readable form without my amazingly supportive and brilliant
beta team, specially assembled to handle my first slash-
themed adventure: Sue, my apologizes for making you read
slash!!; Robbie, my apologizes for lying about the number of
chapters to come; Marion, thank you for jumping into both
Cadenza and its music; Elisa, thanks for holding the shipper
torch throughout the twists and turns of this fic; Sheri for
falling in love with Joshua and his music; Peggy for your vital
medical consultations (I feel I should file a claim with my
insurance company
for understanding my vision and providing moral, emotional,
critical, and loving support above and beyond the call of duty
and for taking such good care of my characters and loving
them as much as I do if not more.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to the grand high sci-
fiction genius Chris Carter to whom I send all devoted
regards in care of 1013, FOX, and such. No infringement, no
money intended--just one fan's way of worshipping
perfection. The brilliant and beautiful Joshua, however, is all
mine.
DEDICATION: This story is for Michelle.
Cadenza
by Terma99
"Does a Stradivarius violin feel the same rapture as the
violinist when he coaxes a single perfect note from its heart?"
--Johnny Depp, "Don Juan De Marco"
Cadenza (n)-- an unaccompanied exhibition passage in the
style of an improvisation, performed by the soloist at the
climax of a concerto.
"And the manna ceased on the morrow after they had eaten
of the old corn of the land; neither had the children of Israel
manna any more..." Joshua
4:12
*********************************
Chapter One: The Curse
*********************************
FBI Headquarters
8:45 AM
Monday
"Beethoven, Bach or Brahms?"
When Mulder entered the basement, the room was resonating
with the sighs and tremors of a violin. His partner had made
herself comfortable behind his desk, upon which she had set
a compact disk player. The lights were half off and the
projector was displaying a slide of a symphony orchestra
upon the haphazardly cleared wall.
Scully sat up straighter and accepted his paper cup latte
offering as she eased the volume down on the CD player.
"You're good, one out of three. Johannes Brahms, Concerto
for Violin in D Major." She hit the advance on the projector
to a black and white head shot of an intense-looking, dark-
haired youth. "We're listening to the Brahms cadenza
performed by one of our nation's top violin virtuosos, Joshua
Segulyev. He made this recording with the New York
Philharmonic in 1988 at the age of nineteen."
"He's pretty good," Mulder commented, slurping the foam
head off his double mocha as he leaned back against the edge
of the desk they seemed to take turns occupying nowadays.
"He earned a Grammy for it too, along with a three-year
world tour contract with the London Royal Philharmonic. He
was the youngest American-born violinist to earn such a
prestigious position," she said, clicking ahead to a not-so-
promising photograph of a toothless gray-haired female.
Somehow the New York Philharmonic's serenade didn't quite
match the woman's disheveled visage.
"Meet Alice Schmidt, a 44-year-old Philadelphia vagrant
accused of planting four crudely made remote detonation
devices in the courtyard of the newly constructed
Philadelphia Regional Performing Arts Center. The explosives
were discovered last week the eve of Segulyev's performance
of the Brahms' as a part of the Center's gala opening." She
clicked to a promo photo of the violinist taken on the stage
of the new cello-shaped, mahogany-trimmed hall. "Needless
to say, the City of Brotherly Love isn't taking too kindly to
their misguided sister for threatening their 255 million dollar
investment in the arts."
"I don't blame them," Mulder commented, stifling a yawn;
the week was still too fresh for him. They'd just finished a
whirlwind dead-end tour of the Dakotas last Saturday and
he'd been looking forward to shuffling some alphabetized
papers around. It looked like Scully had other plans.
Somehow during the last year they had switched roles--she
was now the early morning chair warmer, he the tardy
coffee-fetching straggler. "Was any connection established
between the two?"
"Circumstantially. Schmidt was found sleeping near the
Center's trash receptacles the night of the gala and had on
her possession a series of fanatical letters in various stages of
completion threatening Segulyev. She's being held without
bail at Philly County right now while Investigative Response
searches every last inch of the structure."
"Good for them. Why should we be concerned? I thought we
were off bomb sniffing for the duration."
"Not completely." Scully hit the slide to display another
contemporary head shot of the artist--a rather stunning one.
It must be nice to be both handsome and exceptionally
gifted, Mulder thought, sipping his caffeine. The younger
man had a look of passionate perseverance in his eyes--the
look of someone who had been raised the toast of Europe.
"Skinner tossed us this one because of a current newspaper
clipping from the Philadelphia Inquirer." The projector
clicked once more to illuminate a headline and article from
the daily. *Artist Claims Bomb Threat Result of Ancient
Family Curse.*
Mulder rolled his eyes over at his partner. "If I didn't know
better I'd guess this was from the *National* Enquirer."
She furrowed her gaze slightly. "You losing your taste for the
unexplained, Mulder?"
He nodded sardonically. "Only on Mondays."
"Curse or not, there seems to be new evidence suggesting
that this was not the first threat made on Segulyev's life, just
the most elaborate. More disconcerting is the call Agent
Dillmont from the San Francisco Field Office placed this
morning, informing us that Davies Symphony Hall has been
receiving similar threats written in the same handwriting
where Segulyev is currently rehearsing the Mendelssohn
Violin Concerto."
"Alice was planning on pushing her shopping cart all the way
to the Pacific?"
"Not with the front wheels jigging the whole way," she
replied, shutting off the CD and the projection lamp while
Mulder sank further onto the desk with a barely stifled
groan.
"When do we leave for San Francisco?"
"As soon as you finish your coffee."
*********************************************************
Davies Symphony Hall
San Francisco
10:27 AM
The pink rosin ran smoothly over the bow, infusing the long
taut hairs with a dusting of powder, a tooth with which to
grip and tug at the strings. Deft slim fingers set the small
reddish block aside to tighten the bow another half turn,
holding the thin rod of rosewood loosely between thumb and
glancing fingers of the right hand. The left reached and lifted
the ancient dark stained neck of the Stradivarius, fitting it
under the chin, almost nuzzling the instrument like a tiny
child as it settled into place. Bow to string, the open 'A'
sounded clear and rich over the trembling wire. Below, on
the table, a small electronic sensor sent a red light flashing
across a small screen.
It was a perfect 440 A, but Joshua Segulyev already knew that
before his eyes tracked to the tuner's response. In his head
he could hear the sound of 440 cycles per second moments
before playing the note. He could also hear the tuning of the
orchestra from where he stood in the private guest artist's
green room. The damp San Francisco air was pitching the
strings slightly flat, by only a few cycles. He adjusted his
string accordingly and set about striking the rest of the
strings in chorus, turning the fine metallic knobs at the base
of the bridge until they all agreed.
Someone was rapping at the door; it was 10:30 precisely. San
Francisco's music director was never anything but punctual.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Segulyev, the symphony is ready for you."
He tucked the instrument under his arm, and bow in hand,
opened the door.
*********************************************************
6:25 PM
Mulder leaned against the stucco wall just outside the open
stage door entrance to San Francisco's impressive Davies
Symphony Hall. The Hall's ring of piano key-shaped windows
glowed, casting a brilliant gold light out onto the street.
Scully paced just inside the opened glass door, milling
around the small cluster of school-aged fans waiting
anxiously to meet the violinist on his way out.
Rehearsal had run over and the union musicians were
collecting a hefty chunk of overtime as music director
Michael Tilson Thomas took them through the final bars of
what Scully called the 'Presto' for what must be the fifteenth
time. Musicians were a determined lot. In the overhead
monitor at the head of the stairs, Mulder could see them
sitting like tiny Q-Tip heads between a deflecting barrier of
black music stands and white paper. He shifted his legs, stiff
from the long flight. He was tired; California was three hours
behind DC, making it biologically about 9:30 PM. They hadn't
had dinner yet, and the poor excuse for chicken piccata he'd
eaten hours ago on the plane hardly counted for lunch. He
should have requested the Hindu meal.
But for now he'd have to ignore his stomach and try to stay
semi-alert in the cool San Francisco autumn air. It didn't help
his mood that he had no particular interest in this case. It
sounded like an attempt to get the financially liable, always
controversial, X-Files unit to do something useful while
getting a few suits off Skinner's ass. Mulder recognized that
wasn't a very positive attitude to take on what could amount
to a serious threat to an international celebrity, but he
couldn't help it. For some reason these past few months he'd
just not been himself--not on target, enthused or focused.
Dammit, he just felt ... spent, for lack of a better word. He
felt like a hamster in a fun ball, running nowhere, blindly,
praying there wasn't a flight of stairs ahead.
He crossed his ankles and let the wall behind him support his
frame. Maybe this mood was the harbinger of some kind of
mid-life crisis, he mused. He was about due for one of those.
What was it men tended to do? Dye their hair? Get a tattoo?
Have an affair? That seemed to work for Scully, he thought,
straightening up and watching her walk back through the
pack of kiddies once more in those high black pumps she
enjoyed wearing when they were sent someplace civilized. Of
course in her case, it probably helped that she had gotten
laid as part of the deal. At this point he felt he'd rather just
skip the inking and go straight for the finale--get out of his
head for a few days.
A clatter of applause from the monitor interrupted his
thoughts as Segulyev bowed his thanks to the musicians and
headed off stage right. Rehearsal was officially over. Mulder
separated himself from the cold wall and entered the
building, ascending to the top of the stairs to join his
partner.
"You have something for him to sign?" he asked, amused to
see that she was holding an opened rehearsal schedule in her
hand.
"No," she replied, looking innocently up at him as she stuffed
it in her coat pocket.
In a few minutes the artist emerged through the double
doors. He passed his case and coat off to his manager and
began to graciously greet his admirers and sign autographs.
No wonder Scully was so anxious to take this case, the man
was as strikingly handsome as his photographs. Impeccably
dressed in pressed linen, lean build, not too tall--he favored
the Russian half of his heritage with a lighter complexion
accented with short dark wavy hair that displayed his Jewish
side. How'd he manage to escape 'the nose?' Mulder
wondered somewhat enviously. The agents lagged in the back
until the children and parents dispersed. Scully pulled her
badge instead of the program for him.
"Mr. Segulyev, we're Agents Scully and Mulder, FBI."
He raised his head in recognition. "You got here fast," he said
in a clear American voice. For some reason Mulder assumed
he'd speak with an accent. He *looked* like he should speak
with an accent.
"It's our understanding Agent Dillmont contacted you
yesterday, informing you we would be assisting on this latest
case. We have questions for you..."
"Can we meet somewhere? I'd rather not do this here," he
said in a hushed tone, subtly gesturing to the SF Symphony
members beginning to exit through the doors past them.
"Certainly."
They followed him down the stairs to his waiting car and
driver, double parked against the curb. Segulyev set his hand
against the roof over the opened rear door as he turned to
address them. "I don't really know what else I'm supposed to
tell you," he said. "I've given all the information I have to the
SFPD and Agent Dillmont."
"We're not here to investigate the Philadelphia incident,"
Mulder clarified. "We're here to find out why you told the
Philly papers this was somehow family-related."
The younger man smiled incredulously. "You're kidding. You
mean that garbage they ran about my 'curse?'"
"Are you saying you were misquoted?"
