From: Erynn Date: 4 Nov 2003 03:24:30 -0800 Subject: [all-xf] Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops 8/20 Source: atxc Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 08 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living In better conditions" ~~Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky -- The Gift~~ ______ TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000 LONE GUNMAN OFFICES 8:30 P.M. LANGLY: What a day. And I don't mean it in a good way, either. After Byers forced me to eat when I wasn't hungry, I went back to Deb's room. The good news is, she was a lot more awake this afternoon. The bad news is, she was sick and puking the entire time. I was squicking, and a couple times I thought I'd lose it, but I made myself stay and hold her hair back and say things to her to try and make her feel better. All this, with her Mom and Dad watching me like they expected me to jump her bones right then and there. Yeah, right, I'd really jump her bones while I'm in the middle of cleaning up after her. I bet you bucks they think I had something to do with her getting hurt. I just feel it in them. They don't say anything, but I can tell. It got to Deb, too. Soon as they left, she burst out crying, and kept crying for like an hour. Crying women unnerve me. I never know what to do, especially when there's nothing I can do. I think Deb's glad her folks love her and all, but having them here when she's really hurting, and listening to them rant and argue and carry on, it's not good for her. I think what really did it was when Deb was saying there's no way in hell she's leaving DC. Her fellowship's here, and then she said, 'Ringo's here.' I think that went over about like a bomb over Hiroshima. Finally, it's 8 o'clock, and I hate leaving Deb but I'm so glad to be outta there. I had to run to the bathroom three times this afternoon to suck on my inhaler. After Mr. SaintJohn made a nasty crack the first time, I made sure he didn't see me. It's not like I want to have this stupid asthma. Made life hell on a farm, I'll tell you that much. Not that my folks cared, they were like, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I'm not dead yet, though I had more than a few moments today where I wished lightning would come down and kill me. This would've be a good night to get stoned, and not on whatever that shit was that Frohike slipped in my soup last night. I know he slipped me something. I wouldn't have slept like that if he hadn't. I don't know if I'm grateful or mad as hell. Maybe both. I really, really need some dope, so before I leave, I try to give Elron a shout from one of the pay phones, but no dice. He's not home, not answering his pages. Asshole. Then I try Kimmy. He's not around, either. I don't care what it costs. I need some, big time. I figure I could go check with the guys outside the 7-11 before I get home. They've always got good stash. Unfortunately, that plan dives out the window in short order. Right when they give last call to kick us out, Mulder shows up. I'm kind of glad to see him at first, but then he tells me he's here to take me and the 'rents home. They get real nervous, like 'what the hell's going on?' Mulder tries to play Mr. Cool, telling 'em it's just for their own protection 'til they get everything straightened out and find out who shot Deb. I don't think they're totally buying it, but hey, it's the Fibbies, and her folks respect that. Not me. I know Mulder too well. We drop the 'rents at the motel, and Mulder gives them his card and says call him if they need anything. We bail real fast after that. "Rough day, eh?" Mulder asks me. He's perfectly calm. He would be. He wasn't trapped for hours on end with his girl's parents, watching her get sick and cry and be miserable. "Jesus, Mulder, are they giving awards for asking the stupidest question you can think of? And what's the trip, here? You never do anything for me unless you want something in return." "Langly, you wound me." "You mind telling me what he fuck's going on?" "We don't know jack yet. That's the problem." "Yeah, but you think something we did is why Deb got shot." "I wasn't sure, but ever since Kimmy almost got hit tonight--" "Kimmy? Kimmy got what? Where? What the hell?" "He'd left your place, and about half an hour later someone fired on him." "Oh, holy fuck." Kimmy's a total pain in the butt, but he's a bud. Well, he was. He might be getting tired of this shit. He wouldn't be the only one. After today, I'm starting to wonder myself. "So what the hell do you think is going on, Profiler Boy?" "Something Byers dug up while you were off boffing your ladyfriend, no doubt." "That Area 51 stuff? Hell, what could be there to get anyone so mad at us?" "Beats the hell out of me." God, I hate him. He's so... calm. "What the hell kind of crusade has Byers got us on this time?" "Haven't got a clue. Not yet, anyway." I smack my forehead. "Oh, this is rich." People are crazy and life is strange... and getting way too much so for my taste. We pull up to the house. "Get some sleep, Langly." "Forget it. I got work to do." Like any of these guys has my kung fu. Right. "Just remember, blonde boy, I'm the man with the gun here." "Oh yeah. Like you can hit the broad side of a barn with it." I hate the bastard. I really, really hate him. I just want to head off to my room and die, but Frohike goes into Mother Hen mode as soon as I walk in. He's got dinner all ready, and what's even worse, he expects me to eat it. I'm not hungry. I'm tired of everyone shoving food down my throat. I'm tired of everything. Hell, I'm just tired. "You drug my food again?" I snap at Frohike. "I go to all the trouble of making you a nice meal, and this is the thanks I get?" He's doing his unappreciated housewife schtick. We get treated to this a lot. I'm not in the mood. "You drugged me last night." "And what of it? You slept, which is more than I can say for the rest of us." I stand up and head for the basement. "I got work to do." Unfortunately, I'm not quick enough. Frohike may be little, but he's got kung fu grip. He's got an arm lock on me. "Forget it, Blondie. Get some sleep. You're not getting near this one 'til you do." I'm seething with rage. I could so kill him right now, just snap his thick little neck. Choke Byers with his tie. Shoot Mulder with his own damned-- Shit, I'm really losing it. "Give me the drugs and I'll go quietly." This offer's good for one night only. FROHIKE: Mulder's been tremendously helpful, but I'm happy as hell he's not here right now. It's bad enough dealing with Blondie. The sleeping pill's working its magic, so I won't have to put up with him much longer. I think he knows he's strung out beyond the point of useful, or even sensible. My heart aches for the kid, and for his ladylove. Sari and Byers are still locked in the den. I can't hear a word they're saying. Too bad it's not bugged. I'd love to be a fly on the wall right now. They've been in there for well over an hour. I realize that we're in a bad situation and there's a lot to discuss, but I keep hoping that Byers finally got smart and decided to jump her. My illusions are shattered when I knock at the door and offer them dinner. Without so much as a 'just a minute,' Byers answers the door. The knot on his tie is loosened and the top button of his shirt's undone, but that's about as much undressing as they've accomplished. "I'm not hungry," Byers says tersely. "John, you should at least try to eat something." Sari's voice is weary and unhappy. "Whether or not people are getting shot at due to what you found in those files, you still need to eat." They look at each other, sigh, and head for the kitchen. It's a sad state of affairs when the only place a man can get some peace and quiet is in the office, but I have something to do, and I don't want an audience. I need to get in touch with Mel Scarlett and let her know that the situation's getting worse. I have no doubt in my mind that They know about her, and where she is. In the immortal words of Han Solo, I've got a bad feeling about this. I sit down to email Mel, but I'd feel better calling. Fortunately, her line is now as secure as ours. My own custom modifications made that possible. She's also delighted with her lowered long distance bill. I haven't explained that one to her, and she hasn't asked. She should be off work by now, although she often doesn't leave the floor until long after her shift has ended. I'm not sure whether I'd feel better knowing she was on the job or at home. Neither possibility warms the cockles of my heart. Not much does right now, but I do feel much lighter and at ease when she picks up the phone. Not only does this mean I'm immediately treated to the pleasant timbre of her warm, relaxing voice, it also means that I don't need to deal with either of her obnoxious children. This is always a plus. "How's Deborah?" is the first question she asks, of course. "Langly says she had a rough afternoon, couldn't hold anything down." "Unfortunately, that's normal," she says. "But otherwise things are improving?" "Improving is a relative term." I really hate calling her, both to tell her bad news and to unload on her about my day, but she needs the former, and I'll go insane if I don't have the latter. "This wasn't a good day, milady. Deborah's condition might be improving, but whatever the hell we got ourselves into this time, it's downright ugly." I'd really feel better if she was here with me, but that's wishful thinking on my part. The fact is, she's probably safer in Harrisburg than she'd ever be in DC. I wonder if we'll ever reach a place in our lives where we can live together, and not be watching our backs every second. "What happened?" It sounds as if she has something in her mouth. My suspicions are confirmed when she asks me to excuse her, but she hasn't had anything to eat all day, would I mind terribly if she ate while I talked? Not at all, I assure her. I'm just glad she's there, she's okay, and she's willing to put up with me. "Remember I told you to take extra care right now? I'm not kidding. A friend of ours was shot at tonight." One good thing about Mel; I never need to sugarcoat things. She'd be annoyed if I did. "Oh, my Lord. Was he injured?" "No, thank God. He's fine, if shaken up, but he's headed underground at this point." Suddenly, the idea that Mel is safe is exposed for the illusion it is. "Dear heart, is there any way you could take a vacation right now? Get out of town 'til this blows over?" She chuckles. "I wish I could, but we're short of hands at work and unfortunately, I'm short of cash. They do say it's better in the Bahamas, though." We both laugh for no reason, but something about her manner relaxes me and levels my sense of everything. She brings clarity to me, a quality I could desperately use at this point. God knows the waters are muddied. Her tone turns serious. "Mel, what exactly is going on? You keep talking about a 'situation,' but I have no idea what it is you're trying to warn me about, aside from the fact that you've had two friends victimized by gunfire in the last 48 hours. It doesn't even sound as if the two are connected. Does Deborah know this other friend? And where did it happen?" "Only as an acquaintance, but I think we're the connection." "It's admittedly odd that two people close to you were shot at in the last two days, but it doesn't logically follow that they're connected," she points out, and I concede that her logic is correct. The problem is that her premise is flawed. Of course, if I had a working theory to present to her, she might draw the same conclusion, but I don't have a single concrete fact to give her, only suspicions and hunches. "We think it's related to something we're working on," I admit to her. "And what's that?" Her question is casual as she continues to eat her dinner. "That's a good question. We're trying to get some answers, but so far, nada. All we know is, whatever it is, someone doesn't want us near it. To be honest, I'd like to drop it here and now, but I'm not sure that's even an option at this point." "Well, knowing what I do of you, Mel, that's all the reason you'd need to try and get your claws into it." Fortunately, in her own work, Mel is possessed of the same terrier-with-a-rat qualities. She understands. "Just be careful," she says. "We don't need anyone else getting hurt." "I'm really spooked this time." "Yeah, well, you never saw my ex in a push-up bra. Now that's spooky." We both burst out laughing. I know she takes my concerns seriously, but I value her ability to put a weird spin on it. The more I know her, the more convinced I become that she could be the one I've been looking for all my life. "I wish I had more specifics. I could actually tell you what to be watching for," I say, resigned. "Well, knowing what to be on the lookout for is always helpful, but in emergency medicine, life's always a surprise. I'm used to it." I'm glad she is. I'm certainly not. At this rate, I doubt I ever will be. We end up staying on the line for over an hour, and we switch to more mundane, comfortable topics. I inform her that Deborah's parents are in town and they haven't murdered Langly yet, though he thinks they were getting close. Mel laughs. "I met Gerard and Sarah Jane one time. Really, they're good people. And you can't blame them for being upset right now." "No, but then again, I somehow doubt they were expecting their daughter's boyfriend to be so... so Langly." She laughs. "He's a sweet boy, and I know how much he adores Deborah. They'll come around." She pauses for a second. "Her mother will, at any rate. Her father? Maybe not in this lifetime." We laugh some more. "I tell you, compared to Mark, Langly's positively a prize." "Mark hasn't gotten off the sofa yet?" Her son is an ill-tempered, lazy lout. "Mark barely gets out of bed. The sofa's an accomplishment at this point." She groans. "How's the wedding coming?" "Now you're entering dangerous territory." Her laughter fills my ear. It's as warm and rich as though she were in the room. "At the present rate, Lisa may not live to see it. Not unless she learns the value of restraint around me." She pauses for a second. "You are coming to the wedding, aren't you, Mel?" This is the first she's spoken of inviting me. I'm flattered, of course. "Assuming I make it through whatever the hell's happening around us, I'll be happy to come." "You will." I wish I had her confidence. BYERS: Sari and I sit at the table, pretending to have dinner. What we're actually doing is staring at the curried lentil soup and chapatis Frohike provided. We occasionally glance up at each other, hesitant to catch each other's eye. At this point I'm not sure what we are. Angry? Frustrated? Frightened? You could measure the dimensions of the tension between us with calipers. Sari takes an occasional sip from her bowl, genuinely trying to eat, while I'm mostly just letting the soup drip from my spoon back into mine. "I know you're not eating, John," she says. "You might at least pretend you're swallowing once in a while." She says it with a slight smile, and it lightens my mood somewhat. I've gotten her to agree to at least be more careful, but that's not enough for my comfort. I nod to Sari and sip at the soup. I'm sure it's fine, but tonight it tastes like wet, peppery sawdust. I can see the disappointment in her face. She wanted to go out tonight to celebrate her promotion, and she wanted me to go with her. I refused, and insisted that she stay here. Neither of us is happy right now. She understands that my concern is genuine, but I don't believe that she takes it seriously. To her, this is just another of my overly paranoid moments. There's nothing I can do to demonstrate that my paranoia has a basis this time, that she may be at risk of being shot or killed herself. She's made her concessions, and doesn't seem too likely to budge any further. Finally, dinner barely touched, I can't keep my fear to myself any longer. "Sari, I'd really feel better if I could talk you into staying here for the night." She looks up over her bowl and takes my hand. "I don't have anything with me to wear tomorrow, John, and I really can't stay here every time you get worried. I mean, you're always worried about something." It's true. I