The ice show was scheduled to begin at six o'clock, playing to a less than capacity crowd. Scully and Mulder took seats at the back of the arena, where they could keep an eye on the action on and off the ice.
The parents of the students selected to perform were gathered at rink side, video cameras poised and ready. Slavatinsky was chatting with a small delegation of men and women in business suits, apparently the important people he had referred to. Here and there, small groups and families sat isolated from each other by several rows, the men generally looking utterly bored, the women only vaguely interested and the children babbling excitedly. Five rows from the back, Thomas Hazen sat with his wife, while their teenage son sat two rows in front of them, feet up on the back of the chair in front of him and tapping his fingers on his knee until Jeremy Nichols, giving him an opportunity to escape. The two made their way to the nearly deserted north side of the arena and sat alone in the shadow of a concrete pillar.
"Not exactly the social event of the season, is it," Scully muttered. "Somehow I was expecting a bigger turn out."
"For a local ice show?"
"I guess I was under the impression that Dominika and Gavrel were better known than they apparently are. Even considering the neighborhood, their house must be worth a small fortune."
"I was wondering about that myself," Mulder said. "As far as I know, they've never placed higher than fifth in any competition. I wouldn't think a record like that would earn top billing on the show circuit."
"Alternate source of income?"
"It might be worth looking into."
Slavatinsky separated himself from the group he was talking to and made his way onto the ice to give the opening speech.
"You know," Scully said, "I've been thinking. I don't exactly follow figure skating, but I watch it on TV now and then, and I could swear I've heard the name Vanko Slavatinsky before."
"You probably have." Elizabeth Hazen turned around in her seat to face them. "Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing. Vanko was probably one of the most famous coaches in the Soviet Union. Over the years, he has worked with some of the most famous dance teams ever to hit the ice. Ever since the collapse of communism, though... Well, its just a terrible shame."
"What happened," Scully asked.
"Athletic programs were supported entirely by the state, which means the communist government was paying his salary. After the revolution, well, the money just wasn't there. He had to take work where he could get it, if you know what I mean."
Mulder leaned over and whispered in Scully's ear. "If he was coaching commercially successful acts, don't you think they'd keep him on?"
Scully nodded.
"So, do you have a little one performing tonight or just here as fans," Elizabeth asked.
"Shut up and watch the show," Hazen said to his wife.
"Neither," Mulder said, unsure of the truth in his statement. He picked up the pale green sheet of paper that served as a program and started reading for the tenth time. Named among the skaters in the ensemble performance of 'Send in the Clowns' that was to open the show was Kisa Krestyanova.
"Oh." Elizabeth looked a little confused.
"We're... here on business," Scully said, glancing at Mulder in concern.
"They're FBI," Hazen said.
"Really!" Elizabeth nearly squealed in delight.
Applause and cheering, mostly from the parents section, greeted a group of young skaters in clown costumes as they took their positions on the ice. Mulder tucked the program into his pocket and studied each of them in turn.
"Just shut up and watch the show," Hazen repeated.
"We'll talk later," Elizabeth said.
When the woman had turned around, Scully grimaced at the prospect and looked to Mulder, anticipating a comment from him, but his attention was elsewhere.
"The one in purple, with the lavender wig," he whispered.
"How can you tell?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but just shook his head.
He looked so tired. After a long argument that morning, she had convinced him to get some rest, and he grudgingly agreed, collapsing in exhaustion on her bed while she tried to study to the recently arrived reports. But he only pretended to sleep and she only pretended to read, unable to concentrate on anything but the concern she was feeling for him. Two hours later and no closer to an answer, they both gave up in frustration and agreed to go for a walk and not talk about the case or anything related to it. Thinking about it constantly wasn't getting them any answers, so maybe not thinking about it at all would, or at the very least, it might make him feel better for a little while. Then they passed by the window of a toy store, and without thinking, Scully commented that the race track set up on display there would be a perfect gift for her godson. At Mulder's urging, they went inside. After pricing the toy and finding it within her budget, she made the purchase. All the while, Mulder stuck close by her, but every time she looked at him, he was staring across the store at the dolls and stuffed animals, and she knew exactly what he was thinking. He was afraid of the truth, but he would go on torturing himself like this until he knew for sure one way or the other.
As Mulder watched Kisa's performance, Scully reached out and slipped her hand into his. Only half aware, he squeezed her hand, clinging to it like a drowning man holding on to a life preserver. She could feel the tension in his muscles. Not so long ago, he would have suffered in silence, unwilling to trust anyone with what he was feeling. Now, at least, he was sharing his pain with her. She only wished there were a way she could make it go away.