"No, just something I wish I hadn't mentioned in mixed
company," he said, ducking into the long black car and
gripping the door handle. "I'll be having dinner at New Joe's
at Geary and Mason if you care to join me." He shut the door,
leaving them in stunned reflection against the tinted windows
as the car pulled away.
"He was certainly in a hurry," Scully said, somewhat insulted.
"Maybe you can still get that autograph over dinner," Mulder
said, nudging his partner's elbow as they started back toward
the garage.
*****************************************
New Joes Restaurant
7:30 PM
Joshua made it a private amusement to watch people while
they ate just to see what he could learn about them by
observing their dining etiquette.
This pair was a real treat.
The male agent had ordered a large cube of lasagna that he
pared at with his fork, swirling the mozzarella around the
tines before polishing off each large bite. He ate with
concentration, grace and very little fuss. His partner, on the
other hand, found it necessary to redesign her food. She had
carved up her whole leaf Caesar salad and thin slices of
Romano into little nibbles. He had ordered a glass of
Cabernet; she, a two-dollar bottle of Pellegrino, without ice.
Both had been drinking out of the same water glass for the
first ten minutes during the bread service before she noticed
and scooted the glass closer to her plate.
Analysis: They were crazy about each other, yet doing their
damnedest to hide it. It was a shame; they made a rather
handsome couple.
"Mr. Segulyev..."
"Please, just Joshua. No one's been able to pronounce my last
name correctly since my grandfather died. And if you don't
mind, could I get your names again? I never remember on the
first introduction."
The man lifted his fork. "Fox Mulder, but you can drop my
first name, I've yet to meet anyone living or dead who can
pronounce it to my liking."
His partner smiled slightly and gave her name. "Dana Scully,
no special restrictions."
"Well, agents, what can I do for you?" Joshua had arrived
ahead of them and was now full of whole shell clams,
linguini, and Pinot Noir. He hoped he could get this
embarrassment over with as soon as possible; he had a
performance series to concentrate on this week.
"It's our understanding that you've received similar
threatening letters prior to the Philadelphia incident," Mulder
said, taking a sip of wine.
"I have," Joshua nodded. "But as I told Agent Dillmont, either
myself or my personal manager, Nanette, threw most of them
out. Some of them we didn't even bother to open. I hear
from disturbed individuals from time to time."
"But you recognized the content of these letters from
before?"
"Yes, or at least Nanette did. I don't open my own mail,
usually. I guess I'm confused, I thought an arrest was made."
"A homeless woman in the central metropolitan area was
discovered with three half-written letters on her person,"
Scully said. "But handwriting tests have yet to be conducted.
We suspect she was used as a decoy."
Mulder pulled a set of folded papers from his coat pocket.
"These are copies of the letters they found on her. Do they
look familiar?"
Joshua motioned the waiter to come collect his plates so he
could take a closer look at them in the restaurant's dim
lighting. He studied them, and read what was legible. The
handwriting looked scrawled, uneven, like a child's writing,
attempting to make half-formed threats. "Yes, these look like
the same person. They all ask for more or less the same
thing. They want me to give up the stage."
"Do you remember when you received the first letter?"
Mulder asked.
"Oddly enough, I do. It was about eight months ago. I had just
returned to my residence in New York from my father's
funeral in Pennsylvania. He was a farmer. Nanette balled the
letter up and threw it in the trash. She was more upset about
it than I was. Like I said, I really don't read my own mail."
"Until Philadelphia, all of the letters were received through
your New York PO Box?" Scully asked, surrendering her
refilled water glass to Mulder who had gulped his down
already.
"Yes, at first anyway. The New York box is my main business
address, although I maintain a residence here in San
Francisco as well as one in Philadelphia. Lately, the nuisance
has been dropping the notes just about anywhere--concert
halls, symphony guilds. They're getting smarter. I may be
able to ignore them, but my sponsors take them quite
seriously. Which is why I'd like to ask for your discretion
during this investigation. I don't need any additional bad
press."
Mulder nodded, passing his finished plate off to the waiter.
"Understood. But speaking of the press, would you care to
elaborate on this?" He pulled out a copy of the Philly curse
story.
Joshua shook his head, feeling suddenly quite wary. "I don't
get it. Why would you even care about that?"
The agent folded his hands together and leaned slightly
forward, looking him in the eye. "Agent Scully and I
represent a special investigative unit in the FBI. We have a
particular interest in the not-so-obvious explanations for
criminal activity."
Joshua wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, and more
confusing was his partner's apparent retractable reaction to
his words. "You're serious," Joshua said.
The older man nodded. "Serious and curious."
His partner jumped in a little too eagerly to explain. "We're
only interested in making sure we've uncovered every
possible angle in this case. We don't want to have an encore
of what nearly happened in Philadelphia."
Mulder glanced at her and she glanced back--only a half-
second exchange that spoke volumes. It seemed they differed
in opinion on their mission statement. Who was working for
whom here? Joshua wondered. The US government certainly
operated in mysterious ways.
"I simply referred to an old complaint of my father's while
standing too close to a member of the press."
"Which was?" Mulder encouraged, ignoring his partner's
controlled exhale.
"That we were cursed; our whole family was cursed. That we
would never be truly successful."
"In what way, specifically?" Mulder urged.
Joshua looked away uncomfortably toward the kitchen door.
He didn't want to be overheard. "My father used to tell my
mother he was being shadowed by something--a wraith of
some kind. He claimed it would appear right before a crop
blight or drought. But I think his failures had a hell of a lot
more to do with vodka."
"Sounds like the curse of the working class to me," Scully
said.
"A wraith?" Mulder asked with interest. "As in a disembodied
soul, or spectral manifestation?" Joshua met his eyes again.
The man did seem to be genuinely intrigued. Joshua hoped
this interview wouldn't be the start of one of those "special
records" he heard the Bureau kept on certain well-known
unstable individuals.
"It's a rough translation from the old Russian, 'dooch,' a
word that means 'trickster shadow'--a spirit with a need to
cause mischief among the living, or something like that. My
father claimed to be followed by one. I, of course, thought he
was nuts."
"But you think differently now that someone's causing you
mischief, as you put it."
"I'll admit it made me think of my father," he sighed, leaning
forward to emphasize to both agents his complete sincerity
in what he was about to say. "But the reality is, the world
only has so much attention to bestow upon the Isaac Sterns
and Itzhak Perlmans of the world. I'm not a child anymore--
no longer a circus act. Audiences want thirteen year-old
virtuosos to parade around in tuxedos and ball gowns. I'll be
thirty this Friday. Some of my patrons have already begun to
pull out of my proposed tour schedule. These threats against
me are just the excuse they were waiting for. I wish it was a
curse, because then maybe I'd have some way of salvaging
my career."
"You certainly don't believe your age alone will erase your
accomplishments as a musician?" Agent Scully asked in his
defense.
"No, not completely. But I may be forced into settling down,
as they say in the industry. I may need to make a choice soon
to establish myself within a particular symphonic association.
MTT has invited me to remain in San Francisco and take over
as concertmaster when Master Antolah retires in the spring."
"That's wonderful," Scully said.
He gave her a half-smile in return. "It's wonderful to anyone
who isn't used to traveling from city to city. For over ten
years now, I've never lived in one place for longer than a few
months. I'm not sure I can stand it."
**************************************************
Marriott Hotel
4th and Market
9:45 PM
Mulder ended his day in the same manner he always did
when traveling, with a hot shower and a bag of sunflower
seeds. The warm water helped loosen up the kinks brought
on by a 16 hour day of either sitting or standing too long. He
peeled apart the tightly folded sheet from its mattress
mooring and laid back, tucking a pillow behind his damp
head. He reached for the remote-on-a-chain and clicked on
the TV. He popped a trio of seeds into his mouth while he
surfed through the pay-per-view selections, splitting all three
seeds apart with one practiced bite, slipping the meat out
with a swipe of his tongue. He deposited the remnants into a
courtesy cup--ashtrays were outlawed long ago in the state of
California.
His warm shower served a second purpose as well--it made
the coldness of hotel beds feel pleasant against his skin
rather than unwelcoming. A cold bed with no one else to help
warm it is what kept him on the couch for so many years
after Diana left. He couldn't stand the empty feel of the bed
they used to share and gave it away. As years went by, the
bedroom became more of a closet space, collecting and
filling the vacuum with little slips of paranormal treasure and
a pornographic periodical or two. Eliminating the symbol of
his solitude made sleeping alone easier to deal with,
enjoyable even.
Then the new bed materialized--that ghastly fishbowl of
repose. It was so ugly he couldn't help but make himself at
home in it. It felt appropriate somehow and plus, it came
with a heater. But just as he was adapting to the upgrade in
sleep comfort, it too deflated on him like so many
halfhearted relationships. So here he was ten years later,
back where he started with a perfect plain mattress and box
spring set and no one to help warm it. He showered at night
at home now as well.
Flip flip flip...even the Spice channel was broadcasting a
rerun. He wasn't much in the mood tonight for those antics
anyway. He hadn't been for a while, he thought with some
concern. It wasn't like him to feel so disinterested in human
pleasure. Generally, he relished it, what he could
manufacture for himself, anyway. When you're a young man
self-pleasure seems like the solution to everything--the world
just disappears for ten to fifteen minutes, like hitting pause
on the VCR--take yourself out of the play for a few moments
and clear your head. Although he'd survived for years on
little more than his right hand, his aging sensibilities were
yearning for the kind of pleasure only another person could
give: a kiss, a murmur, a stroke, a warm sleepy body. He shut
off the TV and spit another set of shells onto the cup before
turning out the light and rolling over on his side, letting his
exposed back cool.
Just like the bed, even Diana had reconstructed her way back
into his life. It was strange to see her every now and again at
the office, exiting an elevator, or carrying a cup of coffee in
the hall. So much had changed; they had traveled so far in
such different directions they hardly recognized one another.
He didn't know if he could trust her now that their paths
were slowly reconnecting. One thing he did know for certain,
he thought, hugging the pillow with a faint smile--Scully
couldn't stand her. In fact, Scully was suspicious of any
woman he became involved with, professionally speaking.
Maybe it was about time he gave her good reason to be
suspicious. As much as he had dedicated his life to their
regrettably celibate partnership, there comes a time when a
man will do just about anything to feel someone's breath on
the back of his neck before he falls asleep.
*****************************
*********************************
Chapter Two: Joshua
*********************************
San Francisco FBI Field Office
10:30 AM
Tuesday
"Welcome to San Francisco," Agent Dillmont said, greeting
Mulder and Scully in the field office lobby. "I hear you paid a
visit to Davies last night? What did you think of our brooding
guest artist?"
"Brilliant/Guarded," the two said in quick succession, Scully
taking the more flattering adjective.
"But I think he has just cause," Mulder admitted. "An
audience is hard to keep when your life being in jeopardy
makes front page news."
"I hear there've been a few cancellations for the sold-out gala
this weekend. We'll have to see about getting you both some
seats. The dinner is worth it, or so I hear. I'll be watching the
'niners."
Mulder nodded and led Scully into the conference room after
the young agent. They approached two long tables pushed
together. Spread out upon them were clear plastic evidence
bags containing lined white paper, napkins, postcards, and
other snips and scraps of paper as well as a few torn edges of
cardboard.
