by jordan
Marge had scrawled "Bored Meeting" in his day book, and as Skinner sat at the head of the long table he thought she had probably not misspelled it after all. He stared down at the papers before him, elbow on the table, wagging a pen in the air between his forefinger and middle finger like a cigarette, a remnant of the old days when he smoked. Now the habit seemed disgusting to him, but in the Marines it had been one more way for a bunch of frightened boys to look cool to each other.
From time to time he made notes on the pad in front of him. Or appeared to be making notes. The conversation was running along fairly well without him now, something to do with leaving items too long in the refrigerator in the breakroom. He felt glances aimed at him, sensed the pale blobs of faces turning in his direction occasionally. His impatience at these things was expected. But for the moment, it all seemed so small and distant he wasn't even concerned enough to be impatient.
Roger Young and Bill Restin, partners known at the bureau as "Young and Restless," were trying to explain something about the necessity of renting cars. Skinner looked up at them, nodding thoughtfully. He had no idea what they were saying. Of course you have to rent cars when you travel. How else are you supposed to get around town? Young and Restin were talking at the same time. Skinner drew his brows together threateningly, and they shut up, looking sheepish, and submitted their schedules to Marge without further quibbling.
When Skinner looked down at his pad he saw that he'd drawn a pair of eyes, shaded the irises lightly, put tiny points of light in the pupils. Scully's eyes, gazing up at him accusingly.
Meeting adjourned, Skinner continued to sit at the table while the rest filed out into the hall. Marge said she was going to lunch and he waved her away.
"Sir?" Her gentle voice drew his momentary attention, and he blinked at her expectantly. Her eyes were concerned. "Are you feeling okay? You look kind of sick."
He tightened his lips in a faint smile. "I'm all right, Marge."
When she was gone, he scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to snap himself out of this mood.
Sick? How to know when you're got it bad:
You make excuses to be at the front desk in the morning just at the time she comes into work, so you can nod and she can nod back, unsmiling, as she passes by. Extra points for watching her pin on her badge.
You drive home each day through the park and match the color of the turning leaves with the exact shade of red in her hair.
Any woman passing by with her height and coloration makes you swivel your head so suddenly you can feel the bones in your neck snap.
Twice when you hit the intercom to say "Marge" it comes out "Scu--" before you can catch yourself.
Okay, maybe five times.
You and Jack Daniels have resumed an old friendship.
But under it all, guilt. Guilt and loss, loss and guilt. What was first relief and admiration when she chose to say nothing, act in no way to acknowledge what had happened that night, had slowly coagulated into a sense of general irritation. No sense of closure, no recriminations, no grudging apologies. No opportunity to look into her eyes and see that night somewhere in their depths, to convince himself that it really did happen.
But it did happen, and they needed to talk about it. There were things he had to say to her. But maybe it hadn't really meant that much to her after all. Maybe the whole thing had happened in his own head, and what physically transpired had only been a quick carnal act that she really could put behind her.
He could not. He had to approach her, he had to sit her down and discuss it rationally. Like an employer, not like some lovestruck puppy who was one psychotic break away from calling her house and hanging up or driving by in the middle of the night to see if her car was there.
Something had to be done. He had to make a decision. The problem was, he made a different decision every day.
Monday: respect her wishes, take it like a man, let the whole thing slip away down the river of De Nile.
Tuesday: grab her arms and shake her like a wet rag until she's ready to talk.
Wednesday: respect her wishes some more.
Thursday: board meeting. Draw her fine blue eyes on a yellow post-it pad.
Friday night: get misty eyed at a scene in "Casablanca" when Bogart makes the "you'd regret this tomorrow" speech. Emotion intensified by one extra glass of Scotch. A glass the size of a fishbowl.
**************
Saturday morning the phone rang while he was in the shower, and he waited until he got out to pick up the message. It was Roger Young, of the Young and the Restless team. His voice sounded shaken. He only left a number, but years of experience had taught Skinner that this could be nothing but bad news. Before returning the call, he dried off, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed in starched white and crisp grey. Ran a polish rag over his shoes. Knotted his tie carefully. Studied his face in the mirror for a moment, then shook his head and sighed.
"Agent Young? Skinner here."
