Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2001 22:43:13 -0800 From: Erynn Subject: Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 1 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 1 Authors: Erynn & Sally Email: inisglas@seanet.com, sallyh@flashcom.net Archive: Ephemeral, Gossamer, LGM, FLO, all others ask first so we know where we're being kept. Rated: R for grownup stuff Spoilers: We assume you've seen the series Category: Gunmen -- angst, humor, a little romance Summary: Sometimes words are more important in our lives than we think. Stories in the Things Undone series: Things Undone, by Erynn; a 5-part story wherein the Gunmen deal with some unfinished business. TU 2: Mending the Tears, by Sally; a 6-part story wherein Fro and Langly go to the ER. TU 3: To Carry On, by Erynn; wherein the Gunmen begin to deal with the repercussions of their adventure. Disclaimers: We don't own the boys, but we sure wish we did. They and the other characters from the series are owned instead by The Powers That Be at Fox and 1013, the boys were created by Morgan & Wong, and they're all controlled by the folks at The X Files and The Lone Gunmen series. Other characters are ours, some of whom are blatantly based on people we know, frequently at their request. Don't blame us, we're being coerced. Quotes from Rimbaud are used without permission. Deepest thanks to Mel, our Tech Consultant Queen and resident cartoonist. ______ "As for established happiness, domestic or otherwise -- no, I cannot. I am too worn out, too weak." ~~ Rimbaud -- "A Season in Hell"~~ ______ LGM HQ SATURDAY, MARCH 4, 2000 MID MORNING FROHIKE: I don't know which is worse. On one side of me, I've got Langly mooning like an adolescent in love. Or at least very heavy lust. I was hoping that as his injuries healed, he would get more agreeable, but in fact just the opposite has happened. He's irritable, impatient, and even moodier than usual. Which is saying a lot. On the other side is Byers, still in bad shape after Mata Hari's abrupt departure, and not really getting any better. Langly's more annoying than usual, but Byers really has me worried. He hasn't been getting up until afternoon lately, his suits have been wrinkled, and he's even been forgetting to shower and shave. He's sitting at his computer now in his flannel jammies and bathrobe, his hair all spiky with pillow head. None of these are good signs. "Fuck!" Langly's quit trying to swear under his breath. He now treats us to a public service announcement every time he opens his email -- which he does at least once an hour. "Oh, calm down!" I snap at him as I prepare some tea and toast. "Nothing! Three days since my last email and I got bupkes! She hates me!" "Langly, she's a doctor. More specifically, she's a third-year resident. Translated into English, that means she has no life." I've reiterated this time after time after time, and it still fails to sink in. Boy always did have a hard head. Byers really isn't too different in that regard. I prepare the tea and toast for my more sedate companion, hoping I can get him to eat something. I went to the bakery this morning to pick up fresh cinnamon-raisin whole wheat bread for toast. Normally, dietary moderation goes out the window when I serve this to him. He's been known to put down half a loaf all by himself. I also got fresh Earl Grey, his favorite type of tea. I'm hoping it will entice him, but quite honestly, I'm not optimistic. Both of them are looking very thin, but Langly has started to regain his appetite. I can't say the same for Byers. He's coping a little better with with incident with the crane, but he's just not getting over being abandoned by Susanne Modeski. It took him a while to start talking about what actually happened, but he's still keeping to himself a lot more than normal. Poor kid. He even asked her to marry him. And she just walked away. Although I had hoped they could work it out, if only for his sake, I figured that she would dump him eventually. I still can't forgive her for how she's left him. She's never coming back, and he knows it. It's made him about the most miserable creature on the face of the planet. "Hey, Byers, breakfast." He doesn't look up from his computer. "I'm not really hungry Mel, but thanks." "Hey buddy, it's your favorite. Cinnamon-raisin and Earl Grey." I wave the plate under his nose, and see him perk up slightly. Maybe he's a little hungrier than he thought. "Fresh from the bakery just a couple of hours ago..." I taunt. His nose follows when I move the plate away. It's a much more hopeful sign than I'd expected, but he hasn't already snagged it out of my hand as he used to. "Well, maybe just a little..." He follows me into the kitchen, where his mug is waiting for him. He sits at the table and takes his dark blue mug between both hands, then sighs, inhaling the steam coming off the hot tea. He's brooding over Susanne again. I don't think he ever stopped, actually. "You've gotta let go of her, Byers. This is killing you." I try to make him see some sense, but he's ignoring me, sipping the tea slowly, and taking tiny nibbles off the toast. I've seen him like this all too often lately. I'm not unsympathetic, but it's beginning to get on my nerves. "Hey, where's my breakfast?" Langly whines over his laptop. There's very little in the world more annoying than Langly in a full-blown whine. Between his lack of immediate email response from the current object of his affections and his growing desire for food, this is shaping up to a world class snivel-fest. I'm not sure I'm up to this today. My back still hurts, even though I ditched the sling weeks ago. Byers is trying to ignore Langly, too. "It's coming, blondie." I growl. "Don't get your knickers in a knot." Langly's settling in for a good whine while I make us huevos rancheros. "Damn, I wish she'd write back!" I don't think blonde boy realizes how much his continual noisy yatter about his fantasy woman is cutting John up. Byers just closes his eyes and turns away, clutching his mug like a security blanket. I can see him thinking nasty thoughts at Langly. Ringo's found someone, and he's lost the woman he's been obsessing over for the past eleven years. This isn't helping. Langly, of course, is oblivious, as usual. "Jesus, Langly, don't you ever shut up?" I know the answer to this question, but I always ask anyway. "Yeah, which is more than I can say for you, Doohickey!" he spits at me. "Listen, you hippie jerk, I've about had it with your mooning and moping around and whining just because your current lust object fails to respond to your every beck and call within five minutes. I'd appreciate it if you'd start acting like an adult!" "Oh, and you're such a great one to talk!" "Shut up, punk." "No, you shut up! All you ever do is bitch at me, and if you can't find something to bitch about, you make it up!" "Langly, you are seriously pushing the envelope here. Allow me to warn you that my patience is running on empty right about now." "So what makes that different from any other day?" His angular face is contorted by his irritation. "Unless you're interested in having a rerun of your injuries, you'd better get out of my face right now!" "With pleasure!" He slams down the lid of the laptop and flounces off to his room. Well, it's as close as he can manage to a flounce with mending ribs and a broken arm. Normally, these exchanges don't get under my skin; they're part and parcel of living with him. Today, though, I'm really not up for it. My back hurts, my arm is killing me, and I'm tired of being an ever-patient, caring father figure and getting nothing back. "And you!" I turn on poor hapless Byers, who is so shaken he drops his mug of tea on the floor, yelping when it burns his bare feet. "I don't care what you do or how you do it, but as of now, your ass gets out of this place for a while! You are not going to spend your life pining away inside these walls. And do you know why you're not?" He's too stunned to speak, but that doesn't interrupt me. "Because, Byers, not only are you driving yourself insane, you're driving me insane!" I poke a finger in his face to emphasize my displeasure. He flushes crimson and lowers his head. "I'm... I'm sorry." "I'm not interested in your apologies. I'm interested in you getting a life. Langly and I are going to watch Virginia versus Florida State at the Limerick tonight. They just put in flat screen HDTV, seven foot screens, four of 'em." "I hate the Limerick." He grimaces. "They're in violation of all the no-smoking ordinances." In my irritation, I toss the latest DC Weekly at him. "Fine. Then don't go. But find something else to do. It's fucking high time you got out of here and did something other than mope about Susanne." The tabloid lands on him with a thwack. "Now get your skinny narc butt out of here right this instant, and I don't want to see your sorry ass back here until at least nine tonight!" I don't hang around to see if he opens it. MARCH 4, 2000 LATE MORNING THE GUNMEN'S VAN BYERS: When Frohike threw me out with the Weekly in hand, I suppose I shouldn't have been so surprised. At least he gave me time to shower and get dressed. I know I haven't been myself lately. Not since Susanne left. There had always been hope before, but these days I feel like the sky has fallen. In a way, I suppose it has. I brought a crane down on top of a man who wanted to kill us. According to Langly, the one he really wanted was me. Apparently, Landau blamed me personally for screwing up his mission, and for messing with his head by having him confess to killing Susanne's false fiancee, and the faked death of Susanne herself. Ringo says that he wanted me dead in a bad way, but he won't give any details, and I'm not entirely sure I want to know them. He still shakes when he talks about it. I still can't really get right with killing Timmy, either, but Mel and Ringo have been pushing the idea that it wasn't my fault, and even I have to admit they're right about that. I never planned on landing on the crane release, or the miserable condition of the machinery itself. But what really took my sky away was Susanne, when she left. She was my sky. She was my light and my hope, and the woman I'd been dreaming of for eleven years. When she said she was leaving, the stars began falling, and the sun and moon followed them into the black. I've been in utter darkness ever since. Sometimes I think it would have been easier if she'd died, or I had, although I would never wish such a thing on her. I feel sick even thinking that. It just hurts so much to know that she chose to walk away, even after I'd asked her to marry me. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say she's broken my heart. I'm not sure I have one left. I can't even cry anymore, I feel so empty. I settle back in the van's driver's seat, with the Weekly open over the steering wheel. Frohike's locked me out of the office, and I've been left to fend for myself for the day. This is March Madness, so there's a startling paucity of social events scheduled for the evening. I look for a classical music concert, but the only thing nearby is a performance of Bartok piano concertos. I'm not much for Bartok, no disrespect intended to the late composer. Sometimes I actually enjoy college ball, but sitting at the Limerick and chugging Bud Longnecks while I listen to the patrons get drunker and rowdier is not my idea of a pleasant evening. I don't see anything at all in the matinee listings, and anyway, I'm not really in the mood for loud. None of the art houses are having matinees at all this weekend, although there's a showing of 'The Passion of Joan of Arc' this evening, a silent French classic long thought lost. It's not even noon yet, so I'd just end up waiting around outside one of the googolplexes to see a loud mantinee movie I didn't want to watch in the first place. That sounds like a thoroughly charming afternoon. I've seen all the art galleries and museums fairly recently, and none of them have changed shows since I was in last. None of the comedians performing tonight appeal to me; I think all the good ones will be at the game. My eyes drift through the section on author and poetry readings at local bookshops. There are always a significant number of them in the area, even though I tend to view DC as a cultural vacuum. There's a book signing by Margaret Atwood, an author I truly enjoy, but not until six this evening. There are two prose readings scheduled. One is at GWU, a reading of 'Finnegan's Wake.' I've done that -- in college. It lasts all night and generally no one is sober by the middle. I no longer have the inclination or energy to indulge in that sort of thing. The poetry readings and open mikes look a little more promising, but most are in the evening. One, however, catches my eye. There's a Saturday Brunch reading at the Soylent Bean Book & Cafe, a rather pleasant little independent new and used book shop with a decent, non-smoking cafe that serves actual food. I often go there on days when I need something new to read. The owner's reasonable and friendly, remembers his regular customers and their preferences, handles odd and obscure special orders without a twitch, and doesn't ask too many personal questions. There are usually enough people there that I don't have to worry about being either completely alone in the shop or feeling overcrowded. The place is only about five miles from here, and I'll have some time to browse before the reading and open mike begin. I don't recognize the names of the two featured readers, but that's all right. Poetry readings are always catch as catch can. Some poets are reasonably good and some are lousy, but even the lousy ones can have their amusement factor. I fold the paper and set it in the passenger seat, then head out for the Bean. end part 1 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 2a "Poetic old-fashionedness figured largely in my alchemy of the word." ~~Rimbaud -- "A Season in Hell"~~ _______ MARCH 4, 2000 SOYLENT BEAN BOOK & CAFE NOON When I arrive at the Soylent Bean, there are maybe five customers in the bookshop, and the small cafe is almost to capacity with the brunch crowd. I browse for a while, picking up a used Chomsky title, and stake myself out a table for the reading, which should be commencing shortly. The MC has already passed around the open mike signup, and has been talking to what I presume are the two featured poets. One is a guy in his twenties, who looks like he's one of those radical Marxist college student political poets. He probably won't be too interesting; strident is more likely. The other is a woman about my age, dressed casually but with a certain elegance. I can't quite peg her for type, but I'm betting she's a professional of some sort. An attorney, maybe? She has a