"I take it this is the complete collection of the threats made
against Mr. Segulyev," Scully said.
Agent Dillmont fanned his hand out over the arrangement.
"Only what we were able to recover. There are fifteen in all.
The ones in the last row were mailed to the San Francisco
Symphony Association over the last week. The row above it
are the letters found on the Schmidt woman."
Mulder walked to the mid-length of the table and leaned
over, carefully reading over the varied writings. "Has the
handwriting been analyzed?"
"Yes, this morning. An analyst was flown in from Seattle. She
couldn't conclude if all the letters were written by the same
person or not. I have a copy of her report if you'd like to see
it."
"Yes, if you don't mind," Scully answered. The agent left the
room as she came around and selected a particularly verbose
letter from the center of the collection. "These messages
appear random, but I see from our copies of the Philadelphia
letters, certain phrases are repeated."
Mulder leaned further over to read the letter she was
holding. Scully's manicured nail traced under the phrases as
he read outloud "...you are the one..." "...your life is not your
own..." "...stop before we stop you..." "...you are us..." "...see
that which you will not see..."
The rest of the letters' contents were random: babblings,
confused phrases, and threats of death or violence if
demands were not met. Some letters were only a few lines
long; others, like the one Scully held, were several
paragraphs.
"See how the writing changes from phrase to phrase?"
Mulder pointed out, holding up a small ripped cardboard
message with the words "...you are us..." written across it in
black marker. "The writing is barely legible except for these
same repeating phrases, which are written neatly and
clearly."
"I noticed that. What do you think it means?"
"Here's the report," Agent Dillmont said, returning and
handing Mulder the file. Opening it, Mulder could see the
analyst paid special attention to those repeated phrases, too;
many were Xeroxed and blown up for a closer look. He took
a few minutes to read it before handing the notes off to his
partner. He waited for her to digest the information as well.
"It says these letters were all written by different people for
the most part," she noted, glancing down at the table. "The
bottom two rows match Alice Schmidt's handwriting; the
third and fourth rows all match an unidentified person; while
the first two rows match possibly three different individuals."
"Read the next page where she takes a closer look at the
repetitions," he said, gesturing at Scully to continue.
Mulder watched her flip through the enhancements. "She
says the repeating phrases seem to be all written by the same
person, in all of the letters. By a right-handed individual.
Possibly someone with great dexterity of the hands." She
paused and glanced up at him. "I would suppose whoever
generated these letters is using a few innocent bystanders to
take dictation for him."
Mulder leaned back over the table, staggering three letters
over one another so he could see the similar phrases side by
side. "Except he can't quite trust this assemblage of
belligerents to communicate his most important points? I
don't know, Scully. The last time I saw anything this
schizophrenic was in an X-File involving free-association
writing."
"Free association?"
"It's a therapeutic technique in which the subject is asked to
just write anything, any word or phrase that comes to mind--
sometimes in response to a keyword or image, sometimes
under hypnosis. The idea is to bring out the voice of the
subconscious. It's not unusual for subjects to randomly spell
out suppressed traumas such as childhood rape. Those
recollections often appear to be written in a different hand,
almost like the child itself coming back to speak."
"But what we're seeing here is an inverse representation of
that phenomena," she pointed out and Mulder nodded his
agreement.
"Yes, it's almost as if an older, more sophisticated, voice is
breaking through the ramblings of the child."
"Except the free-association in these letters can be attributed
to five completely different people."
"Exactly. Which is why I wouldn't rule out dictation at this
point, or the theory that our suspect casts weak-minded
people as decoys for his attempted assaults against the
violinist."
"You might want to rethink that assumption," Agent Dillmont
interrupted. "We've just received new evidence regarding Ms.
Schmidt. Follow me."
###
Mulder and Scully stood behind Agent Dillmont's chair as he
clicked to clear the screen saver from his monitor, bringing
up the information. An NCIC dossier filled the screen,
showing a mug shot of a much younger Alice with better
dental care.
"Alice Schmidt, AKA Jennifer Hyatt, was arrested in 1971 in
connection with a series of Army Recruiting Office bombings
in the Denver area. She skipped bail and fled out of the state.
She's been a fugitive for 28 years."
Dillmont scrolled slowly so the agents could read the charges
filed against her and the crime scene summaries and photos.
"I'll be damned," Mulder said quietly. "The woman did know
how to plant a bomb."
********************************************
"Joshua...!"
His grandfather was yelling for him. Sitting up, the boy woke
and shook the hay off of his face. Frost had gathered under
his nose, freezing his scarf to his upper lip. He cupped his
numb mittens over his mouth and blew warm air to break the
crystals.
"Joshua...!"
Joshua tugged the damp scarf from around his face. "Coming
Grandpapa!"
Joshua stood up, stamping the hay and chill from his cold-
stiffened legs. Nell, the border collie, barked and got to her
feet. She wagged her tail and ran to the ladder to wait for
Joshua to carry her down from their nest. The boy took to
the ladder and the dog leapt over his arm. He held her over
his shoulder until they were low enough for her to jump to
the barn floor.
"Where is the boy?" He could hear his grandfather shout
from a farther distance. He hadn't heard him.
"Grandpapa!" He yelled excitedly, running to the barn door
and hammering upon it with his hands, still too cold to feel
the pounding. He waited, but there was only silence. He
couldn't hear his grandfather anymore. "Grandpapa!"
There were steps approaching the barn. "Grandpapa?" he
asked, quieter. He took a few slow steps back as he heard the
iron key slip into the lock. He lowered his head, not wanting
to look, as the lock was freed and the barn door slid open a
foot, letting in the late morning sun. The dog barked and
wagged her tail. Joshua raised his head and squinted into the
light.
"Mama?"
She stood there in her long red wool coat, torn at the knee;
her hair was out of the bun blowing in the late winter wind.
Her voice was small. "Come inside, Joshua, your grandfather
is here to see you."
###
Inside, Mama had a big fire going in the fireplace. His papa
was sitting in his high-backed chair, staring at his
grandfather, who stood by the hearth. They were not
speaking. Their faces were still.
"Grandpapa!" Joshua shouted. He ran to him and was lifted
into his arms and held against his long gray-black beard.
"Sasha, Sasha, where have you been?" he asked in his rich
Russian baritone. "I was calling for you."
"He was doing his chores," his papa said from the chair.
His grandfather set him down and brushed the hay from his
thick puff of dark curly hair. "It's lesson time, Joshua; go
clean up and find your fiddle."
Joshua ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was
so happy to see Grandpapa--it had been weeks since their last
lesson. The boy ran down the hall to his small bedroom and
reached under the bed, kneeling on the hardwood floor for
his violin. He grabbed the small case with both hands since
they were still too numb to open, and tossed the case on the
narrow mattress while he rubbed off his hat and scarf,
shaking the rest of the hay from his hair. He picked up the
case and scampered for the stairs, holding it snugly between
his arms as he descended.
His father was speaking. "I told you there would be no more
lessons. I need the boy to work."
"He can work and have lessons. It is what we agreed, Sergei."
"I agreed to nothing," his father said, staring into the fire.
The boy ran to his grandfather, practically knocking him
over with the case. "I have it, Grandpapa!"
"Good boy, now get the music stand..." Joshua turned to trot
off again, but his grandfather still had hold of his hand.
Joshua didn't feel it and tugged the mitten right off as he
tried to move away. In a second his grandfather caught him
by the arm and turned him around.
"Joshua, show me your hands," he said in a whispering voice
that scared the young boy. His grandfather set the violin case
down and carefully pulled off the other mitten, his mouth
coming open in shock.
"Mirriam! Get ice, now!"
Joshua didn't understand why his mother began to cry as she
ran from the room. "Grandpapa, my fingers are white," he
said as his grandfather held them gently in his big reddish
hands.
"I said, no more lessons!" His father rose from the chair and
took up the violin case. He unlatched it and the child-sized
violin came tumbling out onto the floor with a resonating
"twong."
"Papa!" Joshua cried, trying to free himself from his
grandfather, who lifted him up and carried him to the
kitchen table, knocking the empty breakfast bowls out of his
way and onto the floor. Over his grandfather's shoulder
Joshua could see his father picking up the violin and tossing
it like kindling into the blazing fire.
The young boy screamed, aware of nothing but the sight of
his beautiful handmade instrument alive with yellow flame.
The bridge bent and the strings popped free with a
discordant roaring "ping." His mother was crying and holding
his hands while his grandfather wrapped a heavy scarf
around them, filling the wrappings with scoops of snow.
"You let that man keep your child like an animal,
Mirriam...like a horse or cow!" his grandfather was saying to
her angrily. "He is not a cow; he is an angel. God will punish
you both for the wrong you have done. He'll punish you
both!"
###
He was being carried out of the farmhouse. His father was
gone, but his mother stood at the doorway crying and crying,
her hair catching in her teeth.
Joshua was crying too as his chin thudded against the strong
wool-covered shoulder of his grandfather. "My violin, my
violin!"
"We will get you a new violin, Sasha. But first we will get you
a doctor."
******************************
Marina Flat
11:30 AM
"Joshua...?"
He was awake, sitting up. His face was half covered, and he
pulled the blanket tassels from where they had fallen over
him. He was shivering, although it was warm in the single
room flat. A generous beam of yellow light fell through the
wide windows over where he had been napping on the white
linen couch. The front bell chimed.
Joshua swiveled his bare feet to the floor and rubbed his
hands together. They were warm and very much alive. A
dream. It was just a dream again. He wasn't even sure if that
was how it really happened anymore. He straightened the
tails of his untucked shirt, brushed the blanket lint from his
slacks and stood up.
"I'm coming already!" he yelled to whoever was at the door.
Didn't they know these were his rehearsal hours? He was
supposed to be left alone, completely alone, every Tuesday
through Friday until 6PM.
He opened the door. The agents were back.
"Sorry to disturb you during rehearsal hours, Mr. Segulyev,
but we have a development in your case," Agent Scully said
by way of greeting.
"Sure, come in," he said dully, stepping back.
"Is this a bad time?" Agent Mulder asked, eyeing him
strangely. Joshua wiped at his face. Shit, he'd been crying a
little. Wonderful.
"No it's fine. I was just sleeping. If you'll excuse me a
moment?"
Joshua walked across the polished wood floor of his San
Francisco home. It was a single, long, white-walled open
room with a kitchen nook at one end and a bed and dresser
shelving set at the other. The north-facing wall was almost
entirely glass, rows of panes stretching from floor to ceiling.
In the middle of the space were stuffed linen chairs, two
couches and a glass coffee table. Up near the windows sat a
classic seven-foot Steinway grand piano, hood closed. The
Stradivarius sat in its case atop it.
Joshua headed into the bathroom--a small walled square of
space in the far corner, almost an afterthought of the
architects, who apparently didn't want to mar the open
floorplan. He heard Agent Mulder mumble something like
"nice set-up" as he turned on the long chrome faucet to
splash water on his face. It *was* nice; it was half-a-million-
dollars worth of nice. He wiped his face with a towel and
stepped back out to deal with the latest speed bump in his
career.