"Yes, sir. Sir, there's been an incident involving one of our agents. Rupert Smith is dead."
Skinner shifted his grip on the receiver and took a deep breath. He allowed himself to squeeze his eyes shut for just a moment. Smith had been with Mulder in the hostage situation recently. A good steady agent, ready for retirement in just a couple more years. They'd played golf once in one of those bureau sponsored tournaments. Good natured guy, hell of a swing. He was never late with his budget. Had a son who was a doctor, a daughter who lived somewhere overseas. Pictures of grandchildren in his wallet.
"What happened, Agent Young?"
"I got a call from him last night. I was...he sounded drunk, sir. I don't understand why he called. He said something about a town called Winslow, in upstate New York. It was two in the morning, sir, and he woke me up. He said something about Mulder, but I can't really remember what it was. Then he just hung up."
Silence. Skinner prompted, "And then?"
"I feel lousy about this, sir. I was thinking I'd wait until Monday morning and ask him about it. But then about half an hour ago the police called me on his redial and told me he'd committed suicide early this morning, at about two thirty. Shot himself in the head. The neighbors heard it and called it in. I referred them to you, but I wanted to tell you first."
Skinner stared up at the ceiling, thinking. He said, "Meet me at the office in one hour,
Agent Young."
"Yes, sir."
As soon as he placed the handset on the table, the phone rang again. This time it was the police. Skinner asked where the body had been taken, and requested that the coroner leave the autopsy until they were contacted by a Dr. Dana Scully sometime later in the day.
Then he called Mulder at home.
******************
Dana Scully sat in a swivel chair in the anteroom of the hospital where she had just done the autopsy of Rupert Smith. It had taken her most of the afternoon, and she wanted to go home. She was wearing the clothes she'd dressed in when she got up: jeans and running shoes, a powder blue sweatshirt that said LIVE MAINE LOBSTERS on it. Gripping the arms of the chair, she rotated it from side to side, her feet planted on the floor. Fidgeting.
Mulder was flipping through the pages of a magazine, a Cosmopolitan he had found upstairs in a waiting room.
"Where is he?" Scully demanded.
Mulder glanced up. "Skinner? He said he was going to the office to talk to Young."
"That was hours and hours ago. What do you think he wants to talk to you about?"
Mulder put the magazine on his lap and looked at her. "Well, let's see...What could it be? About the agent who killed himself last night? The one you just sliced and diced? The fact that he mentioned my name just before he blew his brains out?"
Scully sighed her exasperation. "But what have YOU got to do with it, Mulder?" "Beats hell out of me," he shrugged. He held the magazine up. "Hey, I know what'll make you less jumpy. Let's take this quiz."
"I'm not jumpy!"
He drew back in mock fear. "Ooo. Sorry. My mistake."
The door to the anteroom opened and they both looked around, startled. Skinner regarded them both briefly with his customary scowl, then came in and sat in a chair across from them.
"What did you find, Agent Scully?"
"Well, I don't think it was a suicide, sir."
Mulder leaned forward, eyebrows raised. Scully glanced at him and then looked back at the Assistant Director, or at least at his blue and grey tie. "There were contusions on his right hand consistent with some kind of pressure, probably a hand, though gloved, because I couldn't identify prints or even fingermarks on the skin. This could indicate that someone else was holding his hand wrapped around the gun when the shot was fired."
"So you're just guessing."
"Sir, I'd call it an educated guess."
Skinner was frowning over her head at the wall. His dark gaze flickekd back to her. "Sorry, Scully. I wasn't challenging you.
What I mean is, could you testify to anything?"
She shook her head. "Nothing more than what I just said. His blood alcohol was high Enough to qualify as legally drunk, but there was no damage to his liver, nothing to indicate any long term drinking problems."
Mulder said, "Did you figure out why he called Young?"
"The only connection I can make is that Roger Young was the first man to arrest Antoine Baxter, in 1987. Baxter was involved in a mail truck robbery, and served two years in a federal prison. That's where he made his Soldier of Fortune contacts, which later formed the basis of a militia group that bombed a string of banks along the west coast. When I talked to Smith after he got back from Winslow, he told me that he and his partner were following leads that indicated this militia group might be based somewhere around the Blue Mountain Lake area. That's about twenty miles outside of Winslow."