The seconds ticked by in a seemingly endless procession as one skater after another took to the ice, each worse than the one before. Mulder found himself looking forward to the frequent breaks to clean the ice. Watching the Zamboni was infinitely more entertaining than seeing a bunch of awkward kids landing on their backsides every time they attempted a complicated maneuver.
"Bored," Scully asked during one of the breaks while Mulder was consulting the program yet again.
"Relieved that the show is almost over. Four more acts and we can get out of here."
"Its not quite Olympic level entertainment, is it," Thomas Hazen complained loud enough to elicit reproachful glares from several members of the audience, including his wife.
"Keep your voice down," Elizabeth warned. "Besides, they're saving the best for last."
"The best of the worst. I can hardly wait."
"He's got a point," Mulder whispered.
Dominika and Gavrel were on next, performing to a medley of Russian folk songs, a routine, the program noted, that had earned them a sixth place finish at the European championships in 1989. They appeared in traditional costumes and a moment later, the sound of a delicate ballad played on the balalaika filled the arena.
Scully's attention was riveted to the couple on the ice as she puzzled over the hold that woman had on Mulder, until her eyes were drawn instinctively to something that didn't seem right.
She looked at Thomas Hazen at the very instant his body went limp, his head lolling back, glassy eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Despite Scully's best efforts and the efforts of the paramedics standing by at the arena, Hazen was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital and his body immediately transported to the county morgue for an autopsy under Scully's supervision. Left behind, Mulder waited around the corner while the man's widow and son tried to console each other in the cold and sterile environment of the hospital waiting room.
As yet, there was no proof that his death was related to the others, but in his mind, Mulder replayed the scene he had witnessed the previous morning - the heated exchange ending when Dominika slapped Hazen. What were they talking about, he wondered. It wouldn't take much to provoke her to violence, and that was all the more reason to suspect her. Then again, she had an air tight alibi and a few hundred witnesses including Mulder and Scully who could account for her whereabouts at the time of Hazen's death. Maybe, he thought, she was using some form of psychokinesis. Sorting through his memories of her, he found no indication of such an ability, but that certainly didn't mean it wasn't there.
In the waiting room, the sounds of grief grew fainter, an occasional whimper replacing the urgent sobbing and wailing. This was a part of the job Mulder hated. In times of tragedy, the last thing the family needed was someone poking around asking a lot of questions, forcing them to put their pain under a microscope, to look closely at things they were not yet ready to deal with. He knew from experience the kind of damage that interference could do, both to the family as a unit and to the individuals. Even where the necessity of such questions was understood, it did nothing to diminish that effect or to curb the resentment that would be harbored against the intruder.
The memory of those feelings was vivid even after more than twenty years - the cop standing over him, staring down at him and speaking to him in an accusing tone that was probably more a manifestation of his own grief and frustration than an actual decrial, the hatred he felt toward the officer conflicting with the awareness that he was trying to help, the feeling that time was being wasted by just standing around and talking when they should be out there looking. And most of all, the feeling that no one else really cared and that no one really believed him, a feeling of isolation and intense loneliness that had never completely disappeared. One time he had come close to escaping it, one person had convinced him that he was not alone in his convictions, that she believed and that she cared. And then she betrayed him in more ways than he would have thought possible. Now, there might be a few more ways to add to the list.
Taking a deep breath to clear his head of all the unpleasant thoughts, Mulder rounded the corner into the waiting room.
At age seventeen, Brent Hazen was already well over six feet tall and couldn't have weighed over a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. His mother stood wrapped in his arms, the top of her head barely reaching his chest. He was patting her back and mumbling over and over a limited repertory of reassuring phrases, as much to convince himself as to comfort her.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Hazen," Mulder said.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at him and reluctantly separated herself from her son. "Yes?"
"My name is Fox Mulder. I know this isn't a good time, but if I could ask you a few questions?"
She studied him for a moment through tear filled eyes before recognition set in. "I'm sorry, the last few hours are a little hazy, and I... You're one of the people who tried to help Tom, aren't you? The FBI agent?"
"Yes."
"What can do for you?"
Mulder sat down in one of the uncomfortable orange vinyl chairs and Elizabeth and Brent followed suit. "Did your husband have a history of health problems that might account for his..."