"Please, have a seat; take off your coats," he said, gesturing
to his ring of furniture. "That is, if I'm correct in assuming
we're going to be here for a while."
"We won't be too long," Agent Scully said, removing her
overcoat, as did her partner. They did almost everything in
sync, he noticed. He flopped back into one of the chairs
across from them as they took seats at opposite ends of the
same couch.
Agent Mulder reached into his coat pocket, extracting a small
photo. "We want to know if you can identify this woman," he
said, passing it to Joshua.
Joshua reached over and took it from him, resting his bare
heels against the edge of the coffee table. It was a mug shot
of an old toothless woman. He shook his head. "Nope. Sorry.
Am I supposed to know her?"
Scully took the photo as he handed it back. "This is Alice
Schmidt, an alias for Jennifer Hyatt, a known arsonist and
domestic terrorist. She was the suspect arrested in
Philadelphia for the Performing Arts Center incident."
Joshua nodded, relieved. "Good, so they caught the right one
after all."
"It's not that simple," Agent Mulder added, leaning forward.
"Our handwriting analysis indicates she most likely wasn't
working alone. We believe someone is either hiring or
coercing people like Alice to carry out these threats on you.
Do you know anyone who would try to make such an
elaborate attempt to get your attention?"
"Attention? I thought this person was just a nut who wanted
me to go away, leave the stage."
"The behavior this unidentified suspect is exhibiting indicates
a need for recognition, attention from you," Mulder
explained. "It's classic obsessive behavior--like fans who stalk
celebrities. They believe they have an actual relationship with
the object of their obsession. After some time they find
seeing the celebrity perform is no longer enough to feed
their fantasies; they need more. Some begin by writing
letters, or visiting the performer's home. We're wondering if
you had any unusual incidents with fans, say about the time
the letters began?"
Joshua thought it over. "Nothing that I can remember. I'm
not exactly a rock star, you know. I get mostly retired people
and younger kids. The 20-40 age group tends to avoid my
art...regrettably," he added with a wry grin.
"Did you have any friendships or acquaintances end around
that time?" Agent Scully asked.
Joshua was struck with a cold thought. He turned away,
thinking.
"Mr. Segulyev?"
He glanced back, "Please, just Joshua. And it's odd you
should say that. I broke off a year-long engagement about
eight months ago, just after my father's funeral, but I hardly
think she's a threat."
"You were engaged to be married?" Agent Scully clarified.
Joshua rubbed the side of his face with his hand. "Yes."
"Was the split amicable?" Agent Mulder asked.
Joshua sighed. "No, it wasn't. Not by a long shot. But I really
don't see how..."
"We'll need to follow up on it just the same. What is her
name and place of residence?" asked Agent Scully, pulling
out a pen.
"I really wish you wouldn't. I'm sorry I brought it up."
"More lives than your own are being put in jeopardy, Joshua.
We just want her to make a statement regarding her
whereabouts."
"What happened?" Agent Mulder asked gently. His partner
turned slightly, seemingly puzzled by his interest.
"What happened to the engagement?"
The older man nodded.
It took a moment for Joshua to find an answer. He'd never
really put it fully into words before. Maybe it was time he
did.
"I...realized something about myself after I came back from
the farm. That there was really no desire in me at all to be
married or to have a family. Going back home reminded me
of everything I despised about my parents, all the pain and
misunderstanding. I realized I had no idea why I was engaged
at all. I wasn't in love with her, at least not anymore. Besides,
who wants to live with someone who plays the violin six
hours a day?"
Agent Mulder gave him a sympathetic nod. "Still, I think we'd
better get her name. If nothing else, than to eliminate one of
your middle range-aged fans."
*********************************
Chapter Three: Spooks
*********************************
Davies Symphony Hall
5:45 PM
Joshua left rehearsal a little early. The Symphony was
working the Beethoven One for an extra half hour tonight
and he'd not had the opportunity to call for the car. Later,
he'd acknowledge this wasn't the smartest decision of his
life, to take off into the dusk of an early San Francisco
evening with a priceless Stradivarius in its case under his
arm. In fact, it was goddamned stupid, but he wasn't in the
most reasonable of moods. The circulating rumors of the
threat on his head were not only giving his booking agents
serious headaches, it was making it harder for him to
completely lose himself in the Mendelssohn. Usually the
music came easily, the tempo and flow almost subconscious.
Tonight, his rehearsal had felt forced to him, as if he was
standing outside of himself working his bow like a
marionette.
He was angry with himself and anger will sometimes lead to
self-castigation. In the case of a man who'd spent most of his
traveling hours in the back of a private bus or car, this meant
walking the mile or so back to his Marina flat, alone.
The night was deepening with the wind coming in cold and
whispery. He flipped the collar up on his coat and kept on
ahead, walking past the warm-lit bistros and pubs of Civic
Center. People were seated at cloth-covered tables, getting on
with a nice dinner in candlelight glow before trotting off to
the opera or ballet. It was his custom, when rehearsal broke
early, to stop in for a bite and call for the car; but food was
not something he felt like indulging in tonight. The tug of
hunger and the cold air against his face was welcoming to
him.
"Music is life," his grandfather would say, when money was
scarce and the evening meal bland. Grandfather peeled away
as little of his savings as he could month by month to keep
Joshua in Philadelphia's Conservatory of Music for
professional training--the most prestigious music school for
violinists in the nation. Joshua could recall entire weeks of
oxtail soup and canned brown bread. Heat was a luxury they
couldn't always afford. "With music the soul is fat and the
heart warm," Grandpapa would say, as he sat by the window
in his leather chair with a shot of vodka, watching the snow
fall.
"Play us something."
Joshua would take out the violin and play to the dark
paneled walls of their narrow apartment, pacing back and
forth along the thin green rug to keep warm.
Looking up from his recollections, Joshua realized he had
traveled several blocks on autopilot. He'd clearly stepped
beyond the refined edges of the Civic Center district and had
headed into a less favorable neighborhood. This street in
particular was accented with a selection of human vagrancy.
Urine and garbage settled into the corners and doorways of
closed businesses. There were messages: "Hungry...Paralyzed
Vet...Momma didn't love me...Why Lie to You? It's for Beer."
He flipped the beer man a few quarters and walked on,
keeping to himself.
He crossed to a less occupied street of mostly industrial
buildings. Just a few more blocks of this dilapidation and
he'd be onto the populated well-lit strip of Divisadero where
he could head north to the Marina. He wasn't particularly
unnerved by the empty blocks of cage-barred windows and
corrugated steel doors decked in graffiti, until he heard
someone behind him say his name.
He whipped around. Across the road a paint can rolled off
the curb and clanked into the street, rolling to a stop against
the front tire of an abandoned pickup.
"Someone there?" he called out.
No reply. The wind was blowing through the alley, making the
empty spaces whisper falsehoods in his ear, he decided,
turning to resume his path.
A man was standing in the road.
Joshua started. There had been no one there a second ago.
"Hello?" he said to the tall figure as it stood motionless in the
center of the road. "Did you say something?"
The figure looked thin, painfully thin, an old man in a long
black felt coat. His long wiry gray beard and gnarled hair
hung lank, missing in parts, showing his bare scalp. Joshua
decided there was nothing to fear from this gaunt man and
began forward to pass him briskly to the right. He tried not
to make eye contact as he drew closer, but in the corner of
his eye he could see the man's gaze following him. Like the
wind, the man was standing directly in front of him on the
sidewalk not ten feet away, smiling. Joshua could see the
lines of the man's skull poking through the paper-thin
grayish skin.
Joshua gasped in shock and hurried to his right into a maze
of alleys. He had no idea how the man could have moved that
fast in his emaciated condition, and hoped he wasn't being
followed as he briskly half-jogged past rusted fire escapes
and dumpsters between the tight buildings. A short while
later, he turned, looking over his shoulder. He could no
longer see the thin man.
In a few blocks, Joshua came out onto a well-lit street. He
rushed forward until he was immersed back into the mixed
company of sidewalk traffic to try and calm himself. Shit,
that was stupid, he thought, hugging the case and moving
forward toward the busy intersection ahead. He was turned
around and didn't know which street he was on. He stopped
at the corner and looked up. Divisadero. Home to Anne
Rice's vampires as well as his aging mother. He stood directly
across the street from the light-blue siding and bay windows
of the two story home he shared with his grandfather for
three years until his nineteenth birthday when his European
tour began. He blinked and looked up at the street sign
again. He didn't understand how he could have come this far
north so fast. It didn't make any sense at all.
At age sixteen, after the lean years in Philadelphia, Joshua
was awarded a scholarship and stipend to come to the San
Francisco Conservatory and study under violin master
Gregory Ferras for a few years. The money and the concerts
Joshua performed regularly paid for a much nicer house--
two stories and a comfortable parlor, no more wishing for
heat. After the tour, his grandfather had elected to stay in
this city until the day he died, almost two years ago. Joshua
hadn't been able to see his grandfather more than two or
three times a year for brief visits. Once he had gone
international, his career blossomed and travel was a regular
necessity. Seeing the house made him grieve a little all over
again.
Joshua caught his breath as he stood under the streetlight,
letting pedestrians brush past as he fought with the decision
of whether or not to cross the street to ring the damn bell
and just get this over with. He hadn't seen his mother since
his father's funeral eight months ago. She moved here to stay
in her father's old house while Joshua had returned to New
York. Did she even know he was back? Did she ever read the
arts section? Had she ever read about any of his
performances?
Upstairs, he could see the center window was lit. He almost
took a step forward, then decided he'd call her after the gala.
There'd still be time to get her a ticket to one of his
performances if she happened to ask. He turned and walked
back up Divisadero to the nearest cafe to call his driver. The
guilt was settling in his bones, but he shoved it aside.
"Goddammit, I *earned* this, Mama," he said silently to the
strangers who passed him as he headed into Tibbit's Cafe to
make the call.
*******************************
Marriott Hotel
4th and Mission
8:30 PM
Mulder pushed back from the desk when he heard shuffling
in the hall. The door across the way clicked open, then shut.
She was back. He got up and opened his door and looked
out. Taking his card key, he crossed the hall to tap on her
door. "Scully?"
"Yes. Hold on." It took her a minute to get to the door. She
opened it a crack. "Yes, Mulder?"
"Um," Mulder craned his head to get a look at her. She'd
removed her suit jacket and was standing barefoot in her
slacks and snug-fit shell. "Did you have dinner yet? I was
going..."
"Yes, I ate. Was there something you wanted to discuss?"
Her tone wasn't unpleasant, just business. Still, it made him
feel hollow. He'd hoped they'd share a meal tonight at least.
Scully had been off most the day with Dillmont, cross-
checking possible suspects for a Philadelphia and San
Francisco connection while he'd been doing a little boning up
on the spirit world.
"Can I come in?"
She looked aside a second as if she were trying to find a way
out of it, but stepped back and opened the door to him with
a small nod.
She set herself to the task of unfolding and hanging up her
suits while Mulder stood in the center of the room, crossed
his arms and began to share his long day with her.
"...I found that nearly every major European and Slavic
country has some folk myth related to the trickster spirit--a
bodiless soul that exists for thousands of years, drifting until
it takes hold of a particular individual and raises havoc.