am. "Well then, how about if I go to your place with you and stay on your couch for the night? I'm sorry, I just have a really bad feeling about all this." Her face reddens in a deep blush. "Honestly, John, I don't need a baby sitter." She gets up and hurries into the kitchen to put her dishes in the sink. "Sari, can't we talk about this?" I know there's still some residual upset about my grabbing her wrist. "We've talked, John. When you have something more to show me, I'll be ready to listen some more. I've already promised to be more careful and watch my back. I don't know what else I can do right now and still maintain some kind of normalcy. I've only recently had my life back. I don't want to give it up to fear again." She gathers her things and starts for the door. "Wait, Sari," I call to her. She pauses. "I just want to walk you to your car, okay?" She nods, taking my proffered hand, and we walk out to her car. The night is quiet and no one is visible on the street. I feel slightly better, but I'm still convinced that I shouldn't be letting her leave here alone. After we share an embrace, she gets into her car and drives off into the night. I stare down the street for a few minutes after she's gone. I hope I can find something to show her before she gets hurt. It's a possibility I don't want to entertain, but I just can't shove the images out of my head. I see the day we were shot at before her press conference, and Susanne being stolen off the street in front of me, jumbled and confused. I don't understand why Sari effects me like this. Maybe she's right, and the stress really is getting to me more than I thought. I just wish she hadn't left alone. I need her to understand how important she is to me, how much her friendship means in my life. I need... I don't even know what I need. All I do know is, it feels like it's 3 a.m. in my soul. End part 08 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 09 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "While guilt burns Like a fixed star The sleepless man Feels his blood And the light of his eye Drained" ~~Aeschylus -- The Orestea: Agamemnon, trans by Ted Hughes~~ ______ WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000 LONE GUNMAN OFFICES 7:20 A.M. FROHIKE: "Not even a good night kiss from her?" I comment to Byers as I put the coffee on. I saw them as Sari drove away last night, and watched through the window as he stood there outside when he knew we were under surveillance, mooning after her. "Shut up, Frohike," he says from behind the Wall Street Journal, his voice tired and annoyed. "Aren't we in a lovely mood today?" He doesn't look up, so I'm spared his Look of Death. What day is it, anyway? I've been somewhere between awake and asleep for a while now. I keep hoping all this bullshit was nothing more than a nightmare, but no joy. "Byers? What day is it?" "Wednesday the 28th... oh hell." His head comes up with a start. "I completely forgot." "Forgot what?" To tell Sari you want to take her to bed? I almost say it aloud, but that would hardly enlist the boy's cooperation. "It's Langly's birthday. It completely slipped my mind." "Yeah, well, maybe if you'd act on your hormones, your mind'd be clearer," I mutter. I forgot too. Not that birthdays are a priority item, especially at my age, but Langly will resent the hell out of it if we don't at least take note. He may say he doesn't care, but he does. "Frohike, I don't need this," Byers grumbles. "What, you don't need to get laid?" I swear under my breath, but before he can respond, we're interrupted by heavy footsteps, loud yawning, and a few sneezes. It's Langly, clad only in his wifebeater tank top and boxers, glasses askew and hair going every direction but the right one. He's wearing the expected surly expression. "Don't suppose anyone knows what day it is," he asks, sullen, still yawning. "Byers says it's Wednesday," I reply casually, checking the pantry for waffle fixings. I bought some fresh strawberries before all this went down, and mold doesn't seem to be sprouting from them yet. This earns me a glare from Langly, who stumbles toward the coffee pot. "You suck, y'know." "Happy birthday, Langly." Byers takes charge of damage control. Better him than me. "Nothing happy about it," Langly snaps, but at least Byers said something. "I'll make you a deal," I say to Langly. "Put some pants on, and you'll get strawberry waffles." He blinks. "Did you say strawberry waffles? Really?" "Only if I don't have to stare at your legs." "You make everything so fucking hard." But we get a bit of a smile, the first we've seen in days. I'm hoping this is a good omen, but I should know better by now. Breakfast is surprisingly pleasant. We all eat more in one sitting than we have in days. Byers manages to turn off his kamikaze mission expression, and Langly treats us to some smiles. We tease him about Deborah, gently, and he handles it gamely. He bristles a little when Byers kids him about trying to suck up to his future in-laws, but instead of an acid retort, he simply aims the can of aerosol whipped cream at Byers' nose. "Langly, were you planning on having children someday?" Byers taunts him. "Because if you don't put that can down, you can forget about it!" "You're dead," Langly starts to squirt the stuff at him, but we're interrupted by the door buzzer. For possibly the first time in my life, I'm hoping it's Mulder. It is. "Looking to mooch a free meal?" I ask him. "Well, now that you mention it, it's the least you can do for me for schlepping Langly all over town," he says, tossing his suit jacket over the nearest chair, revealing an obnoxious Mickey Mouse tie. Make yourself at home, Mulder. "Hey, that's my birthday breakfast!" Langly balks. "You have birthdays? I figured you just stalled at 17," Mulder wags his eyebrows at Langly as he places himself at the table. "That's it." Langly's been diverted from Byers and unleashes the whipped cream all over Mulder. Byers bursts out laughing, which is a much more welcome sight than the deadly determined surliness that's covered his face for nearly three days now. "Hell of a way to treat your ride," Mulder glares at Langly and Byers as he wipes whipped cream from his silk Disney tie and starched shirt. "Your fault, man," Langly calls as he runs up the stairs to save himself from retaliation. "You're wearing the mark of Satan." Mulder rolls his eyes. "What is it with you guys and Mickey Mouse?" I don't really care to go into why Disney is the ultimate mind control machine. We've been through that before. "Byers, get this mess cleaned up!" I bark. "Why? Langly's the one that made most of it." He's returned to surliness. Well, it was fun while it lasted. "'Cause I'm the birthday boy, and I don't have to do shit," Langly's returned, dressed and carrying two laptops. Byers shoots him a withering glance. "Like, are you ready, Mulder? And do we have to pick up the folks?" His voice has taken on a whine. When I give him a querying look, he says he and Deborah are going to play Quake. "Got them another escort this morning," Mulder assures him. "Yeah, probably someone quieter," Langly shoots back. "Can we get out of here already?" "Don't get your shorts in a knot, Blondie. You guys figure out anything more from what you pulled down?" Mulder asks us. "No, and we're not going to." I pass a warning glare to both Byers and Langly. "What do you mean, you're not going to?" Mulder's puzzled. "Just that," I say, crossing my arms. Let any of them try to overrule me on this one. "It's over. No one else is getting hurt over this. It's not worth it." "Wait a minute!" Byers yelps. "When was this decided?" Mulder chuckles. "Going soft on me, Frohike?" "No, I'm just tired of people getting shot at, that's all!" Byers finally gets his chance to give me the Look of Death. "I think we're already in too far," he says quietly. "Backing off isn't the answer now." "We're backing off. It's done. It's over." I'm not kidding about this one. "Fine. Do it your way." Byers' voice is like cracked ice. "You're still wrong." He heads for the office stairs. "Where're you going?" I call after him. He stops to eye me coldly. "To get some work done. Someone around here should." LANGLY: "Frohike sure is spooked," Mulder comments as we drive off. "Yeah, well, he's not the only one. I ain't too happy about Deb getting shot up, y'know." "Think Byers is right? That you're already too far in?" Mulder asks me. "How the hell should I know? It's not like Byers told me jack shit about what's going on. Frohike's no better, the jerk." All I do know is, I'm not letting this sleep. I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and why. Byers and Frohike can do what they like, but I'm on it. That's why the laptops today. And maybe me and Deb'll play a little Quake, too. FROHIKE: I head for the basement, trying to think of our next headline. The Area 51 stuff was promising, but I don't like the direction it's taken. Not that Area 51 stuff is ever totally benign, but having two people near to us shot at isn't exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking of risk. Byers is already there. He doesn't say a word to me. He's obviously pissed at the universe, and most especially me, for wanting to put the brakes on this investigation. I avoid talking to him while he works. I hope he's not back on the files I told him not to pursue. "Frohike, where are the disks?" he demands. "What disks?" "The disks of the Area 51 stuff. I took them off the system and put them on zips." "Didn't you put them in the safe?" That's usually where strategic stuff goes. "No, I locked them in my bottom desk drawer." He knows that the only other people who have keys are Langly and myself. "I didn't take them, honest." I didn't. He's about to lay into me, but his thoughts and mine meld into two words -- "Oh, shit!" We start tearing the place apart. It was messy to start with. It's well beyond that when we're done ripping apart our desks, and Langly's. He won't appreciate having his mess tampered with, but oh well. "I bet Langly has them," I say, ready to kill the boy if he does. Things are bad enough already, and Blondie may have been idiot enough to grab them. Taking them out of here could be fatal. We could lose him and the disks at the same time. "I don't believe it. I don't believe he could be so stupid," Byers moans as we hurry for my ancient Chrysler. "Believe it." You, of all people, should. You're not doing much better yourself, I swear under my breath. This is a moment where our own stupidity is going to get us killed. GWU MEDICAL CENTER DEBORAH'S ROOM 9:00 A.M. FROHIKE We were going to pay Deborah a visit today, but since we're pretty sure Langly has the disks, it's a little sooner than we'd originally planned. Hope she's feeling up to company. We need to behave in a way that won't make the senior SaintJohns suspicious. God knows they're upset enough. "No screaming," I warn Byers as we head up the elevator. "Take that advice yourself," he retorts. He's looking real squirrelly right now, so I'll let it pass. So help me, if Langly has the disks, I'll strangle him. If he doesn't, I'll strangle him later, after I find them. We're definitely not reacting well to anything today. Nobody's been getting enough sleep to stay sensible. Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn are talking to their daughter as Langly occupies one of the chairs, wrapped up in his laptop. I swear the boy has no manners. "Good morning, sir, ma'am," I greet them. It's obvious they didn't get much of a night's sleep either. "Mr. Frohike," Mrs. SaintJohn is warm in her greeting. Mr. SaintJohn doesn't say anything, but does shake my hand this time. "What're you guys doing here?" Langly's head pops up like a jack-in-the-box. "We thought we'd come and see how you're all doing," I say nonchalantly, but pass a look to Langly that says, you're dead, boy. "Langly, can you step out for a moment?" What I'd really like to do is take him by the scruff of his neck and drag him out as I berate everything from his computing talents to his manhood (not that there's much difference for him), but I employ some restraint. No point in upsetting the SaintJohns and their daughter. "Ringo, hurry back," Deborah calls out groggily. Byers and I drag Langly down the hall and shove him into a supply closet, with us close behind. "Come into my office," Byers says as he shuts the door. He keeps his hand on the doorknob, to keep out intruders. We've gotten good at locating supply closets. They make great impromptu conference rooms. "What the fuck? What're you trying to do, humiliate me in front of Deb and her folks?" Langly spits at us. "Oh, I suspect you can do that quite well on your own," I return, with considerable vitriol. "Christ, Langly, one billion sperm and you were the fastest swimmer?" I'm ready to smack him upside the head. "What're you doing with the disks, Langly?" Byers' voice is sharp and cold, like broken glass. "Taking them out of the office was insane. Are you trying to get us all killed?" Langly's eyes turn to ice. His voice, instead of rising to a shriek, becomes a low, menacing growl. "Look, you guys said you were gonna give it up. Fine. Do whatever you like. But I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and if you don't like it, then I'll see both your asses in hell!" "The answer may not be on there," I say quietly. "Yeah? Where else do you suggest we look?" he demands. "Hard to say. We seem to have a penchant for pissing people off in general." I shrug. "Yeah, well, it wasn't *your* girlfriend that took a bullet!" Sometimes Langly can look so young and vulnerable, but those qualities are overcome now by age and rage. In this moment, he looks every moment of his 35 years, and then some. "Dude, your job right now is to get your girlfriend well, not fuck around in something like this," I say harshly. "I'm not letting it ride. Somebody's gonna pay for this." Byers stares at him. "Give us the disks, Langly. We'll find out what's going on. Believe me, we're not going to let it go, either." I protest. "Wait a minute. We agreed-" Byers' face is hard. "We agreed to nothing. You tried to coerce me, and I went along with it, but I'm with Langly. We need to figure this out, and soon. We're wasting time here." Langly sighs. "I'll get the disks. You better not be shitting me, Byers. I told the folks I was working, figured they might be a little more impressed with me. What am I supposed to do now?" I shrug. "Play some Quake?" He sighs, deflating. "Yeah, maybe I should. Man, I can hardly think straight with them in the same room. I wish it was just me and Deb. I mean, I guess her mom is okay, but her dad hates my guts. He's always glaring at me like it's my personal fault that Deb got shot. Hell, it probably *is* my fault." Byers opens his mouth to reply, but I know what's coming and speak before he says anything. "It's nobody's *fault,* either of you. We're in a mess, and these files have something to do with it. It's pretty obvious that they're trying everything short of shooting us to keep us away from it." "That's because they know that shooting us won't work," Byers says grimly. I don't like the mood he's been in since Deborah was shot. There are times when his determination overtakes his good sense, and I saw him charge an armed man to save Mata Hari. Sometimes I think Byers has a suicide wish buried down deep. He may not realize it, but he sure acts like it in his more spectacularly stupid moments. Granted, sometimes that impulse has saved our lives, but right now, I'm genuinely afraid for the guy. He just can't seem to stand back from this one, and I wish I knew why. Right now, I'm not even sure that he knows. Then again, if he's getting as attached to Sari as I think he is, he may be reacting to this situation the same way he reacted to Landau when Susanne was threatened. "Okay, Byers, we get the picture," I tell him. "I'm not backing off this until we find out who shot Deb," Langly insists again. "This is total war, salt the earth! Nobody hurts Deb without paying for it." Some days I think we've all been living together too long. Byers is starting to rub off on the boy, and not in a good way. "All right!" I snap. "I get it. But we have to examine the new files before we know where to go from here. We still haven't had much of a chance to actually look at them since Kimmy cracked them." "So let's get the damned disks and get on it," Byers says. OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMEN 4:24 P.M. BYERS: I've been working my way through the series of files all day. Their contents appear to be, if anything, even more confusing than they were before Kimmy supplied us with the new ones. One of them consists entirely of some kind of mathematical equations, and beyond recognizing them as hard-core physics, I'm at a loss to know what to make of them. I can tell that there are two distinct sets of information here. The surface material gave us information on both an advanced, but more or less ordinary stealth plane, and on something that still looks very strange. The equations and the ghost files that I pulled down, however, seem to relate exclusively to the inexplicable, possibly extraterrestrial nature of some of the other files I got while I was in. I'm starting to suspect that the stealth files are just cover for the more bizarre material. Frohike has been avoiding me, which has been fine with me, as I've been badly out of sorts. What little sleep I had was haunted by nightmares, flashing images of Sari, Susanne, and Deborah, the three intermixed in unstable scenes filled with blood and terror. It's as though they had all three become one in my subconscious last night, morphing into each other, faces and bodies in flux. Then there were the flashes of Langly in the foundry, and Landau gloating with a cartoonish evil overlord laugh. I dreamed of gunshots and torture, and all my friends dying around me, knowing that it was all my fault. I refrained from calling Sari this morning, despite my feelings of dread. She may very well be right; my habitual paranoia, fed by two friends being shot or shot at, complicated by the lack of sleep and the nightmares I've been having again, are probably distorting my judgment. I don't know that Deborah and Kimmy's shootings are related. I believe they are, but unless I can find something to link them, it really could be just my guts being twisted by recent events. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I really should at least contact Sari now that the work day has mostly gone by. A woman whose voice I don't recognize answers Sari's new number on the first ring. Probably her new secretary. "Ms. Thomas' office. May I help you?" "Is Ms. Thomas in?" I ask. "This is John Byers. I'd like to speak with her if I may." "Just a moment, I'll see if she's available." I'm put on hold, with the inevitable music tape loop for background. It's innocuous, but annoys me to no end. Classical music done as muzak has never been my favorite genre. Eventually, Sari answers. "John, how are you today?" she asks. I can hear in her voice that her day has been stressful, but she doesn't sound upset. This is a good sign. "I'm fine. Been working on the project we talked about. Things are looking even stranger than last night. How has your day been?" I try to keep my voice neutral, despite my own stresses. "Not too bad," she says. "I've been running back and forth between my old office and my new one, with a crew of people to move boxes. You're lucky you caught me at this number. I was almost ready to head down to my old office for the last load of packed files." Now for a moment of truth. "Would... Sari, would you consider coming over for a while this evening? I've been thinking about what you said, and maybe I am getting a little overwrought about this. I'd like your opinion on some of the things I've found today." I hear her draw in a deep breath, then sigh. "Sure, John..." She pauses for a moment, but I can hear that she isn't quite done. "I don't suppose you'd be up for that dinner out tonight?" My first instinct is to say no, but our conversation yesterday was tense and uncomfortable for both of us. She's offering me an olive branch here, and I should accept it. "I think we could," I tell her. "It'll depend on what Frohike has to say. He's been working on this too, but I don't know what he's found yet." "I guess that's fair," she says. "I'm not working late, so I'll be out of here probably about 5:30. I could be at your place by 6:30, if you'd like." I smile, feeling slightly less stressed already. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you." End part 09 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 10 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "Certainly the game is rigged. Don't let that stop you. If you don't bet, you can't win." ~~Robert Heinlein -- from The Notebooks of Lazarus Long~~ ______ WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000 LONE GUNMAN OFFICES 4:45 P.M. FROHIKE: We have a bunch of Area 51 data stored here and there in the offices from research we've done over the years. Maybe there's something in one of those old files that can help us make sense of what Byers found. We always store our most sensitive data in the safes, and the disks are arranged by subject and date of retrieval. Part of the problem is, I don't exactly remember when we got this stuff, and there are years worth of files. Not that it would help all that much right now; Byers and I tore the place apart this morning, and it more or less resembles Langly's bedroom in here. "Looking for something?" Byers asks me companionably as he strolls into the work area. He sounds as if he'd never been pissed at me. He and Sari must have made up after their spat. "You remember how we have a bunch of old information on Dreamland? I'm looking for those files." Byers scrunches his face into a frown. "Yeah, I seem to remember there being quite a bit of it." "Mind giving me a hand?" "No, not at all." Byers sits amid the disaster and begins sifting through the various and sundry items around us. I mop my forehead. The basement is almost cavelike in its coolness most of the time, but it's extremely hot today, and we've been doing a lot. "I could use a beer. Want one, buddy?" I almost say, you're not getting laid, you might as well drink, but I bite my tongue. He's in a good mood right now. I'd like to keep it that way. He considers it. "Sure, I'll have one." I head for the kitchen, pop two beers. When I return to the office, I hand one to Byers, who's moved over to my workstation. "Here's one, Frohike," he says, feeding a disk into the drive. He takes the proffered beer. "Ah, thanks. Whacked out data. Goon assassins. And now, it's Miller time." I chuckle. It's good to have the real Byers back. Contrary to what most people believe, the boy most assuredly does have a sense of humor, and a damn warped one at that. Just avoid anything related to his genitals and you're fine. Looking at what we've found, though, brings me up short. "This is weird. The disk is marked Dreamland, but most of this looks like black box info, flight telemetry, but with a really weird twist. Where the hell did it come from?" I ask as the files come up. Byers is musing over the screen in front of us. "I have no idea. Didn't Mulder get a tip from someone at Area 51 a couple years back? I thought he and Scully made a trip out to Nevada to check it out." "I... you know, I don't have a real clear memory of that, but I think you're right." "The date on the disk is 8/6/98. Do you remember anything significant happening that August?" "Not really. Let's take a look-see." Byers muses over the files. "It's aircraft flight data, to be sure, but it's not like anything I've ever seen before. I mean, tachyon flux? Gravitational displacement? I don't know how the hell we could have this here. We've never had a black box in our possession, and certainly not one that would record this! And I don't know what the hell this analysis is." He blinks. "Let me run through this, and then do a comparison with the stuff I downloaded." He's caught up in the task for some time, and it's over an hour before he speaks again. "I may have to knock off for a while. I promised Sari I'd go to dinner with her, to make up for last night. She should be here shortly." He shakes his head. "This is really confusing. I've got no idea where this stuff came from. The only thing that makes any sense is the analysis file." Ah, no wonder he's in a better mood. "That's fine. Go; eat, drink and be merry." I was about to say, 'eat, drink and get laid,' but I'm trying not to piss him off, and that's all it would take. "I do want to look at this stuff some more. I'm no physicist, but it seems to me there are patterns in each of these data sets that match. What's even stranger is that there's some kind of... temporal anomaly here. God, I sound like a Star Trek script. Why don't you take a look at them?" "Sure. Temporal anomaly? This I've gotta see." True to Byers' prediction, the office buzzer rings a few minutes later, and he returns to the computer with Sari in tow. "Hey, Mel. How's it going?" She looks tired, and her hair is damp. She must have showered before she came over. Maybe I should consider taking a cool one myself. It couldn't hurt. "Found some fascinating new data relating to our current investigation," I reply. "And you?" "Spent the day moving files and arranging the new office. Tomorrow I get to spend interviewing people for my staff." She stretches and groans, unconsciously showing off her body through the gauzy skirt and tank top she's wearing. I have no idea how Byers can ignore how hot she looks. "Oh, right, you got promoted yesterday. Congratulations!" I stand and give her a somewhat sweaty hug, but it doesn't seem to bother her. She's nice and cool. "Anything that helps give the files context?" she asks. "Not yet," Byers says, "but we did find this." He pulls up a chair at his desk and motions for her to sit down as he pulls up a file. "What do you make of it?" he asks as she looks at the data. "Some kind of heavy physics stuff, maybe a set of quantum equations," she says. "I don't understand a whole lot beyond your basic statistical modeling, though." "This is way beyond me," he says, "and Frohike doesn't follow it either, but I think it may have something to do with superstring theory, gravitational field stuff. There's definitely some odd temporal stuff going on. And this analysis file looks like something I'd write." "Guess I'm going to be doing some light reading tonight," I inform them. "A little Hawking, some Feynman, and maybe I'll at least have a vague idea of what's being done here." "Well if it's quantum mechanics, temporal weirdness, and superstrings, I have just the guy for you. Sean O'Casey. He'll be at the consulate party for my folks this Friday night." Sari smiles. "I was going to invite all three of you anyway. Ringo might like a break, and I think you guys would like Sean." "Sean O'Casey?" Byers says. "Isn't he the up and coming wunderkind in quantum physics these days? Works at CERN?" Sari laughs. "Yeah, and quite the character." "But is he... discreet?" I ask. It makes all the difference in the world. This makes Sari laugh even harder, and she shakes her head at me. "Oh Kali-Ma, no. I'm not sure the word is even in his vocabulary. But he's the best you're going to find anywhere, and as far as things like this go, he doesn't publish anything unless and until he's damned good and sure it's the real McCoy. Everybody says he'll wind up with a Nobel one of these days. I'm pretty confident in him." "Where did you meet this guy?" I ask her. "One of his Ph.D. advisors at MIT is a friend of mine. I met Sean at a party a couple of years ago just after he got his Doctorate. He made a rather blatant pass at me. When I didn't go for it, he made a pass at Carlos, his advisor. The guy's incorrigible, but a real sweetheart. We keep in touch through email." She turns to Byers. "If he makes a pass at you, and you're not into that kind of thing, just tell him so. He'll take it somewhere else. But I can practically guarantee he'll have company at the end of the night." Byers blushes, and chuckles. "I... um..." he says, his voice as close to noncommittal as he can manage. "Sean's a cutie," Sari teases him. He gives a longsuffering sigh. "It's not about cute," he replies. Ain't that the truth. If it was about 'cute,' the boy wouldn't have been so hung up on Mata Hari for so long; he would have fallen for someone else years ago. It's not like he's never seen attractive people before, it's that he's too damned scared of himself to let go for anyone. I have no idea if he's ever been into guys at all, but in the last twelve years, he's only been with Susanne that I know of, and in all that time, he's only had three nights' worth of opportunity. Who the hell knows what happened between them? I only know he got royally screwed by her. It's about time he moved on, and thank God that seems to be happening. "I don't care what it's about," I counter. "How do we know he isn't going to blow the story for us?" Sari looks up at me. "Sean's got a healthy mistrust of the government, and it's a wonder he got a position at all, considering how far left his politics are. Makes the Anarcho-Greens look like stone age conservatives." "Well, we do need help," I concede. "Let's just make sure we're not gonna get screwed in the process." The minute those two are out the door, I'll start a background check on our Dr. O'Casey. Just because he doesn't care for the government doesn't mean we're kindred spirits. If that was all it took, we'd be hooked up with those right wing militias that believe they've been sent to save 'The White Race' from any minority they happen to get their gun sites on. Believe me, we're as eager to get the skinny on those sickos as we are on the government conspirators. "John," Sari says, "why don't we get out and have dinner while it's still light. You'll be able to keep an eye out for anything untoward while I'm driving." Byers nods. "I can live with that," he says. "Have fun kids," I tell them as they head for the door. Sari turns and sticks her tongue out at me as she closes the door behind her. She shouldn't stick it out unless she intends to use it. Yeah; like she'd ever offer to use it on me. Anyway, I guess it's time to get hacking. 8:20 P.M. LANGLY: Pretty quiet in here. They must be down in the cave. "Hey! Where are you losers hiding?" I yell as I pop a beer for myself. Might as well celebrate. I mean, it hasn't been much of a birthday so far. Okay, Mrs. SaintJohn got some brioches for us, and she treated me to a chocolate brownie frapuccino (she asked me what I liked, even), and that was sort of my celebration, plus the waffles this morning. I just wish Deb had been more up for it. She was real bummed; she'd kind of forgotten and that made her upset. Oh yeah, like I'd expect her to remember right now. "Who're you calling losers?" Frohike yells to me. "And bring me a beer while you're at it." "Hey, it's my birthday!" "Your point?" Well, nice to know that some things in the universe are constant, like Frohike being a dick. I take him a beer. He better be grateful. "Whatcha working on?" He better be doing something about what's up with Deb. They made me lay off, and I only went with it on the condition that they were going to do something about it. "Come over and have a look. Or was physics a class you slept through?" "I didn't sleep through all my classes. I played D&D through some of 'em." He snorts like I'm the bane of his existence. Well, I try. "Here. My eyes need a break." I hand him his beer. "How's Miss Deborah?" "She's hanging. Think she might get out Friday." "And her parents? How long are they around for?" "That's the good part. Mrs. SJ has to teach on Monday. She's doing summer school. So they're going back Saturday." I was worried I was gonna be stuck with them for the rest of my mortal life, which might not be long if Mr. SJ sticks around, but they said today they were leaving Saturday. I offered to take them to the airport. I hope I didn't sound too eager. "Bad part is, her sister's coming up from Raleigh for about ten days. Deb says she's cool, though." Personally, I have my doubts. I've had just about enough of the SJ's, except for Deb. I can never get enough of her, especially right now. "Can you believe, they're making us wait six weeks 'til we can do anything again? What am I gonna do?" "Same thing you always did," Frohike says real dryly. Prick. I look at the screen. This is Area 51 stuff I don't recognize. "You think this has to do with Deb taking a bullet?" "I'm thinking somebody doesn't want us to know something. I'm wondering if this has anything to do with what Byers downloaded." "This is old stuff?" I really don't remember seeing this. And yes, in spite of my stoner status, I do actually remember tech shit. "Yeah. The disk is dated 8/6/98. Funny thing is, neither Byers nor I could remember how we got this." "Don't ask me." "You'll notice I didn't." I scroll through. "Heavy duty physics stuff. Maybe I shouldn't have slept through that class. I mean, tachyon flux? Gravitational displacement? What the hell is that all about?" "Now compare it with Byers' files." I bring up another set of screens. Thank God for 21-inch monitors. When you have as much real estate in front of you as we do, you want a honking big screen. I look it over, but I don't get that far before we get interrupted. It's Sari and Byers, and they sound happy. They should. They're not gonna be sexually deprived for six weeks, except by choice. They're idiots. "Happy Birthday, Ringo," Sari leans over and kisses me on the cheek. Nice, but I'd really rather have what me and Deb originally had planned for today. *Sigh.