heard twigs scraping
the sides of the car and undercarriage but he kept going, pressing the
gas down, praying he wouldn't come out of the bushes safely only to
crash into a tree.

They shot out of the underbrush onto spacious grass.  The headlights
illuminated the neighbors' driveway. 

"Go right," Frohike ordered.

"I know," Jimmy muttered, twisting the wheel toward the road. 

Once they were on the highway, Jimmy eased up on the gas.  "Where to?"
he asked, needing the reassurance of a concrete course of action. 
When no one responded he glanced at the private detective.  "Frohike?"
he pressed.   

"I'm thinking!" Frohike snapped.  

"Car bearing down on us!" Yves warned.  "Mr. Bond, step on it." 

The first shot shattered the back window.

Jimmy did as she said; the fear that had eased with finding the
highway returned in full force.  His heart felt as if it would crash
out of his chest.

Frohike swore, yanked open the glove compartment and grabbed his gun. 
He rolled down his window, leaned out and fired.   A deafening boom
shook the inside of the car. 

The sound hadn't come from Frohike.  Jimmy risked glancing in the
rearview mirror.  He saw Yves firing a large, lethal looking gun out
the back window at their pursuer.  

The other car swerved as the driver worked to evade the bullets before
bringing it back directly behind them.

Another shot... this time from Frohike.

The car veered crazily then drove off the road.

Frohike whooped. "Got him!"

"You got his tire," Yves corrected, "there's a difference."

"I stopped him, Sugar," Frohike retorted.  "What did you do?"

"I kept him from shooting you." Yves returned to her seat to check
Langly. He was coming around. "Langly, are you okay?" Yves asked him.
His answer was incoherent, not much more than moaning, and his face
was far too pale for Yves liking.  "We need to get Langly to a
doctor," she informed the two men.

"There's a hospital about ten miles up the road," Jimmy spoke up,
glancing toward the back seat.  Yves had Langly's head in her lap and
she was gently smoothing his tangled hair.  

"No," she said immediately. "We can't go to a hospital: too open.
People will ask questions.  We need to go somewhere more discreet."

"The morgue," Frohike decided.

This statement shocked Jimmy.  "But...he's not dead."

"Just do it," Frohike said, "I know someone there who can help him."

Jimmy nodded his acquiescence.  He checked the rearview mirror to make
sure there were no headlights following them.  All he saw was darkness
and Yves' worried expression.  "Who were they?" he asked aloud.  

He didn't get an answer but then he didn't really expect one.  



* * * * *


The driver of the pursuing car struggled to keep control of his
swerving vehicle. The flat tire was making it veer back and forth
dangerously across the highway. He managed to bring the car back to
the correct side of the road and off onto the shoulder, barely keeping
it from sliding into the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the
highway. 

Shoving his door open with one foot, the driver climbed out and stood
watching the retreating taillights of his intended victim's car. 

In fury, he kicked the flat tire, uttering a string of curses.  

"Alex, are you finished or will you continue to take your aggressions
out on the car?"

Krycek glared at his companion but ceased his actions.  Morris
Fletcher was right.  It was wasted energy.  "Now what do we do?  After
this they'll disappear and we'll never find them again."

A large, self-satisfied smile spread over Fletcher's face.  "Don't
worry, Alex," he said mysteriously, "we're not out of options yet."

Chapter 12


Maggie opened her front door to find Mulder. "Fox?  What are you doing
here?" He hadn't been to her apartment since they had ended their
relationship.  The brief reminder made her aware that she wasn't
wearing any makeup and her unruly hair was a mess after giving her
bathroom a good scrubbing.  

"I'm looking for Frohike.  I was hoping you knew where he was."

"Mel?" Maggie said surprised. "No. I heard about him on the radio
though," she said with obvious pride. "He caught Molly's killer." 

"I know. I was with him."  The expression on his face told her
something was wrong.  All thoughts of her disheveled appearance
vanished and she opened her door further.  

"Come in," Maggie said, backing up to give him space.  

Mulder came in just far enough for her to shut the door. He dropped
his head, covering his eyes with one hand. "Oh, Maggie. He completely
lost control." He looked at her then. The pain she saw in his eyes
made her worry for his sake and Frohike's. "I thought he was going to
kill the guy. When I tried to stop him, he tossed me off like a rag
doll. It took me and two other guys to pull him off."

Maggie reached out to him then, intending to give him a comforting hug
but he drew her close, burying his face in her neck.  Holding each
other this way made her think of when they'd dated. The only thing
that held her back from fully enjoying the sensation of his arms
around her was the tension and grief radiating from his body.  She
leaned back to look at him. 

"Come sit down and tell me everything," she encouraged him. 

Over the next half hour, Mulder related the whole story. Maggie just
let him talk, knowing that's what he really needed to do. She was very
worried about the fact that Frohike had not been seen since he was let
out of jail but she was more concerned about Mulder at that moment. 

"So, I'm suspended without pay pending an investigation into my
involvement in the severe beating of a suspect," said Mulder reciting
what he had been told the night before. 

"How do you think that will turn out?" asked Maggie.

Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. There were plenty of witnesses there
that can testify that I pulled Mel off the guy but I was working on an
open investigation. Me - a lowly beat cop - I had the nerve to
overstep my authority and Internal Affairs is gonna rake me over the
coals for that."

Maggie knew about Mulder's aspirations of becoming a detective but his
general attitude and penchant for doing things his own way had kept
him from advancing through the ranks. "You're a good cop, Fox. They'll
see it in time."

Mulder chuckled. "I think it's going to take a lot more than time for
them to see that." He truly believed this and was beginning to
understand that it was up to him to make the changes necessary to
prove it. If he wanted to keep his job and demonstrate that he was
detective material, he needed to be more serious about it. 