There's an old Baba Yaga tale about a ten-thousand-year-old
man locked in a closet by the witch until a young prince
happens by her hut on chicken legs..."
Mulder kept on relating the Russian fairytale, all too aware
that Scully wasn't giving his story the least bit of attention. It
made him want to take her by the arm and ask her what the
hell was going on. When did she stop giving a damn about
him? As wild as his theories could be sometimes, she used to
at least hear him out. They hadn't shared a decent dual-
perspective argument in months. Couldn't she understand by
now that he didn't expect her to believe, just to listen?
After a few minutes he just stopped talking. He was beginning
to bore himself. Eventually she noticed and looked up at him,
zipping her emptied bag shut.
"I don't know Mulder; spooks are your business. I'm here to
stop a terrorist."
"Scully, I don't get it," he said, defeatedly. "I thought you
were thrilled to be off conventional investigations and
background checks for a while. We have the opportunity to
investigate something highly unusual here and I think we
need to observe it from all angles."
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, not sounding one bit sorry. "I
just don't see the point."
Mulder held her gaze a moment until she dropped her eyes
and turned away.
"We have tickets to the gala this Friday, courtesy of Joshua's
manager, Nanette. You'll need to find a tux if you want to
go."
"And a date," he said a little coldly. She flipped her head up
to say something back to him.
A cellphone began to ring.
Scully blinked the response she was going to make away and
reached for the bed, fishing the phone from her coat pocket.
"Scully."
She turned and held up her hand to make Mulder stay. She
looked pensive. "Okay...thank you; we're on our way.
"That was Lieutenant Jarvis. He's at Davies Medical Center.
Joshua's been stabbed."
****************************
Davies Medical Center
9:30 PM
Mulder stood just outside the double doors to the ER, waiting
while Scully finished speaking to the admitting nurse about
Joshua's condition.
"Thank you. Let us know when we can talk to him." The nurse
nodded and walked back through the double doors.
"Is it bad?" Mulder asked in response to her stoic expression.
"No, he'll be fine. Most of the cuts are superficial, defensive
wounds, but the assailant caught him pretty hard in the side.
That's the main laceration they're concerned about. They're
suturing him right now."
"Any word on how this happened?"
"I think we should ask Lieutenant Jarvis," she said, indicating
that he should turn and look behind him. "He just walked in."
Lt. Jarvis worked his way through the ER waiting-room-
wounded to greet the agents. Jarvis was bit of the Old West
preserved in a barrel chest and a short, neat, handlebar
mustache. Mulder hadn't seen one of those since they'd
taken a case three years ago in Amarillo.
"I suppose you're wondering who skewered our fiddle boy,"
the middle-aged man said in a deep rolling voice.
"Yes," Mulder said. "Are there any suspects?"
"Yup. We got 'im. I just came back from the call. Old smelly
fella, a vagrant. Witnesses saw him fleeing the scene. Wasn't
hard to catch up with the old drunk. We got the knife off
him, too. We can shut the door on this case, nice and tidy."
"Where was Mr. Segulyev attacked?" Scully asked.
"Just outside his own front door. He's got a covered entry
hall. We think the old man decided to take a nap in there,
seeing it's such a nice neighborhood and all. Seguulg...the
boy must have surprised him."
"Where's the suspect being held? I'd like your permission to
question him," Mulder said, noticing a nurse beginning to
wave at them. They could go on in now.
"Hall of Justice, third floor. Come on by and have some
doughnuts," he laughed roughly. "Go on in and see the boy;
he's had enough of me already tonight. Oh, and take this shot
along." He handed Mulder a small black and white mugshot
along with a short stack of decoys. "See if he can identify
him. The name's Jim Harris. He's been in the can a few times
for poking folks with sharp objects. This is just the first time
he's tried for someone famous."
Mulder took the photos and followed Scully into the ER.
*****************
"I'm having the worst day," Joshua said to Mulder from his
narrow hospital bed. "They cut up my favorite pants," he
added sarcastically, pointing to the little take home bag of
abused clothing at his feet.
"I can see that," Mulder smiled back and dragged a chair
closer to Joshua's bedside, taking a seat. "SFPD has a suspect
in custody; would you like to see if you can pick him out of
these photos?"
"Sure. But I'll tell you it was pretty dark. My light was out.
Bastard jumped me before I knew what hit me. I'm glad they
got him."
Mulder began to set the photos out across the blanket
covering the musician's lap. Joshua had a few large band-aids
on his right arm, and a larger dressing collecting a thin line
of blood on his left side. "The doctor tells me I can still play
the violin," he joked, noticing Mulder's visual damage
assessment.
"Did you tell him, 'Good, because I never played it before?'"
Joshua gave a nervous laugh, then stopped when it clearly
hurt his side. "Congratulations, you win the prize for being
the first person to 'get' that joke tonight, Agent Mulder."
Joshua seemed to be taking this whole thing rather well. A
little too well, perhaps. His sardonic mood suggested to
Mulder that he was compensating for something. "Take a
look..."
Joshua shifted higher to survey the photos. He seemed like
he was about to shake his head, then he suddenly picked up
the photo of Harris.
"Does that one seem familiar?"
"Yes...but I..." He squinted at it for a few moments, thinking.
"Wait, I know, I gave this man some spare change earlier this
evening a few blocks from Civic Center. Is this the guy who
knifed me?"
"It would appear so."
"Damn, did that guy follow me? No...he couldn't have. I took
the car from Divisadero. Shit, I live almost two miles from
where I saw this man."
Mulder gave Joshua a few moments to figure things out in his
head. He turned back to Mulder looking a bit guilty. "I did a
really stupid thing tonight."
"What?"
"I decided to walk back alone to my flat from Davies after
dusk."
Mulder's eyes widened in mild surprise.
"I know, I'm aware how idiotic that was. What I wasn't
expecting was to be assaulted at my own front door. You
don't think this is related to the threats on my life, do you? I
mean, this guy was just a bum on the wrong doorstep."
"Honestly, I don't think it was a coincidence given the
lifestyle of our Philadelphia suspect. I don't think you do
either."
Joshua made to say something in argument and then just fell
still, glancing aside. Mulder was right, there was something
he was hiding.
"I think it's reasonable to say at this point, until we stop
whoever is threatening you, that just about anyone on the
streets of San Francisco could be a suspect. Not to mention
the fact they know where you live. I'd like to post a 24-hour
guard on you, just to be safe."
Joshua regarded him for a moment, thinking it over, then
nodded his consent.
*********************
"Look, I got a whole city to protect. You boys from D.C. can
figure that one out," Lt. Jarvis said in reply to Mulder's
request for a guard rotation for Joshua. As far as the
handlebars were concerned, this case was closed. Mulder
watched the man shuffle out of the waiting room back
toward the parking lot.
Scully emerged from her chat with Joshua's physician. "I take
it you're not getting a lot of cooperation from local law
enforcement concerning the continuation of this case."
Mulder looked down at her. "Nope. I hope you like mornings-
-care for the 4AM shift?"
She didn't answer that, but instead gave him the update on
Joshua's treatment. The doctor had given the musician a
Tetanus shot and a dose of antibiotics for good measure.
Then her expression changed.
"Oh, and Mulder, we've eliminated the ex-fiancee as a
suspect," she said solemnly, handing him a fax from the NY
field office.
Mulder looked down and read the fax in front of him. He
sighed. "I'll go tell him," he said, and walked back into the ER.
###
"You didn't know?"
Joshua turned his head away from Mulder, looking even
more pale than when he was brought in. Mulder knew it
wasn't the best time. But there wasn't likely to ever be a best
time for this kind of news.
"No," he said in nearly a whisper. "I had no idea...three
months ago?"
"The gunshot wound was self-inflicted. There was a brief
investigation. No other explanations could be found."
"Shit." The man had turned over away from him, trying to
bury his face in the pillow. "Shit shit shit..." he said brokenly,
beginning to release a choked sob.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Mulder said, starting to stand; then
something in him made him want to stay and just be there
for the man. He sat back down on the edge of the chair with
his eyes on the far wall, listening to the quiet intermittent
sobs coming from the musician.
"'You never play for me,' she'd always say," he said between
hitches of his chest. "And she was right, I never did. I always
played for myself." He rolled over and looked up at Mulder.
"Why couldn't I play for her?" he asked of him.
Mulder just shook his head.
Joshua breathed steadily and they caught each other's eyes.
Mulder felt something from this distressed man, something
familiar, painfully familiar. Joshua closed his eyes and turned
his face back to the pillow. "Thank you, but I'd like to be
alone now," he said softly. Mulder stood and walked out of
the room, leaving him to his grief. For Joshua Segulyev, today
was indeed not the best of days. Mulder went to tell Scully he
would take the first watch over the musician tonight.
****************************
Marina Flat
1:30 AM
Wednesday
Joshua's eyes were a rather surprising shade of indigo.
Mulder had noticed their unusual color for the first time
earlier tonight when they were rimmed with tears. He
wondered now why he kept trying to catch them again.
Joshua was standing between the piano and the window,
playing the violin, slowly, something low and sad and easy.
He hadn't said much to Mulder on the ride home from the
hospital. Whatever tears he needed to shed, he seemed to
have finished. The violin under his chin was telling the story
now in long sobbing notes and dual string chords.
Mulder sat in one of the chairs pretending to read a
magazine. After another minute or so Joshua just stopped
and let the violin hang at his side.
"It's beautiful. What is it?"
"Schubert, Death and the Maiden," he answered slowly. "It
sounds less lonely with the rest of the quartet."
Mulder didn't know what to say to that.
"Will you stay awake all night?" Joshua asked, still staring out
the window to the black silk wrap of the Bay flowing four
stories below.
"Yes."
"Then I think I'll sleep now."
*****************************
Hall of Justice
12:30 PM
Mulder stood above, watching the interview through the
silver-blue, high-tech, one-way viewing panel into the pen
below. The Hall of Justice had been recently reconstructed
and dubbed the "glamour slammer." It was an expensive feat
of San Franciscan engineering that had city voters howling.
They didn't seem to agree with the local commission officials
that criminals deserved such swank accommodations.
Mulder could easily see why. Harris was lolling in his chair
across from two of Jarvis' men. They had a yellow legal pad
sitting on the table in front of him and a fat dull-tipped
construction pencil. A confession was likely; all the
disheveled man wanted was a drink.
Mulder heard the observation door open and Scully came in
to stand next to him.
"Dillmont show up for the Symphony on time?" Mulder
asked. Necessity had dictated their shifts--Mulder had 8PM to
4AM, followed by Scully, who turned over the victim watch
to Dillmont at noon sharp so he and Scully could work from
midday until 8PM together.
"Yes, but he wasn't too happy about it. I think the man has
something against Davies' plush velvet seats." Mulder grinned
a bit; she seemed in a better mood today.
"How was your shift? Joshua feeling better?"
"He has some pain in his left side, but it didn't keep him
from rehearsing this morning. Eight AM sharp he was up,
dressed, bow in hand. He's quite amazing."