businesslike air about her, and a natural charisma. I wonder what her poetic style is. God, I hope it's not sappy love sonnets. I really don't need any of those this afternoon. I can't stand sappy to begin with, and love sonnets are not likely to improve my mood in the least. Fortunately, she doesn't really look the type. No frills and lace that I can see. The reading starts with the two I'd observed, and runs through a short selection from the open mike list. Nothing particularly special, although the woman, who was introduced as Sari Thomas, seems to be a rather better poet and reader than I would have expected at a tiny place like this. As the reading goes on, the contrast between her work and the rest of the readers becomes more and more obvious. She has talent and is good with a crowd, and she's hooked most of the audience, including me. Her poems don't stick to one genre; some are formal, some free verse, and she moves from subject to subject with grace, giving interesting introductions to her works. They range from the personal and introspective to the comic and in one or two she ventures into sensual, almost erotic territory. Her overall effect leaves me with a very satisfied feeling, and I'm glad I've come. At the break, the MC announces that some of the poets have chapbooks for sale, and I note that Ms. Thomas is one of them. I like what I've heard so far, and I'm interested enough to want to see a little more of her work, so I head over to check out her stuff. She's signing a book for a customer when I get there, with a pleasant, genuine smile. It looks like she has more than a chapbook or two out. In fact, there are three books and five chapbooks on the table with her name on them. Rather more prolific than I'd expected for such a small venue, too. The back cover bio says that she's from Portland, Oregon originally, and splits her time between Portland and DC. Educated at Reed and Antioch, very tough independent schools with excellent reputations, earning a BS in Environmental Studies and an MFA in Poetry. She's been published in a lot of the big literary journals, and has also won a few impressive literary awards, including a Pushcart prize. Overall, a fine curriculum vitae. It surprises me that I hadn't run across her work before. I'm flipping through a collection titled 'The Nature of Dreams' when she turns to me. "Hi. That's my newest book," she says. "It has some of my favorite material in it. I read a few sections from the title poem before the break." I look up at her. She's smiling at me now, her lively dark eyes alight, seemingly happy to see me, although I know we've never met. If she notices that I forgot to shave today, or that my suit is wrinkled, she doesn't mention it. "So I see," I reply, as I had opened the book to the poem in question and recognized some of what she'd been reading. "I'm... I'm really enjoying your reading, Ms. Thomas." "Thank you! Oh, and call me Sari. I don't stand much on formality. What's your name?" She asks with genuine interest. I don't get the impression that it's an author's act so she can sign the book when I buy it. And I do intend to buy it. "John," I answer. "But what's a poet with your obvious talent doing reading at a little hole in the wall like this?" She colors with a bit of a blush. "Harry, the owner, has been a friend of mine since I started coming to DC. I always come by to read here when I have some time. He's been such a wonderful encouragement to me over the years." She smiles and waves to Harry, behind the cash register across from the table where we're standing. The elderly man waves back and smiles a lopsided grin at her. "And thanks for your kind comments about my work. I really enjoy meeting the people who read my books. I take it this is the first time you've come across my poetry?" "Yeah. I wasn't in the mood to join my friends at their date with a big screen basketball game tonight, so I came here instead." "Ah, a man of distinction." She winks. "I'm not a sports fan myself. There are a lot more important things in the world than watching a bunch of sweaty jocks playing with a ball." Well, she certainly has a point there. "Chomsky?" she asks. She's looking at the book under my arm. "Interesting political thought, very admirable in fact, but I can't say I agree with his linguistics theories. I just can't buy the whole deep structure grammar argument. " She adjusts her glasses, pushing them back up her nose with a forefinger. "You know Chomsky?" Most people, even here in Washington, aren't too familiar with him. He's been one of my heroes for years. "Well, I met him once at a protest march, but I can't say I know him. I am an admirer of his work, though." "Oh, by the way, I'd like to buy this." I hand her the volume of her poetry and some cash. "I didn't mean did you know him personally, I was just asking about your familiarity with his work. Apparently you're better acquainted with the material than most people." She took my money and signed the book for me, then said "Yeah, I'm interested in him both as a political philosopher and a linguist." She takes money and signs books for other people as she talks. "His take on the media and governmental control over information is much more on target than most people want to admit. I have a day job as a lobbyist, and let me tell you, the amount of graft, corruption, information suppression and willful ignorance I see every day in the house and the senate would boggle the minds of most Americans. " "Who do you lobby for?" I ask. We seem to be of at least superficially like mind, and I have to wonder who she's working for. "Sierra Club on my professional time. Other environmental and human rights organizations on my own." She sells and signs another book. "What do you do?" That's always been an iffy question for me. If I tell her I'm a journalist, she'll want to know who I write for, and while she might be the sort to be interested in some of our more serious work, I don't feel comfortable talking about it here. I can't exactly say that I'm a hacker, either, although that's the largest part of the truth. Telling her I'm an intelligence analyst might fly, but somehow I think she'd misinterpret it and figure I work for the military or the CIA , or something equally distasteful. I opt for the most acceptable of the public truths. "I do computer design, software, and security consulting." She fixes her eyes on me. "Oh, really? Do you have a card?" "I... um..." I fish around in my wallet to see if I'm carrying any today. "Yes, actually. Here." I hand her the card and she looks at it. "John F. Byers, Aegis Consulting, eh? You know, just by coincidence, I'm looking for somebody to do some work for me." "What kind of work?" "I... oh..." She looks up. The MC stands hovering over her shoulder and says, "We're starting in about a minute. Time to wrap things up here." "I can't talk now," she says to me. "I have to get back to the reading." "Look, Sari... can I, ah... buy you a latte or something after you're done? We could talk about what kind of help you're looking for." A little extra money wouldn't be a bad idea, nor would a job. Maybe it would take my mind off of Susanne for a while; at least it would get me out of the office. And this woman seems pleasant enough. If she's got a day job as a lobbyist for the Sierra Club, they would certainly be able to afford me. "Sure," she says, smiling brightly at me. "I'd like that. We'll talk in a bit." With that, she turns and heads back to her seat. So do I. end part 2a Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 2b The rest of the reading passes in a similar vein, and Ms. Thomas holds her own amid the group of other poets. I check out her inscription. Her handwriting is almost calligraphic, although her signature is worthy of a surgeon. 'To John, may your dreams be kind and comforting, Sari Thomas.' I only wish that were true. I haven't had kind or comforting dreams in years. Not since Baltimore. I listen to her read with appreciation, and then read some of her work while the other poets continue with theirs. I was right about the younger man. He's been very shrill in a naive hard-core leftist way the entire time he's been on stage. But the applause at the end is enthusiastic; mostly, I suspect, for Ms. Thomas. She sells more books and chapbooks, then packs her small remaining stock in her backpack while talking to her admirers, and a few minutes later she approaches my table. "So, about that latte?" she says. "What would you like?" "Double tall mocha breve with hazelnut." Actually, aside from the double shot, the combination doesn't sound bad at all. "Anything on it?" "Just some nutmeg." "As you wish." She takes a seat and I procure her hazel mocha, along with a single tall latte of my own. I seat myself and get down to business. "What kind of work do you need done?" "It's not at the office, if that's what you're hoping," she says. "I had a hacker in my personal system yesterday. Thrashed my hard drive, and I haven't been able to recover much on my own. It's not that I'm particularly incompetent, it's just that the asshole made a big mess of things and it's beyond my current skills to fix, even with the help of Saint Norton. So I need data recovery, a few big steps up on my system security, and a damn good firewall. I lost at least 30 pages of my latest white paper, along with most of my research files for it. That, and about half the poems in the book I'm working on. It'll be a major pain to recreate all the work and research I've lost, assuming I could do it at all. And the white paper's due on Thursday. There's no way I'll finish in time without some professional assistance." She looks more than a little upset about the situation. I can't say I blame her. I've screamed a few times when Langly's been in my system messing around with things to play with my head, and he doesn't do nearly the amount of damage she's talking about. "That's got to hurt. I should warn you though, that my rates are a little steep for most individuals," I tell her, somewhat disappointed. "The Club pays pretty well for my persuasive talents. If you're not totally out of line for a small firm, I can probably afford you." We discuss prices for the sort of work she wants, and I mention that I can't really set a firm hourly rate until I actually see the system and the extent of the damage, but she seems satisfied. "I'd like a couple of references, though," she says. "You never know who you're dealing with out there. Can't be too careful," she says with a smile. I give her a small smile in return, but it fades when I remember Susanne's voice -- 'no matter how paranoid you are, you're not paranoid enough...' She must have noted my expression, as she asks "You ok? You look a little pale." I wave the statement away. "I'm fine. You just... reminded me of someone for a second." She nods, seeming satisfied with the explanation. I give her three of my recent references, including a gaming startup that all three of us are working on at the moment. They're all good. And she seems like the type to actually check them. "You've worked for some impressive people. I know one of the techies at FPS. Cool people. I'll ring her up this afternoon and call you this evening to let you know." "That sounds good," I say, but I'm enjoying her company and would really like to talk about other things for a while before I'm left to my own resources for the rest of the day. "You... um... don't have to rush off, if you don't want to. We can talk about things other than work if you like." "Well, we could talk about Chomsky, but that's way too work-related for me at the moment. What other things are you interested in?" Truthfully, I haven't been interested in anything lately, but if I tell her that, there won't be much to talk about, and I'll have to wander aimlessly around town for hours before Frohike would let me back into the office. "Well, music. Books, generally. Classic and silent movies. Computers, of course, but that's work for me so it's out as a topic." She chuckles. "Books, movies, and music. That's pretty broad. Are you entirely eclectic, or do you have specific tastes in those things?" "Musically, I'm pretty eclectic. Mostly I like classical and jazz, but my roommates listen to all kinds of stuff, so I'm exposed to a lot more than you'd think. Movies, like I said, mostly silents and classics. Sometimes I like a mindless action flick or some decent SF. For books, I read a lot of literary fiction, some poetry and philosophy, the classics. I tend to keep up on the sciences online and in the journals. By the time most of it hits print in the books, it's old news." This seems to interest her. "Isn't it just." She gives me a wry, but understanding grin. "Me, I generally like early music myself, all that lovely pre-Baroque European stuff, and traditional world music. The Sephardic and Arabic traditions fascinate me, but I also enjoy African drumming, a little gamelan and some of the Japanese koto and shakuhachi repertoire." She sips her breve, looking thoughtful. "But I also like things a little more modern.I'm actually rather interested in tribal-trance and ambient . I've even been out to quite a few raves in my day, before things started getting commercial." "Now that does sound eclectic," I reply. "Not as much as you'd think. An awful lot of that sort of thing finds its roots in African and Mediterranean music. Tempo, beat, and vocals in those genres can be very influenced by Middle Eastern and Balkan stylings as well." We sink into a comfortable and very enjoyable conversation about music and music theory, sharing opinions of composers and various ensembles. Her knowledge is quite impressive for someone who isn't a musician, and her opinions and tastes are innovative and occasionally even challenging. She orders lunch at one point, although I'm not hungry enough to join her while she eats her soup and sandwich; I'm content simply to chat for a while with a friendly and knowledgeable stranger about completely non-threatening subjects. Ms. Thomas is fairly tall, but not overly so. She's very slender without being 'fashionably' anorexic, with short, dark hair, grey eyes behind oval lenses, and very fine bones, like a bird's. I don't think most people would describe her as beautiful, but she's quite attractive. Unassuming, I think, would be a better word. For all that, she does have a kind, cheerful presence and a good bit of charisma, but she is a lobbyist and apparently a fairly successful poet. You need a certain force of personality and a stiff spine to work with the sort of people she does -- to convince legislators, however conniving, to introduce or support your issues, particularly if they're environmental or human rights based. Beyond empty rhetoric, neither are actually popular in the current political