He met Maggie's sympathetic gaze and felt a sharp pang of regret. She
was something else he should have taken more seriously.  He only hoped
it wasn't too late.

He took her hand. "Maggie, I..." he began before words failed him. 

"Yes," she said her fingers lightly caressing his, her eyes searching
his face.

He swallowed and tried again. "I messed things up between us.  I was
stupid and immature.  I'd like another chance with you."  He held up
his hand when she started to speak.  "Just think about it, please? 
Maybe one day we could go out for dinner."    

Mulder could tell from Maggie's little smile that he had said the
right thing.  "How about tonight?" she asked.

"Tonight?"  Mulder nearly gaped in surprise then laughed in relief and
elation.  "Tonight would be great."

She stood up. "Let me go change." 

"What you have on looks great," Mulder said eyeing her old slacks and
the overly large shirt whose tails she had tied in a knot at her
waist. 

Maggie laughed. "No, it doesn't and you know it." She paused, the
laughter fading from her face.  "Fox? I'm worried about Mel. Before we
go out, I'd really like to see if we can track him down. You said no
one's seen him since he got out of jail, right?"   
Mulder's own concern returned.  "That's right."

"Did you call the office?"

Mulder nodded, saying, "And his place. No answer at either spot."

"What about Eddie's?" Maggie knew this was Frohike's bar of choice.

"I drove out there before I came here. He wasn't there either."

Maggie got up abruptly saying, "I'll be right back."  

Mulder didn't have to wait very long before Maggie came back. She was
wearing an elegant blue dress with her hair combed and styled and make
up on. "You know, you don't have to do all that for me," Mulder
quipped but he couldn't hold back the approving smile.

"Sure I do," Maggie said smiling again before she became quite
business like. "I'll go out to the office and check if he's even been
there." She said opening the closet and taking her coat off its
hanger. Mulder joined her, helping her into it her coat. "Why don't
you go to his house and see if he's passed out or just not answering
the phone." 

"I don't have a key," Mulder insisted. 

"That hasn't stopped you before." Maggie picked up her purse fishing
around in it for her own keys. Making a decision, she turned around
and placed a soft kiss on his lips. "If I don't find him, I'll wait at
the office. Call me there when you know anything."   
"I'll do that," Mulder promised as they left her apartment.  




* * * * *




Dana Scully was exhausted.  She had come in on Saturday, her day off,
intending to spend a half-day catching up on her mounting paperwork. 
The half-day stretched into a full day when she had to cover for a lab
attendant who had gone home sick.  It had been quite busy at the
morgue and she hadn't been able to return to her office with its
dreaded paperwork until nearly five o'clock.  

A few hours later, she finally finished and was heading home.  She
took one last look at her neatly organized desk then snapped off the
light.  She opened the door, surprised to find Melvin Frohike, his
hand raised, ready to knock.  Her first thought at seeing him was that
he'd stood her up for their first real date. Only later did she hear
from a beat cop that he had identified Molly Jenning's killer and was
subsequently thrown in jail for beating a confession out of the man. 

What bothered her most though, was the fact that he didn't call to
tell her all about it himself, especially since she'd worked on the
case and had expressed a desire to see the perpetrator go to jail for
the rest of his life. She even tried calling him but got no answer at
his home or his office. 

She told herself she was being silly, like some schoolgirl with a
crush. They'd really only known each other for three days but that in
the short time she thought they'd begun to develop a meaningful
relationship. 

Now here he was at her door, unannounced and, although the hall was
dark, she could see he was using the wall for support.  Apparently he
had come to her drunk...again.  

 "What are you doing here, Mel?" she asked barely managing to keep the
anger out of her voice. 

"I need your help."  His voice was strained as if he was in pain not
slurred like she expected.  

Concerned, she snapped on the light.  "Mel," she said, stunned by the
fresh cuts on his face: blood was smeared across one cheek. His
clothes were ripped and he smelled of smoke.  "What happened?"

"There was an explosion.  I "

"Explosion," Dana interrupted.  "Where?  Are "

"Dana, Please.  I'll explain later.  I've got a man who's seriously
wounded.  I need you to look at him.  Please."

Dana didn't hesitate.  "Where is he?"

"At the back entrance."

Scully nodded, walking briskly down the hall, expecting Frohike to be
right behind her.  "What are his injuries?  Mel?" She prompted then
turned around when she heard him groan.  "Mel!"  He was leaning
against the wall, his face gray and haggard with strain.  It was then
she noticed a dark cloth tied around his leg.  

She ran back and crouched down, running expert hands over his leg. 
The cloth, she realized, was stained with blood.  "Mel, you need to
get to a hospital.  You need stitches."

"No.  No hospital," he said adamantly.  "It wouldn't be safe."

"Mel," Dana objected.

 "Dana, please.  Just trust me on this."  He pushed himself away from
the wall, inhaling sharply at the pain in his leg.  "You have to help
the professor." 

Dana laid a hand on his arm, silently offering her assistance.  "I
will," she promised.  She saw the relief in his eyes as he took her
arm and together they made their way to the admittance bay in the back
of the morgue.  

When they got there, Frohike stopped. He looked through one of the
round windows of the swinging doors at the night attendant seated with
his feet up on the desk in the far corner of the room. He was
listening to the radio and doing the crossword puzzle in the
newspaper. "You need to get rid of him.  The fewer people who know
about this, the better."

 Dana looked into Frohike's bruised and cut up face and any niggling
doubts that had been dancing at the edge of her mind disappeared. 
"I'll take care of it," she said.