"So you say," Mulder teased, glancing down at the interview-
in-progress. "They're not getting too far with this guy. Three
douses with the hose and he still stinks up the room. I don't
understand how any nefarious individual could stay close
long enough to impart any influence on him... Is Joshua
coming in today to make the ID?"
Scully glanced at her watch. "He should be here in about 10
minutes. He said he'd head over during the Symphony's
lunch break."
Mulder acknowledged the time and took a step closer to the
glass when Lt. Jarvis made his entrance from the hallway
door. "Agents," he said in greeting, coming up to address
Mulder. "Still trying to make this square peg fit the round
hole I see."
Mulder turned to face the older man. "I'd like to have his
handwriting analyzed. We have several older letters left to
identify..."
The mustache was twitching as Jarvis interrupted him. "Son,
this ol' drunk can't even hold the pencil to make a
confession. I know you're new in this town, so I'll give you
some slack, but I've had this man in the can more times than
I can count. He's a boozer and nothing much else. He's
certainly a far cry from your cross-state, terrorizing, bomb-
planting lunatic. You're sniffing around the wrong bush."
Mulder tried to keep his patient face on as he attempted to
explain. "It's my opinion that our UNSUB is using local
vagrants as decoys for his attempts on the musician's life.
The Philadelphia suspect was also homeless. All we have to
link the decoys together are the handwriting samples. If
Harris doesn't match any we already have, I want him
analyzed through free association therapy by a board
certified psychologist."
Jarvis snorted good-naturedly like he was dealing with a
confused child. "A shrink? What this man needs is a week in
detox. And until you can find us some evidence linking him
to your case, he remains under my lock and key. You're
gonna have to dig a little deeper than that, son." Jarvis tipped
his forehead at Scully in parting and exited the observation
deck.
Mulder planted his foot and looked up at the ceiling with
annoyance. "Where's a decent homicide detective when you
need one? Who'd we work with last time during the quake?
Detective Meyer?"
"You're forgetting, Mulder, we don't have any bodies yet."
"Except for the fiancee." Scully gave him a quizzical look.
"She had family, didn't she? I wouldn't be too surprised if
someone was looking to blame Joshua for her suicide."
"You may have a point, but I'm afraid I'll have to take Jarvis'
side regarding Mr. Harris. I've reviewed his prison medical
records. The man is suffering from advanced cirrhosis and
abnormal brain function brought on by chronic alcoholism.
No offense to Joshua, but I find it hard to believe Harris had
the strength to even stand, let alone attack a physically fit
29-year-old man."
The hall door creaked open once more, and an officer leaned
in. "Agents, Mr. Segulyev is here for the ID."
***************************************
"That's him," Joshua said, pointing to the gray-haired shabby
man third from the left. Harris. Joshua flexed his arm. The
cuts were healing fast, but the stitched wound in his left side
was causing him some pain this afternoon. He'd certainly like
his two quarters back about now.
Mulder noted the ID and handed the paperwork off to the
officers. "Do you think you can remember where you last
saw this man?"
Joshua nodded as they exited the darkened room. "I think
so."
***************************************
"Start us off at Davies," Joshua suggested, shifting to take the
weight off his side in the passenger's seat while Mulder drove
them to retrace his path. "I can't recall the exact street."
"Joshua," Scully said from the backseat. "Did your doctor
give you something for the pain?"
Joshua glanced back at her. "Yes he did, but I can't take that
stuff during the day. It makes my head swim. The pain's not
too bad; it keeps me alert."
Mulder slowed the car as they turned up Hayes past the stage
door entrance. "Go straight a few blocks," Joshua said,
pointing ahead.
"I saw the Chronicle picked up your assault this morning,"
Mulder said as they waited at a red light.
Joshua sighed. "I saw that too. Fortunately, it was buried at
the bottom of page 12. The news has pretty much spread
through the orchestra--it's hard to hide my injuries--but I
don't think too many folks are aware of the Philadelphia case
here yet. If you can keep these bums off me for a few weeks I
might have a decent shot at another 10 country tour starting
in the new year."
"Really? How wonderful," Scully said from the back as
Mulder pulled ahead onto the next street.
"Thank you. We're still waiting on the confirmation call from
Vienna. My agents have been negotiating this deal for almost
two months. It didn't look likely until one of their scheduled
soloists became pregnant recently."
"How fortunate for you," Mulder replied.
Joshua remained hopeful. "I'd dearly love to get out of this
country for a good long while. Maybe then this idiot will find
another hobby in my absence."
It took them a few minutes and some backtracking to find
the right street. Joshua couldn't help but relive a chill of
dread when they reached the block where, just the night
before, he had walked past the seemingly harmless, sleeping
homeless.
Mulder parked the car. "Let's check this out."
All three exited the car and crossed the street. Mulder and
Scully followed Joshua into the gray stone archways of a
boarded-up antiquated office building. Tucked in the arches
were bags and rolls of clothing and papers and other clutter,
infused with the unmistakable smell of human waste.
Whoever occupied this residence was out for the day.
Joshua watched Mulder and his partner snap on rubber
gloves and begin to pick through the piles of debris. Mulder
pulled aside a tattered blanket, some newspapers, and a
paper bag that fell open, spewing an assortment of emptied
Jack Daniels bottles out onto the concrete. "I think it's safe
to say Harris slept here," Mulder said, standing and taking a
step farther into the dark narrow alcove beyond the stone
archway. He pulled out a penlight and began shining it over
the stone surface.
Joshua poked at an overturned cardboard box with his foot.
A fat happy cockroach skittered out and he jumped a little.
Under the box was part of a sign. He dragged it out with his
heel. "Why lie? It's for beer."
"What's that?" Scully asked, coming up behind him. She bent
down to pick up the cardboard.
"That's his sign," Joshua said, identifying it.
"Mulder, we may have a handwriting sample for you," she
called out to her partner who had slipped out of view.
Mulder's reply echoed through the arch. "I've got one, too, in
what looks like charcoal scratched on the stones back here.
Can you get the digital camera out of the trunk, Scully?"
A few minutes later the digicam picked up a partially
smeared message: "...we have found you...you are the one..."
"Does this message mean anything to you? It appears in
almost all the letters," Mulder asked Joshua as he handed the
penlight over for him to step in and take a peek at the far
wall. The message was crude, but readable. It looked like
someone had used the end of a burnt stick to spell it out.
Joshua held his breath against the stench as he picked his
way back out, careful not to step in anything sticky.
"I don't have a clue as to what it's supposed to mean," Joshua
said, returning the flashlight. "But I do have a question. If it's
only one person masterminding these threats, then why are
all the letters announcing themselves as 'we'?"
"That's a very good question," Mulder acknowledged. "Often
obsessive suspects will identify themselves in the plural to
give the impression of belonging to a larger, more
threatening group. Ninety percent of these cases wind up
being the actions of an individual, however. Right now I'm
operating under that assumption."
"I see," Joshua said, glancing away again, thinking.
Mulder touched Joshua's arm to get his attention. "Joshua, if
there's something you're afraid to tell me, I wish you
wouldn't hold back. We only want to help keep you safe."
Joshua crossed his arms and studied the agent's face.
Mulder's eyes were not only beautiful, but kind. He sensed
patience in the man--a level of tolerance and understanding
uncommon to most of the male gender. Joshua chewed his
lip a moment and confessed.
"I saw something else that night," he began, checking
Mulder's reaction. The agent looked as if he wasn't surprised
at all.
"Go on," he encouraged.
"After I left this street I went one more block west. I saw this
man--a thin man. He was standing in the road, smiling at me.
And I tried to pass him..." Joshua hesitated. "You're going to
think this is crazy."
Mulder took a step closer and shook his head gently. "I
won't, Joshua, trust me."
"Well, it was like he flew at me, for lack of a better word. His
feet...I didn't hear him walking...he moved so fast and he was
standing in front of me again and I just panicked. I ran into
the closest alley until I got out of there. I didn't even know
where I was going."
"Can you describe him?"
"I...I don't know. Maybe."
"I want you to describe the man to a police sketch artist later
tonight after your rehearsal. It was good you told me this,
Joshua. It will help us a great deal."
Joshua let out a sigh of relief. "Do you think we can head
back to Davies now? I don't want to be late."
Mulder gave him a reassuring nod. "Sure. Let's get going."
*********************************
*********************************
Chapter Four: Messages
*********************************
Marina Flat
8:00 PM
"For Chrissake! It's open!"
Mulder could hear a good deal of racket coming from inside
Joshua's apartment. It sounded like he was entertaining a
crowd and not enjoying it one bit. Mulder turned the knob
and poked his head in cautiously.
Agent Dillmont was seated in a chair to the left of the door.
He had a newspaper in his lap and earphones on, tinnily
broadcasting a football game. He seemed oblivious to the
ruckus taking place in the center of the open room. There
was a total of six people in the flat including Mulder. The
majority of them were pacing after Joshua who held the lead,
violin and bow in hand, trying to wave them off as his stereo
flooded the room with the sounds of a full symphony
orchestra in climactic crescendo.
"Nana, I *told* you I made a promise to Grandpapa," he said,
exasperated, setting the violin atop the piano and tapping the
back of his bow in the palm of his hand like a petulant
conductor.
"Joshua, my darling, you can't be so particular. These
gentlemen only have your best interests at heart."
Joshua looked down at his personal manager with a
frustrated patience. She was a diminutive, gray-haired lady
with a pointed nose and delicate French accent. "Nana, a
promise is a promise." He raised his head to address the
"gentlemen." "As you all know, I have particular restrictions
regarding my tour routes. The Vienna Philharmonic *knows*
this. I trust you will navigate through these negotiations with
proper sensitivity to my express wishes."
The gentlemen nodded in a bundle of mumbled affirmatives,
and with brisk good-byes, turned to make their way out.
Mulder stepped aside as they filed their way out of the door.
The orchestra hit its closing notes and the stereo fell silent.
Joshua was still talking with his personal manager, his hand
on her shoulder. He was saying something about his fan mail.
"I need you to forward all of my personal mail *unopened* to
the San Francisco FBI, okay?"
"But Joshua, they don't need to read everything..."
He set his bow down and gave the small woman a reassuring
hug. "Nana, they only want to help me. You need to
cooperate with them, all right?" The woman patted his arm
and reached up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.
"I will do whatever you ask, my darling," she said and
buttoned up her coat. She gave Mulder a close-lipped smile
as she made her way out the door after the men.
Joshua took a breath and made eye contact with the newly
arrived agent. "Mulder, welcome. Take a number and have a
seat. I'll be with you shortly," he quipped, re-shouldering his
violin and hitting 'play' on the stereo, once more bringing the
music to life. He began to walk to the far end of the room,
playing his solo part along with the CD.
Mulder took the opportunity to shut and lock the door, and
tapped Dillmont on the shoulder. The younger man jumped
at the touch--keeping vigilant, certainly. "You're free to go."
Dillmont squinted up at him, lifting an earphone. "What?"
"Shift's over, you're outta here. Who's winning?"
"Dallas, by two field goals."
Mulder gave him a nod. "Did you take Joshua over to the
station after rehearsal?"
"Yes, you want to see the results?" Dillmont pulled a copy of
the police sketch from his jacket pocket. Mulder held it up in
the light and noted the emaciated face. This man had
certainly seen better days.