atmosphere. Eventually she looks at her watch. "Oh dear. It's almost five, and I have to get home and fix some dinner. I've got company coming, or I'd blow it off in favor of continuing the conversation. I've been having a delightful time talking with you, John. I'll call you this evening after I talk to my friend at FPS to let you know if you've got the job." I hadn't realized it had gotten so late either. Maybe I can make both the Atwood signing and Joan of Arc. The signing's only a few blocks from the theatre, and the movie doesn't start until 7:30. "I've really enjoyed the afternoon myself. Thank you, Sari. I'll be in after nine tonight and up for a while after that, otherwise you're likely to get the answering machine. I'll look forward to your call. I hope you'll have me in to do your job." "It's quite likely, if your references are as sterling as your conversation." She reaches out and shakes my hand with a warm, firm grip, wraps her scarf and coat around herself, puts on her gloves and hat, then picks up her backpack to go. I watch her as she leaves, chatting briefly with Harry and giving him a short, friendly hug before she hurries out the door into the early March dusk. I wander up to the counter and ask Harry, "Is she always that friendly?" "Sari? Yeah, pretty much. She's a great kid. Real talent. I'm proud of what she does, on all counts. She's doing some pretty influential work with the congresscritters, and making a pretty good name for herself as a poet, too. You need anything special today, Johnny? I found a real obscure one on the Kennedy assassination if you're interested. Lots of stuff on Kerry Thornley in it." Thornley's a very obscure figure, peripherally involved in the issue. He also wrote the 'Principia Discordia' as Malaclypse the Younger. Langly has a copy and thinks it's hilarious. Thornley's a colorful member of the underground, and not often mentioned in the literature, so I find myself intrigued by the offer. Harry and I talk for a couple of minutes about the book, but it turns out to be one I already have, so I wish him a good evening and head out. I'm actually feeling almost human when I get to the van. Then it hits me. I haven't thought about Susanne in hours. end part 2b Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 3 ______ "I have been patient so long That I have no memory left. ... And an unhealthy thirst Darkens my veins." ~~Rimbaud --"A Season in Hell"~~ _______ SUNDAY, MARCH 5, 2000 10:00 AM GUNMEN HQ LANGLY: Oh God. My head. I've been accused of not being able to fit it through a door, but this time, I think it actually has expanded to those dimensions. Ben Franklin once said that beer was God's way of showing that he loves us and wants us to be happy. He didn't say anything about what happens when you lose track after your eighth longneck. I need some Tylenol. About a bottle of them. We have them -- we have to. Byers buys 'em in tubs of 500 at Costco. He wouldn't let us run out. Way he's been lately though, we could all starve and drown in our own filth and he wouldn't even notice. I'll kill him if there's no Tylenol. God, only 500 miles or so to the kitchen. I notice when I stand up that my sweats are on inside out. Funny, I didn't notice that last night. It's a long, slow, painful trek. I don't smell coffee. I kept praying Frohike got up first and made some, but it doesn't appear to have happened. Old bastard was doing J&B all night. Probably even drunker than I was, if that's possible. The place is quiet. The throbbing in my temples appreciates this. I think I'm still hallucinating when I see Byers at the kitchen table, dressed and sipping tea, reading the paper. I mean, before York, he used to be like this all the time, but the last month and a half, you don't see him before noon usually, and he looks like shit. Even as bleary-eyed as I am, I can tell he shaved. "Good morning," he says. "How can you be so fucking cheerful at this hour?" I snarl at him. He looks at me for a minute. "I'm not sure cheerful is the word I'd choose, but I do have a job." "That's nice." I don't feel like hearing about it. I don't feel like hearing anything, for that matter. Just give me my fucking pain killers and let me die, thank you. "For money," he adds. "Money's nice." Unfortunately, I wasn't drunk enough to forget that I'd lost 200 bucks last night. Money is a real nice concept, especially when you don't have any. Where the fuck are the goddamn Tylenols? "Oh man, I dreamed I died and went to hell." Frohike comes up behind me, smelling like a dead, alcoholic cat. "No, wait -- I'm there. You two are still here." "Fuck you, Doohickey." "Shut up, punkass." Frohike turns to Byers. "So? What'd you do yesterday?" "I had a very enjoyable day, thank you. And I got a job." "Are their checks good?" Frohike grumbles. He's pointing out that some people who've hired us have had the nerve to write us bogus checks. They never do it a second time. We exact righteous revenge. "I believe so. I seem to remember the Sierra Club being well-funded." He smiles that almost-smile of his. I hate him. How can he be happy at this hour? Easy. His brain's not soaked in hops and ethanol. "Sierra Club? Stylin'. You did have a good day, buddy." Frohike shakes his head. "Glad to see you got out. Otherwise, Mulder and Langly and I were going to forcibly toss you into the van tonight, tie you down, and drag you off to the Candy Apple." You can see Byers shudder. Candy Apple's where we go to see the strip shows. It's every cliche you've ever heard about strip bars, only worse. Byers hates the place. Okay, it's pretty damn cheesy, but like Frohike says, there are no ugly women after 2 a.m. Hey, it's cheap entertainment. Like we got money after last night or something. Stupid me bets on UVA because it's my fucking alma mater. Well, that and their sterling record so far this season. Upset game like nobody could've anticipated. Frohike and me try sifting through the cupboards. Bupkes. Byers gives us a smirk. "Tylenols are in the office, guys." I could kill him. BYERS: It actually does my heart good to see the guys in such miserable shape, especially after they've threatened me with the Candy Apple. They dragged me in there once, under protest I might add, and it was a terrible mistake. I had to toss the suit I was wearing that night, because the odor of stale smoke wouldn't come out, no matter what I or my dry cleaner did. I find the whole concept of strip clubs degrading, and the fact that the suit had cost me more than $300 didn't make it any easier to swallow. I've sworn never to set foot in the place again, and they know it. But Margaret Atwood's talk last night was excellent, and the showing of the restored 'Joan of Arc' was spectacular, as was Einhorn's unearthly sound track. The medieval chant and instrumentation, along with the more modern classical work, was the perfect accompaniment for the luminous cinematography. The film itself, long thought destroyed by fire, miraculously turned up in a broom closet at an insane asylum in Oslo, of all places. I'm continually amazed at how lost classics keep turning up in the strangest places. I start to wonder if that's a conspiracy too, but stop myself before I get too far into my paranoia. Mel would probably want me to do a front page feature on it. Ms. Thomas called last night and said that Phoebe at FPS, apparently an old friend of hers, had said that Aegis was timely and reliable, with highly skilled personnel. I was pleased but not surprised. She also told me that she'd gotten an okay for partial funding for my work, considering that a great deal of what she'd lost was in fact work-related, and she was on a tight deadline for it. She gave me directions to her place, and told me to be there "around elevenish," but I like to get in a few minutes early. It's not an issue for me, and usually impresses the clients. I chuckle a little at the continuing, albeit pained and sotto voce, squabble between my co-conspirators as they struggle over the Tylenol. Yesterday, I don't think I would even have noticed. I'm still a mess, and I have no appetite to speak of, but Frohike was right. Getting out of the office actually did do me some good. It didn't help with the nightmares though. Nor did a few of Ms. Thomas' poems. While much of her work was captivating, restful, and even beautiful, with a touch of both the lyric and the Surrealist in it, some of her imagery was in itself very nightmarish and disturbing; deeply effective and all too real. It was not the sort of thing I should have been reading before bed. I find myself idly wondering if those poems are reflective of her own dream life, or if they're simply the product of a superlative imagination. For her sake, I hope it's the latter. No one should be burdened with such dreams. I remember last night's dreams, and I shudder. As one of her poems pointed out forcefully, nightmares are also part of the nature of dreams. And I can't shut them out. I see them even when I'm awake, and am powerless against them. They are terrifying and vivid and leave me with a hollow ache in my chest. I remember the first time I made love with Susanne, and the last. Three nights. Three nights out of eleven years. Frohike was right about that too, as he has been so often; it is killing me. Eleven years of hope and longing and desperate desire, then three nights with the woman who was at the root of them. And now, almost two months after she turned her back on me, walked away in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye, I'm still caught in this web of mangled emotions. Margaret Atwood spoke a great truth when she read from 'The Handmaid's Tale' last night. "Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from." I should know. I'm not sure the genuine article has ever touched my life. The more I look at it, the more I realize that Susanne and I may have said and even believed we loved each other, but all we ever really had, in the end, was a mutual experience of fear and desire; eleven years of longing for something that didn't, couldn't exist. Eleven years of loneliness and empty words. I'm starting to realize that there isn't a Susanne-shaped hole in my life, but just a deep, dark pit without any shape to it at all. I've got no idea what belongs there anymore. I've been dreaming about the desert again; myself, alone, in the vast dry waste of what should have been my life. I take another sip of my tea and try to focus on an article about the Balkans, but it's not helping. It's probably time for me to get going anyway. Wouldn't want to be late to work. LANGLY: Frohike stops me in the hallway. "Where're you going?" "I'm taking a shower!" Jesus, give me a hard time for everything. "Hey, age before ugly," he chides me. "Well, in that case, you're two for two!" The volume of my own voice hurts. "Listen, asshole, I'd have no problem if you'd leave me some hot water once in a while!" "Well like I'm sorry, I gotta wash my hair. Something you wouldn't know anything about." I'm about to wrestle him for my rightful place in the shower when I hear one of the computers. It's playing 'Fur Elise.' Oh man, it's her, it's her! I set the email to play that when she wrote me! Oh yeah! FROHIKE: Ah, peace, quiet and hot water. And Deborah e-mailed Langly. It doesn't get better than this. In all this commotion, one thing I haven't done, and have been meaning to do, is to thank Mel Scarlett somehow for all she did for us during our stay at the Penn State Med Center. But what? Lose one aggravation, get another. LANGLY: Oh God, yes, it's from her! I open it up, post haste. "Ringo -- sorry to be so long to answer. Really insane here. Do you have chat?" Oh man, do I have chat! Anyway you want it, baby. Preferably face to face and body to body, but I'll settle for the electronic boards right now. She's on AOHell, so she's got AIM already installed. I message her telling her I'm ready. Oh God, am I ready. "Ringo, I miss you." My knees are weak. I don't think it's the hangover. "Miss you too." "What're you up to, boy?" "Not much, same old, same old. You?" "Same old same old. Drunks, gunshot wounds, stabbings, just a normal day at the office." "Sounds like fun." "Oh yeah. Real fun. And I've been working some extra shifts." "Why?" "Well, what I'm trying to do is work it out so that I can get four or five days off in a row. So I'm trading with people in order to pick up some time." "So when's the last time you slept?" "Two days ago, LOL!" "I'm not sleeping real good myself." "Why's that?" "Oh... you know. Stuff." Maybe I ought to tell her about the nightmares and stuff, but I don't wanna bum her out. Besides, it's getting better. I think. Even Frohike and Byers, they don't really know. If I can't sleep, I just get up and play Demon Space Drifter or something equally brainless. "It'll get better." "Yeah." I'm so eloquent, aren't I? "Ringo, I have to ask you something, and I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but how did you ever get my AOL email address?" Uh... uh... "You gave it to me?" "No, I never had a chance. I could understand if you got my work email -- that's on the Penn directory -- but how could you get my private one?" "Wasn't hard. You did say something about Thespis being your addy." "Oh. It just sort of... I just wonder how much my privacy is being invaded. Makes me a little paranoid." Oops. "No matter how paranoid you are, you aren't paranoid enough." To use a cliche. "So how did you get it?" Truth or dare here? Time for a little artful dodging. "You know, if you're real worried and all, I can set you up on a secure server, private and all, you'd never have to worry about anyone hacking your account." "That'd be great. But how?" "I could do it from here, right now, if you'd like." "Really." "No problem. Don't go away, just give me five minutes." She's now on a secure server. Ours. I have a direct connect to her. "Wow, that's amazing," she types back. "Are you sure you're a journalist?" "Well, yeah, I am." "I don't think that's all you are, boy." "Really like it if you could come down here." Let's face it, what we do, it's hard to explain in a screen chat. "I'd like that too :)" "So when you think you'll get enough time off?" "Well, if I keep this up, I think maybe next month. I hear DC's beautiful in April." April? Oh man, that's half a friggin eternity away! You mean I'm gonna have to live on words till then? God, I miss her so much. "Sure you can't do it sooner?" "I want to. But I have quarterly exams in two weeks, and I need to trade some more favors." Damn. "I might be kind of quiet during exams. It's intense," she continues. My guts are sinking. "You know, I can make it so you can access me from any computer on this server," I tell her. I mean, I can make it so any of the computers in her hospital, she can log in secure. That way, even