Frohike watched her step through the doors to speak to the man. His
leg hurt like hell and all he wanted to do was sleep for a week. But
he wouldn't relax until he knew his little group had some measure of
safety.  

Dana came back less than two minutes later.  "We're clear," she said.

"Are you sure? What if he comes back?"

Dana gave him a small smile. "He won't.  I told him the city was
cutting our budget again and that I was finishing his shift."

Frohike couldn't help but return her smile before they entered the
admittance area.  He paused by the outer door and signaled a car that
sat at the end of the parking lot. It moved forward without its
headlights.

Scully stifled a gasp when she got a closer look at the car. She saw
what could only be bullet holes along the sides and that the back
window was shattered. 

It stopped within a few feet of them. A tall, young man jumped out of
the driver's seat and ran around to the other side of the car to open
the door.

"Stay here," Scully ordered when Frohike started to move.  Not waiting
to see if he obeyed, she trotted up to the car.  The young man
automatically opened the door to the back seat for her.

"Be careful," he warned, "there's broken glass."

Scully nodded to let him know she understood then leaned well into the
backseat. The light shining out of the building was the only
illumination within the close confines of the vehicle. She gingerly
avoided the pieces of glittering glass.  A young woman watched her
warily from the far side of the car. A man with long blond hair lay
curled up on the seat next to her, his head in her lap.  His eyes were
closed.  

"Hello," Scully said in a reassuring tone as she reached out to touch
the man.  "How long has he been unconscious?"

There was a pained groan in answer.  "I'm dying, aren't I?"

Surprised, Dana flicked a glance toward the woman.  

"He was unconscious for only a few minutes.  He's been complaining of
a splitting headache since then."  The woman paused, a worried
expression passed over her face.  "He also says his chest hurts."

"Has he complained of back or neck pain?"

"Not at all."

Dana stood up and looked around for the young man.  "What's your
name?" Scully asked.

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy, go inside and get a gurney. There should be one right inside
the door."

"Yes, ma'am," he said before hurrying into the building. 

"We have to get him inside where the light is better," Scully told the
woman.  She checked Jimmy's progress and saw him wheeling the gurney
out of the building. She had him put it up against the side of the
car.

She ducked her head back inside.  "Sir, I need you climb slowly out of
the car."

There was a brief lull of silence and then a woeful, "I can't. I'm
dying."

Scully glanced back at the young man who looked worried.  She stuck
her head further into in the car.  "Sir, I know you're in pain but I
can't help you unless you come out of the car."  She paused then
added, "I have a gurney you can lie on."

There was an agonized groan from the man but he didn't move until the
woman leaned down and whispered something in his ear. There was
another dramatic groan before he slowly crawled off her lap and over
the seat.  

He was extremely unsteady on his feet. Dana, with Jimmy's helped, got
him onto the gurney where he practically flopped down, throwing a thin
hand over his face.  Without being asked, Jimmy wheeled him into the
building then, with direction, into the autopsy room. In this place,
they were assured privacy and plenty of light. 

Yves stood at the foot of the autopsy table they had transferred
Langly to and watched Dana's every move. Frohike collapsed into a
chair at the desk where the doctors recorded their findings and Jimmy
was standing near the door as if on lookout. On the desk near Mel,
Yves had placed two wooden boxes, each with a leather handle nailed to
one end.  
Scully ran experienced hands over the blonde scientist's body, feeling
for broken bones. He would occasionally moan when she touched a sore
spot. She discovered he had a few cuts that would need stitching. Two
of which were worse than the others: one on his chest, the other on
his right arm.

"Can you fix him up?" Yves asked breaking silence. 

Scully shook her head. "I can clean him up but I don't have the
bandages I'd need to dress the wounds let alone the suturing
materials. He needs stitches.  By the looks of it, you all do. He also
needs an x-ray.  I suspect he's fractured a couple of ribs." She
paused, knowing they would object to what she would say next but she
had to say it. "He really should be in the hospital."

"The hospital is out of the question," Yves said quickly, a dangerous
tone in her voice.  "Whatever you need, get it.  If necessary, I'll
pay for any medical supplies."

  Scully looked to see Frohike watching Yves closely. She refocused
her attention on the woman. "This would be a lot easier to do if I
understood what was going on and why?"

Yves stared at her with a stony expression.  "You already know all you
need to know."

"Someone tried to kill him tonight," Frohike said from his chair, his
exhaustion evident in his voice. There was a louder moan along with
some frightened whimpering from the man on the table at this
pronouncement. 

Sensing this was all the explanation she was going to receive for the
time being, Dana came to a decision.  "Wait here. I need to make a
phone call."

Yves stepped forward to block the doctor's exit. "No one else can
know!"

Dana looked into the woman's eyes, her temper flaring.  "Ma'am, I've
already explained," she said sweeping a hand outward indicating the
room, "this is a morgue.  I don't have the necessary supplies or
equipment to take care of your friend.  If you want him to recover
fully you will defer to my judgment. If not, you can leave now."

Yves stepped back as if she were stunned by Scully's words.  It was in
that brief moment that the young woman's guard slipped and Dana saw
the exhaustion that Yves was fighting.  She was probably running on
fumes the same as Mel.  

"Yves," Langly spoke for the first time since they'd wheeled him in,
"did she say 'the morgue'? Why am I in the morgue? You said I wasn't
dying."

Returning to his side, Yves laid a hand on his forehead. He looked so
different without his glasses, younger somehow, more vulnerable. "Yes,
this is the morgue and no, you are not dying. Not if I can help it." 

Yves turned to meet Dana's eyes.  "Just make sure you would trust this
person with your life," she said with grim resolve, "because you may
have to."