"No suspect matches?"
Dillmont shook his head and gathered himself to leave. "No
one's ever seen the man before in this city as far as the SFPD
can tell you."
Dillmont made his exit and Mulder re-locked the door after
him and took his chair. He picked up the discarded
newspaper and read the front page, listening to Joshua play.
###
Now that it was quiet, Joshua kept his full concentration on
the Mendelssohn finale--he was insistent on getting through
it from beginning to end without interruption at least once
tonight. His private rehearsal time had been cut short by the
police station visit earlier this evening. He had returned
home with Dillmont at 6 PM to find the hounds waiting at the
door. He was positively famished for dinner, having spent
lunch identifying Harris and digging through his trash. But he
had elected to wait until Agent Mulder came on shift before
heading out to dine. Dillmont was not fun company and
seemed rather irritated he'd been called in to baby-sit in the
first place. Mulder, however, was beginning to present
himself to Joshua as a rather interesting individual. Joshua
had been curious about the agent since he'd confessed to his
eerie encounter with the thin man. Joshua was looking
forward to sharing some conversation in lieu of what usually
amounted to solo dining.
"Well, at least today is showing some improvements over
yesterday," he said aloud to the man seated at the other end
of the long room.
"I'm sorry? Didn't catch that."
Joshua clicked the stereo's power off with his toe. "I said, so
far today has been better than yesterday." In his head, the
five measure rest concluded and he resumed his part at letter
P. It was a tricky piece, but Joshua could play it and still hold
a conversation. "Come move out of the corner and make
yourself at home."
Mulder stood up and took a closer seat on the couch in the
center of the room.
"You don't have to turn the music off on my account,"
Mulder told him earnestly.
Joshua smiled. "That's okay, I can hear them playing
perfectly well in my head. I just run the back-up to irritate
Dillmont. He's not as dedicated to my preservation as you
and Agent Scully are."
"I'll have to talk to him about that," Mulder said, indicating
his annoyance. "Scully's a much better audience. She knows
something about classical music; she'd heard of you before
we took this case."
"Really? I didn't know that. She hasn't said too much. She's
quiet, but polite. I like her."
Mulder looked at him as if he found something humorous in
that comment. Then he let it pass. "You'd both probably find
a lot to talk about."
Joshua made a small grin and continued with his solo, taking
a step away and concentrating fully on it until its conclusion.
He then elected to skip the final bars of the movement and
silenced the soundtrack running in his head, letting the violin
hang loosely at his side. "She probably won't get much of a
chance unless she switches shifts with you. You picked
'Joshua's social hours,' such as they are. So I guess I'm going
to have to educate you."
Mulder looked intrigued. "Educate me?"
"On the finer forms of music, so we'll have something to talk
about during dinner."
Mulder shrugged. "Sure. I'm a fairly fast learner."
"Great, here's lesson one." Joshua set his bow down long
enough to pick out a CD and set it in the stereo. He set it to
play and flipped the empty jewel case in Mulder's direction.
Mulder caught it and held it just as the strings began to
double-bow the opening sustained chord. Joshua lifted his
bow and joined the lead violins for the first several bars into
the first crescendo where the trumpets caught up with them.
"Know this one?"
Mulder raised a brow. "Of course, Beethoven's Ninth."
"Excellent. You already know more than Dillmont. He thought
Beethoven was a character from Peanuts."
Mulder chuckled. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
"Beethoven's Ninth was the ailing composer's final finished
symphony," Joshua instructed, strolling back and forth along
the wall of windows, carrying his part along with the rest of
the orchestra. "It is universally recognized as being the
greatest musical work ever composed. Since Beethoven's
death, no composer has ever written any greater than eight
symphonies..." He paused for drama as the orchestra quieted
and repeated the opening chords pitched in a new key,"...out
of respect."
Mulder made an impressed expression.
"Open the CD case," Joshua continued, as the brass and
timpani thundered in their parts. The agent did, looking
down at the empty ring left by the absent CD. "A compact
disc is just over four and a half inches in diameter and holds
a maximum 78 minutes worth of digital audio information.
Do you know why Sony manufacturers chose such an odd
number?"
Mulder shook his head.
"On average, adjusting for interpretation of tempo, the Ninth
Symphony runs 78 minutes in length from opening Allegro to
final Chorale. It is the only orchestral piece performed
strictly by itself--no intermissions, no opening overtures.
Sony saw to it that the Ninth would fit on one CD, no more,
no less."
"I didn't realize that."
"Something you also may not realize is the fact Beethoven
wrote this masterpiece while he was stone cold deaf." The
oboes kicked in, playing an eerie death march as Joshua
assisted in bringing the violins back into the Allegro's angry
refrain. "He never heard a note of it, except in his head."
"That's always puzzled me," Mulder admitted. "If Beethoven
was deaf, how did he learn to compose music?"
Joshua's expression turned grim. "He wasn't always deaf. He
went slowly deaf over a period of several years. I can't
imagine anything more horrifying to a musician--to have
your whole world slowly begin to close up on you. But
instead of despairing, he wrote this."
"The human spirit is an amazing thing," Mulder commented.
Joshua nodded and turned the stereo off with the tip of his
bow. "You can't help but be awed by the man. He even had
the balls to stand up and conduct the premiere
performance."
"How on earth did he manage that?"
Joshua smiled with deep affection for the deceased
composer. "He followed the bows of the first violins. He was
an incredibly stubborn man. Beethoven blamed his failing
ears on the disciplinary blows to the head his father gave him
as a child. When they exhumed and autopsied his body some
years later they discovered he had suffered from what today
would have been a treatable form of tinnitus."
"Is he your favorite composer?" Mulder asked.
Joshua's eyes lit up and he began to play something dramatic
and bold. "No, but he runs a close second to the man who
carried on his style....Name that tune, Agent Mulder."
"I think...Scully was playing that. Is it Brahms?"
Joshua grinned and kept on playing, throwing his shoulder
into it, perhaps showing off a bit. "The first time I ever saw a
portrait of Johannes Brahms I mistook him for my
grandfather. I jumped up and down in this neighboring
farmhouse telling everyone that was my Grandpapa up on the
wall over the piano. The woman, I forget her name, tapped
me on the shoulder and told me I was a little off. Brahms was
German, you know, but with that long dark beard it's hard to
tell the detailed features of a face. I didn't believe her;
instead I believed they were the same man. I thought my
grandfather was a composer for many years growing up. I
still strongly associate them. That's why I made the Brahms'
concerto my signature piece. I honor my grandfather
whenever I play it."
"Was your grandfather a musician?"
"Yes. He taught me how to play the violin. He was an old
Russian fiddler, defected from the Ukraine to Pennsylvania
with my infant mother in the '30s. He was quite good, but
he'd always say his hands were too big and clumsy to play
properly, which was nonsense; he played beautifully. He had
this pint-sized violin crafted for me when I was four years
old--it was a gorgeous instrument. He gave me lessons until I
was seven. Many critics will tell you I have an unusual 'old
country' Russian style for an American--I have him to thank
for that."
"I was reading in your file...your background...how was it
that you came to be under the guardianship of your
grandfather?"
Joshua's playing changed, became quieter and darker as he
searched for the simplest explanation. "He had legal cause to
take me off the family farm when I was six. My father was
found negligent."
Mulder's eyes expressed concern. "How was that?"
Joshua shook his head absently. "He had this charming habit
of locking me in the barn whenever I displeased him--which
was often. My father didn't "get" me, if you know what I
mean. I slept in the barn more often than my own bed. One
night it just got too damn cold and my fingers were
frostbitten. I was taken to the hospital by my grandfather for
emergency treatment." Joshua stopped playing and held up
his left hand that gripped the violin, flexing his fingers. "It
wasn't too bad until they started thawing me out. The middle
fingers on my left hand turned as black as a crow's foot," he
said, pointing to them with his bow. "My grandfather begged
and pleaded with my doctors to keep my fingers. It was more
of a practice back then to just cut everything off. They
listened somehow..."
Mulder appeared to be moved by the story, and Joshua
decided maybe it was time to take this man to dinner. He
walked over to the piano and put the Stradivarius to bed.
"How hard is it to love a child?" he asked rhetorically,
shutting the lid on the case. He could feel the old
resentments echoing in his chest, but he shook them off. It
was something he just couldn't care about anymore. His
father was dead and buried and he was master of his own
life.
"I thank God every day for my grandfather. It just about
killed me when he died," he said, locking the case and
turning back to his assigned companion for the evening. "Do
you like paella?"
"I don't know."
"Then it's about time you found out."
********************************
La Orta Espana
9:49 PM
In his 13 years as an FBI agent, Mulder had certainly suffered
through his share of ass-numbing stakeouts and hostile
witness vigils, but none of his subjects had ever been so
receptive to the imposition as Joshua Segulyev. In fact, in this
current situation, he didn't feel as if he was working at all,
but rather enjoying a pleasant dinner with a friend. This was
assuming he actually had friends who ate in fine restaurants--
Eddie's Cheesesteak Hut probably didn't count.
Joshua was busy explaining the particulars of Spanish
viniculture as they sat enjoying a steaming rice and seafood
paella, while a flamenco guitarist wandered by singing
joyfully about the virtues of Spanish maidens. Joshua had an
appreciation for life's finer pleasures, that was certain. He
was definitely not the type of company Mulder was
accustomed to keeping. It made for a refreshing change and
it beat the hell out of cold Chinese noodles, a bag of
sunflower seeds and stale TV.
During the course of the dinner, Mulder discovered that, in
addition to his music training, Joshua had his share of a fine
education. He'd taken a particular interest in abnormal
psychology during his years at the San Francisco
Conservatory. They shared their views on Jung and Timothy
Leary. Eventually the discussion shifted to criminology and
profiling, which Joshua seemed to find especially fascinating.
"It's grim work," Mulder said, stabbing at a shrimp. "I'm
amazed at some of the colleagues I had who have kept with
it. They're an elite force. Law enforcement agencies from all
over the world request their services. It's difficult to turn
cases away."
"Why did you give it up?"
Mulder chewed his shrimp, thinking for a sensible answer. "I
had a personal calling elsewhere that I couldn't ignore."
"This special unit you and Scully represent?" Joshua nudged.
Mulder was, for once, wary about giving this young man too
many details. That wasn't like him; he usually shoved his
purpose and opinions down everyone's throats whether they
wanted to hear them or not. Here he was being asked by
someone who took a genuine interest, yet he didn't feel
absolutely comfortable sharing it. He decided to go for the
generic description.
"Scully and I investigate unsolved cases that have been
abandoned by the standard units within the FBI. We try to
solve them by applying unconventional investigative
techniques. Or at least I do," he corrected with a grin. "Scully
is very fond of the scientific method. She's a forensic
pathologist."
"And you?"
"I'm the ex-serial killer bloodhound who decided to turn his
nose to sniffing out the unexplained."
Joshua raised his chin and took a sip of sangria. "That would
explain why my flying skeleton man didn't take you a bit by
surprise. You don't think I'm beginning to inherit the ravings
of my deceased father, do you?"