* Let's just say it didn't involve clothes. "Thanks. Weird stuff here. I mean, yeah, there's some stuff I recognize as aircraft telemetry, but where the hell did we get this? I don't remember this. How are we gonna figure it out? " "Well, we might be getting some help. I'm going to spend some time tonight studying the analysis section. At least I can figure that out." Byers motions for me to get up. "How're you holding up, Langly?" "Okay." Not great, not bad. I mean, at least it's not as bad as the days before. Maybe things are getting better. Yeah, right. "I checked out the young Dr. O'Casey," Frohike says to us. "O'Casey? You mean like Sean O'Casey? The physics brain boy?" That dude's got some killer research going on. "One and the same," Frohike says. "Interesting young fellow. Gifted, if a bit intemperate. He doesn't seem to have a preference for either girls or boys, but at least his file didn't say anything about barnyard animals." "Sean has standards. They can be pretty low when he's stoned, but he does have them," Sari assures us. Me, I don't care if he gives blow jobs to elephants, though he should have a damn good dentist if he does. All I care is, who the fuck did this to Deb, and how can we nail them. "You notice the pattern similarities between the data sets in these files?" Byers asks me. "Some." I haven't gotten that good a look. Give me some time, and I'll find whatever's there. It'd help if Byers would let me sit down again. "Phone's ringing," Byers announces. "Answer it, Langly," Frohike's just sipping on his beer, kicking back. "God, we need a houseboy." "And you're it." Frohike is such a pain in the ass. I hit the record button and pick up. "Lone Gunmen, whaddya want?" I mean, really. It's been a long day. At least for me it has. Byers gives me an ugly look. Not the time to go prissy on me, Suit Boy. "Stay away from the files." At least that's what I think the scrambled voice says. I put it on the speaker. "Who is this?" I'm not feeling so good all of a sudden. Things were just starting to get better. "Poor Blondie, it's a shame we had to hurt your girlfriend, but you're so hard headed about this stuff." I'll kill him. So help me, I will reach through the phone and strangle -- whoever the hell it is. Frohike makes a dash for the call tracing equipment. "Hey, FCC -- I hope you and your chickie had a pleasant dinner. I didn't know you were into vegetarian Thai. Going all wimp on me? Man, I can't believe you're still not doing her. What's wrong with you, are you clipped or just queer? Go for it! I would." The voice chuckles. Byers looks like he's gonna faint, and Sari goes dead white. "Sneezy, you tubby little dwarf," our caller goes on, "you seem to be the most sensible one of the bunch. Maybe you could convince the other stooges that this stuff isn't for you." "Who are you, and what the hell are you talking about?" Frohike shouts at the speaker. "You know what I'm talking about. You've got the files; stay out of them. I want them back. You'll hear from me again." The call ends abruptly. Frohike looks up from the tracer. "Damn, he was out too fast. Not long enough for a trace. Langly, try to raise Mulder. Byers, you and Sari figure out what the hell she's going to do for the night. I don't think going home's an option." "If you think I'm not gonna go see Deb tomorrow--" he's brain dead. He turns around and cuts me off. "Listen, Blondie, we'll deal with your love life in the morning. In the meantime, we'd better get some idea of who we're up against, and fast." Byers looks sick. "You were right, Frohike. Maybe we should have backed out when we had the chance." Frohike's starting to type. "Nice thought, Byers, but there never was a chance. We're in it up to our ears. Something here smells really fishy. I bet the real story's in this flight data you found. I'm betting this black box data connects the stealth stuff with the U.F.O. files, guys. It must be from Dreamland, otherwise why all the ooga-booga shit? Now we have to find out who they are." End part 10 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 11 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "There is a way in which I am a double of myself My own mirror image" ~~Diane di Prima -- Loba~~ ______ WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000 LONE GUNMAN OFFICES 10:00 P.M. BYERS: I've spent most of the last hour and a half trying to analyze the voice from the phone threat. Mulder is here, talking with Langly and Frohike. Sari's been sitting silently on the red office couch, watching everything. "I don't remember anything beyond going out to Area 51, finding nothing, and coming back," Mulder says. "Just ask Scully. And yet, something must have happened. I can't think of any other way to explain the black box data you boys found. Especially not the temporal anomaly stuff. Are you *sure* you didn't just download it from somewhere? Like some science fiction site?" "Not a chance," Frohike replies. "If we'd hacked for it, the information about exactly where and how we'd gotten it would be on the disk with the telemetry data. We keep records of this stuff, in case we need to get in again later. And the analysis stuff? That's pure Byers." "Are you sure this mess doesn't have Monroe's fingerprints on it?" Mulder asks. "I wouldn't put it past him to try to get even with you guys for knocking him out of the catbird seat a few months back." "Not possible," I tell him. "At least not in terms of the threat. I can't match the voice to anyone yet, but believe me, Monroe was one of the first voices I tried. No match here at all, even allowing for the worst types of electronic distortion. And besides, the things he said aren't typical of Monroe's style or vocabulary. All we know right now is that it's a male voice, fairly deep. Beyond that, I don't have a clue." "What about the material itself?" Mulder continues. "You guys know Monroe's style. Do any of the files look like his work?" Langly looks up at Mulder, pausing from his continuing examinations of the files. "I hadn't thought about that, but it's worth a look." He turns his attention back to the files with renewed interest. "Are you sure you didn't note anything unusual when you returned from your trip to Nevada?" I ask. "Well, now that you mention it," Mulder muses, "there was that odd thing about the waterbed..." "Waterbed?" Frohike's eyebrows rise and he grins. "Now this, I want to hear about." "Yeah," Mulder says, looking back at Frohike. "When I got back, it was like somebody had snuck in and completely redecorated my place in the tackiest possible manner." "And you'd know from tacky," Langly snipes, not bothering to raise his eyes. Mulder snorts. "All I have to do is look at you," he responds. "But this was over the top. A four-poster waterbed with a mirror over it. Leopard prints. Some woman's underwear on my floor. All my files were removed from the place to make room for the damned leaky bed, too. I mean, I never used the room for more than storage before that. I'm out of town for a couple of days and all of a sudden, it's a porno set." "That explains so much," Sari says dryly to herself. I would smile if I weren't so upset right now. "The lovely Agent Scully wouldn't have had anything to do with this, would she," Frohike cracks, his lecherous grin set on stun. Mulder laughs out loud this time. "She was with me the whole time. And face it, toadboy, as much as you'd love to think otherwise, Scully's not exactly a porn queen. Even if she'd been here by herself, why would she do that to my place?" "'Cause you're so in need of a hint?" Langly asks, snickering. Sari looks at him as though she'd strangle him, if getting up weren't too much effort for the end result. "You are aware," she says tightly, "that Dana isn't happy to be discussed in such terms." Langly looks over at her with a vaguely guilty expression. "Sorry Sari. Forgot you were listening in." "Not sorry for saying it in the first place, I note," she replies with a tilt of her head and the raise of an eyebrow. If she gets any better with that eyebrow-fu, we'd all better take cover. As the others continue to banter back and forth, trying to explain the anomalies of August, 1998, Sari beckons me over to her. "Do you need something?" I ask. "I need to go home," she says. She looks uncomfortable, as if might be in some pain, and very much out of sorts, but I feel pretty much the same way. After the phone threat, none of us are comfortable. I shake my head. "You can't, Sari. You know as well as I do that it's not safe to go out right now." "I have to feed the Cardinal, and the anoles are due for another feeding as well." "They'll all survive one evening without your personal attention." She shifts on the couch. "I don't have any clean clothes." "I'll go with you tomorrow to your place so you can change before you go to work." "Devi doesn't know I'm here." This is getting a little strange. She doesn't usually make such transparent excuses. "All you need to fix that is a phone call. What's really wrong, Sari?" "I started my period about ten minutes ago, and I forgot to put any supplies in my purse today. Going home seemed to be the easiest way to cope with it. I don't suppose a trip to a drug store is likely?" I can't say that this is the sort of emergency I'm used to dealing with. Bomb threats, shootings, potential kidnappings, alien shapeshifters, green toxic clone goo -- those I can handle. Sort of. This is a little out of my depth. "I... um... uh..." She sighs and gives me one of those looks. "Look, I know you won't have anything here I can use. You're *guys* for Goddess' sake." Her eyes light up and she raises her voice. "Ringo?" He looks over at us. "Yeah?" "Do you know if Deb leaves any of her personal stuff here when she's not staying with you?" He shifts a bit, leaning back in his seat, and peers curiously over his computer. "Like, ah, what kind of personal stuff? Clothes and shit?" Sari shakes her head. "No, Ringo. *Personal* stuff. Female things. Like tampons or pads or anything." Langly turns bright red, and Mulder and Frohike turn to stare at her. "I... uh... um... I dunno. " Mulder just chuckles to himself. Sari glowers at all of us. "What is it with men? You take a perfectly normal, everyday occurrence in a woman's life and turn it into something to blush over and hem and haw about." She snorts. "You guys cope with being shot at, exposing major governmental conspiracies, and threats to your life without hardly blinking an eye, but one little request for a menstrual pad sends you into a state of utter incoherence. What the hell is with that?" "There are some pads in the top left cabinet in the second-floor bathroom," Frohike says. "Huh?" Langly looks at him strangely. "Found 'em last week when I was looking for a bottle of peroxide," Frohike explains in his most matter of fact voice. Langly just stares. "What? I cut my finger. I guess Deborah figured she was about the only one who'd be looking in a cabinet that high up." "Thank you, Mel. I don't suppose you'd know if there was any Motrin or anything up there with them?" "I believe so," he answers. Sari vanishes up the stairs. "No wonder she's been in such a mood the past couple of days," Frohike says. "I heard that!" Sari shouts down the stairs from the main floor. "If any one of you makes another PMS crack, I'll personally run your penis through a blender!" Everyone blanches. We all look at each other. Male solidarity requires that none of us ever mention this incident again. After a few moments, I break the silence. "So Langly, how far did you get in looking for Monroe's fingerprints in the files? Need some help?" THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 2000 LONE GUNMEN OFFICES 7:05 A.M. SARI: John insists on taking me to work this morning. In fact, he insists that I don't go anywhere without an escort until he and the guys find the identity of our unfriendly neighborhood assassin. I'm used to looking out for myself. I'm used to watching over my shoulder wherever I go. I'm used to sussing a room before I enter, and checking the sidewalk before I leave. Years of dodging Barry taught me that. But Barry never carried a sniper rifle with a scope. I can't find it in me to disagree with John over this one. He's right, I do need an escort, but having him constantly with me is far too dangerous for both of us. Fortunately, my new position entitles me to security if and when the occasion demands. I'd say the occasion demands, and when I get in today, I'm going to have some words with the senior staff about assigning me a body guard. Without clean clothes of my own, I'm dressed in one of John's shirts as a robe, partly open to dissipate some of the heat of the already tropical summer morning. It's time for my shower, and then some breakfast before we have to head out. I'm halfway down the hall when the bathroom door opens, and John emerges, a towel wrapped around his slender waist. He's holding his pajamas in one hand and the door knob in the other, but hasn't seen me. I must say, he has lovely legs. Then his towel starts to slip. His bright blue eyes catch mine with a look of utter panic, but by the time his hand grabs for the edge of the towel, it's too late. The navy cotton terry has hit the ground, and he's entirely exposed for the world, or at least me, to see. I feel my face flush as he blushes all the way down his smooth chest. He's frozen for a moment, but soon collects himself enough to grab the towel, cover himself with it and his pajamas, and run for his room saying "sorry sorry sorry!" I saw a good bit of him while he was laid up when I first met him. Hospital gowns don't conceal much, and he didn't always have his jammies buttoned all the way up, though he generally tended to when he knew I was in the room. I'll even admit that I've wondered what he looks like under those suits now and then. Unfortunately, the absurdity of the immediate situation has me giggling as I hurry the rest of the way to the bathroom. I might as well get started before Mel gets up and wants to use it too. "It's all right, John," I say as I pass his room. "I won't tell if you won't." There's a muffled whimper from behind his door. He's probably about to die of embarrassment. He's just that way. I don't generally blush in the presence of nudity myself. I've been naked as a hairless Chihuahua on the banks of the Ganges with thousands of other people, bathing at dawn. I'm not entirely sure what made this moment so different. But he is rather... delightfully endowed; not hung like a horse on steroids, but not so small as to avoid notice in those jeans he wore before he felt like himself and started wearing the suits again, either. He really does look great in jeans. I'd like it if he wore them more often, in fact. Okay, so he's just a friend, but a girl is entitled to her fantasies. I'd probably even have some, if my cramps weren't having cramps. Gods, I need a Midol. 