"I understand," said Dana before walking quickly from the room to make
the call. 

In her office, she dialed the number from memory. The phone only rang
twice. 

"Hello?" a woman's voice said.

"This is Dana. I need your help.  Bring medical supplies especially
bandages and suturing materials.  I'm at work. Come to the back
door."

"What's going on?" 

"I'll explain when you get here.  Don't tell anyone where you are
going."  

"I'll be there shortly."

Scully had to give her friend a lot of credit. Not many people would
run out this late in the evening with so little information. 

When Dana returned to the autopsy room, she noted that someone,
probably Jimmy, had rounded up a couple more chairs. He was sitting in
one, still near the door but Yves continued to stand next to the
injured professor. She was trying to convince Langly that he needed to
stay on the table. 

"You need to lay flat until help gets here," Scully said walking over
to them. "I don't want you injuring yourself any further."

"Listen to the doctor," Yves insisted. 

"My head hurts," complained Langly. "And the table is really hard. And
I'm cold. Why don't you turn on the heat in here?" 

"Nothing but time is going to help your head," Scully said aiding Yves
in settling the professor back down onto the table. "Besides, I can't
be sure what other injuries you have and we don't want to take a
chance of making it worse." Feeling bad for him, she added, "Why don't
I see if I can't find something to cushion your head? Would that
help?"

"It can't hurt any more than it already does," Langly whined.

"Stop complaining," Frohike ordered. He had been resting with his head
in his hand and his elbow on the desk. "It could be a lot worse." 

"Help is on the way," Scully said in hopes of lightening the mood in
the room. She patted Langly's arm to reassure him. "Can you come with
me?" she said to Jimmy as she left the room. 

They came back ten minutes later with coffee for everyone, a pillow
for Langly and a couple of blankets. Moving a chair nearer the autopsy
table, Scully tried to convince Yves to sit down and have something to
drink. She accepted the coffee but stubbornly remained standing at
Langly's side. Frohike gladly accepted the cup of Scully's infamously
strong brew.  
"Hey, how come I don't get any?" Langly fussed. 

Scully smiled at him. "Not yet," she said. "We need to get you fixed
up first." She tucked his blanket tighter around him.

"But I'm thirsty, now." 

"Does he ever stop complaining?" Frohike muttered to himself. His leg
hurt like a son of a gun, which shortened his patience. There was one
advantage to the pain, though: it was keeping him awake and alert. 

There was a loud buzz from the admission bay making everyone but
Scully jump. "It's reinforcements," she said to reassure them. Her
eyes widened when Yves drew a gun from her pocket.  "What are you
doing," she demanded.

"I'm going with you," Yves said, "to make sure it's your friend."

"This is insane.  Mel! Reason with her." Scully turned to Frohike
expecting him to object to Yves' guerilla tactics but he was standing,
favoring his hurt leg while he clutched a scalpel.     

"We need to be cautious, Dana," he replied, tension radiating from
him.  

Scully glanced at the other two.  Jimmy was clearly worried while
Langly looked terrified.  Until that moment, the danger Frohike had
glossed over hadn't been real, even with their myriad wounds. 

She turned, going to the admission bay.  Yves positioned herself on
the other side of the door, her gun in her good hand.  Yves nodded and
Scully opened the door.

She couldn't describe her relief upon seeing her friend.  "Sally," she
said for both Yves' benefit and the woman outside the door. "Thanks so
much for coming." 

"If anyone else had called me out of the blue with such a request, I
would have hung up on them." Sally raised a questioning eyebrow at
Scully as Yves stepped from behind the door.  She gave the young woman
a good long look, noticing first the wound in her shoulder; secondly
the gun she held in her hand. Her first thought was for Dana's safety.
Was she being coerced into helping fugitives?

"It's not what you think," Dana said. She turned to the woman.  "Put
your gun away.  She thinks you're forcing me to assist you."

The young woman glanced at Dana but did as she was asked.  "I'm going
to check to make sure she wasn't followed," she said slipping
outside.

"Dana..."

"I'll explain everything I know as we walk," Dana said.

"I can't wait to hear it," Sally said.

Dana took one of the two bags her friend was carrying. She quickly
explained the situation as they walked down the hallway to where their
patients were waiting. 

"The professor is the worst off. He definitely has a concussion and
I'm worried he may have some broken ribs. All but one of them will
need stitches. I'd like you to handle that. I'm afraid I'm a bit out
of practice."

"That shouldn't be a problem," said her friend as Scully opened the
door into the autopsy room.

Scully took the two bags of medical supplies and set them down on the
counter. She then addressed the others. "This is my friend, Dr. Sally
Mackenzie. She works in the emergency room at Georgetown Memorial."
Sally was a little more than five feet tall, with red hair like
Scully's and a quiet confidence about her that said she meant
business.

While Scully was talking, Dr. Mackenzie surveyed the room. They were a
sorry looking group, all blood stained and seriously battered. Dana
said they'd been caught in an explosion and they certainly looked like
it. The mysterious woman came into the room, positioning herself next
to the man on the table.

She walked over to the table to look down at Langly quickly assessing
his condition.  

"What's your name?" she asked him.

He squinted at her, trying to get a good look at her face. "Richard,"
he said. 

"Richard," she repeated. "You can call me Sally."

"Okay, Sally." 

"Dana said you blacked out for a couple of minutes. Do you remember
hitting your head?" She studied his pupils. 

"Not really," Langly admitted. "About the only thing I remember is a
lot of noise...and heat."