if she can only type hi, at least it's a word. A word from her. "Oh, can you? I'd like that." "That'll take me a little more time." Sorry, a whole system's not a five-minute fix. "How long? I go back on shift at seven tonight." "I could do it by then." "You're sure you're just a journalist, Ringo?" "Hey, words are my stock in trade." And right now, it's all we got. Might as well get as many of them as I can from her. FROHIKE: I really need to thank Mel Scarlett and crew. It's needling at me. My mother always made me write thank-you notes for everything. It's stuck with me. When I don't do it, I feel weird. She used to tell me, it's not what you say that counts, just that you say it. I'm afraid in this case it's not so simple, though. I've thought about sending her flowers, but not to include a card would just be wrong. And I have no idea what to put on the card. Words, words, words. Such power in something so ephemeral. Including the power to make us crazy. Which, I think, is what's happening with Hairboy right now. Move over and make room, Langly. end chapter 3 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 4 ______ "Decidedly, we are out of the world. No more sound. My touch has gone." ~~Rimbaud -- "A Season in Hell"~~ ______ SUNDAY, MARCH 5, 2000 SARI THOMAS' RESIDENCE, APT 303 GEORGETOWN BYERS: I arrive about ten minutes before eleven. I can hear quiet music inside the door of the apartment. Ms. Thomas' abode is in one of the older parts of Georgetown, near the University. This would make her research easier, give her access to experts, spaces to rent for the inevitable fund raising activities, and the chaotic color of a University in a residential area. They breed cultural activities, political debates, and intellectual livelihood in their neighborhoods. And all that color and activity must be fine fodder for her poetry, as well as her work as a lobbyist. Her building is an old brick four story. She's in a third floor walkup, which must be good for her aerobic health. I'm not sure I'd want to live at the top of three flights of stairs, but elevators are a risk during a fire. She is in apartment 303, close to the stairs. The door is painted red, that bright cinnabar color of so many Chinese artifacts. Above the door hangs a mirror surrounded by the trigrams that make up the I Ching. I assume this is some sort of 'feng shui', designed to draw good luck or drive away bad influences. As I get a little closer, I realize that there is some subtle painting along the sides of the door; imperial Chinese dragons. At the foot of the door, on either side, are odd looking statues with mouths open and teeth exposed. I suspect they are guardians of some sort, although my brief studies in classical Asian religious iconography aren't helping me much. I was more familiar with Edo period Japanese material, and this is quite outside both the period and the culture I know. I get the feeling that Ms. Thomas knows exactly what they are. Having finally finished examining the artistic design of the opening area, I look down at the door mat. This is definitely out of place. It says "Wrong address. Nobody here by that name," and underneath this is a justice department seal surrounded by the words 'Federal Witness Protection Program.' At least she has a sense of humor to go with her style. I knock on the door. There's a slight commotion inside. I can hear several locks being undone. She peeks around the edge of the door warily, but recognizes me and smiles, then lets me in. She's dressed, but still in bare feet, and there's a damp towel on her head. She rubs it briskly with both hands, and the cloth muffles her greeting. "Good morning John. It's nice that you're prompt. I'm afraid I'm the one running about 5 minutes late this morning. Come this way -- the office is in here." She continues drying her hair, then pulls a comb from her back pocket and proceeds to discipline her short hair into something resembling proper comportment. I take a chance to look around as I enter, being escorted toward her home office. The things that people keep in their houses can reveal an incredible amount of information about their most private lives. This living room is... austere is the wrong word, as is spartan... it's more like a zen-influenced Hindu garden. The walls are lined with bookshelves, partly obscured by Shoji screens. In the western wall, there is a deep bay window, with a cushioned seat, but the most spectacular thing about this window is that it is covered inside with living ivy and the canes of miniature climbing roses. Sitting in the center of the window behind the seat are two strawberry pots, each opening growing a different kitchen herb. There are plants thriving everywhere, and the air in here smells green and soothing. Scattered around the room, on those walls not covered in bookshelves, are glass fronted cabinets and individual wall shelves displaying all manner of Hindu statuary, from simple peasant work made of Ganges mud, to a wildly painted Garuda bird carved in wood and facing the front door, and a joined Shakti and Shiva made of brass. There's a dancing bronze Ganesha, a large, serene marble statute of Sarasvati, and a painted, monkey-faced clay Hanuman. They look like they've seen use over many years, and I suspect that they're antiques imported from India. Screened away in one corner, I note what looks like a Hindu altar, set with statues of Sarasvati and another deity, which I believe may be Avelokateshvara; both deities of learning, if I am not mistaken. I believe the latter is a Buddhist figure, not Hindu, which strikes me as interesting. The altar is laid with a bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a cup of water, and a small burning stick of incense that has the light odor of sandalwood. The overall effect of the room is one of overarching order in fertile, restful chaos. It's comfortable here -- friendly and welcoming, neither sterile nor messy. It feels lived in. I could sit in a room like this and read books for hours, or talk with a circle of friends over Turkish coffee and baba ganouj, if I actually had friends other than the guys. I get the feeling that it's used for things like that frequently. I don't have a chance to see the contents of the bookshelves before I'm escorted into her office, obviously a remodeled bedroom. "Here's the problem, John," she says. "I haven't touched it since I ran Saint Norton on it right after it fell over, burned down, and sank into the swamp. Maybe the next one will stay up, you think? I did manage to recover a bit of the main directory information." So she's a Python fan, too. I like that in a person. I am a little wary. From her description of the problem, I might need to put 30 hours or so of brain sweat into this project to save what's salvageable. "I'll need to look at your system for a while, to determine the extent of the damage. That should take about half an hour. After that, I can give you an estimate of time and difficulty for the job, and that will enable me to make an informed decision about how I need to proceed, and what I'll be charging you by the hour." "All right. For the moment I'll leave you to your own devices. I've got to go put something on for lunch. If you need anything, just give me a shout. I'll be in the kitchen." She vanishes silently into the hallway. The office is not unlike the organized chaos of the living room. Everything obviously has a place, but the way that things are stored here doesn't make a lot of sense to me. It's like she's working from a filing system in an entirely different language. Over the desk is a large Japanese sumi-e painting of crows on a branch, with a calligraphed haiku. I'm not sure, because I don't read Japanese calligraphy very well, but I believe it's a classic Basho. There are books and piles of papers on the bookshelf on the desk, with a small ceramic Han dynasty cup tucked between a couple of the piles. A large potted ficus inhabits a corner near the window. There is a Tibetan prayer wheel on the wall next to the desk at a convenient level for spinning by whomever is seated there, more Hindu and eastern iconography, including wall hangings of Hindu and Sikh rituals, and I note that she's also hung her diplomas and certifications on the wall in here. The name listed on them is Sarasvati. I had thought that Sari was a rather unusual name, but this is quite out of the ordinary. I have to wonder what kind of people would give their child a name like that. Then again, I narrowly avoided being named Bertram. Jesus, Bert Byers. I think I'd have died of embarrassment in early childhood. There's no accounting for parents. On top of another short bookshelf is a dry fish tank that appears to be being used as a desert terrarium. I wonder how long ago she had fish? Then I note that something in the tank is moving. And it puffs up a little around the neck and chirrs. After a momentary startlement, I realize that the tank has a few small anole lizards in it. They're actually rather attractive. Their colors are quite pleasing, and I hadn't realized that anoles sang. "Lizards?" I call out to Sari. "Porthos, Athos and Aramis," she responds from the kitchen. "What, no D'Artagnion?" "Used to be. Cardinal Richelieu ate him." I laugh. "You're kidding, right?" "No, that's the cat. He doesn't like strangers. He's probably under the bed." She chuckles. I need to concentrate here for a while. By the end of the half hour I requested, I know that this job will take me about twenty hours. Things are a mess, and she's got a nasty virus in here that's going to have to be removed. There's something odd about the way this machine was hacked. On the surface, it appears that it was done simply for the purpose of destruction, but one or two files look like they were given special attention. I won't know why until I can get them repaired enough to recover and open them again, but considering that my employer is a lobbyist, I suspect there may be some political motivation here. Call me paranoid if you like, but this definitely feels like a targeted hack. It's time to go into the kitchen and talk to Ms. Thomas. "Sari? I've got..." I'm halfway across the living room when I'm overcome by dizziness. The room goes grey, and my knees buckle. end part 4 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 5 ______ "Love is to be reinvented, that is clear... I see women, with signs of happiness,whom I could have made close comrades, devoured first by brutes as sensitive as a log of wood..." ~~Rimbaud -- "A Season in Hell"~~ ______ SAME DAY SARI THOMAS' RESIDENCE GEORGETOWN She's there just as I hit the floor, and she kneels beside me and looks me in the eyes, apparently doing a damage assessment. Sari puts a hand on my forehead. I think she's checking for fever. I suppose that makes sense. "John, are you hypoglycemic or diabetic?" She helps me get up and over a few steps to the couch, where she settles me in and instructs me to put my head between my knees. I do, and then try to answer her. "No," but all I can manage is a whisper. "Any history of low blood pressure, blackouts or neurological problems?" She's checking my pulse. I shake my head no, trying to control the way my brain is spinning. "You know, you look like you've been recovering from the flu or something. You look a lot more pale than I would guess is your normal color. Are you sick?" "No... just... not been feeling well lately." "When was the last time you ate?" I try to remember, and find that I can't. My mind's too foggy. "Not sure..." I mumble. She's rubbing my shoulders and back with sure, strong hands, and it's helping a little. "Well, that would certainly explain things. You wait here and don't move. I'll be right back." I'm not in any shape to move, even if I wanted to, so I stay where I am, letting the fuzzy greyness fade a little with my head still between my knees. I hear noise in the kitchen. She comes back a moment later, helps me to sit back against the couch, and helps me hold a large mug of something. I look at it. It's white. I sniff, and there's a slight scent of cardamon and rose. "What's this?" "Sweet lassi. It's a yogurt thing. It'll give you a fast shot of protein and some honey to help stabilize your blood sugar until I can get some real food in you. Sip it slowly, but you have to drink all of it." My hands are shaking hard, and it's a good thing she's got hold of it too, otherwise it would be all over me and the couch by now. But the first sip is cool and tastes good. I take another, then a few more. God, I hadn't realized how hungry I've been. I manage to finish it with her help, and she waits until my hands stop shaking before she speaks again. "Well, it looks like you're getting a little color back. Are you still dizzy?" Her voice is kind and concerned. "A little, but it's getting better." "You say you haven't been feeling well. I don't mean to pry, but... what's wrong? I mean, I really don't think you should be working yet if you're passing out on me here." It doesn't sound angry, or like a warning. Instead, it sounds like she really cares about what's happening. I don't know why. It's not like we know each other. "I... I lost someone recently..." I have no idea why I said that. It just came out. "I'm sorry, John. That can be so hard." She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. "Do you want to talk about it?" I've barely been able to talk to Mel and Ringo about it. Why do I feel like talking to her would feel good? I should say something, at least. "Someone was... someone was trying to kill me and my friends, and a woman I thought for a long time that I loved. After the danger was over, she left me. I haven't... I'm just not coping with it very well." I look up at her. She looks shocked, but regains her composure quickly. "Would it be all right if I gave you a hug? You look like you really need one right now." I nod, numb. She's right. I do need one. I have since Susanne left, and there's been no one I could turn to. Mel's tried to take care of me, but he was badly injured, and Langly's been in such terrible shape that my own problems were insignificant by comparison. We've tried to do what we could for each other, but it's been hard for all of us. Sari sits a little closer and puts her arms around me. It takes a few moments, but I do begin to relax, and eventually I rest my head on her shoulder with my arms around her waist. She's completely accepting, and I feel no threat from her; no ulterior motives or intent, just the offer of some much needed human comfort. I get the feeling she'd do this for anyone who needed it. I want to tell her more, to spill all of it, to let go of what's been tormenting me all this time, but she doesn't know what we do, and I'd have to explain everything if I said more. The guys wouldn't like that much. A