10:40 A.M. FROHIKE: Byers was pretty amusing this morning as he and Miss Sari headed out for her office. He'd barely look at her, and blushed the entire time. Under other circumstances, I'd suspect that he'd gotten some, but I didn't hear any evidence of hanky panky from that end of the hall last night, and she didn't look like anything had happened, so I have to wonder what's eating him. Mulder came by about half an hour ago to take Langly to see Deborah, and Byers got back just before the two of them headed out the door. He told me that he'd gotten some breakfast on the way back home, and I'd seriously hassled him about spending time alone outside the office with at least one shooter known to be on our tail. Right now, the two of us are examining the coding in some of this material for signs of Jack Monroe's presence. Mulder had a twinge of a memory about the voice from the phone threat last night, and even though we all know it wasn't Monroe, Mulder's suggestion to look into him has us hopping. I'm just about to flip from one page of code to another when I get that feeling. "Byers." He looks up from his desk. "Yeah?" "Come look at this. I think I found something." I motion him over and turn my monitor so he can sit beside me and we can both look. I point to a line of code. "Look familiar?" He leans in close. I think his eyes still aren't quite right after that retinal tear he took when Barry hit him. I should bug him about getting reading glasses, but I'm sure he'll do it himself if he starts to get too frustrated with it. "You may be right," he says. "I think I saw this before, in one of the Black Widow hacks. We should probably check it out." I nod. "I was kinda hoping it was my imagination, actually." The last thing I want is for that nutcase Monroe to be gunning for us again. Especially if he's in cahoots with somebody else. He almost got us last time, and I sure as hell don't want him trying again. Then again, if it isn't Monroe, it's a total unknown, and we're really in trouble. Byers gets up and pulls out a disk with some of Monroe's known coding on it. "Let's check it against this." He slips the disk in, and we both go over the files. Sure enough, there are several matches. Some are in the black box coding. We find other fragments in the information about the weirdo drive. One file, full of what looks like programming for the drive, is rife with Monroe's style. If it isn't him, it's definitely someone who learned at his knee. "I think we've got him," I say, looking over at Byers. He nods. "Now we have to figure out who the other guy is, and what the hell is going on with this quantum mechanics stuff." "Yeah, well we'll be meeting Sari's pal Sean the physics boy wonder tomorrow evening." I remind him. "If he's anywhere near as good as his reputation, he'll be able to clue us in." Byers shifts slightly, then leans back in his chair. "I wonder if Mulder or Scully have made any progress on their end." I shake my head. "No way to know just yet. You want to call them?" "They're probably still busy," Byers says. "But I did have this really weird dream last night." "What's that got to do with this?" I ask. "It was a dream about Mulder." I poke him in the ribs. "What, not getting anywhere with Sari, so you're messing with Mulder in your dreams?" He glares at me, blushing red, and whacks me on the head with a pile of paper. "Damn it, Frohike, when are you going to lay off about Sari?" "Whoa, down buddy, it was a joke!" This doesn't tone his glare down any. It's still on 'flay'. "Yeah, right." "So what about this dream?" He sits back and loosens up just a little, still tense. "It was... weird." "Yeah, you said that already. Why was it weird?" He looks at me, and I can see he's trying to frame the answer so I'll have some hope of understanding. This could be bad. "It was Mulder, but it... wasn't Mulder. He was here... well, I mean, he was in our old office, but he wasn't acting like himself. Scully was there. She said he wasn't really Mulder, that he was someone else in Mulder's body. Said his name was... I'm not sure, but I think it started with an M. Murray. Morrie. Something." He looks at me and shrugs. "I've got no clue what it was about, but it seemed to have something to do with the black box data we found. I remember a black box in the dream. Scully brought it to us." I just sit and stare at him for a minute. "That really *is* weird." What's weirding me out the most is that I almost have a memory of it too. I shake my head. "What?" Byers asks. "I'm not sure. Probably nothing." He gets that look on his face, like he's onto something. "Are you sure it's nothing?" "I'm not... oh hell, I don't know. It's almost like I remember that too." He tilts his head like a bird. "You do?" "Sorta. I think." I laugh. "That can't be possible, though. How the hell could I remember your dream?" "Maybe I should ask Langly about it when he gets back this evening." We look at each other. "Maybe you should," I tell him. I suddenly have the strangest sense of deja vu. 9:20 P.M. LANGLY: Mulder and Scully are here. I was sort of expecting Sari too, but Byers says she got a body guard from the Sierra Club people and she's with her folks, who got in today. Right now, he's telling Scully about his dream. "And I remember..." Byers gets this embarrassed look on his face, "the not-Mulder saying something about making up the stories we print. He called Frohike 'Sneezy.'" He and Frohike trade this weird look. That's what our mystery boy called Mel yesterday. I get this chill up my spine, like somebody just walked over my grave or something. Man, I can almost remember this happening. "Are you sure, Byers? I mean, like, we weren't all hallucinating this one night after a game or anything, were we?" Scully reaches into her pocket. "It sounds ridiculous, but I did have this in my office drawer after our Nevada trip. I don't know where it came from." She pulls out this really cool looking fusion of a penny and a dime. Byers reaches out his hand. "May I look at that, Agent Scully?" He turns it over in his fingers a few times, and I can just see the gears in his head going about a billion miles a minute. "If the analysis of the flight recorder data is correct, and I'm sure it is, this could be a possible result of the... the space/time anomaly it mentioned. Something having to do with a warp or a tear in the space/time continuum that must have partially corrected itself at some point." Scully shakes her head. "How can that be? We don't have the technology to do anything like that. I mean, I've read the files, and from the physics, I suppose it's theoretically possible, but someone would still have to be able to build a machine, a drive, to put the theory into practice, and then it would have to malfunction in a very particular way--" "We're getting some expert advice tomorrow evening," Frohike tells her. "One Doctor Sean O'Casey, Ph.D., physics boy." "O'Casey?" Scully asks. "From CERN? How on earth do you know him?" "We don't," Byers says, "but Sari does. He's in DC at the moment, and will be at a party for her parents over at the Sri Lankan consulate tomorrow evening." Scully's face lights up. "Can you get me an invitation?" Byers looks over at her. "You're a fan of his?" Mulder's been sitting there silent through all this, which is totally unusual for him. By now, I would have expected Spock jokes or something. When he smacks the desk he's sitting at, we all start. "I remember now," he says, real serious. "I think I remember that voice. Can you boys play the filtered phone call again?" "Things are starting to come back to me, too," I tell them. I never thought I'd be copping to some kind of H. G. Wells time machine gig. Frohike plays the tape again. Byers mutters, "Starts with an M --" Suddenly it hits me. Everybody speaks at once. "Morris Fletcher." "That fucking MIB," Frohike growls. "Disgusting sexist bastard," Scully mutters. I look up at Mulder. "Monroe *and* Fletcher? Oh man, are we in trouble." End part 11 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 12 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate!" ~~Willa Cather - The Song of the Lark~~ ______ FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000 LONE GUNMAN OFFICES 12:17 A.M. FROHIKE: "We're gonna find that bastard, and when we do, he's mine, man. I'm gonna truss him like a turkey." Langly's shouting and his face has gone bright red, somewhere between furious and livid. I can understand his sentiments. I'm having more than a few of them myself, but this is a time for cool heads to prevail. Byers is in that mode, fortunately. Sari having a temporary bodyguard seems to have calmed him enough to think clearly about other things. He's sitting at his desk, chin in hand, an intent look on his face. "They're connected, Fletcher and Monroe. The question is, how?" "I think first we need to find out where Monroe is and who's doing his dirty work," Scully says. "I doubt he's in DC; he may be an asshole, but he's not stupid enough to resurface here after the Pinck debacle," I add. Langly's voice rises. "He's got balls surfacing at all!" Byers wrinkles his brow. "There's been no mention of him on the otaku boards, and believe me, everyone there watches out for him." "Just because no one's seen him doesn't mean he's not there. Obviously he's around," I observe dryly. "What if it was Fletcher, not Monroe, who was responsible for Deborah's injuries? He certainly knew of them." Byers is still analyzing the situation. "Nah. We dug up some files on him. Not his style. Fletcher's a pain in the ass, but he's also a coward." That much is obvious. "Moose and Squirrel seem to think Fletcher was the caller." Langly is still red, but he's lowered his voice, much to my relief. "All I can say is, he better not ever fucking call here again!" Mulder and Scully look at him, puzzled but vaguely amused by the nicknames. "I think the stooges nickname is justified," she mutters to him. "Actually, that's exactly what we want him to do," Byers says. "He knows we have something he wants." A light goes on in my head. "Byers, when you went in, you didn't copy the files, you hijacked them." He nods and grins. "The copy protection was massive. It was easier just to walk out with them." He shoots me an accusing look. "I don't suppose you'd have done it differently." "No, actually, I wouldn't have," and that's the truth. If you can't copy it, just steal it. They say bad hackers imitate and good ones steal. I'd like to think we're good. "I'm going in after him," Langly turns towards his work station. Once again, Papa Bear must intervene. "Langly, how long till Deborah's parents leave town?" "Saturday morning. Not soon enough for me," he grumbles. "Mulder, are you having them protected once they're out of the area?" I ask. Mulder shakes his head. "I don't think they're targets." "Yeah," I say, "chances are they figure they'd be doing Langly a favor if they went after them." Langly makes a face at me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm right, or if he realizes that fundamentally, the SaintJohns are getting a bad deal all around. I sigh. "Langly, just be cool until they get out of town and land in New Orleans." He crosses his arms and sulks. "Fine. But after that, man, total war!" "Listen, buddy, we want him just as bad as you do," and ain't that the truth. Langly's gonna have to get in line to have their asses. If he thinks he's the only one whose life is being fucked up by these two jerkwads, he's got another think coming. "But it's late, and I'm declaring it a night." "I agree," Scully says. She looks over at Mulder. "We have some things we need to deal with. Come on, Mulder." He shrugs. "Later guys. Try not to stay up all night with the physics textbooks. Frohike's video collection's more interesting." Byers looks up in protest as they leave. "Frohike, we've got way too much work to do." Yes and no. "We can't get much further without assistance from the Boy Genius of Physics, and he's not here right now." I glance at Langly. "Why don't you let Deborah spend her last night alone with her parents? You should come along." "I'm not going." His determination is blunted by a harsh yawn. "Listen, buddy, you haven't left her alone with them all week. You owe her." Actually, I couldn't care less how they feel about it, but he sure as hell needs a break from them. I study them both. "No one's gotten much sleep this week, so I'm ordering everyone off to bed." "Including yourself?" Byers eyes me skeptically. "Especially myself." I'm not kidding. Byers and Langly glance at each other, shrug, and begin their way up the stairs. I follow along, my bones heavy with weariness. God, just one night of decent sleep. Please. LONE GUNMEN OFFICES 9:15 A.M. FROHIKE: For a change, it was a peaceful night. We all slept the sleep of the dead, and did we ever need it. Byers is sitting at the kitchen table, starting to wade through the stack of newspapers we receive every morning. He's looking fairly chipper, and the dark circles under his eyes have receded quite a bit. "Coffee's on," he says to me, his voice calm and peaceful for the first time since Monday. "Looks like you finally got some sleep," I comment. "You too," he answers. Oh yeah, and I won't mention those sweet dreams of Mel Scarlett. "Oh, man, last day of the 'rents," Langly says, heading for the coffee maker. "All I gotta do is survive like 24 more hours." He looks better than he has in days. "You make the coffee, Byers?" "Yeah," Byers says, not looking up. "Thought so. I can't stand my spoon up in it." "Blondie, you've got no room to criticize my coffee," I comment. "I happen to like a brew that puts a little hair on my chest." "That ain't where you need it," Langly shoots back. His retort actually produces a strange feeling of calm. This is a normal morning. Life is beginning to get back on track. Then the phone rings. God, what now? "Get the phone, would you?" I say to Langly. "Why me?" He glares at me. "Because you're up, and you're the youngest, and I told you to." He sticks his tongue out at me as he slogs towards the phone. I smile. Yes, things are looking up. Before I know it, Langly's waving at us to get the tracing equipment up and running. He covers the receiver and hisses, "It's him! The dick that called us before!" He hits the speaker button. "I heard that!" The electronically altered voice snaps. It looks like I spoke too soon. "Fletcher, you bastard, you can cut the shit. " I groan. I'm sure it's him. I hope it is. "This isn't shit. I've got problems, and you boys are going to help me solve them." Even with the electronic distortion, we can tell he's trying to sound tough, but he comes off as fearful. "Excuse me, but do we look like your slaves?" Langly retorts. "And why the fuck would we do anything for you, you asshole, after what you did to my girlfriend?" "Hey, I had nothing to do with that!" "Like hell you didn't!" Langly's losing his temper, so I motion to him to stay calm. I pick up the receiver and turn the speaker off. "Listen, punkass," I growl, "you don't go around telling us what we will and won't do. And none of us are in any frame of mind to help you with jack shit, not after what you did to Deborah and Kimmy." "Hey, it's not my fault that some people can't follow instructions. All I wanted to do was scare you guys. I had no intention of anyone actually getting hurt." "I don't care what your intentions were, you jerkwad! You sicced Monroe on us --" "That's where you're wrong, Sneezy." God, I hate this man. I really, really hate him. "I can explain everything, but I need my data back." He's trying not to plead, and doing a lousy job of it. Man would make a terrible actor. "I'm listening." "You bring the data, I'll tell you what I know." "Uh-uh. If you can explain what happened, tell us now." I think we're being set up, and I don't like it. "I'm not saying a word. Bring me the data, and we'll talk. Meet me at the Library Lounge at 11:30." "No way, man." Not the Library Lounge. God knows who'll see us there -- or him. If Monroe's up to something, the last place we need to be seen is among the DC hoi polloi. The bartenders there have a habit of remembering things, especially things that look out of place. Byers is the only one of us who'd actually blend in there. "You meet us at the Limerick." That's our bar. Granted, our bartender sees all, knows all, but he can be persuaded to forget when it's convenient, or if you