She carefully examined every inch of his skull. She found a big lump
on the side of his head. He sucked his breath in between his teeth
when she touched it. "Sorry," the doctor said, "I hate to tell you but
that's going to hurt for a while. You have a headache, no doubt."

"Yeah, and it's a killer."

She came around so she could look him in the face. "It's better than
the alternative," she said laying a hand on his cheek. 

With Langly under one doctor's care, Yves allowed the other doctor to
more closely examine her wound. Dana suggested they go down to her
office where Yves could have some privacy. She was hesitant at first
to leave the professor. 

"Don't worry, Yves," Jimmy told her, "me and Frohike are here. We're
not going to let anything happen to him." 

Dr. Mackenzie continued her examination of the professor. She ran
warm, gentle fingers over his abdomen pressing firmly on each rib.
Although, the ones near the gash in his chest were tender, none of
them appeared to be broken. 

She worked on him for quite a while finally saying, "You're a very
lucky man. Except for the concussion, you're in relatively good shape.
You'll have a headache for a few days but you should be all right. I
would like to take you in for a few x-rays but I hear that's out of
the question."

"Yves says no hospitals," Langly told the doctor.

"I understand that. We'll just keep a close eye on you for a while and
hope there are no further complications. This will mean keeping you
awake all night to make sure you remain coherent." 

Langly didn't ask what those complications could be. He really didn't
want to know.  

Before Dr. Mackenzie was done with Langly, Scully returned to tell her
that Yves was ready for her. 

"She's in my office," she said before turning to Frohike. "Okay, Mel
it's your turn." 

Scully got a pair of scissors. "Here," she said. "Stand up." He did
with difficulty. He kept one hand on the desk as she carefully cut
through the fabric of his pants leg exposing his injury. 

They turned to see Jimmy helping a freshly bandaged Langly off the
table. His bloody shirt lay on the floor so he kept the blanket
wrapped around himself for warmth. 

"It will be easier to stitch you up if you're on the table," Dr.
Mackenzie said to Frohike. He hobbled over with Dana's help. The table
was high off the floor making it difficult to get up on it without a
bit of a jump but he managed it, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Although his injury was ragged and deep, Dr. Mackenzie quickly
cleaned, stitched and bandaged him up. 

She then turned her attention to Yves. Finding her waiting in the ME's
office, she examined the deep puncture wound in Yves's left shoulder.

"What hit you?"

"A brick, I think."

Dr. Mackenzie made a thoughtful noise. "It looks pretty clean. Did it
bleed a great deal?"

"It bled enough."

Yves watched the doctor carefully while she worked, trying to assess
her. "It's very important that no one knows about us. Dr. Scully says
we can trust you to be discreet."

"I've been known to keep confidences and it seems to me that
whatever's going on here is quite confidential."

"You could be in as much danger as we are if word got out that you
helped us."

Dr. Mackenzie stopped midstitch to look Yves in the eyes. "I
understand that.  But I do have one question."

"You can ask it but I cannot guarantee an answer."

"Fair enough," said the doctor. "All I really want to know is that
what you're doing is for the greater good, that it's important and not
for personal gain."

Yves nodded. "It is important and, if we succeed, it will save
thousands of lives."

"Then I'm glad to be of help."

Chapter 13


Maggie couldn't decide what to feel as she sank into her office chair.
 She had hoped Mel would be at the office although what he would have
been doing alone in the dark she didn't want to contemplate.  She
sighed, leaning back in the chair.  Did she really want to find Mel
drunk or passed out?  

Of course not, she admonished herself.  And Mel was stronger then
that.   Yes, he'd had a few set backs recently but the Jennings case
had hit him hard.   However, he was doing better in his professional
and personal life.  He even....

Maggie shot up in her chair, laughing aloud.  Of course!  Why hadn't
she thought of it before?  

She grabbed her phone and quickly flipped through her address book
until she found the number she wanted.  Mel, she was sure, would seek
the company of the one person who was responsible in large for his
improved mood these days.

She dialed the morgue, hoping she was correct. The phone rang several
times with no answer. 

"Office attire has never been more lovely."

The familiar voice made Maggie turn around.  "Mr. Fletcher," she said,
dropping the receiver on the hook.  

Morris Fletcher stood at the door, a smarmy grin on his face.  "It's
Maggie, right?"  

Maggie stood up, unconsciously smoothing her dress, trying to disguise
how uneasy the man made her feel.  "What are you doing here, Mr.
Fletcher?"

He entered, still smiling.  "I was hoping to speak to Mr. Frohike
about my case."  His gaze flicked around the room, settled on
Frohike's closed office door a moment before returning to Maggie. "Is
he here?"

"Of course not," Maggie said cautiously in her most businesslike
voice. "It's Saturday night."

"And yet you're here." Fletcher's smile never wavered; his voice never
lost its mild tone.  It unnerved Maggie.   She had worked too long for
Mel not to understand the man was fishing for information and was not
above putting her on the defensive to get her to slip up and reveal
the information he wanted.  

Except Maggie didn't know where Mel was.  She pasted an embarrassed
smile on her face.  "Yes.  I was meeting a friend for dinner..." Where
was Fox? He should have called all ready. "...when I realized I had
forgotten to type up a contract for a client."  

"If you're still interested in talking to Mr. Frohike," she continued,
"he will be back in the office at 9 a.m. on Monday."  Maggie tried to
guide the man out but he neatly sidestepped her.

"I don't think you understand what I want, Maggie."  Fletcher
continued to smile.

Before Maggie could think of anything to say, she heard footsteps in
the hall.  She looked up, expecting to see Fox, a boyish grin on his
face and she nearly let out an audible sigh of relief.

It caught in her throat. 