Scully shook her head, frowning. "I still don't understand why Baxter took Mulder and Smith in the first place. Was he going to ask for ransom? Did he hope to get information of some sort out of them?"
"Baxter was unstable," Skinner said. "Apparently he was right on the edge of losing it there at the end."
"He was insane," Mulder agreed. "The whole time he kept us there, he carried on a rambling conversation with himself about the greater good and the greater enemy, nothing you could make sense of. He was so involved in one of those conversations I was able to get my hands free and jump him."
Skinner nodded. Mulder had struggled with Baxter and managed to get the gun from him, had to shoot the man in the fight that followed. Skinner said, "I want to put together some kind of profile on Baxter by the end of this day. Let's do it at the office; this time I'll file the paperwork and get the case rolling. Meet me down there in half an hour."
When he was gone, Mulder got up and leaned down to whisper in Scully's ear, "Hope you didn't have any hot dates lined up for tonight."
She swatted him away, and he opened the door for her, laughing.
********************
J. Edgar Hoover Building, 6PM
The minute Skinner stepped into the basement office of Mulder and Scully, he knew something was wrong. Mulder, his jacket off, tie loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows, was chewing on the eraser of a pencil and staring into his computer screen so intently he didn't even look up when the Assistant Director came in.
A flash of light from Scully's glasses as she turned her head reflected the blue from her laptop screen. Skinner saw an anxiety in her face that he knew boded trouble.
"What is it?"
Mulder looked up with a start. Scully glanced at him briefly, and said to Skinner, "Sir, we've accessed the mainframe and searched the net and all our databases. There is no record of any arrest in any police station, nor any record of a criminal investigation, trial, or incarceration in any prison, State or Federal, of Antoine Baxter. As far as we can tell, the man has never existed."
Skinner regarded her for a moment, then said calmly, "That's not possible, Agent Scully."
Mulder used his pencil to point at his computer screen. "No birth records, no driver's license, no credit cards. He's the man who never was."
A serpent of fear twisted in Skinner's belly, and he said, "Call Agent Young right now. Tell him to get down here right away."
Scully said, "You think he knows something about this, sir?"
"I think he's in danger, Agent Scully. I think we all are."
**************
Mario's Flying Pizza, 9pm
Scully, Mulder, and Skinner sat at a table in the back of the restaurant, drinking iced tea and looking at the pizza cooling on the table in front of them.
Roger Young had never called back, or answered his beeper, or indicated to anyone where he was going. Skinner had gone back to his own office while the two special agents had continued to search their resources for evidence that Antoine Baxter had truly lived. They had agreed to meet at Mario's at nine, all of them feeling slightly paranoid about talking in their own building.
Skinner sighed heavily and said, "Someone has taken the Baxter files and all your reports from my file cabinet and wiped all
the information from my hard drive. I checked Smith's office, and there's no field report or even a record of expenditures in his computer or his files. I checked accounting, and found nothing to indicate any of us had been to Winslow."
"It's like the past never happened," Scully said.
Mulder poked at the pizza's crust. "There are men powerful enough to erase the past," he said. "We know they can, though we don't know why they'd want to."
"These men are powerful enough to erase people as well," Skinner said ruefully. "The sheriff in Winslow died of a heart attack last Sunday night. Forty year old man with no history of heart problems. Died in his sleep. His replacement was very apologetic, but he couldn't find any records. Seems there was a small fire at the police station that destroyed most of their recent files."
Scully made a small gesture as if to move closer to Mulder, and though it wasn't completed, it struck a painful nerve in Skinner. One of his deepest and fiercest instincts was to protect that which was precious to him. The freedom of his country, or so he believed when he was eighteen and enlisted in the Marines with the express purpose of going to war. Later, the maintenance of that freedom, when he began to move through the ranks of the FBI administration. And now, though he had no right to wish for it, he wished that Scully had made that worried little move in his direction. There was nothing he would not do to protect her.
"Our main problem," said Mulder, "Is that we have nothing to go on in our search. No fingerprints, no photographs, nothing to use in a search string."
Scully said, "I guess it wouldn't do any good to try to find out where he was buried and order the body exhumed, would it?"