offer him cash. "What, that dive?" he scoffs. "I see you're familiar with it." Time to let him know he's not in charge. He's had his illusions for long enough. "You want to talk, you meet us in the Limerick." "Excuse me, but I'm supposed to meet with one sizzling hot blonde in two hours, and if I miss this date --" "And this would be my problem because...?" I have no interest in spending more time with that sleazeball than absolutely necessary, although getting him to miss a chance to philander might be worth it. I don't understand why jerks like him can always find good looking women to mess around with. It's just wrong. "Byers and I will meet you at 11:30 at the Limerick." "You want me to meet you in Southeast DC? Unbelievable." He laughs, but he's nervous. He thinks he's fooling us; he's wrong. "You want to talk to us, you be there," I tell him firmly. "And bring the data with you." "I said we'd meet you." And that's as much as I'm promising. I hope I don't regret that. LIMERICK TAVERN SOUTHEAST DC 11:50 A.M. BYERS: "This could be a set up," I warn Frohike. "I'm well aware of that." He stares at the street ahead of us. "We didn't have to agree to meet him." He's driving the Chrysler, I'm in the passenger seat. He glares at me meaningfully. "Did you have a better idea? If you did, you should have said something earlier." I groan. I really didn't, but this is giving me the creeps. "We're not handing over the data, are we?" I have the discs secure in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I'm beginning to think I should have left them in the safe. He shakes his head. "Not unless we absolutely have to. It's still our best bargaining chip." "I think it's odd that he didn't mention any of the hidden files. It's as if he's completely ignorant of the other data, and the black box material." "He's completely ignorant, I'll give you that," Frohike snaps, swearing under his breath as he searches for parking. "But don't you think he would have at least mentioned it?" "I really believe he doesn't know shit. Maybe he doesn't know that Kimmy cracked the ghost files, and doesn't want us to know about them. Our memories were fucked about the black box data. I don't think he has any idea we have that." Frohike snorts. "What if he's got his goons out in force? They've already gotten to Deborah and Kimmy." Frohike snorts again. "Only mistake they made with Kimmy was missing." "Frohike!" "Oh, get over it, Byers. I like the little turd, even if he is a pain in the ass. Fletcher said he was just looking to harass us, but Monroe got crazy on his own." We pull up to a space about a block from the Limerick. Bernie, the proprietor, is generous about extending credit on tabs, but the two parking spaces behind the tavern are his and his alone. "You don't actually believe that, do you? What if he's snowing us?" I ask anxiously. Frohike eyes me as he opens the door. "Then we're fucked." Now there's a warm, fuzzy thought. "Your friend's in back," Bernie flicks a thumb toward the back of the tavern. I want to tell Bernie he's not our friend, but I let it go. I'd also like to bag this right now and get the hell out of here. I'm still nervous that we're being watched, and I don't like the sensation. "What, Blondie wimped out?" is the first thing that emanates from the mouth of the man sitting in the back booth. I try to come up with a snappy rejoinder, but all I can do is gape; he's dressed so badly he makes Frohike look like a Paris runway model. Whoever designed that Hawaiian shirt should be shot, after prolonged torture. I consider donning my sunglasses. "Could you have made yourself a little more obvious?" Frohike snarls at him. "Hey, you were the ones that insisted on slumming. I just dressed the part," he smirks. "Come on, sit down, it's noon somewhere in the world. In fact, it's only 8 minutes away right here." Bernie comes by quietly and the man we presume to be Morris Fletcher orders another Bombay Sapphire martini. I wince. Bombay is fine gin, but there's just something about a man who'd drink something blue, especially before lunch. I ask Bernie for a club soda with a slice of lime. Frohike doesn't order anything. I'm tempted to note that there have been more than a few individuals in suits, aside from myself, that visit this establishment, and that they tend to be well-placed government higher-ups looking for an honest drink and discreet conversation, but I doubt Fletcher would understand the word 'discreet.' Frohike wastes no time. "Start talking," he demands. "What, not even a little 'hello, how are you?'" Fletcher clucks his tongue, condescending. "I was going to ask how Langly's sweet young thing was doing, but you won't even give me a chance." "This isn't a social call," I say. "If you have information, we want it, and we want it now." "What about my data?" Despite his bravado, the man is decidedly nervous. His eyes dart about and his fingers fidget with the drink. "What's the deal with Monroe?" Frohike dives back in. "Are you going to give me my files back?" Fletcher is almost whining now. "That depends upon whether or not we like your answers," Frohike shoots back without missing a beat. "You told me you'd give them to me," Fletcher pouts, not unlike Langly does. "We said we'd meet you." Frohike eyes him levelly. "Now are you going to say something, or are we wasting our time here?" "What do you want from me?" He seems wary, even more nervous now. "We want to know what your connection is to Monroe," I say icily. "I have no connection to Monroe." He fidgets uncomfortably. Of course, I'd be embarrassed in that shirt, too. Somehow, though, I don't think that's what's causing his discomfort. "You said you did," Frohike stares at him. "I did not. All I said was that Monroe got a little carried away. I didn't say I had anything to do with him." "Then how did you know about what happened with Deborah? And Kimmy?" I demand. "Or where we all were the other night?" "Look, all I want is my data back. You don't understand. My ass is on the line here," he pleads. "I really didn't have anything to do with Monroe." "But you had his goons shoot at our friends," I say coldly, "and nearly kill Deborah." "I did no such thing. I ordered my... well, we do have people trained to handle that sort of thing. But all they were supposed to do was scare her, so that you clowns would get nervous and back off. Apparently Monroe got wind of it, and decided to do a little work of his own, making it look like our people did it." Frohike contemplates that one. "You know what I think? I think you're lying," he says, staring directly at Fletcher, who flinches under his uncompromising gaze. "I am not lying to you, guys. Seriously, why would I want to hurt you? You guys are my heroes." I make the mistake of sipping my club soda while he speaks, and end up spluttering the mess all over the table. Frohike rolls his eyes, muttering, "Gimme a freakin' break." "Where's Monroe?" I demand sharply. "How the hell should I know?" Fletcher snaps back. "I'm not on Monroe watch." "You know where he is," I press. "He went underground. At least that's what I hear," Fletcher continues nonchalantly, but he won't look at us. "He was supposed to lose his job," I point out. That was part of the agreement with the Justice Department, or so we'd been led to believe. "We've been keeping an eye out for him, and believe me, so have our friends," I remind him. "Yeah, your 'friends.' I've seen your friends," Fletcher snorts, motioning Bernie over to refill him. It's past noon now. Maybe a liquid lunch isn't such a bad idea. "Another club soda?" Bernie asks me. "No, make it a Tanqueray and tonic, please. Extra lime." Frohike raises his eyebrows at me, shakes his head, and adds a J&B neat to the tab. When our drinks arrive, we press on. "Where's Monroe?" I ask again. "I don't know." "Well, if you don't know, you're going to find out," Frohike growls at him. "How am I supposed to do that?" "Tell us if he's working for you." "He doesn't work for me!" "Well, he's working for someone!" I fire back, my nerve enhanced by a little liquid courage. Fletcher hesitates. "I don't know where he is." "But he's in your organization." He has to be. "Despite the fact that he was supposedly fired." Fletcher laughs maliciously. "You don't seriously think guys like him ever get fired, do you? I got news for you. People like him don't get fired. If his bosses want to get rid of him, they'll kill him. Much cleaner that way." "So why the hell is he gunning for us?" Frohike says angrily. "He's got his job. He's obviously protected." "Yeah, but you guys exposed him. And he's mad." He takes another swallow of his drink, the third he's had since we've arrived, and he had at least one before we got here. "I'd like my files now, guys." "Forget it," Frohike says coldly to him. "I have to have them!" "Oh, you'll get them," Frohike promises. "When you deliver Monroe's whereabouts to us." Fletcher feigns disgust, but mostly what I see is fear. "And what do you plan to do? Expose him again in your silly little rag?" "We're going to put him out of business, once and for all," I assure him, with more boldness than I actually feel. "We plan to make certain he never comes near us again." Fletcher chuckles. "Right. Sure. You guys kill me. First you think you're the saviors of the free world, now you think you're going to take on Monroe." Frohike smiles coldly. "You do need your data back, don't you?" Fletcher says nothing. "Find him. And get ready to deliver him to us. C'mon, Byers. Let's get out of here." "Guys, you don't understand. If I find Monroe and hand him over to you... damn, I might as well cut off my testicles here and now." Frohike shoots him one last, amused look. "You have testicles?" End part 12 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 13 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "Most real relationships are involuntary." ~~Iris Murdoch, from "The Sea, The Sea"~~ ______ FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000 GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER DEBORAH'S ROOM 1:30 P.M. LANGLY: Wonder what the guys are up to, and if they actually met up with Fletcher. I'm going crazy not knowing. We're busy getting Deb ready to go home because she finally got sprung. They pulled her IV line out about half an hour ago, and she's waiting for her paperwork. I'm real glad Deb gets to go home, but even better is that her parents are leaving tomorrow. I hate leaving her alone with them, but I've had more than I can take of the SJ's. I'm supposed to go to this party tonight at the consulate. I asked Deb if she minded, and she told me I should go, take a break. My only idea of a break right now is a long nap, with no parents and nobody chasing us. Fat chance of that. DEBORAH'S APARTMENT 3:07 P.M. LANGLY: Deb is now a free woman, or at least, she's been sprung from the hospital. I get the unsettling feeling that real freedom comes when her folks leave for Louisiana. Mulder insisted we go home with one of the Fibbies, which was both good and bad. Bad because I'd really have liked to take Deb home by myself and get her all tucked in and everything. Good because if there's someone else around, her folks try to be civilized. They don't get all over each other, and, more importantly, they stay off my case. Less than 24 hours to go before I can dump them at the airport. Fortunately, Deb works a lot of holidays, so maybe we won't have to deal with them for Christmas. I'm tempted to tell her to sign up for Thanksgiving and Christmas just to avoid them. She's a fellow now, and in spite of her impossible hours, she's crawling higher up the food chain. Of course, now that I'm in her apartment with the folks and all, I recognize that the car ride was a reprieve. They started arguing the second we got out of the car, and it hasn't let up at all since. Deb got tired just from coming home and watching her folks go at it. I have no idea how she survived growing up with this. I help get her snuggled in with her stuffed critters. Her folks aren't taking their eyes off me, but Deb glares over at them. "If you don't mind, I'd like to talk to Ringo for a moment," she says, all sharp. "Gerard, we do need to pack," Mrs. SJ says. She turns to Deb again. "We'll be back in an hour, sweetie." That's just about the time I have to leave anyway, since I'm getting dragged to this soiree at the consulate tonight. Don't get me wrong. Devi's awesome, and her parties are a blast, I'm sure. I just feel like crawling in bed and collapsing. Maybe the guys won't notice if I don't go. I don't like strangers, anyway. Deb looks like she's asleep for a while, but then she opens her eyes. "Are they gone?" "Yeah, they're gone. For now." "Thank God." She blinks again. "I love them dearly, Ringo, and they mean well, but I'm so glad they're leaving tomorrow." You're not the only one, I think, but I don't say it. "You okay?" I stroke her hair. Kinda greasy, but mine's been worse. I mean, it's not like anything's nesting in it. She shakes her head. "No. I'm not." She's got the tears in her eyes again. Oh shit, not the waterworks. What am I going to do? "Uh... like... you want me to wash your hair or something?" I ask, not knowing what else to do. She bursts into tears. "Oh, could you?" I give her a hug. "Yeah, I think I can handle that." She's still crying when I start off, and I get shampoo and water everywhere, but by the time I'm done, she's a lot calmer, and really tired. Probably just as well I'm not staying here tonight. She looks up at me. "Ringo, thanks for being here for me." "Why? It's my job, isn't it?" I mean, she's my girlfriend. I'm supposed to do that, right? "That's not the point. I know my folks aren't the easiest people to get along with, but you did so well with them." Fooled me, but we'll leave it at that. I take praise wherever I can get it. "I think you'd better get some sleep now," I say to her, helping her back in bed. She's asleep before I get out the door. WASHINGTON, D.C. SRI LANKAN CONSULATE 8:27 P.M. BYERS: "How many people did you say were coming?" I ask Sari as we enter the consulate. I was expecting a crowd, but nothing like what's before me. "I honestly have no idea." Sari laughs. "Mom was born to entertain. She loves a good party. Devi comes by her talents honestly." My brain is swimming from the sheer multitude invading the place. The consulate is immense, built for large scale entertaining, but this boggles my mind. Every inch of floor space seems occupied. Langly is standing to my left. "I don't think there're this many people in Saltville," he mumbles. Frohike snorts lightly. "Are you kidding? All of DC doesn't have this many people when Congress isn't in session." Sari laughs. "You won't have to look too far to find a Congresscritter or two here." "Most likely at the bar -- which I'm going to find." Frohike steps into the mob. Langly remains close to me, clearly exhausted. He's thinking about following Frohike, but he's suddenly accosted by Devi. Devi is not known for visual subtlety -- there's a reason Sari refers to her as Magpie -- but tonight, the blind would notice her in the strong turquoises, deep golden yellows, and fierce scarlet of her outfit. Apparently feeling the garment was insufficiently dramatic, she's added large quantities of colorful jewelry. I'm sure the stones are the real thing. Being married to the Consul General means she can afford the genuine article. On anyone else, the effect would be downright tacky, but this is Devi, and she wears it well. I'm not a physical person by nature or upbringing, but when Devi plants a solid kiss on each cheek, it feels warm and natural, and I don't flinch. To my surprise, neither does Langly. She stands back from him, his face still in her hands, and observes him critically. All the while, she never so much as tilts her wineglass. "You look like you haven't slept in a week." "I haven't." "Well, if this gets too much for you, there are guest rooms on the second floor and off to the left. Feel free to use one of them." "Uh, thanks." He's almost incoherent at this point. One drink and he'll pass out, guaranteed. "I think I'm gonna check out the buffet table." "A wise choice," Sari nods. Once he's gone, she says, "He's not looking good. He hasn't eaten much this week, has