 A man, tall and good looking stood in the doorway.  He didn't say
anything, just gazed at her.  His silence was more frightening then
Morris Fletcher's malevolent smile.

"Alex," Fletcher said cheerfully. "Come in.  Maggie and I were having
a conversation, why don't you join us?"

Krycek stepped inside the office, closing the door behind him.  

Maggie heard the snick of the lock a moment later.  






* * * * *




Jimmy couldn't believe his luck.  His camera seemed to have made it
through the evening's craziness intact.  Its only real value was
sentimental. He'd purchased it with his first paycheck as a staff
photographer on the Gazette. 

He looked through the viewfinder and scanned the room.  Professor
Langly was sitting in a corner with a notebook and pencil furiously
attempting to recreate his lost notes.   If Langly had been agitated
about being in a morgue, he apparently had forgotten all about his
fears once he was lost in his work. 

He turned his attention, adjusting the focus until he saw clear images
of Frohike and Dr. Scully talking quietly to each other. Back in the
chair he had claimed when they first arrived, Frohike looked a lot
better. Dr. Mackenzie had sutured his leg and ordered him to stay off
it as much as possible. He had pretty much obeyed her instructions
with the exception of washing up and changing into an extra set of
clothes he had stashed in the trunk of his car for long stakeouts.  

He heard footsteps from the hall and quickly set the camera on the
little table that held gleaming surgical tools.  Trying not to dwell
on the possible use of a particularly nasty looking saw-like thing, he
watched anxiously as the door swung open.  

He let out his held breath when Yves and Dr. Mackenzie entered.  Yves
looked a lot better. Like Frohike, she had washed off the worst of the
dirt and soot.  Dr. Scully had lent her some clothes she kept in her
office for, as she said, 'just in case."  She hadn't elaborated or
given an explanation for those cryptic words but after seeing the
tools of her job, Jimmy didn't particularly want to know. 

"Miss Harlow," Dr. Mackenzie was saying, frustration evident in her
voice.  "You should be wearing a sling to keep that shoulder immobile.
"If those stitches ..."

"They won't," Yves interrupted dismissively.  

"Then at least get some rest."  Mackenzie's gaze slid from Yves to
Frohike.  "Both of you.  Your bodies have suffered significant trauma
and blood loss not to mention the signs of exhaustion you're both
exhibiting.  You need to let your bodies heal; sleep is the best
remedy I could prescribe."  When both of her patients just met her
gaze with obstinate expressions, she sighed.  

Yves spoke up. "Doctor Mackenzie." 

Expecting yet another warning to remain silent Mackenzie said, "I know
it's pointless to tell you not to worry so I won't.  But I will say
this:  however unorthodox this situation is, I believe what you told
me earlier.  The only assurance I can give you is that I gave Dana my
word I would keep silent.  I would not willingly betray her trust and
by default...yours."  

Mackenzie left it at that; whether the young woman chose to believe
her was up to her.  Yves listened and when she finished, she saw the
corner of Harlow's mouth lift a fraction of an inch.

"I just wanted to thank you," Yves said.  

"Oh."  Dr. Mackenzie was momentarily taken aback but she recovered
quickly, offering a slight smile in return.  "You're welcome.  Dana? 
Walk me out?"

Once the two doctors left, an uneasy silence fell over the weary
quartet and each slipped into his or her own thoughts.  Langly
continued to scribble in the notebook Dr. Scully had provided him. 
Jimmy, at a loss of something constructive to do, took up a sentry
position by the door.  Frohike had said they would be safe here and he
believed the detective but the vibes he was getting from Frohike and
Yves did nothing to quiet his rattled nerves.    

Frohike, taking Dr. Mackenzie's advice, remained in his chair. He
stuck his bad leg straight out in front of him.  Yves, her back
against a wall, arms crossing over her chest, watched the Professor.
Their calm veneer belied the fact they'd nearly been blown to bits
earlier in the evening.   

Since arriving at the morgue, Frohike'd had time to think.  He kept
going back to the abbreviated conversation at the beach house and the
questions it birthed.  He had set them aside once all hell had broken
loose and their focus had changed to one of survival.  But they
weren't running for their lives now, making it a good time to get some
answers. 

He labored out his chair, grimacing when he placed his weight on his
bad leg. "We need to talk, Yves.  I want "

"Goddammit!"  

Startled by Langly's furious outburst, Frohike, Yves and Jimmy all
focused on the Professor.  

 "What now?" Frohike growled, expecting another round of theatrics. 
He already missed the quiet when the Professor was unconscious.   

Langly shoved the notebook away from him.  "You can't expect me to
recreate from memory equations that took weeks to formulate especially
when I'm tired and hungry.  When are we leaving this hole?"  The last
was directed at Yves.   

"We will as soon as I can arrange a safe place for us."  For the first
time since he had met her, Frohike saw a shadow of doubt behind her
eyes.  

"This place stinks," Langly continued to whine.  "I need someplace
that doesn't stink."

Ignoring the scientist, Frohike leveled his gaze on Yves. In a
skeptical voice he asked, "That's your big plan?  Run and hide?"

"My first priority is to keep the Professor alive," Yves said. "If
that means we run and hide, then that is what I will do."  

Not what she wanted to do.  

It was obvious to Frohike that she preferred a more direct approach to
the problem but as long as she was saddled with the task of protecting
the Professor she would do just that.

"Yeah," Langly said in a haughty voice.  "Besides, it's only for a
couple more days."

"Professor, do you intend to call another press conference?" Yves
asked mildly.  A guilty flush spread over Langly's face and he lapsed
into silence.  

"What's going to happen in a couple of days?" Jimmy asked glancing
from one to the other. 	
"Nothing that concerns you," Yves said tersely.