"No," Elizabeth interrupted emphatically. "He's always been strong as an ox. He's never even had a cold as far as I know. I just can't believe..." She started to sob again and Brent patted her hand.
Mulder gave her a little time to compose herself before he went on. "There's no easy way to ask this, Mrs. Hazen. Did he have any enemies?"
"I thought he had a heart attack," Brent said.
"We'll know soon, but until then, we have to consider every possibility."
"Everyone loved him," Elizabeth said, making it sound like a question.
"Get real, Mom."
"Brent! How can you..."
"I'm sorry, but it won't help to lie about it. I loved him, too, but we're probably the only ones." He turned to Mulder. "My dad kind of rubbed people the wrong way, you know. I suppose his intentions were good most of the time, but people just didn't understand him. The arena was his dream. He played semi-pro hockey when he was young, and was good enough to go pro until he blew out his knee and ended his career. He couldn't stay away from the ice, though. It's not exactly a big money business, but he was determined. He'd do whatever it took to keep the place going."
"Like what?"
"Anything."
"Brent, please," Elizabeth said.
"Mom, it doesn't make any difference now. A couple years ago, business was worse than ever, and the bank was hounding him. He got a loan from some guy. We never knew his name or anything, but I saw him at the rink a couple of times. Expensive suits, lots of gold chains and rings. You know what I'm saying. Anyway, there was no way he could pay off that loan, either, so he sort of started working for this guy."
"Doing what?"
"I'm not sure. I heard rumors that he was into book making, but that really wasn't his style. He wanted out." Brent squirmed uncomfortably in his chair and scratched his head. "About a week ago, I overheard him on the phone. I don't know who he was talking to, but he said he had some information that might be his ticket out."
"Do you have any idea what that information might have been?"
Brent shook his head. "No. It was big, though. He said something like, if this ever got out it, the world would never be the same. Made no sense to me. I mean, where would have come up with anything that big, you know?"
"He really was a good man," Elizabeth said. "Whatever he did, it wasn't his fault. He was a victim..."
"Of course. Just one more thing for now. Yesterday, when my partner and I were visiting the arena, we saw your father arguing with Dominika Krestyanova. Do you have any idea what that might have been about?"
Brent laughed bitterly. "Sooner or later, everyone argues with Dominika, and like I said, my dad wasn't the easiest person to get along with. Put the two together, it's like throwing gasoline on a fire." He shrugged. "They were always fighting about something, from practice schedules to the sound system. You name it. It was probably nothing."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
There were some things Scully would never admit. Like the fact that the first time she saw an autopsy being performed, she fainted. Or that the first time she was involved in the procedure, she had to excuse herself half way through to go to the bathroom and throw up. Or that even now, when presented with a corpse, a wave of nausea gripped her. It was not the fact of death that bothered her, but rather the knowledge that just a short time ago, this had been a living, breathing, vital human being. In this case, and for purely selfish reasons, it was worse because she had tried to save him. She was confronted with the vague fear that in finding the cause, she might also find that there was something she could have done, something she didn't think of at the time, and that would be one more thing she would have to live with.
"Do you ever get used to this," she had asked the pathologist who oversaw her residency.
"If you do," he responded, "it's time to start looking for a new career and good therapist because it means you're one sick puppy."
She had developed a wall of professional reticence to safeguard her secrets and it slipped into place as she snapped on the pair of latex gloves and stood over the body of Thomas Hazen. The hour was late and the regular morgue staff was off duty, leaving only the attendant who watched over the recently departed in the wee hours of the morning to assist her. It was stereotyping at its worst and an uncharacteristic prejudice, but she never quite trusted anyone who held that particular job. There had to be something just a little bit off about anyone who willingly spent every night in the company of dead people, and once again, that suspicion was confirmed.
She had known the young man all of thirty minutes, and already he had referred to the autopsy as a "slice and dice" and a "post-mortem exploration," a play on words delivered with a too-eager gleam in his eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses. There wasn't one thing about him that gave her the creeps. It was everything. He was just too anxious to participate, for one thing. But that was minor compared to what greeted her on her return from changing into the surgical scrubs. As she walked into the room, she thought someone else had arrived, a comforting thought. What she found was the attendant carrying on a conversation with the body and responding for it in a voice distinctly not his own. When he finally took the time to introduce himself, he said his name was Izzy Detisch. She thought it was another bad joke until she looked at the name tag pinned to the lapel of his lab coat. In that case, she thought, it was sort of inevitable, wasn't it?