few minutes later, she moves, and I sink back into the couch. "Thank you." I can't think of anything else to say, and I'm not sure she'd want me to anyway. "It's okay," she says. "I hope it helped a little." I nod again. "Yes, very much." More than she would understand, and more than I realized. "You stay there for a minute. I'll get some food on the table and we'll have lunch. You should feel better once you get something decent into your stomach." It isn't until she says this that I realize there's a wonderful scent coming from the kitchen. It's warm and savory, but I can't quite identify it. A few minutes later she returns and says "Can you stand up by yourself?" My head is feeling considerably better, and while I'm a little light headed still, I'm not longer dizzy. "I think so." She's close to my elbow just in case, and I stand carefully. "Yeah, I think I'm all right now." She smiles. "Okay. Come on into the dining room and have a seat." I follow her into the next room, and she offers me a seat at a small dining table. Two places are set on opposite sides of the table with large bowls of a creamy white soup, chunks of hot rosemary bread, and cups of tea. Between them is a plate with a wedge of ripe brie, crackers, fresh slices of apple and pear, and a few small bunches of red seedless grapes. It looks better than anything I've seen in weeks. My stomach is rumbling. "It's just leftovers from last night, but potato leek soup does tend to taste better the next day," she says apologetically. "I don't mind. You don't have to feed me lunch," I tell her. She snorts. "Yeah, you just about pass out on me because you haven't eaten, and I don't have to feed you lunch. Right. Sorry John, it doesn't work that way in my house." She waves her spoon at my bowl. "Now mangia, boy, mangia. No eat, no work." I sip a spoonful of soup. It's hot and savory and delicious, and I feel like Goldilocks with the perfect bowl of porridge. I manage to eat quite a bit more of what's in front of me than I thought I'd be able to, and even the tea has a full, round flavor to it. "What kind of tea is this?" I've never tasted anything quite like it before. "It's a Cameronian Highland tea from the Himalayas. Great stuff," she replies. As she reaches out for another slice of pear, her loose silk sleeve slides back to her elbow, and I see something that makes my blood cold. There's a livid bruise on her arm, shaped like fingers. It looks very recent. "Sari... what happened to you?" I can't imagine why anyone would want to hurt this kind and delicate woman. She looks like she would snap in half if someone hit her. She looks up at me, blushing, then rivets her eyes into her soup bowl. "It's my ex," she says quietly. "We got divorced a couple of years ago, and I have a restraining order out on him, but he keeps coming back for me anyway. I call the cops, and he gets picked up, and when he gets out again, he keeps finding me. I've moved three times in the past two years because of him." She sounds frustrated, frightened, and angry. "Did he find you here?" She shakes her head. "No, he was waiting for me down the block from the Bean after the reading yesterday." She takes a deep. shaky breath and says "I don't think he knows where I live yet, but right now I'm afraid to go out. I don't want to move again. I like this place. It's a decent neighborhood." That would explain the extra locks on her door, and the wary way she greeted me when she opened it. I find myself very angry about the assault on her. Her door mat suddenly takes on a chilling sense of gallows humor. I can do something about this, and I will. "What's your ex's name?" "His name? Barry Guertzen. Why?" "I think my friends and I can keep him away from you." "But... I don't understand. How could anyone help me with this? The police don't keep him long enough to do any good, and I can't afford a bodyguard." "You don't need to." The guys and I can find this asshole and make sure he's put away for a very long time. And right now, that would make me feel very, very good. "How can you do something the cops can't?" She looks confused. "I'm not sure I can really explain. Just let me assure you that within a few days, you won't need to worry about him bothering you again." She gives me a very strange look. "Hey, you're not going to do anything to hurt him, are you?" At first I don't quite understand why she'd care, but then I think about Timothy Landau, and things become a little more clear. "No. Nothing like that, I assure you. But my roommates and I have some... useful talents, and I'm sure we can convince the authorities that he's been up to some federal felonies that will put him away for the rest of his life. He won't be able to bother you again." She has a very peculiar look on her face. "I... but... why? Why would you do something like that for me? It sounds kind of... questionable. You don't even know me." "I know you enough to know that I don't want to see anyone hurt you." "But... but..." "No buts. Please, just let me take care of this. You won't have to move again, I promise. I can get my friends over here within the hour, and we can get some decent security into this place for you so that you don't need to worry while we're taking care of your ex." "John, I can't afford anything like that. Security systems are so expensive." I look into her grey eyes, and they're filling with tears. "Who said anything about money? I'll be getting enough from this job the Sierra Club is paying for to cover any expenses. I don't want anything from you." She breaks down in tears, burying her face in her arms on the table. It's my turn to offer her some comfort. I get up and walk around the table, then kneel down next to her and hold her while she cries. "Everything will be all right, Sari. We'll take care of you. This guy won't ever get a chance to touch you again." "But... why?" Her voice shakes, and she sniffles. I hand her the napkin from next to her bowl, and she blows her nose and wipes her eyes. "Because you've been kind to me in a way that no one else ever has." She looks at me. "But, John... I would do that for anyone." "I know," I reply quietly, "that's what makes it all the more rare and special. No one in my life has ever treated me that way before." "No one?" she whispers. I shake my head. I live in a world where there is no kindness for strangers, and very little for friends, but only suspicion and hidden games of power and manipulation. The guys, Mulder, and Scully are the only exceptions I know, and even they generally reserve their kindness for our small group alone. Susanne was steeped in that cold and dangerous world long before I entered it, and she never showed any signs of the kind of compassion that Sari takes for granted as due to anyone simply by virtue of existing. This tiny handful of nervous, paranoid people are all I have left in the world. "You must have a lot of sorrow and loneliness in your life, John" she says. I can't look at her. "Yes," I tell her, my own voice barely a whisper. It's the only truth I have. end part 5 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 6 ______ "I dreamed of crusades, of unrecorded voyages of discovery, of republics with no history, of hushed-up religious wars, revolutions in customs, displacements of races and continents: I believed in every kind of witchcraft." ~~Rimbaud -- A Season in Hell~~ ______ SAME DAY EARLY AFTERNOON LONE GUNMEN HQ FROHIKE: The Gators swallow the bait and lose their hides to NC State. One of the good things that's happened today. Actually, hasn't been a bad day at all. Having Johnny-boy out of the place spares me from having to deal with his despairing gloom. And best of all, he's bringing in some real cash. I hope. Sounds like a pretty straightforward job, at least by our standards. Langly hasn't emerged from our secure cocoon, but at least he's marginally quiet. I say marginally because every so often, his silence is punctuated by some form of invective. I don't get my shorts in a knot over that. It's part of the language of programmerese. I just wish the headache would go away. I knew I'd worshipped heavily at the altar of the J&B gods, but apparently I was much more reverent than I intended. Fistfuls of Tylenol have not abated the constant ache in my head. I think my brain has swelled to roughly three times its normal size, with a corresponding decrease in my general ability to cope. Let's face it, I'm not as young as I used to be. I don't have the energy I once had, and dealing with these two critters takes monumental amounts of it. I'm generally left with a deficit to rival that of the federal budget. I have tentative plans to head out to the Candy Apple with Mulder and Langly, but right now I'm looking for a graceful excuse in order to back out. It's not that I've lost my taste for the pleasures of the flesh; au contraire. For some reason, the lure of the Candy Apple just lacks its usual luster. I'd contemplate this except that right now, thinking takes far too much effort. "Frohike!" Langly's plaintive wail breaks into my brain with all the subtlety of a crowbar. I'd ignore him, but that simply isn't a possibility. You ignore him at your peril. He has a way of pumping up the intensity of his irritation and persistence should you indicate that he's not the first thing you were considering attending to. "What?" I snap loudly at him. Here's one of the main differences between him and Byers, other than the suit: if I took that tone with Byers, he'd cringe like I'd slapped him. With Langly, however, I'm barely getting started. Langly is unlikely to notice anything until I'm waking the dead. "Like, I could use some help here!" "What's the magic word?" I'm going to stall him as long as humanly possible, if for no other reason than I have no desire to get out of my comfy chair. Before he can answer (he usually gets it wrong, anyway), the phone rings. "Phone's ringing," I carol to Langly. "Yeah, so pick it up." Brat. Why I don't simply Moe-smack him upside the head is beyond me. Maybe I'm afraid of hurting my hand when it lands on his iron skull. Whoever's calling isn't giving up, so I reluctantly trudge to the phone. "Lone Gunmen." "Turn the tape off, Frohike." I recognize Byers' voice at the other end of the line and comply. If it was Mulder, forget it. He thinks we turn the tape off for him; he's sadly mistaken. We'd miss half our headlines if we did. "What's up, Byers?" I hope he has a technical question a moderately literate four year old could answer. Unfortunately, if that were the case, he wouldn't be calling me. "I could use some help here." "What kind of help?" "I need you to bring over some surveillance equipment and communications scramblers." "Byers, where the hell are you?" "I'm at Ms. Thomas's apartment, remember?" "What the hell do you need the good stuff for?" "It's... complicated." "Byers, it's always complicated with you. What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?" Oh please, no more Grail Knight delusions. My ulcer can't take it. "Please. It's really important." I groan, and he must hear it. I know Langly did; he flipped me the bird. I swear, I'm going to discipline that boy like his father should have. Not that I'm convinced it will do him any good, but at least I'd feel better. "Tell me, the Sierra Club taking donations from Exxon or something?" "No, it's worse than that." "I'm all ears," I sigh. And on any other day, I would be. Just not today. "It's Sari's... Ms. Thomas's former husband." "Byers, I swear, if she told you he's psychotic, scream and run *now.* Do not pass go. Do not collect $200." Langly's attention is momentarily piqued, but he soon loses interest. I, however, feel a major Maalox moment coming on. The J&B is eating my stomach lining as I stand here. "She... he's been physically abusing her." "And you've seen evidence of this?" I'm sorry, Byers is a sucker for a sob story, particularly if it comes from a person with semi-decent tits and ass. "Yes. I saw the bruise on her arm. She didn't tell me; I saw it and asked her about it." And this makes her more credible? Oh man, I have horrible deja vu right about now. "Byers, the Crusades ended about seven centuries ago, just in case you didn't notice." "She needs our help." "I've heard that one before. Byers, I'm serious. Get your ass out of there before the heat gets turned up and you discover it's been fried extra crispy." Dead silence. "I'm going to help her, Frohike, with or without you. But it would be a lot easier with you." Yeah, but on whom? "Right, Byers. Gimme the address." He rattles off a location near the University, and I scribble it down. "We'll be there soon." I hang up." Langly, c'mon, time to get dressed for the ball. We've got work to do." "I am working." "Fooled me. Get your lazy blonde ass in gear; Byers has another damsel in distress." "Hey, I got one of my own at the moment. Like, I'm trying to get hacked into the hospital system, fer chrissake." He sighs like he's wounded. "God, people are so damn suspicious." No one more than me as I prepare to meet Byers. At least Langly helps me load the van. Byers better be prepared to schlepp on the other end. I'm getting way too old for this shit. MS. THOMAS' APARTMENT I arrive at the address in Georgetown. I hate Georgetown. Full of pretentious artsy-fartsy types along with the usual brand of Congresscritter. All the restaurants are ridiculously overpriced and the bars have ferns in them. Ferns, I tell you. I'm sorry, but real bars do not have ferns. Real estate says only three things matter: location, location, location. Ms. Thomas may have location, but there isn't a goddamn parking space within two blocks. And it's a Sunday, for chrissake. We may not have a fashionable address, but we do have parking. A few bribes to the local PD insure that. Luckily for us, the PD in our area can be bought cheap. The building is a walkup and our damsel resides on the third floor. Great, assuming you're not my age and trying to haul expensive and weighty equipment. I arrive at her door. I like the mat. At least the woman has a sense of humor. She'd better, if she's going to be dealing with us. "Frohike? Is that you?" I hear Byers' voice from the inside. "No, it's the Joho's. Who do you think it is, Byers, open the damn door!" I hear several latches being released and am offered admittance. "Frohike, I'm sorry, but you know I wouldn't pull you out unless it was really necessary..." "Oh, can it, Byers." I'm not in the mood. And he knows that I can resist a lady in need about as much as he can. He knew I would come. "Where's Langly?" Byers' face is creased with concern. "Attempting to make a close encounter of the cyber kind with his young lady in Pennsylvania." I sigh. "I swear, Byers, I used to think Mulder would be the death of me, but now I'm nominating you two..." "Thank