"The hell it doesn't," Frohike retorted, jerking a finger at Jimmy. 
"He and I were nearly killed tonight.  I think we deserve to know the
truth about what's going on."  When she didn't reply, he took several
steps toward her.  "I want answers, Yves, and it had better be the
truth."

Yves stared at him, a bland expression on her face.  Frohike glared
back, refusing to back down.  After a few seconds, she sighed, as if
coming to a decision. 

"What you said at the beach house was correct," she said finally.

Frohike mentally reviewed what they had discussed.  They had touched
upon a number of things but before he could ask which one Yves meant,
Jimmy did it for him.

"What was he right about?"

Yves flicked a glance at him before returning her attention to
Frohike.  "Before I answer that, I'd like you to answer a question." 
She studied him carefully continuing. "Who do you think I am?"

Frohike grinned. "British Intelligence.  MI-6 to be precise."

Yves crossed the autopsy room to stand by the table where she had
placed the two wooden boxes.  Frohike recognized them as the boxes the
Professor had made a point of taking from the house before it
exploded. Yves had also risked her life to save them before they fled
from their pursuers.  

"You were correct about this being about German codes."

It was at that point the Dana Scully returned.  She looked from
Frohike to Yves, sensing the tension in the room. "Am I interrupting
something?" 

Frohike's first impulse was to assure Dana she wasn't.  After
everything she had done for them, he figured she had a right to hear
what Yves was about to say, no matter how much the younger woman
pursed her lips in disapproval. But common sense won out in the end. 
The less Dana knew, the safer she would be.  "Dana, could you give us
a few minutes?"

"I have some paperwork that I need to attend to," she said.  Frohike
could have kissed her right then and there but she had already turned
to leave, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She was an incredibly
special lady, one he didn't deserve, but he would do whatever it took
to atone for every ugly thing he'd dropped on her doorstep.

"The Allies have been unable to decrypt the German codes," Yves
continued, glancing at Frohike.  "We received information that they
had an advanced encoding device called 'the Enigma'."

"Enigma?" Jimmy interrupted looking at Langly who had set his notebook
aside and was listening to the conversation. "You mentioned that a
couple times when I talked to you.  I thought you were referring to
the codes but it was a machine."  He pointed to the box.  "That
machine."

"Actually," Langly said in a superior tone, "I was referring to
both."

"Shut up.  Both of you," Frohike ordered.  To Yves he said. "I take it
there was a mission to..." he paused, "...acquire one."

She nodded.  "Only it was the Poles who succeeded but before they
could hand it over to British agents it disappeared.  It was learned
that an unknown player had hired an independent agent to steal the
machine.  This person's identity has not been discovered, but the
thief's identity was and plans were made to recover the Enigma."

"Why do I have the feeling," Frohike said, "that the thief was Morris
Fletcher."

"Morris Fletcher is a slick conman," Yves said by way of confirmation.
"Each time he would identify the agents then..." 	
"He'd disappear," Frohike finished.

Yves scowled.  "Not right away. He'd let the agents get close and then
vanished, often setting them up so they would end up in embarrassing
or compromising situations.  To him it was a game, something to amuse
himself until he could deliver the item to his employer."

"London decided to send one last agent but this time the agent was to
play Fletcher's game and use it against him.  This agent succeeded
where more experienced agents failed."  From the brief, proud smile
Frohike suspected Yves had been the agent in question.  It was then he
realized with some amusement that she never admitted to being an
agent.  

Jimmy furrowed his brow.  "I don't understand. Why would you bring the
Enigma machine to America?  Why not England?"

"It was taken to England originally. From what I understand, there is
a cadre of scientists working around the clock on deciphering the
code. After a time, I was asked to bring it here."

"Yeah, they sent Yves to beg me to join them," Langly boasted.

Yves rolled her eyes. "In a few days we are rendezvousing with MI-6
agents who will escort the professor to a place there where he can
help break the codes."

 Jimmy's brow furrowed, "But you have an Enigma machine. Don't you
know how it works?"

"They do," Langly said from his corner, "but there are 150 million
million million possible combinations.  For the last ten months, the
best minds in cryptography have been trying to figure out which
combination the Nazis have been using but they are no closer to it
than when they started."

"Thanks for that enlightening lesson," Frohike said sarcastically,
"don't let us keep you from your work." With a frown, Langly submerged
himself in the notebook muttering to no one in particular about his
ill treatment.  Frohike turned to Yves. "So basically, what you're
saying is Morris Fletcher is trying to get the Enigma back?"

 "Don't be so quick to dismiss Fletcher.  He's a conman, yes, but he's
also quite dangerous.  He didn't take losing the Enigma very well." 
Yves glanced at the machine, a shadow passing over her features.  When
she looked up again, she wore an expression of careful neutrality.
"He's working for someone who is powerful and far more dangerous..."

"This mysterious employer have a name?"

"The only name we have for him is a codename."  Yves shrugged as if to
infer she had no part in naming him. "Cigarette Smoking Man... due to
the fact that, the few times they've gotten close to him, they found
ashtrays full of crushed cigarettes."

Jimmy snorted.  "That doesn't narrow it down much: nearly everybody
smokes."

Frohike glanced at the photographer.  "I think that's their point."

Yves went to stand next to Langly.  "Regardless, the fact remains that
this person is powerful and has connections inside the FBI and
Fletcher has access to those resources."

"Which means we can't trust anyone in the FBI," Langly said softly,
fear in his voice.  "And because of the Blitz, Yves can't contact
anyone to let them know we're in trouble."