Scully made a final adjustment to the microphone hanging over the table and started to dictate. "This is case number 005-95-1213, Thomas Hazen, under the jurisdiction of the city of Amhurst, Pennsylvania. The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished forty-six-year-old Caucasian male with blonde hair and brown eyes. The body is 75 inches long and weighs 203 pounds." She shifted the overhead light as she began the external examination, recounting for the record the numerous scars and marks accumulated over the lifetime of the deceased while Izzy stood in the corner, looking bored and waiting for the proceedings to get interesting.
"There is a two centimeter scar on the left hand between the fore- and middle fingers." She lifted the hand for a closer look, paused and frowned. She sniffed the air then leaned down so that her nose was within an inch of the body. "I'm detecting a very faint scent from the body. It's difficult to describe." She walked to the other side of the table and repeated the process with the other arm. "It smells a little like rotting orange peel, but it has a slightly metallic odor."
That phase of the autopsy completed, Scully reached for a scalpel and carefully made the Y incision. Izzy stepped closer for a better view. He was practically drooling. If he started rubbing his hands together and licking his chops, Scully decided, she was leaving, whether or not her work was done.
The internal examination proceeded slowly and tediously as she inspected and took samples of each organ. As she already suspected, there was nothing to find, nothing to account for the man's sudden death. It was as though his body had simply shut down, but that was impossible. The more the answers eluded her, the more determined she became to find them. Mulder had made the observation that doctors hate to say 'I don't know.' He was right, and she had no intention of saying it. Something had killed this man, something easily explained once found, no matter what Mulder might think...
She was so accustomed to Mulder's bizarre theories, the absence of one should have been glaringly obvious, but it didn't occur to her until she was up to her elbows in Thomas Hazen's intestines. She had been so concerned with trying to figure out who wasn't telling all that they knew, she never stopped to think that Mulder might not be telling all that he knew. He had a history with Dominika, and no matter how stormy that relationship might have been, Scully got the distinct impression that he had trusted her, and trust, above all else, is based on the sharing of secrets. But if he knew something, why wouldn't he tell her?
He would tell her. She tried to convince herself of that, but it was a losing proposition. He didn't want to talk about Dominika. When she forced the issue, he recounted a few carefully selected details. At the time, she had been content with that, thinking that if there was something more, he would tell her when and if he wanted to or it became important. He was an honorable man. He would never deliberately hide information that was relevant to a case. Would he?
"Dr. Scully?"
"Hmm?" She glanced up at Izzy to see him staring down at her hands. Following his gaze, she realized that she had been standing for who knows how long with the dead man's stomach in her hands.
"Everything all right," Izzy asked.
"Fine. Thank you. I was just... thinking," she said absently. "Get me a jar, please. We'll need to retain the stomach contents for testing."
Ever eager to help, Izzy pushed the jar across the metal tray that held the surgical implements and other supplies.
"Oh, thank you," Scully said.
He shrugged and peered into the gaping incision.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Tension hung in the air like a black cloud as the two stood in the darkened corridor of Hazen Arena. The conversation was held in Russian, the tone hushed and angry.
"It was stupid."
"It was necessary."
"But in front of *them*?"
"That was an unfortunate coincidence, but it may work to our advantage. They see it happen, but they still can't prove anything."
"You can guarantee that?"
"I can. The trace evidence is so minute, it is unlikely they will find it. No one has before. Even if they do, and they send it to their lab to have it analyzed, they'll never know what they've got."
"I wish I had your faith."
"As do I. Don't be foolish. Weak links are not tolerated."
"Please, don't misunderstand."
"I understand. I understand perfectly. We all want to succeed, but the road to success is a dangerous one. If you are not prepared..."
"I am. I promise you."
"Good."
Silence descended as two figures emerged from the shadows at the end of the hallway. One approached while the other stood back from the group.
"Is it done?"
"Yes," the newcomer said.
"We must consider the possibility that there were copies made of the papers."
"Was Hazen that bright?"
"Hazen was a fool. A very dangerous fool."
"If there were copies, I will find them."
"Yes. You will. Because you know what will happen if they fall into the wrong hands."
"You don't have to remind me."
Dominika was staring at the man in the shadows. "What is he doing here? It is our responsibility to protect him. Not to bring into the middle of this."
"Under the circumstances, I thought it best to keep him close."
She considered that for a moment. "Perhaps. It would be best to get him on a plane to Moscow as soon as possible."
"They're still watching all flights out of the country."
"And they will continue watching until they find him. We need a diversion."