he?" "Well, after Frohike drugged his food, I think he got paranoid about eating. Obviously, he has nothing to fear from Devi. I just hope he stays conscious long enough for us to make contact." I scan the room, trying to pick out our wunderkind, Sean O'Casey, but no one I see resembles the photo I've seen of him. "I don't see him anywhere." Sari laughs. "Do you seriously believe Sean would be here on time? He's the sort that needs to make an Entrance. Trust me, he'll be late, but he'll be here." "I certainly hope so. We really need his help, and I'm praying this isn't the night he decides he needs to stay in his room, smoke every illegal substance known to God and man, and contemplate his navel." "He'll be here. Sean won't miss a good party. He'll just bring his recreational substances with him." I shudder at the idea. This room is loaded with... everyone. Hilda and Mark Thomas seem to have friends of every race, ethnic group, economic background, religious belief and political persuasion. I recognize two well-known political pundits speaking with each other. One is so far to the left that Marx would blink; the other is the head of a notoriously conservative think tank. I'd assume a discussion of this nature would come to blows, but their conversation appears lively, animated, and friendly. The room is filled with what would have been called 'good vibes' back in the 60s. "Is there anyone your parents don't know?" I ask her, only partially kidding. "Well, some of these folks are friends of mine or Devi's, but my folks don't know you yet, and it's time we remedied that." She puts her arm in mine and leads me over to a tall, buxom woman with honey blonde hair who is currently talking to a thinner but equally tall Hispanic woman. "Mom," Sari calls out. The blonde woman extracts herself from the conversation and hurries over to her daughter, wrapping Sari warmly in her arms. She's dressed in a beautifully embroidered maroon silk skirt and cream silk shirt -- the style is Indian, if I'm not mistaken -- and a great deal of colorful jewelry. She jingles when she moves. She's a little more subtle, but I can see where Devi got her character. And her fashion sense. "Sari, liebling, I'm so happy to see you!" she says, in a slightly German-accented voice. Hilda manages the embrace without tipping her wine glass, just like Devi. "And you must be John!" I'm treated to the same embrace she offered her daughter. "I've heard so much about you! What a pleasure to finally meet you!" I eye Sari quizzically; I know she and her parents are close, but I have no idea what she's said to them about me. She's usually the soul of discretion. Hilda sees my confusion and says, "Most of what I've heard is from Devi." She laughs. "Thank the gods not everyone in the family believes that discretion is the better part of valor. Although we do wish Sari had let us know sooner about that unehelich abscheulich ex-son-in-law of ours." She makes a distasteful face, but the light and laughter quickly returns. "I can't thank you enough for what you did for Sari." I find myself blushing. "It's what we do, Dr. Thomas." She shakes her head, waving her free hand. "To be technical, that would be Frau Doktor Professor Thomas, or you can call me Hilda. I'd really prefer Hilda." "It's a pleasure to meet you Do -- ah, Hilda," I say, smiling. She grins back at me. "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I require a refill." Hilda begins to make her way toward the bar, but stops to chat with everyone on the way. Getting a drink appears to be an involved procedure for her. "Let's find my dad," Sari says. We wend our way through the crowd, and I watch for Sean as we move. I'm introduced to at least a dozen people whose names I'll never remember. Still no sign of our contact, but that will have to wait; Sari is tapping the arm of a tall, distinguished man with long, thick salt and pepper hair drawn back in a ponytail. He's clad in khakis, a blue button down shirt covered by a worn tweed jacket with leather arm patches, and Birkenstock sandals with socks. Before Sari says a word, I know that this is her father. They share the same facial features, the same grey eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, but the most striking thing about him is the same serene gestalt that his elder daughter has. Dr. Thomas turns and embraces his daughter warmly. His calm, quiet demeanor is a sharp contrast to his wife's exuberant gaiety, but he shares her affectionate nature. I'm beginning to understand why Sari is so physically affectionate with everyone. "Dad, this is John Byers," she indicates me. "This is my dad, Mark." "Dr. Thomas, a pleasure." He has a firm, dry handshake. While he's obviously a quiet man, he's not the least bit ill at ease in this environment. "Please, call me Mark. We're not very formal, and it gets confusing when Hilda and I are in close proximity," he says with a soft, mellow smile; the same smile I so love seeing on Sari. "Let me take this opportunity to thank you for helping our daughter. I've been able to sleep much better ever since, knowing that she's out of danger." I blush again. "It was no trouble at all, sir." This isn't true, of course, but the risks were worth it, personally as well as professionally. I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Sari looks at me. "Nonsense," Mark says, his brow wrinkling. "I understand you were hospitalized, and could have been blinded or even killed by the blow that bastard dealt you. You risked your life for my daughter, and I won't ever forget that. I hope you're fully recovered from the incident?" I nod, caught in my social white lie. I have the feeling that the man rarely forgets anything important. "Yes, thank you." "Devi says that you're a journalist," he continues, saving me further embarrassment. I nod again, glad to change the subject. "Yes, my associates and I do investigative work. We were working on the Pinck story when I met Sari..." FROHIKE: It's a shame I can't take full advantage of the bar. Under any other circumstances, I'd be sampling each of the Scotches available. There are at least a dozen exquisite single malts, and ten blends. Unable to indulge my whims because of my responsibilities tonight, I stick to my usual J&B, but it's largely a prop. Damn. I console myself by enjoying the view. There are lovelies here of all ages, shades, and sizes. I'd really prefer Mel's company, but she's in Pennsylvania. Still, just because you've ordered dinner doesn't mean you can't read the menu, and there's a feast for the eyes here. No sign of Sean the Physics-boy, though. I hate it when I have to work while there's such a wealth of beauty present. I decide to explore the wonders of the buffet table. There's enough food here to feed several Third World nations, all of it impeccably presented. It smells delicious. I can understand why Devi's parties are legendary. At most parties I attend, on the rare occasions I do, the main attraction is the stripper, who usually looks a lot better after ingesting far too much booze. I doubt there are any strippers working here tonight, but I'd bet money there are women who engage in that line of work in attendance. There's no lack of representation of anything here; I don't see why sex workers wouldn't be included. I smile at a buxom woman in a tight teal silk dress that leaves precious little to my already overworked imagination, but my view is suddenly blocked by my blonde partner in crime. I'm amazed at how little he's carrying on his plate. Normally, Langly requires two plates and both hands, and watching him maneuver is nothing short of terrifying, but this has hardly been a normal week for him. There's only a little food on one single plate, and plenty of open space. "I don't think he's gonna show," Langly grumbles. "He'll show." I'm reassuring myself as much as him. If O'Casey decides to ditch, we're royally screwed. "Yeah, well, he'd better show soon. I'm fucking exhausted and I don't feel like waiting all night." Langly's condition has made him even more snappish and unreasonable than usual. "Devi told you that you could use one of the guest rooms." Langly snorts. "Oh yeah, right. Like I'm gonna go crash and then never hear the end of it from you dudes for bailing out." I lay a hand on his arm and he flinches. "Listen, man. You're beyond burnt. You wanna take advantage of Devi's offer, I say go for it. Byers and I can handle it." He looks mildly hurt at the idea that we could manage without him for a few hours, but he's so dragged out that he sets down his plate. "I'll get the laptop from Byers and take it up with me," he says, then wanders off into the crowd to look for our erstwhile companion. In the meantime, I'm keeping a sharp eye out for the young Dr. O'Casey -- while enjoying the view, of course. 9:50 P.M. BYERS: I'm not a very social creature, but I've had the opportunity to speak with some fascinating and delightful people tonight. I'm surprised at my lack of awkwardness. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel quite at ease here. If I weren't waiting for our contact, I would just relax and enjoy the rest of the evening. Langly stops by briefly to get my laptop and let me know that he's heading for a bedroom upstairs. "It's about time," I tell him. "Shut up," he snaps. I let him leave without further comment. Mark Thomas circulates my way again, and we discuss more particulars of the Pinck incident. He then asks me about our current investigation, which I confess leaves me feeling nervous. I'm not sure how much to disclose at this point, since I'm not even certain what we're dealing with. Fortunately, I'm saved by a petite, attractive woman in a dark navy business suit, her hair styled in a short blonde bob. She's probably an executive or a lawyer. "Mark, good to see you," she says, shaking his hand. "And you, Wendy," he says warmly. "I'd like you to meet a friend of my daughter's. This is John Byers. He's a journalist. John, Gwendolyn Barnett Banks." "Journalists. I've met a few of those," she says, laughing. "A pleasure. Please call me Wendy. People can tell by looking at me that I'm a WASP. I don't want to drive the point home." She reeks of old money and lineage, probably DAR, yet there's nothing that suggests she takes herself with the ponderous seriousness of your typical blue blood. "How's business, Wendy?" Mark asks her politely. She laughs heartily. "As long as there are politicians, business will be good. And last time I checked, this town still suffered from far too many of them. If only the taxpayers knew where their dollars were really going. Anyway, I'm headed for the bar." She taps her empty beer bottle. "Nice meeting you, John." Mark turns to me as she turns away. "Wendy runs the ultimate high class call girl ring in DC. She decided translating Chinese didn't pay enough, so she found something that did. At any rate, she keeps our legislators amused, which should count for something. She's old money. Her family's Barnett Oil. I daresay the service she provides is more honest and less environmentally damaging than that of the rest of her family." I confess to being a bit shocked, but simply nod. Mark is not the least bit fazed by her unconventional occupation; why should I be? Mark is about to inquire further into our activities when we're interrupted by a rumble in the crowd. Considering the previous noise level, it's nearly ear shattering. Apparently someone long awaited has arrived. After a moment, I understand why. I believe our contact is here. end part 13 Things Undone 7: In Love and Black Ops, part 14 of 20 by Erynn & Sally Disclaimers in part 01 ______ "Secrets are rarely betrayed or discovered according to any program our fear has sketched out." ~~George Eliot, from "The Mill on the Floss"~~ ______ FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000 WASHINGTON, D.C. SRI LANKAN CONSULATE LATE EVENING FROHIKE: Jesus, what's all the commotion? I crane my neck to see if Cindy Crawford has made an entrance. Of course I can't see a damn thing, what with being vertically challenged and all. Byers is cutting a rapid path toward me. "He's here." "O'Casey? Shit, the way people are carrying on, you'd have thought we'd at least get Tyra Banks." "For all we know, she could be here." He's scanning the crowd. "No, I'd have noticed. Trust me on that one." Byers turns to me. "Looks like we have some competition for his attention. Let's get a move on and distract him as quickly as possible." "At least let the poor bastard get a drink." It seems inhumane to not allow him at least that much. "We let him in here, and from the looks of things, we'll never get his attention." "I thought Sari was going to take care of that." "That's assuming I can find her. She wandered off to mingle a while ago. I don't even see her." He looks forlorn. And they're just friends, right? Sucking up to his future in laws like that? Yeah, sure. BYERS: When I do see Sari, she's got O'Casey by the hand and is leading him in our direction. This relieves me immensely. He's quite young, with dark hair and a goatee, an average build, and a pleasant face. He looks about like you'd expect a science geek to look -- a bit pale and slightly out of shape. Not unlike my partners and myself, I suppose. He's flirting with almost everyone who walks by, and getting reactions ranging from smiles and laughs to snapped replies and looks of disgust. "John, this is Sean O'Casey, boy genius. Sean, John Byers and our friend Melvin Frohike." Sean extends his hand, and I offer my own. "Hey cutie," he says as he shakes my hand, "what are you doing after the party?" You know, he's really not that bad loo... God, Byers, where is your brain? I can feel myself blush to my toes. The guys are right. It has been too long. I need to get a date -- with a woman. Unfortunately, I don't know that many women, and Sari is too good a friend for me to want to risk changing our relationship and losing her if it didn't work out. "Working, most likely," I lie, even though sleeping is more accurate, and I hope it will be very far away from one Dr. O'Casey, thank you very much. I think I can hear Frohike growling next to me. Sean looks over at Sari. "You never told me your friend was a hottie." "What," she says, "and deprive you of the pleasure of finding out for yourself?" The two of them laugh. "Well if he's busy, what are you doing?" Sean asks her. "For me, there may not be an 'after the party.' My folks are very likely to want my presence for the entire evening," she says. Sean winks at her. "You always have an excuse." Sari laughs again and hugs him. "I'm almost old enough to be your mother, sweet cheeks." "More years, more experience, I always say." He leers at her, and I barely resist an urge to strangle him. Fortunately, Sari seems to be enjoying their flirting. If she were uncomfortable with the situation, I really would strangle him. Frohike steps forward with a glower on his face that could kill cockroaches, and puts an end to their banter. "We're here to work, kid, not to get you laid by everything on two legs." O'Casey draws himself up to his full height, which is about the same as mine, but still towers over Frohike. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'll have you know that I do have standards," he says with a wicked grin. "You couldn't pay me to sleep with a politician!" Even Frohike, annoyed as he is, can see the humor in this, and we all laugh. I'm slightly less tempted to strangle him now, but only slightly. "So where are we doing this?" Sari asks. "You shouldn't come," I tell her. She gives me an annoyed look. "And why not?" I take her elbow and pull her away from O'Casey and Frohike, then lean in and speak quietly to her -- or at least as quietly as one can in this kind of environment. "If this is anything close to as nasty as I suspect it is, it's going to be far too dangerous for you to know the actual contents of the file. Please, just give me the benefit of the doubt here. If it's nothing, it's nothing, but if it's something big, I don't want you in any more danger than absolutely necessary." She sighs, but nods. "All right, John, I'll stay out of it, but understand that this is mostly because I have a lot of people I still need to see tonight, and my parents are going to want more of my attention than I've given them so far." I think our argument the other night has mellowed both of us a bit, and I'm glad she's conceding this one so easily. It gives me a little breathing space in an already difficult situation. I'll have to remember to thank her properly later. "I appreciate this, Sari. Thank you." She nods again, then gives me a warm hug and a peck on the cheek, and heads off into the crowd. FROHIKE: I can't believe we're entrusting whatever the hell it is Byers found to someone barely post-pubescent and severely oversexed. The young Dr. O'Casey has managed to hit on just about everything that moves at this party and a few that don't. He hit on Sari, which I could understand, but he also hit on Byers. Byers managed to handle it gracefully, but I could tell he was thrown off balance. It's not as if we aren't off balance enough in this mess already. There are an awful lot of attractive women that would normally be grabbing my more lecherous instincts, but what I've had my eye on for the last hour is a small man dressed in rabbinical garb. He seems to be showing up every so often, way too close for my comfort. Maybe my lack of inebriation is making me even more paranoid than usual, but I'm twitching when he watches us make our way to the stairs. "You do realize that it's party time, so this better be good," Sean says as we make our way to the guest room where Langly's crashed. We were attempting to be discreet about it, but as Sari has pointed out, 'discreet' is a concept sorely lacking in the young man. He managed to hit on three people just walking up the stairs. Let's just hope he's as bright as he's alleged to be. "It'll be worth your while," Byers promises. "It better be, especially if I end up leaving alone because I was busy working." "Oh, I doubt that'll happen, punkass," I mutter to myself. So far, he hasn't made a move on me. Age and ugliness can be remarkable deterrents in some cases, though I haven't noticed he's particularly discriminating. Maybe it was the 'try that again and you're spam' look I gave him after he hit on Byers. We open the door and Sean flips on the light. It's been rigged to a small desk lamp. Langly doesn't even stir as we enter. Sean examines the lanky blonde curled up in a fetal position on the bed, a small fleece blanket covering his legs, with a look of consternation on his face. "Bad trip?" "Don't even go there," I growl at him. "Got your laptop?" he asks Byers, who was in charge of toting the equipment. Byers looks around, then grabs it out from under the bed where Langly'd stowed it. We never leave home without our laptops. Or our bug sweepers. I make a quick scan of the room with my pocket model. I'm sure the place is swept frequently -- it is a consulate, after all -- but as Susanne Modeski once said, and it may be the only honest thing she ever said: 'No matter how paranoid you are, you're not paranoid enough.' "It's clean," I assure them, and Byers begins to set up. "This better not be one of those problems students would come to me with as a TA, screaming that there was no way they could solve it," Sean sighs. He then pulls something from a pocket. It's a small baggie of perfectly rolled pencil joints. "Mind if I smoke?" he asks. "Yes, I do. Can't you wait till you've seen this?" I snap. He holds up his hands in a truce gesture. "Hey, peace out. I was gonna share, you know." "Let's just hold off for a few, shall we?" Byers is being far more diplomatic than I am. I should be nicer, but if I have to deny myself those lovely 20-year-old single malts behind the bar, he can hold off on whatever goodies he's brought along. "Fine, we can hold off on the smokes. Care for a microdot?" He reaches into his pockets again, and pulls out an even smaller baggie containing several tiny purple pills. "Just take a look at this first, please," Byers says softly, trying to be patient with the young man. "Hey, I've done all my best work tripping," Sean assures us, but I'm not comforted. "I think you'll trip when you see this," I tell him, more sharply than I'd intended. God, do I need a drink. I'm still nursing my first scotch of the evening, and I've barely had two sips from it. Byers boots up the computer and inserts the disk. Sean tilts his head, shaking it slightly. "Weird looking shit, man." "Oh, it gets weirder," I tell him, allowing myself another sip of Scotch. What I wouldn't give to be in Mel Scarlett's living room right now (assuming we could move her errant son from the sofa), drinking beer, watching old movies, and eating heavily buttered popcorn. Anywhere but here. Anything but this. My nerves are shot, and I'm just hoping we can trust Physics Boy, and that he can help us figure this out. "Just start at the main directory," Byers says to him. "Well, duh!" Sean doesn't look up, but I can see he's thinking 'what's with these geezers?' If he's as good as he's alleged to be, he's about to find out. He clicks open the main directory and begins pulling up files at lightning speed. He doesn't say a word for a long time, but eventually his mouth hangs wide open, his eyes like saucers behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "God damn. Where the hell'd you get this?" he says, sounding very young and quite astonished. "Where we got it isn't important at the moment," Byers asserts. "What we need to know is, have you ever seen anything like this before?" "Well... not exactly like this... but fuck me, if this is what I think it is." "Can you help us?" I ask, this time more gently. I'm really trying not to lose patience with the kid. We are, after all, in need of his services. "I can help you, man, but I gotta think on this. I'm gonna need some time." "We don't have much time," I remind him, and the urgency creeps back into my voice. "Hey man, gimme one night, okay? I'm gonna need some chemical reinforcements, though." He pops a microdot. "Whatever this is, it's heavy. I gotta think this one out carefully." "And you're going to do it by ingesting recreational substances and hitting on anything animal, vegetable or mineral?" I eye him suspiciously. Sean gives me a big smile. "We'll get together on this tomorrow. Man, if I can come up with a theory about this -- Nobel prize, you are so *mine*!" "We don't mean to be curt," Byers says, "but right now, our primary interest is in staying alive. We'd appreciate it if you kept this quiet." We expect him to blink at us in disbelief, but he just shakes his head. "Half the biggest PhD's on the planet are downstairs. You think I'm gonna share something like this? Get real. Software and soda aren't the only places where first to market counts." He's not quite getting it. "We've had a lot of problems since we discovered this. See that lump on the bed?" I point to Langly. "Too comatose for me. Not into necrophilia." "I don't care if you find barnyard animals attractive. His girlfriend was shot shortly after we stumbled on this. I think they were gunning for blondie." He's a bit chastened. "So where do we meet?" Byers steps in. "Sari will get you to our place. Meet up with her." "Oh, I'll meet up with Sari anytime," Sean has regained his playful tone. "Any way, shape or form." Byers bristles but says nothing. After all, they're just friends. Riiiiiight. "I'll make the arrangements with her," Byers says carefully. "We really need your help." He grins. "Of course you do. But I know some federales downstairs who're waiting to try out my stash, and I need to keep them happy while I go over this in my head." "Just keep your mouth shut," I reiterate. "As long as I don't have to keep my hands to myself." He gets up and heads for the door. "See ya tomorrow, guys." We hear him mutter, "Nobel prize, you are sooooo mine," as he walks away. I turn to Byers. "Think we can trust him?" "Unless he shouts equations when he comes, I think so," Byers says, blushing. I laugh. "I think, even for physics boy, that would be a stretch. You ready to go?" "We can't yet. It'll be too obvious." "Whaddya mean? It's more crowded down there than a K Mart Blue Light Special." "I really... I promised Sari I'd meet some people. And it would look strange. Besides, did you notice that guy with the beard? The short, thin one?" "You saw him, too?" "He makes me nervous." "Same here. Well, if we're going to stay, I'm going to sample the wares at the bar. No point in letting good Scotch go to waste." "Remember, we have to work tomorrow." "I'm trying to forget." What better way to do it than by sampling the splendid selection of Scotch? I check to see if Langly's showing any signs of life. From what I can tell, he's moved even less than usual. I adjust the blanket over him and head for the bar. I'm really not in a partying mood, but if I have to be here, I might as well make the most of it. Some anesthetic to dull the pain will help. After sampling three single malts, one of them 50 years old, I'm starting to feel that maybe things will be all right after all. We've enlisted the help of the best known physics prodigy in the world. He's young and hungry, and while his motives for not revealing what he knows aren't ours, I don't really give a flying fuck. It's obvious that the only thing he'll open his mouth for tonight is to go down on somebody, but as long as it won't be me, that's just fine. Byers has migrated into the crowd. I know that Sari is trying to get him to be more comfortable in social situations, and maybe it's working. I'm doing exactly what I need to be comfortable here -- getting quietly shitfaced. I'm not bothering anyone, and I don't feel like talking to anyone either, after the week I've had. If the Scotch wasn't so damn good, I'd have followed Langly's lead and crashed in another bedroom. The only thing that's annoying is the occasional reappearance of the little guy in the bad suit. If he thinks he's fooling anyone into believing he's Hasidic, he's out of his mind. Fuck him. Let me drink in peace. "Melvin, since when did you stop drinking rotgut and switch to something humans actually consume?" Oh hell, a woman's voice -- and not someone I want to see. Shit! "Don't worry, Kate, I'm not going to sleep with you this time, no matter how drunk I get." It's Kate Sandridge, one of my Bigger Mistakes. "You're depriving yourself of one of the finer things in life." She signals the bartender. "I'll have what he's having." "An ulcer and high blood pressure?" She clucks her tongue. "Well, considering what happened to your blonde friend's main squeeze..." "What the hell are you talking about?" She laughs. It's not a pleasant sound. "You seem to forget, Melvin; I'm a reporter." "Fooled me." "I'll let that pass." She takes her drink from the bartender, not even thanking him. Jesus. Since when do you not thank your bartender? The woman has absolutely no class. I can't believe I slept with her, even once. "Provided, of course, you let me in on what's going on." "What makes you think anything's going on?" She laughs; a harsh, ugly sound. I shudder. "Well, it's come to my attention that a certain Dr. Deborah SaintJohn was seriously injured by gunfire early Monday morning." I refuse to comment. She stares into her drink, then raises her eyes again, trying to be coy but only accomplishing an expression that spells threat. "I've also learned that she happens to be Langly's main squeeze. Granted, I was a bit surprised; don't you think she outclasses him by a few miles?" I swallow the rest of my Scotch as if it were water and signal to the bartender that I need a refill. He asks what brand I prefer. "Surprise me," I say to him. "I thought you hated surprises, Melvin." Kate fondles her glass. "I do." Especially when they're alleged journalists trying to scoop us. It's only slightly behind having life and limb threatened. I don't think Kate would appreciate what we've been through this week, even if I were inclined to share any information with her. "I also happened to see you and your bearded buddy, who seems to be dallying with the Grand Consul's sister in law, heading upstairs with one of the leading lights of modern physics. Were you two planning on fucking him, or consulting with him?" She takes a sip of her drink. Her face is a mask of triumphant gossip-hound. My blood pressure takes a sudden steep rise at her snide comments. If I wasn't a gentleman, I'd deck her. If she's starting to make connections here, we could be in a world of shit, and fast. Between this and the fake rabbi hanging around all too close, I'm getting extremely paranoid. "Javier, a Gewurztraminer, please." The German-touched voice of Hilda Thomas comes from behind me. She turns and sees Kate and I talking. "Ms. Sandridge. How nice to see you." Hilda is being courteous, but I'm not so drunk I can't tell she's putting it on. "I didn't know you covered social events." "I don't," Kate says, her voice sly. "I was just curious about how Melvin got here. This isn't your usual circle, is it?" She stares at me. Hilda, a very tall woman, draws herself up even further. "*He* was invited, unlike some others." She gives Kate a pointed look then turns back to me. "I do hope you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Frohike." "It's just Frohike, ma'am," I say again. "A lovely gathering." "Yes, it is. Come along, I'm sure there are lots of people you haven't met yet." Normally I'd welcome this about as much as a root canal, but anything to get away from Kate. Hilda offers her arm, and I take it, walking into the crowd and away from my nemesis. I glance back quickly, noting the look of utter envy on her face. I'd gloat, but the problem is, Kate's a shark. She'll stop at nothing for fresh meat, and she wouldn't be here unless she thought she could get a story. Unfortunately, it seems the story she's after is ours. And who the hell tipped her off? As if I don't have enough to worry about already. Just before I turn away, I see Kate catch the eye of Mr. Fake Rabbi. He nods subtly and turns to continue a conversation. Lovely. She has an accomplice. This is just what I needed to complete the day. God only knows what the guy has overheard in this crowd. "Are you acquainted with Ms. Sandridge?" Hilda asks as we try to make our way through the swarms of humanity. "I know her." I'll skip the fact that I've known her in the Biblical sense. From the tone of her voice, I get the impression that Hilda is not incredibly fond of our Kate. She wouldn't be the first one. "My condolences." I'm surprised at first that Hilda would be so frank in her opinions -- then again, I know Devi. You'd never have to say 'Tell me what you *really* think' to Devi. Also like her daughter, Hilda enjoys her alcohol. We're simpatico on that. "Such a distasteful woman. I assure you, she was not an invited guest." This is good to know. "Well, thank you for having us. Your hospitality is appreciated." She waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. "You've all helped our Sari so much. The least we can do is invite you to our little party. You know that you and your friends are welcome in our home at any time. We are so grateful to you." If this is her idea of a little party, I worry about what she considers a major get together. "Thank you," I tell her. I don't think we'll ever end up taking her up on that offer, but you never know. "Where is your other friend -- the blonde one? Mr. Langly, isn't it?" "Yeah. He's asleep in one of the guest rooms. He's had a hard week." Once again, no details, but unlike Kate, Hilda would never think to press. "Poor child," she clucks her tongue. "I should probably get the guy home soon," I say. "I need to find Byers." "Oh, John, isn't he just a liebchen? He's done so much for Sari. She's so much happier now. I daresay that -- if she were ever to get involved with a man again -- I hope it would be someone like him." I almost choke on my drink. She's not blind. She must have noticed. Then she gives me a wry grin that says, 'I know and you know, and we're both going to pretend we don't until they figure it out for themselves.' "Mr. Frohike, do you dance?" Hilda asks me. There's a band that's been playing dance tunes most of the evening, although I have to say I've barely paid attention. They're starting a swing number. "Why, yes, in fact, I do." "Would you care to join me? Mark hates to dance, but I love it." "Madam, it would be an honor." end part 14