you for coming." My diatribe is interrupted by the appearance of a tall, slender woman, comfortably dressed. She has short, dark hair and intelligent grey eyes behind metal rimmed glasses. She'd never make it at the Candy Apple, but she is quite tasty in her own way. I suspect this fact is not lost on Byers. "You could do worse," I whisper to him. "Frohike!" He snaps at me fiercely, and his face turns warm and pink. He doesn't know it, but he's got it bad. Again. My ulcer hurts and I've been here a whopping three minutes. "Come in and sit down, Mr..." Byers blushes again. "I'm sorry. This is my colleague and friend, Melvin Frohike." "Just Frohike," I say brusquely. Mel is an intimacy reserved for those who are very, very close to me, and right now, this lady ain't that. She leads us to her kitchen table. I can smell something delicious; I wonder if Ms. Thomas was capable of getting some nourishment into that boy. God knows I've been trying, but all my culinary efforts have been for naught. Maybe it's my mouthwash. "May I get you a cup of tea or some coffee, Mr. Frohike? Have you had any lunch yet?" Apparently she's also skilled at the art of being a hostess. "Umm... sure, coffee would be nice." I consider the wonderful smells from the kitchen. "I didn't really have time for lunch before I left, so if it won't be too much trouble..." Okay, so I had the time but not the energy. She doesn't need to know that. And my stomach is growling. "I'll be right back," she says with a small smile, and in a moment, she's back with a large bowl of soup, some bread, a little brie and some fruit, and a large mug of coffee. "Do you take any adulterants in your ritual alkaloids?" she asks. God, she sounds like Byers when he's been at the thesaurus again. "No thank you, dear." She nods and takes a seat. "So, tell me what's going on." Please, and use small words; I'm easily confused right now. Ms. Thomas is silent. She studies me much the way I am casing her. She is almost catlike in her countenance. I try a little of the soup. It tastes just as good as it smells, and it smells delectable. Byers starts talking. "As I mentioned, Sari's... Ms. Thomas' former husband has been abusing her." "Ever hear of a restraining order?" God knows I have enough familiarity with those. My ex took one out on me in our divorce. I've thought about violating it a thousand times, just to see my kids, but would never take the chance. It was the one way I could show them respect. "Believe me, I've taken out every kind of court order I could find," she says. She's keeping her voice calm, but there is a heavy undercurrent of tension in it. Did I mention that I have no respect for scumbags that violate their orders? Multiply that by about a thousand, and that's how little respect I have for men who hit women. My immediate impulse is to find the bastard and kick his sorry, cowardly little ass. The problem is, he probably has youth and size in his favor. They claim that old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill, but whoever said that never went one on one with a drunk built like a sumo wrestler. "Okay, so he's violated every order in the book. Have you tried moving?" I suggest. Byers is a mild-mannered man, but make no mistake, he has a capacity for righteous anger in him that's unrivaled. Unfortunately, I lit the fuse with my remark. "Since when does she have to arrange her life because some asshole won't leave her alone? Why should she make all the sacrifices? Look!" He gently rolls back her sleeve. I'm treated to the sight of a large, ugly bruise that makes me cringe. "I agree. I'm just checking out all options," I attempt to placate Byers, who is now on a roll. "Mr. Frohike, I've already moved three times in the last two years. I can't continue to live like this." Ms. Thomas's voice is quiet and almost steady, but I can still hear that edge of fear in it. "She doesn't have any more options, which is why I called you! I was hoping you would help her!" Byers is almost crimson with rage. She places the tips of her fingers on his arm. "Please, John, there's no need to be so upset. It... well... Barry would... it just makes me very uneasy." I bet. Guys who hit women don't tend to have much control in the anger department either. Her expression has moved from catlike observation to a narrow, almost twitchy avian anxiety. She looks like she would skitter away in a stiff breeze, like dry leaves. Byers takes a few deep breaths. He lets her call him John? Hoo boy. I notice how pale he is once his anger fades. How earnest his expression is. "Tell me what you had in mind," I say. "Maybe we could... trump up a few federal felony charges that would put him away 'til the next Ice Age," Byers suggests. I turn to Ms. Thomas. "How do you feel about this?" She shakes her head. "I can't say I'm crazy about it. In fact, I don't like it at all. Being a human rights activist on my off time, this is the sort of thing I try to prevent." She pauses for a long moment. I can see a blaze of anger rising in her. "But *I* have a right to live without being in terror of him. Every time he finds me, he's more angry and violent. I'm afraid if he isn't stopped, he'll end up killing me." With a deep breath, she looks up at me again, anger turned to rage in her eyes. "The bruise you saw isn't the only one." She pulls her shirt tail out of her jeans and reveals a huge, ugly bruise that covers much of her stomach and lower ribs. Byers looks as shocked and angry as I feel. "There are others,"she says, tucking her shirt back in. "I've been hospitalized several times since we divorced." "Oh my god." That's me. Byers is still too stunned to talk. "As a lobbyist and a writer, I'm a fairly public persona. My work appears in the press, and I can't avoid having my name or photo printed. The things I do are too important to give up out of fear, and it's easy for him to find me again. I honestly don't know what to do anymore, Mr. Frohike. All I know is, I can't keep living like this. It has to stop, and now is far better than later. Since the question is his rights versus my life, I'm willing to push my ethical envelope a little." There's more than just terror in this woman. There's determination as well, and I sense that somewhere in her is a spine of steel, not unlike the hard look in her dark eyes. She's willing to fight for others, and for herself as well. And she's refusing to hide anymore. If only Mata Hari had guts like that... Of course she's the sort Byers would go for -- like Susanne in ways, but willing to draw her line and stand it, come hell or high water. Fortunately, the soup had a soothing effect on my ulcer, or it would be about to pop right now. I think about what I've seen. What Byers is talking about is dangerous, and downright dirty. I like it. It's amazing what appeals to my sense of humor. end part 6 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 7 ______ "Often at night, drunk, he lay in wait in the streets or in houses, to frighten me to death." ~~Rimbaud -- A Season in Hell~~ ______ SUNDAY, MARCH 5, 2000 SARI THOMAS' RESIDENCE, APT 303 MID AFTERNOON FROHIKE: While Byers is in working on the computer that his current damsel in distress has hired him to fix, I'm in the hallway outside said damsel's door, working on installing a covert surveillance camera. Ms. Thomas is helping me, holding things and handing them up the ladder to me as I ask for them. We've been talking for a while, and I'm beginning to see what Byers probably likes about her, beyond the fact that she's tasty, and a skilled chef. This woman has a brain, too, and she's not afraid to use it. I've always thought that smart was sexy, and she's definitely smart. So far, we've discussed cooking, Sanskrit etymology, anarchist political theory, and genetically engineered crops. She definitely has her ear to the ground, because she doesn't miss a trick in any of those fields, and she's way ahead of me in linguistics theory. And she gave me the recipe for her potato leek soup, which I'm going to use later this week. Apparently Byers ate most of a bowl of the stuff, along with bread, cheese and fruit. That's better than I've gotten from him in nearly two months. "May I ask you something?" she asks me, slightly hesitant. "You can always ask," I tell her. "I may not answer." "Fair enough, I suppose. It's about your friend John." I guess I should have expected that. Maybe she has it for him, too. "He nearly passed out on me before I fed him lunch today. He was in a very bad way for a while. When I asked him if he'd been ill recently, he said that he'd lost someone close to him, and that someone had tried to kill him. He didn't say much, and I guess I'm trying to sort all of that out in my head. I don't mean to pry, but John seems like such a nice person, I can't imagine how something like that could have happened to him. Perhaps you could help me understand?" Her words worry me, particularly the part about Byers nearly passing out. I ask for a screwdriver and she hands me up one. She would ask the tough questions. I ponder for a few minutes before I answer, and she waits patiently for me to speak. I'm not sure how much I should say. For Byers to even admit that anything had happened was nothing short of miraculous, much less giving her those details. "What he said was true. It's all pretty complicated, and I'd rather not go into detail about most of it. What exactly did he tell you?" "Something about being threatened, and a woman that he'd been in love with for a very long time leaving him once the danger was over. He told me that he didn't think he'd ever really loved her, but I saw the look on his face, and I'm not buying it. I think he's trying to rationalize it away so that her loss doesn't feel quite so painful, so that maybe he doesn't feel like he's wasted all that time loving her only to have her leave." She looks up at me, and I hand her the screwdriver back. "That's all for this part of the installation," I say, climbing down the ladder. "Now we need to put scramblers on your phones." She nods, and I continue quietly. "You're right about him trying to rationalize the whole thing. But it's more complicated than that, really." She collects the ladder while I pick up the toolbox, and we go inside and close the door. "You see, Byers only saw this woman three times in all those years. Pretty pitiful, really. She was working on covert projects most of that time, and was kept in very secure locations. We couldn't find her after she disappeared the first time. When we saw her again, she had to change her identity to stay safe. She asked Byers to go with her then, but he felt she would be safer if she went alone. Then came the threats, and he went to get her to make sure she was safe. He even asked her to marry him after it was over, but in the end, she decided that her safety was more important to her than his, or than whatever she might have felt for him." No names, dates, or locations. It should be safe enough to tell her that much. "That's all very mysterious. Sounds quite cloak and dagger, really. But I think I see why he would say what he did, under those circumstances. It must have been very hard on him. It sounds like it was very hard on this woman he loves, too." I just nod. I'm not going off on a rant about Mata Hari right now, much as I might want to. Ms. Thomas's responses have been fairly analytical, and I'm wondering if maybe I was reading a little more into her interest in Byers than I should have. I mean, she seems genuinely concerned, but what she's said doesn't sound like she actually has the hots for him. She leans the ladder against her couch and points to the phone in her living room. "I guess we can start with this one. I think it will be a little crowded with three people in my office, so I imagine you'll want to wait on that one until John takes a break. There's also a phone in my bedroom." I nod again, and pick up her phone. But we'll have to toss Byers out of the office before I can get in there and work. There's really only enough room for two in there. And Byers, like Langly and I, tends to get caught up in the work and forgets to take breaks. "Yeah, it was hard on him. It was hard on everyone. Our partner almost got killed over it. And I'm not sure his chickadee really deserved his loyalty." She watches me as I work "I'm sorry. I hope he's all right now. But I wouldn't condemn her for trying to save her own life. It' s not like that isn't a concern of my own at the moment." "Yeah, he's doing better. But you're not running and hiding, and you're not deserting anybody to do it." "I had to leave Barry. And I might remind you that I did move three times before I decided I wasn't going to live like that anymore. John doesn't strike me as the sort who gives his loyalty or his love to anyone very easily. After our conversation yesterday, I would say that he's very shy and reserved by nature. People like that often have a hard time reaching out to others and risking their feelings." "Yeah, for the most part. In your case, you were leaving the person who was hurting you. It's not the same with her. Byers never did anything but try to help her, even when it seemed insane to do so. And he's not quite as reserved as you'd think when it comes to pretty ladies. He doesn't keep his head very well when his hormones kick in on him." She laughs. "Like anyone does? I'd love to meet this hypothetical hormonal logician of yours, even just to stare at him. There would have to be a government study of the anomaly, of course. And I'd suspect genetic engineering, myself." The thought makes me chuckle, even though I've seen too much to discount what she's tossing off as a humorous pseudo-theory. Langly's certainly in a hormonal haze of his own right now. Hope Byers survives this one. The rest of the afternoon passes fairly quietly. I finish the security installations and show Ms. Thomas how to work everything. True to form, I had to toss Byers out of the office in order to get in and work on the phone. He's still got a ton of stuff to do here, but I'm done with my part of the deal until Byers gets home when he's done here today. After that, it's time for the three of us to put our heads together and come up with a frame for Barry Guertzen. I think fraud on a federal level would do the trick. He was an accountant, and it's not unreasonable to think that he was involved in some skimming and cooking the books at one point or another as he got deeper into his head trips. Ms. Thomas said that he was pickling himself pretty regularly too, so that probably had some effect on both his actions and his troubles with the law and his employers. I think the boys and I can put together a very convincing package, with a minimum of funky poaching. After the foundry, I'm still willing to give that particular recreational