Skinner leaned across the table. The overhead fluorescent made his eyes invisible behind his glasses. "We can't very well give any orders at this point," he said, in a low voice. "We have nothing to back ourselves up with, nothing to justify the paperwork. Whoever is behind this has been painstakingly thorough."
A faint smile lightened Mulder's features. "I notice you saying ‘we' a lot, Assistant Director Skinner."
"Someone has been in my office, Agent Mulder. Someone has stolen my records and erased my files, without leaving so much as a scratch on the lock on my file cabinet a mark on my desk. Until I have an inkling of who that might be, you and Agent Scully and I are in this together."
Scully sipped her tea, not looking up. "Then I guess we'd better start at the beginning."
Mulder pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Scully, why don't you book us on a flight back to Winslow tomorrow morning?"
"No," Skinner said. "We'll charter a plane. I'll pick you both up in the morning at eight. Mulder, can you be at Scully's place by then?"
Mulder grinned. "Sure thing. I'll go home right now and pack my shovel."
Scully rose too, obviously nervous about being left alone with Skinner. "I'd better go, too, sir."
"Wait a minute, Agent Scully."
She shot a helpless look at Mulder's retreating back, then sank back into her chair slowly. "Yes, sir?"
He took his checkbook out and opened it, pulling his pen from his breast pocket. "I want you to cash this in the morning and pay for the tickets. List us under aliases; we could be traced through our credit cards. From now on, I want you to watch your back; take nothing for granted. The people who are doing this are going to be one step ahead of us up to a point. There'll be a moment when we reach that point, and then we'll have to move fast and without hesitation to get ahead of them. Do you understand?"
She nodded. When Skinner gave her the check she looked down at his hand, the long thick fingers curving under hers. She looked up at him and for one moment their eyes held. For the first time, he saw awareness there, though she lowered her lashes quickly and tucked the check into her purse and made a hasty, if awkward, retreat.
**************
They landed at an airstrip near Blue Mountain Lake, and rented a car to drive the rest of the way, only thirty miles into Winslow, but through twisting, mountainous country. It rained most of the way, which made the going slower.
Skinner drove. Scully sat in front, and Mulder slouched bonelessly in back, staring out the window at the monotonous green landscape. Once he leaned forward and flipped the back of Scully's hair with his finger, and she turned to look at him.
"Got any of those things?" he asked.
She got her purse from the floor and rummaged through it, found a pack of mints, and gave him one. She offered the pack to Skinner, who shook his head, then took one for herself and put the package back up.
Behind them, Mulder crunched happily.
Skinner sighed. It was a long drive.
*******************
Winslow, New York, 530PM
The White Horse Motor Inn had a giant plastic stallion prancing above its canopied entrance, and a vacancy sign that blinked in red neon. A tripod sign reading "Under Construction" blocked off the east wing of the building, which had been decimated by Antoine Baxter's bomb when he had been trying to kill Mulder and Scully.
Mulder had been outside at the time, buying a coke from a machine, when the bomb was set off by a housekeeper going into the room to clean it. He had been knocked down by the concussion, and taken hostage by Baxter, who had dragged him off to a house where Rupert Smith was duct taped and trussed like a turkey.
Skinner regarded the construction site thoughtfully as Scully and Mulder went inside to rent the rooms. In those two days, after finding the body of Barlow and believing it to be Mulder, Scully had been out of her mind with grief and guilt. Now, trying to reconstruct the events leading to their sexual encounter, Skinner found himself at a loss. Maybe she was right to deny it. Maybe he should work on his own policy of denial.
Certainly it shouldn't have happened. He should not have felt the long slow shudder go through her, or heard her cry out, or somehow through the act found himself touching the secret heart of her. Now for the first time he wondered if there were worse things to come, if instead of resolution the future held only more pain.
"Sir?"
He turned to see Scully standing behind him. At the dark, haunted look in his eyes, her face softened a little. "I got our rooms," she said, holding out a key.
He stared at it in her hand, his mind a million miles away, then took it. He looked up at her, and saw the light of the setting sun on her face, catching fire in her hair. Her freckles showed through her makeup, and her eyes were the color of a peacock's breast. Whatever she saw come into his face then disturbed her, and she turned away in silence and walked back across the lot to the building.
You can only run away for so long, he thought dreamily. And only for so far.
click here for part 03/16