Carefully considering everything Yves had told him, Frohike said. "I
think I know someone who may be able help us." 

Yves raised an eyebrow.  "Us?"

Frohike leaned against the desk taking some of the weight off his bad
leg.  "Whether you like it or not, Sugar, we're involved:  me and the
boy wonder there.  The bad guys know what we look like and I have no
intention of crawling into a dark hole counting the minutes until your
buddies get here. And from what I've seen of you, you wouldn't much
care for that either."

"What are you suggesting?"  Yves asked.

"The F.B.I."  He raised a hand when she started to protest. "I know
someone who has connections.  I'm sure they could find you somewhere
safe to wait until it's time to meet up with your pals."

"How can you be so sure I can trust this person?" asked Yves.

"He's honest and can't be bought."

"Everyone can be bought," Yves stated.  "It's just a matter of
discovering his price."

"That's an awful way to think," said Jimmy quietly.

Yves turned her gaze on him.  "It's reality," she said simply.

"So, do you agree?" Frohike asked.

"To what," Yves asked, "exchanging one rabbit hole for another?  It's
still hiding and I'm no longer in control."

The woman could be stubborn, Frohike thought.  But he still had an ace
up his sleeve and he played it.  "At least the professor would be
safe. Besides, you could throw the G-Men a few tidbits about Fletcher.
And I'm sure they would like to hear whatever information you can give
them about a mole in their ranks."

Yves frowned, thinking long and hard about Frohike's offer. The others
watched her knowing that, with the Professor under her protection, all
the decisions for his safety were hers to make. 

After a full minute of silence, she admitted, "I don't like it but I
can't see that we have any other choice."  

"You always have a choice. Just make sure you're using that pretty
little brain of yours when you make it."  The angry spark that lit her
eyes told him he'd gone too far.  "Easy, Sugar," he said. "All I meant
was, I can help you but I don't want to get back here and find you've
vamoosed with the walking math problem over there."

"We'll be here," Yves assured him. 

 "Good. I'll go now," Frohike turned to leave then paused.  He glanced
back at Yves.  "You're returning to England with Blondie, I take it?"

"Of course," she said. 

He reached into his pocket, removing his wallet.  He took out a slip
of paper and offered it to her.

"What's this?" Yves asked quizzically.  

"In case you're wondering, I sent Monica out of town for the weekend. 
That's the phone number where she can be reached."  When Yves didn't
reply or take the paper, he asked, "You were going to tell your sister
that you're leaving?"  

Even as he said the words, he knew she had no intention of telling
Monica.  He wondered whether or not Yves had used her relationship
with Monica as a cover.  He was afraid to look too closely because he
wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.    
"I don't have time to deal with Monica right now." Yves' dismissive
tone angered Frohike.  

"You'd better make time because you were the one who pulled her into
your little web of lies and put her in jeopardy.  She knows we went to
that beach house. I think you owe her a phone call to let her know you
didn't get roasted alive before she hears about it on the radio."  

He let go of the folded paper, which fluttered to the floor. He then
turned and stormed from the room as best he could with his bum leg. 
He nearly ran into Scully who was returning to check on them.  She
took one look at his expression and, circling an arm around his waist,
left with him.

  Yves picked up the piece of paper.  She looked at it a moment,
indecision on her face before crumpling it up.

"You're not going to call her?"

Yves glanced at Jimmy, noting the disapproval in his expression.
"No."

"But she's your sister," he protested.

She sighed.  "Which is precisely why I can't call her."  

"But you wrote her that letter," Jimmy pointed out, not comprehending
her reasoning. He studied her face wanting to understand. 

She averted her gaze to watch Langly scribbling in his notebook. 
There was no reason she should have to explain herself to Jimmy Bond. 
It was none of his business.  

"Why is a phone call different, Yves?" he gently pressed.  

"The letter was a grievous error," Yves said finally. "I intended to
warn her but all I did was place her in greater danger."

"But she's safe now," Jimmy insisted, "Frohike told her not to tell
anyone where she was."

"I can't risk it."  Her face hardened.  "Besides, once I'm gone, it
will be a moot point. Frohike was correct when he said I was using
Monica."

Jimmy winced at the callousness in her tone.  He remembered what
Monica said about their background. "Monica told me about your dad."

"Mr. Bond, I don't see how any of this is your business."  Yves' voice
was tight, angry...defensive.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said quickly, sensing she wouldn't tolerate the
conversation much longer. "I didn't mean to intrude.  It's just
that...the two of you have a lot in common.  Your dad betrayed both of
you. When her dad told her about you, she was deeply hurt but in spite
all that, she used her inheritance to find you.  She accepted you as
her sister, inviting you into her life and in the process alienating
her brother.  He refuses to speak to her." 

"I'm well aware of how the story goes," Yves retorted but there was no
rancor in her voice.  

"My point is," said Jimmy quickly, "she didn't have to do all that but
she did. I think no matter how this thing with the Professor plays
out, it wouldn't change the fact that you are Monica's sister, her
family."  He paused letting his words sink in. Whatever she did next,
it was up to her.  He just hoped she would give Monica a chance.  

"I've gotta go give Frohike his car keys," he said. "He forgot I still
have them." He headed for the door to leave her with her thoughts.
"Think about it. It's just a phone call. I'm sure you won't regret
it."

Yves watched him go then opened her hand and smoothed out the piece of
paper.  She explored her emotions, surprised to discover the
resentment and anger she had harbored since Frohike had first found
her in England had completely disappeared.

He was right, she decided.  While Monica had proved to be a convenient
cover, in spending time with her, Yves had found her to be family. 
She did need to talk to Monica and tell her something.  

She owed her that much at least.