activity a rest for a while. "I'll probably be in late," Byers says as I'm getting ready to leave. "If that happens, be sure you at least try and get some dinner before you get back," I insist. "Nobody escapes from my place without being fed at the appropriate hours," Ms. Thomas says firmly. "Thank you very much for all your help, Mr. Frohike. I feel a little more secure here already." She shakes my hand, and I raise it to my lips and kiss the back of it briefly. I've come to the conclusion that she definitely deserves the treatment due a lady. I was right, Byers could have done much worse than to fall for this one. SARI THOMAS' RESIDENCE 8:20 PM BYERS: I've got a good deal of work done when Sari comes in and informs me that it's time for dinner. "I'm not really very..." She gives me a disapproving look. "Oh, hey, none of that crap! You're eating something, because I won't have you passing out on me again, and I promised your friend I'd get you to eat. Besides, there's a nice little Ethiopian place just down the street about eight blocks. I could use a walk, and I'm having a killer craving for injera." I don't want to disappoint her. "I'll bring along my laptop. We can take the time while we're at dinner to scan your floppies for the virus the hacker hit you with. It's been pretty complicated, and I'm not entirely sure it was all from one source." I hand her the stack of discs from her desk. She looks mildly distressed at the idea of working over her meal, but it's just a matter of sticking in a disc, hitting a couple of keys, and letting the virus scanner do the work. "Ok," she says, "I suppose I can tolerate that much while I'm trying to enjoy my evening." She gives me a little half-smile, picks up her backpack and deposits the discs, and we depart. Being early March and long after dark, it's cold and crisp outside. Our breath forms clouds as we move along the sidewalk. We're not far from the restaurant when Sari freezes and grabs my arm, looking down the street. "Oh shit." "What's wrong?" "It's Barry," she whispers, her voice tight and tense. She points him out without drawing attention to the fact that she's doing so. I can see why she's scared of this guy. Hell, I'm scared of him. He's huge. I'm guessing that he's got a good six inches on me, and at least 60 pounds. He looks like a steroidally enhanced nightmare version of some middle-aged Hitler Youth; blonde, buff, and Aryan. It's like he's Schwartzenegger's evil twin. Sari starts to drag me off the street into a doorway, but it's obvious that he's seen her, and he's closing in on us fast. In a few seconds, he's right on top of us, and even bigger than I thought. He's shouting obscenities and reaching for her. "You goddamn slut! You can't even keep your whoring in private anymore! Who the hell is the scrawny geek? You're my bitch, Sari, and I'm gonna kill you." He stinks of alcohol, and his shouting is starting to attract attention on the street. People are giving us a wide berth; some are hurrying away, and others are starting to stare. "Barry, it's not like that! He's fixing my computer. I got hacked the other day." Sari is backing away, and I put myself between them. He's getting angrier, and tries to reach past me to grab her. "I bet he's fixing more than your motherboard, cunt." I'm trying to block his arm, but I'm not having much success. He advances a few steps and suddenly Sari's back is against the wall and I'm nose to collarbone with the incredible Hulk. "I'm doing nothing of the sort, and you can't treat her like this," I insist, trying to push him away from her with both hands on his chest. He looks down at me. I think I've made a tactical error here. He grabs me by one shoulder and pulls me out toward the middle of the sidewalk, away from Sari. I try to get in a sucker punch before he hits me, but he's got those abs of steel that I keep seeing infomercials for, and doesn't even flinch. "You're pathetic, little man," he growls at me. The next thing I know, there's a ham sized hand around my throat and he slams me into the brick wall of the building that Sari's been backed up against. It knocks the wind out of me, and when he lets me go, I can't help but slide to the ground. Suddenly, I know how Frohike feels. I'm struggling to my feet when she moves. There's something in her hand, and when it hits him, I smell ozone and hear a sharp crack. Must be a shock stick of some sort. Smart. It doesn't stop him, though. He grabs her arm, twisting it to force her to the ground. She yelps in pain and I'm on my feet again. I can't let this happen to her. I told her we'd keep her safe. This is not what I had in mind. He sees me get up, and with a jerk and a twist, he tosses Sari into the wall. I hear a sickening snapping sound, and she screams. I don't have any weapons as Barry turns to take me on again. I swing my laptop case, the only thing I have, taking him hard on the side of the head. I cringe as I do it, but laptops can be replaced. People can't. It stuns him, but only for a second, and he's on me before I can swing the laptop again. This time he hits me hard. I manage to duck the blow enough that he doesn't break my nose, but my whole head feels like it just exploded. I'm dizzy and seeing flashes of light, but at least I don't black out or hit the ground. I wobble a little and go at him again with the laptop. I feel it connect, and he curses. He must have actually felt that one. I guess I hit him somewhere other than his head. I'm not about to let up if I have any choice in the matter. If it were just me, I'd run, but I can't leave Sari here to face this guy by herself. He's threatened to kill her. So I hit him again, and out of the corner of my eye I see Sari move. She strikes out with the shock stick in her left hand this time, and I think she's turned up the gain, because this time Barry is the one who screams. He lashes out with his arms as he spasms, and I get knocked to the sidewalk beside Sari. She hits him again and by this time, I hear sirens in the distance. So does he, apparently, and he starts to run. He shouts back at me,"I'll remember you, nerdboy, and next time I see you, you are dead meat! Nobody touches my woman but me! You're dead, pal." No one stops him, of course. There's a young African woman kneeling on the sidewalk beside Sari now, though. "I've called the police and an ambulance," she says. "Let me take a look at you." At a guess, I'd say she's a med student. I try to sit up and look at Sari myself, but the pain and dizziness from that punch he landed keeps me flat on the sidewalk. The flashing lights in my eyes haven't stopped. I can see she has tears running down her face though, and her teeth are clenched against the pain. "Sari, how bad are you hurt?" I ask. I reach out and take her hand. She's panting hard, shaking violently, and she grips my hand tightly. "No injera... tonight..." she says sadly. "Looks like a nasty broken right arm," the young woman says after a short examination. "The bone didn't break the skin though. That's lucky, at least." She helps Sari sit upright against the wall and adjust her arm to a slightly more manageable position, then turns her attention to me. "Can you follow my finger?" She's moving it slowly in front of my face, and though it's blurry, I track it with my eyes. "That's good, now let's get a look at your pupil response." She pulls a penlight out of her purse and shines it in my eyes a moment. "Looks like you may have a concussion." The sirens come screaming up, and then there are red and blue lights everywhere. Sari gives my hand a squeeze. God, my head hurts. Frohike's going to kill me. He'll probably be waiting for me at the hospital to do it, too. end part 7 Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 8a ______ "My health was threatened. Terror came. I used to fall into a sleep of several days, and when up, I continued the saddest dreams." ~~Rimbaud -- A Season in Hell~~ ______ MARCH 5, 2000 GUNMEN HQ 8:57 PM FROHIKE: "Fuck! It's almost nine o'clock! She went on shift at seven, I told her I was gonna be up by then! Goddammit!" That's Langly I'm hearing. Notice I didn't say I was listening. I'm paying about as much attention to him as I am to my Jackie Chan movie. I have no idea which one it is. Like Langly's frustrations, they all look the same. "Can you keep it down to a roar in there?" I call out to him. After spending much of the day laboring at Ms. Thomas's, I'm exhausted. The most strenuous thing I plan to engage in for the moment is coming up with a plausible excuse when Mulder calls, as to why I don't wish to spend an evening ogling the ladies that grace the stages and cages of the Candy Apple. I know I shouldn't have to make any excuses, simply say that I'm not going, but this is Mulder, and he has a way of being obnoxiously persistent. I need to prepare myself to fight off the siege that's sure to ensue. Langly, naturally, is paying even less attention to me than I am to him, and doesn't even respond. Ordinarily, I'd offer to help the boy, but all I really want to do at the moment is pass out comfortably, preferably for about a week. I swear, I love these kids but they have worn me out. The movie ends, which means that it's time for 15 minutes of commercials and paid political announcements. I should just call Mulder and get it over with, but first, seeing as I've neglected regular work today, I should check the police scanners, see if it's all quiet on the western front. "Fucking firewall they put up, you'd think they actually cared about patient privacy or something!" Langly snaps viciously, not even looking up when I enter the office. I don't respond. We both know full well that it has everything to do with insurance data and nothing at all to do with privacy for individuals, and neither of us is up for that discussion at the moment. Besides, he's just venting. The scanners are fairly quiet, but it's a Sunday night. It's still pretty cold out, and criminal elements are essentially hedonists -- they prefer to work in comfort. I know this from personal experience. I'd much rather go out for some funky poaching on a warm night than one that threatens to lower sperm production due to frozen nads. Tonight, though, my choice is to do nothing. I grab for the phone. "You think you can keep it down for a few minutes? I have to call Mulder." He doesn't respond directly, but he does reduce the overt cursing to some irritated mutterings. I dial Mulder's cell number. "Mulder." Could he say that with less expression, please? If it's possible? "Hey dude. What're you doing?" "Eating a double Fatburger." This is probably correct, seeing as his voice is muffled and thick. "Nothing like fine dining before a night of the finest entertainment Southeast DC has to offer." "Yeah, well, bud, you're gonna have to amuse yourself on your own." "What, you're bailing on me?" "I'm tired, dude." "What about those Viagra samples I filched from Scully and gave to you? You oughta try 'em." "I'm keeping 'em for you," I taunt back. "Hey, some of us can still stay up past nine o'clock!" "I didn't think you were talking about sleep. You never get any anyway." "Frohike, you're a heartless bastard, you know that? C'mon." He's off on some kind of whiny rant when the police scanner kicks in. There's an incident. I listen carefully -- any excuse to not have to hear Mr. It's-All-About-Me for a couple of minutes. It says there's been a multiple assault and battery in Georgetown. 'Georgetown' hits my ears like a whistle pierces a dog's. Ms. Thomas lives there. The address given isn't hers, but it's not very far from where she lives. "Frohike, are you listening?" Mulder whines at the other end of the phone. "Shush!" I tell him, waiting to hear more information. Oh hell. Somebody got injured. Two people, in fact. I'm listening, yes, but not to Mulder. "Look, old man," Mulder goes on, "drink some coffee, watch a couple of your favorite videos and meet me in an hour --" They're identifying the individuals being taken to GWU Medical Center. A man and a woman. I can't make out the first name of the woman, but I sure as hell hear the last name. Thomas. Caucasian, age 37. I tell myself it's a common name, maybe it's someone else... The next victim is identified as John Fitzgerald Byers, age 36, male, caucasian... "Sorry, dude, not tonight, I have a headache. A real one. Byers is hurt. I just picked it up on the police scanner," I say to Mulder as I hang up on him. I turn to Langly. "C'mon, buddy, we have to get moving." "But I just got in! Deb's probably been wondering --" I pull him away from the email screen. "Then she can keep wondering. Byers is hurt, let's go." "Byers is what?" He looks uncomprehendingly at me. "Just get your car keys and haul that sorry blonde ass of yours!" You've heard of Maalox moments? I have a Maalox life. GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER 9:13 PM FROHIKE: "Six bucks to park? That's such a rip!" Langly grumbles as he maneuvers the aging VW van into the underground parking structure at GWU Medical Center. "Why are you complaining? I paid." I actually take some comfort in this dialogue; when we're both upset, we bicker over petty things to settle our nerves. We find a space on the fourth level down. Nothing like slipping into the bowels of the earth in a bad section of DC late at night. I make the decision that we're going to use the elevators; my back is killing me from working today (and, no doubt, from overindulging myself last night). "We'd have gotten there faster on the stairs," Langly mutters as the elevator grinds at an arthritic snail's pace up to the emergency level. "Only if you'd carried me," I remind him. This is Sunday night. I didn't think the emergency area would be as crowded as it is, but I remind myself that GWU treats everyone from sultans to street derelicts. It's the one place in DC where you can be a pauper and sit next to a prince, and the great equalizer is that everyone's sitting on an equally uncomfortable plastic chair. The TV is blaring an episode of WWF Smackdown. I push my way to the head of the line to ask one of the harried admitting clerks about the status of Byers and Ms. Thomas. Fortunately, I've had a lot of practice in lines at Mickey D's. Sometimes being short is an asset. "Hold on, hold on, give me the names again." The poor admitting clerk looks as if he's breaking a sweat, even on this chilly night. "Shit, the computer's down again. I can't --" "So, ask someone!" He stares at me as if I just grew a second head. That's the problem with kids today. They're lost without technology propping them up. He wanders off and reappears with relative rapidity. "Um, okay, Ms. Thomas, she's in exam room 5, waiting for an orthopedic consult. Mr. Byers, though, he's being prepped for immediate surgery." "What the hell!" Langly snaps at him. "What the hell happened to him?" "They, um, called an ophthalmic surgeon, must be his eye." Brilliant deduction. I'm afraid this kid better get used to being where he is. I don't think he's got the brains to advance out of his bulletproof glass enclosed cage with tons of people shouting at him. Poor fucker. We're told that Byers is in preop staging on the 4th floor. Maybe if we rush we can catch him before they haul him away. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to him?" Langly is squawking loudly, in a whining tone, but this is only a cover for how intensely worried he is. "How the hell should I know? No one else seems to around here!" I snap back. The ceremonial bickering continues. Preop staging: the instructions say to follow the blue lines on the floor. Good. Someone thought to make the system idiot-proof. Except that it only leads to another office. "Where's John F. Byers?" I demand of the nurse behind the desk. "I'm sorry, give me the name again?" "John Fitzgerald Byers!" Langly shouts it so that there's no doubt. "Sir, you don't have to yell. Just have a seat." "We were told he's being rushed to surgery --" I jump in. "Are you family?" she asks me. "Yes, we are," I lie firmly. Hell, let her think what she wants. "Just a moment please, I'll buzz you in. You'll have to check with the nurses' station to get his cubicle number." God, I love bureaucracy. "Man, I hope he's okay," Langly is clearly stressed, gnawing on a thumbnail and sighing hard. Luckily for us, we don't have to talk to the bureaucrats this time. Byers' name is written on the white board and he's in Cubicle 7, unless, of course, somebody fucked up, which fortunately they didn't do this time. Oh, Christ on a crutch. He's a mess. "Excuse me," the nurse says sharply to us as she's wiring the poor boy up. "'S okay," Byers mumbles weakly, "want them here." The three health care professionals attending to him stare at him as if he's had his brain knocked out of whack, which, in talking to one of the gentlemen there, I discover is the case. The man, a soft-spoken guy with a long braid running down his back, is a neurologist and has been sent in because our boy has suffered a concussion. "What about his eye?" I demand, staring at the bandage covering one of them. "Torn retina. The surgeon's here, he's just getting ready," the nurse explains. The third person is a very tall, quiet man, who says that he's the anesthesiologist and he needs to get Byers ready to go. We can stay, but only if we keep out of the way. That tends to be a challenge for us, but we'll do anything right now. "Is Sari okay?" Byers murmurs. "I don't know. We haven't seen her yet." "Go check on her, please," he begs. I turn to Langly. "Langly? Go make yourself useful." "So you can stay here and be useless?" he says to me. He leans over to Byers and pats him on the arm. "Hey dude, good luck, see you on the flip side." "What happened?" I ask Byers as the anesthesiologist makes his evaluation. "We ran into Sari's ex-husband. The one... you know." "Oh Jesus." So much for keeping the poor lady safe. Not only did she get hurt, he did too. Shit. "Got to get... him away from her..." Byers is fading. "Take care of her." "No problem, buddy." Of course it's a problem, but hey, for him, anything. "All right, it's mind wipe time," the anesthesiologist announces. "We're giving you some Versed, Mr. Byers, and off to dreamland you go." "We'll be here," I promise Byers. "Watch over her." Those are his last words as the drugs begin to work their magic and send him off to oblivion. Lucky guy. I could stand to be there right about now. end part 8a Things Undone 4: Alchemy of the Word, part 8b LANGLY: Well, if this isn't weird or what. I'm supposed to go check on Byers' current damsel in distress. Problem with his damsels in distress, they got a way of getting him banged up real bad. Pisses me off. I think she's in 5. Okay, Langly, be cool. I rap on the door. A lady's voice calls out real quiet, "Yes?" "Um, it's Langly. Like, I'm a friend of your pal Byers?" Wow, how's that for sterling delivery? She unlatches the door and lets me in. She's got one arm that's real swollen but she offers the hand on the other one to me. "Hi, I'm Sari Thomas. And you said your name was?" "Langly." "A pleasure, Mr. Langly." Not under these circumstances, but whatever. I sure wish Deb was here right now. Shit. She'd have her patched up and she could tell us what was up with Byers and we'd all feel a whole hell of a lot better... "No misters. Makes me look around for my dad." "Just Sari, then." She nods and goes over and sits in one of the chairs. "You can call me Ringo if you like. Your arm, man. Looks like it's broken." Take it from someone who's made many trips to the ER. I was no virgin when I got clobbered a couple months back, just that that one hurt a lot more than usual. I mostly end up with a broken bone here and there and a few stitches. Skiing and bar fights are mostly responsible for my trips, not running into mutant psychos like Landau. "Yes, it is. The orthopedist just saw my X-rays and she's on her way to put a cast on it." She looks real scared. "It's not scary getting a cast on," I tell her, trying to make her not so afraid. "No, it's not that. I've done this before. I'm worried about John. Have you seen him? How is he?" "He's gonna be okay, I think. But he's got like a torn retina, least that's what they said upstairs. They're about to haul him off to the body shop and fix him up. Just hope it's not something that's gonna make him go blind or something." I wince. So does she. "This is all my fault," she sighs big time. "If I hadn't insisted we go out for dinner..." "'Scuse me, but since when's it a crime to go out and eat where you like?" If going to Burger King becomes a criminal offense, I'm gonna be the number one fugitive in America. "Since my ex decided he owns me." She sounds real bitter. "He did this to you? And Byers?" Oh man, I am gonna kill that bastard. He better not be anywhere near here, cause if he is, I am gonna wring his sorry ass cowardly neck. Man, I hate guys that do that shit. Deb sees lots of it where she works. Being an ER doc, she patches up lots of ladies who get beat up by dirtbag guys, and then they go back to 'em to get beat up again. I say, kill 'em all. Least when I go slapping people around, I save it for guys my own size. Sometimes bigger. That doesn't work to my advantage, but hey, it's at least kind of a fair fight. "Unfortunately, it's not the first time." She looks real beaten down. "No matter what I do, I seem to incur his wrath, and this time, someone else got hurt too. This is all my fault." She's trying not to cry. "Hey, hey, time out! What's this shit, it's your fault? Lemme get this straight. You and Byers were gonna go have dinner. You were walking down the street, minding your own damn business, and Mr. Ex comes out and starts giving you the business, and this is your fault? That makes no sense!" Jesus, doesn't she get it? I mean, she doesn't seem stupid, that's for sure. "Man, I got this girlfriend, she's an ER doc, she sees this stuff all the time. Makes her so damn mad when women say it's all their fault, 'cause it's not!" "But John's hurt because of me. He... he tried to keep Barry from getting to me. Gods, Barry's twice his size. He got hit so hard." She looks so damn down. I gotta cheer her up. "Look, Byers, he's tougher than he looks, he'll be okay." Least I hope he will be. This is so weird. Like before I started talking to her, I was all bent out of shape at her for getting him into this, but then it's like I talk to her and I see, she didn't do shit except try to live her life. There's a knock on the door. "Maybe that's your doc," I say. Nope, no luck. Just Frohike. "How's John?" Sari asks him frantically. "He's in surgery. They think he'll be fine. How are you?" I was thinking Fro'd be real mad at her for getting him into this too, but he hates jerks who do this shit, maybe he knows. He was over there working today. "I'm... I'm okay." Oh yeah, sure she is. "Y'know, it's a good thing I don't do guns, 'cause lemme tell you, I'd take him out, right now," I tell her. She just looks nervous. Frohike gives this real evil grin. "Oh, we're going to take him out, all right. But not that way. We're going to make it much, much more painful for him." Hmm. You know, it's fun to be around Frohike when he gets like this. He gets a bug up his ass about getting even with someone, and man, that's entertainment. He puts an arm around her back and she leans her head on his chest. "You want to go ahead with this, dear? You're all right with it?" She kinda whimpers. I don't know if it's the arm or what, but she's really in pain. Give the girl some morphine already, I feel like screaming but there's nobody here to yell at except Frohike, and not only does he not have any morphine, he never listens to me anyway. Lucky for us, the orthopod shows up to do her arm, because I'm dying to know what old Frohike's got in mind. Real quiet, Frohike gives me the background on what we're going to do. This sounds like fun. And it probably won't involve any field trips. I hope. I think I'm done with field trips for a while. We hang out while Sari gets her arm patched. It's no fun getting a cast on, but she's cool, no screaming. They give her some Vicodins to take home. Lucky girl. Maybe she'll have some left. I'm all out. I don't need 'em like I did when I first got hurt, but Deb won't give me any more, and sometimes they come in handy. I love Vicodins. "Do you have a place you could go tonight, maybe stay with a friend?" Frohike asks her when she's done being put back together and we're on our way to the waiting area. She's got a cool sling. It's got tropical fish all over it. I never got one that cool. I'm jealous. She shakes her head and gets this really determined look on her face, sorta like the one Byers gets when he digs in his heels. "I'm not going anywhere right now. Not until I'm sure John's okay." "It's going to be a wait," Frohike warns her. "They estimated it could take anywhere from two to three and a half hours to do the surgery on his eye." We all grab seats. "I don't care. Besides, if you want to know the truth, I'm really nervous about leaving here on my own. Barry knows where my friends live, and... well..." "We wouldn't think of letting you do that," Frohike says, rubbing her back again. She doesn't flinch. She obviously doesn't think he's a troll. "But you do need a safe place to stay." "Hey, she could stay in Byers' room," I offer. Hey, why not? We've got a secure place, Byers has the cleanest room, and he won't be using it tonight. Unlike Frohike and me, he changes his sheets more than once a month, and he puts his dirty laundry in a basket. We just leave ours on the floor. Frohike doesn't look too sure about that, but he agrees. "Yeah, maybe you're right, Langly. Perhaps you should take her there now. She looks as if she could use some rest." "No. I'm not leaving until I see John and know if he's going to be all right." Stubborn chick, that's for sure. Well, probably important if she's gonna be around us for any length of time. Sounds like she might. So we wait. And we talk. She's a lobbyist, environmental type. She's into a lot of things. After a while she's kinda groggy and leans on me to rest. I let her, and put an arm around her to make it a little easier. These waiting room chairs suck, and if leaning makes her more comfortable, that's ok with me. She smells a little like sandalwood or something. It's kinda nice. She asks Fro to crack a Vicodin in half for her and takes it. We're just hanging when a familiar face shows up. "Hey Mulder, what're you doing here?" I ask him. He's got on his FBI windbreaker. For some reason, that gives me an idea. Frohike was talking about trumping up some federal charges on Sari's ex. And we're gonna do that. But maybe Mulder could find something real to make it even more effective. Hmm, Mulder being useful. Talk about a new concept. He glares at us. "Next time Byers gets hurt, would you mind telling me where so I don't have to call every damn hospital in the city? How's the boy doing?" "You know as much as we do. In the meantime, join the party," Frohike motions to him to sit with us. "By the way, this is Ms. Sari Thomas. Ms. Thomas, this is Fox Mulder." "Please, guys, just Sari. I'm really not into formal." She looks sad and exhausted, but offers her hand to Mulder. He takes it carefully. He can see she's hurting pretty bad. "Hi, Sari," he says gently. "Just call me Mulder. Were you there when Byers got hurt?" She nods and sniffs a little. "I'm the reason he got hurt," she says quietly. Me and Fro, man, we're both all over that in a hot second. "Her ex did this," Frohike says. Sari describes what went down, and this is the first time we've heard the whole story. Byers wasn't talking much when I left Frohike with him, and Mel doesn't add anything to the story, so I guess we're going to have to get Byers' version when he's out of surgery. It sounds pretty ugly. Mulder's just all quiet, probably doing his profiler thing. "So the local PD got a good description of him, and there was at least one witness who was willing to give them a report?" Mulder's looking at her with those green eyes of his. He usually hypnotizes the chicks and they get all gooey on him, but Sari doesn't react with that hormonally charged sigh that I've heard from other females in his presence. She still looks really bad, even though she's been resting some. "Yes. I hope that they find the bastard soon. He threatened to kill John, and I believe he'd do it. He was only about six blocks from my apartment, and I think he was looking for my car so that he could figure out where I live. For all I know, he may be still waiting around there for me to come home." "Now, you know we're not going to let him find you. You're staying with us tonight," Frohike says. He reaches out and runs a hand along her shoulder. "She's staying with you guys? She's a lot braver than anybody else I know," Mulder says with a smirk. "What do you know about these boys?" he asks her. "They're here for me, they've offered me shelter for the night, and they're very concerned about John. At the moment, that's all I really need to know," Sari says, shifting a little closer to me. She shivers a little, and I think she's getting cold, even though she has her coat around her like a blanket. But there's a tiny smile on her face that says she knows he's teasing us. She's been really cool about all this, even though I can see how hard it's being on her. She's like totally afraid, but she won't run, and she's really worried about Byers, but despite all that, she's not cracking. This chick is so cool. I look at Frohike and Sari, then over at Mulder. "So, like, Mulder -- I've got this idea..." end part 8b