"There is a plan in the works. It will take a little more time."
"Time is one thing we may not have. If he is not in Moscow in four days, we may have lost the only opportunity we will have. This is a dangerous time for all of us. We cannot afford any mistakes."
The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the building brought them all to attention.
"Get him out of here! Now!"
He couldn't explain how he knew, but Mulder was sure he would find Dominika still at the rink, and sure enough, her car was still in the lot and the door to the arena was still unlocked.
All of the lights were off, but he found his way through the corridors nonetheless, guided by instinct and renewed anger. Much of this was starting to make sense, but there were still three very important things he did not know. He did not know how she had done it, he did not know why, and he did not know if he was angrier at her or at himself. She had played him for a fool once before, and she was doing it again. And he was letting her.
No more. If she wanted to play games, she was going to have to start playing by his rules.
He found her in the hallway near the locker rooms. She was crying softly on Gavrel's shoulder, and he was stroking her hair gently, trying to comfort her. It was a pretty picture. Too bad it was a lie.
"I want to talk to you," Mulder announced.
"She is upset," Gavrel said. "It can wait."
"No. I'm not buying it, Dominika, so don't waste the effort."
The tears ended abruptly. "All right," she said, turning to face him. "We talk. Gavrel, go home. I'll see you later."
He measured her words carefully, then walked slowly away.
"You were always too easy, Fox," she said when he was gone.
"I have a weakness for dangerous women."
"Me? Dangerous," she asked sarcastically. "You hurt me."
"Nothing hurts you, Dominika. You aren't capable of feeling anything that deeply."
"I feel many things. Loyalty most of all..."
"Loyalty? That's almost funny coming from you. You betrayed me, you betrayed your country..."
"I betrayed an oppressive regime. It was a long fight and it cost many people their lives."
"I never said that the cause was not just."
"And the price was right."
Mulder reeled at the words. It was not something he cared to think about.
"A few promises, a little hope and your soul was lost."
"Empty promises and lies."
"No, Fox. I have not forgotten. I do keep my word. There have been unforeseen complications, that's all."
She sounded so genuine that he wanted to believe her. Or maybe he just wanted to believe. All he could do was shake his head.
"Yes," Dominika said. "Fox, there are forces at work you can not begin to understand. Our enemies are one and the same. There is no reason why we should work against one another and all the reason in the world why we should join forces. Your fight is my fight. In a different place, on a different scale, but in the end, the answers will come from the same source."
"You used me, you manipulated me into doing things... things I can barely live with. Give me one good reason why I should believe anything you say."
"I can't. And you're right. I did use you. I needed you. Yes, I manipulated you. I confess to that. But I never lied to you."
"You killed Thomas Hazen."
She stared at him for a long moment. He couldn't decide if she looked insulted or cornered. "No," she said at last.
"Then that's either your first lie or the latest in a long line of them."
"I'm sorry," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry for everything. You are perhaps the only person who can really understand me, my motivation, and look what I've done to you."
"Your only motivation is greed."
"Might not someone look at you and think the same thing?"
"How did you do it, Nika?"
Throughout a long silence, she held his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"The game's up," Mulder said.
"No."
"It's just a matter of time. Scully is conducting the autopsy as we speak. She will..."
"You have no idea, do you?"
"What," he asked, gripped with a sudden panic.
"You love her, don't you? I can see it. I have to admit to being a little jealous."
"Dominika?"
"Oh, she's all right. As far as I know. You worry too much. I only meant that she will not find any answers. Only more questions."
Mulder took a deep breath as relief washed over him.
"You didn't answer my question. Do you love her?"
"Why? So you can use that against me, too?"
"I want to know that there is a little happiness in your life. I've been called many things, and whore is probably the most flattering of them. But, Fox, the truth is, I don't give myself easily or lightly. When we were together, it was because I had genuine feelings for you. What I wanted from you, I could have gotten without sleeping with you."
Bracing himself for any answer he might receive and prepared for the fact that he couldn't trust it, he finally asked the question. "Kisa. Is she..."
"Is she your child? I thought so at first, but no, she is not. Gavrel is her father."
Wasn't that the answer he'd been hoping for? The one, whether or not it was true, that would sever any tangible connection he had to this woman? Then why did it hurt so much to hear it?
"If there's nothing else, I should get home," Dominika said.
"Don't leave town."
"I wasn't planning on it. Danger is overrated, Fox. Tell her." She smiled, and with that, walked away.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
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