Mulder gave Joshua a reassuring shake of his head. "I may
have an open mind to extreme possibilities, but I don't follow
those beliefs blindly. At this point I'd count your spook as a
living, breathing, suspect."
"I think I'm relieved to hear that. The last thing I want is to
slip into the same mindset as my father."
"Isn't that what all men fear?" Mulder joked, in turnabout to
their earlier psychological discussions.
"Still, I was relieved to get it off my chest. I've felt something
odd was going to happen to me for some time now."
Mulder regarded him with interest. "In what way?"
Joshua sat back in his chair, running his fingertips along the
edge of his wine glass. "After the first few weeks I was in
Philadelphia, I began to feel as if I was being followed
whenever I was out in the city at night. I didn't see or hear
anything strange; I just got the feeling that I needed to leave
that town as soon as possible. I didn't connect it to the
letters then, but now I wonder if they were getting to me
subconsciously."
He paused and Mulder urged him to continue.
"Then the bombs were found after my performance and I
requested Nanette book me on the first flight out of there. I
thought coming across the country to California would shake
that feeling, and it did at first, until just a few nights ago."
"Which night?"
"The night before you and Agent Scully arrived, right before
Dillmont contacted me about the new letters. I had been
standing outside a restaurant waiting for the car and
something made me walk across the street and wait from
inside a well-lit bookstore. The whole time I was in there, I
kept looking around through the shelves as if I was expecting
to see something, but not really knowing what it was I was
going to see."
"Were there any homeless or unusual individuals loitering in
that area?"
"I'm sure there were, but none seemed to bother me. No, that
feeling of dread, of being followed or watched, only came to
me right before I saw that strange man yesterday. I feel...he's
the one who's been following me, even though I've never
seen him before. I can't really explain it and it disturbs me a
great deal. It disturbed me to see the police sketch."
"Do you feel an unnatural need to escape this presence?"
Joshua met his gaze. "Yes, I do. I don't like the effect it's
having on me, or on my concentration. I think I've felt this
uneasiness from time to time for quite a few months now."
"But it's getting stronger and more frequent?"
Joshua swallowed the last of his sangria and stared at the
tablecloth. "Yes."
Mulder gave Joshua a moment to think as he polished off the
last few bites of paella. The violinist looked as if he was
trying to get this new actuated revelation together in his
head.
"In my work, Joshua, I've seen how hard it is for some people
to accept highly unusual experiences, no matter how
blatantly realistic the phenomenon was made to them. Some
people see an unusual event once and promptly force
themselves to forget it, denying it ever happened to preserve
their world view. I can understand that psychology. But then
I've known some who have experienced many years of
ongoing unexplainable events, one right after the other, who
can still find a way to reject the possibility that there is no
simple rational explanation for what they've seen."
Joshua met his eyes with passive sympathy. "That must be
incredibly frustrating for someone in your line of work."
"It is, but I've had to learn how to accept it just as well as I
accept the unexplained." He paused, appreciating the irony in
his new-found sincerity for an attitude that had been driving
him numb with frustration lately.
Joshua waved for the check and it was delivered promptly.
He slipped a Platinum card into the cover and passed it right
back without opening it. Mulder reached into his coat for his
wallet, but Joshua refused the offer.
"The least I can do is buy you dinner for putting up with me
last night. I was in a rather morose mood. I didn't have the
presence of mind to thank you properly for staying with me."
"It's not necessary; I was doing my job."
The musician gave him a sincere look. "I'm familiar with the
standard sympathy training issued to most officers and
physicians. You actually meant it when you said you were
sorry for my loss. I appreciated that. I needed to hear that
from someone last night because I honestly didn't know how
I was supposed to feel."
"It must have come as quite a shock."
Joshua nodded sadly. "I've tried to reach her parents, but
they won't pick up. I don't think I'll hear back from them any
time soon, either. They strongly objected to the
engagement."
"Why?"
Joshua looked off. "They didn't believe I was sincere. I guess
they were right. I knew she had difficulties sometimes...I just
didn't think..." He stopped, not wanting to continue. "I guess
I'd rather not think about it right now." He sat up straighter
in his chair and accepted the charge receipt, signing it
briskly.
"Were you ever married, Agent Mulder?"
"I was engaged for two years."
"What happened?"
"She left me for a better job."
"Ouch."
"Even I was slow to accept that phenomenon. I wore the
damn ring for almost two years. It gave me some space I
guess, an excuse not to get involved again for a long time."
"What brought you out of it?"
"I married my job."
Joshua made his first genuine smile for the evening. "I think
I've underestimated you, Mulder. You and I have plenty in
common to talk about."
*******************************************
Marina Flat
12:24 AM
Thursday
Joshua rolled over onto his side in his bed and dipped his
chin so he could watch the man seated at the far corner of
his couch, reading a book by penlight, unaware he was being
studied. It was only the second night, but Joshua found it
subtly erotic that the agent was sitting in his dark apartment
watching over him while he slept.
Throughout their evening, Joshua noticed that Mulder had a
nervous habit of running his teeth and tongue over his lower
lip while he was thinking something over or finding an
answer to a challenging question--and also apparently while
reading--as if his mouth needed something to do. Mulder was
as supremely intelligent as he was attractive. Joshua felt it a
shame nobody seemed to notice this man of late, or if they
did, hadn't bothered to dig below the surface.
Joshua had known Agent Mulder to be pleasing to the eye
from the moment they were introduced by the stage door,
but he hadn't given him much thought. The agent's offbeat
charisma hadn't arrested his full attention until this evening.
An enigma of otherworldly beliefs and predatory analysis,
Joshua soon discovered Mulder was not formed from the
same mold as other men. He was his own creation and
Joshua knew that self-archetyping could be a lonely practice.
Mulder raised a hand to the binding of the book he held
against his thigh, dragging the paper edge forward and over
with long elegant fingers. Mulder had beautiful hands, strong
and precise like a pianist's. Joshua always noticed a man's
hands first. He'd fallen in love with many pairs of untouched
hands over the years, wrapped around the neck of a cello or
manipulating the labyrinth of keys on a bassoon. What was
surprising to him was to find such a finely sculpted pair that
were intended for throwing suspects to the ground or
gripping the rough pad of a pistol.
Mulder licked his first finger before turning the next page.
Joshua couldn't keep himself from wondering if that warm
bullet-firing fingertip would feel rough or smooth against his
own passing tongue. He smiled a little at the shiver that
fantasy gave him.
These thoughts, although futile, were not unwelcome to him.
He'd been attracted to men before--he'd even had a few male
lovers. Beyond all that, he found he just plain liked the man--
it was nice to have a companion to share dinner and
conversation with. He couldn't help but feel some vanity at
the heads that turned that night when they walked into the
restaurant together. If Mulder noticed the error he made no
sign, and that had pleased him even more.
Given Mulder's apparent solitary existence, it would be a
more productive use of their time if they shared the bed,
Joshua mused. But that was many paces ahead. Mulder was
decidedly straight and the whole mystery of his emotional
connection to Scully remained elusive to Joshua. He knew he
was only bound to disappoint himself if he let these late
thoughts progress and closed his eyes, willing his mind to
quiet and bring him over into sleep.
****************************
Hall of Justice
9:30 AM
Mulder stood outside the security entrance awaiting
admission into the main lock-up. He was nursing a sore
tongue from gulping down a ghastly cup of lava-hot coffee
he'd picked up at a convenience store on his way in. He'd
been awakened from a dead sleep at 8:30 after only a four
hours' rest by the cheery boom of Lt. Jarvis.
"Good mornin' and happy Thursday! You won yourself a case,
agent. Our Harris has been a busy boy all night long. You
might want to get your tail down here and have yourself a
look at his handiwork."
Word had it Harris pocketed the construction pencil the day
before during his interview and had done a little composing
of his own across the wall of his jail cell in the dead of the
night. Mulder was anxious to get as many shots of it as he
could before Jarvis called in the janitorial services to wipe up
his precious slammer and return it to vogue status. Dillmont
was also moving his ass over to Davies so Scully could join
him at the prison a few hours ahead of schedule.
"Weapons, please."
Mulder unclipped his holster and handed it over, waiting for
the clear blue space shield technology they called a
bulletproof polymatrix door to ding and slide open for him.
He found the general absence of good solid steel bars a bit
unnerving.
A prison guard met him inside the corridor.
"Hope you brought your reading glasses," he said, escorting
Mulder down the long hallway lit by refracted natural light
panels. Most of the cells on this hall were empty.
"Are any of the messages legible?" he asked, anxious to see if
his theory was correct.
"Depends on what you'd qualify as legible, but you'll
certainly have a fine selection. On your left here."
The cell door was open, and at first Mulder thought they'd
already begun to paint in the far corner where the wall
looked darker. A few nearsighted steps closer and it came
clear--the wall was darker because it was nearly covered in
graphite. Messages upon messages had been written and
rewritten and written again, one over another, across all
three walls, most of the floor and even some parts of the
ceiling. Harris must have stretched up from the edge of his
single bunk to write that high. The majority of the writing
was smeared or scribbled in arcane letters that one could
assume were attempts at the English alphabet. However,
between the drivel were the tell-tale phrases drawn in a
steady hand Mulder had certainly seen before, but never to
this extent.
"Don't step on the floor," Mulder warned the guard as he
leaned in, trying to get a basis of where to begin cataloguing
the collective works. "I don't want to lose any of this."
The guard stepped back and stood patiently in the hall while
Mulder got down on all fours just outside the cell and
examined the closest words first, taking digital shots as he
went. In the distance Mulder heard another ding and the
familiar click of thick high heels. Something caught his eye in
the corner of the cell near the toilet. Pulling on a pair of
gloves and crawling forward, careful not to disturb anything,
he picked up the ragged end of a thick flat yellow stick no
more than an inch long.
"What did you find?" Scully asked from behind him. Mulder
pushed himself back up and stepped out, holding it up for
her to see.
"The construction pencil, or what's left of it."
"It looks like it's been chewed," she noted.
"It has," said the guard. "The prisoner sharpened the darn
thing with his teeth."
**********************************
11:30 AM
Harris gave Mulder a filthy graphite-black smile as he sat
slumped across from him at the interrogation room table.
Now sober, the man was shaking and unpredictable, spitting
on the floor next to him every few minutes, making a slimy
black puddle.
The expulsion of the vagrant's salivary glands was the most
communication he and Scully had managed to draw from the
man in the last twenty minutes. He clearly wasn't in his right
mind.
Mulder tried once more. He took the printout of the digital
shot he'd taken an hour earlier from the west wall of the cell.
It was a cleaner strip of letters that spelled out "...you were
stolen from us..." He pushed it directly in front of the shabby
man and asked him again.
"Who made you write this, Harris?"
Harris grinned and spat, this time catching the edge of the
table before it ran off onto the floor near his own foot. "I
donn write nuthin'..." he repeated again.
"If you didn't write these messages on the walls of your cell,
Harris, then who did?"
Harris wagged his head back and forth. "Donn no, dunno..."
"Was it a man, Harris? A thin man?"
Harris began to make a sick gurgling sound that could have
been laughter. "Fuck....the thinmman...wanno go home."
"You're not going home for a long time. You might as well
make your stay more pleasant by cooperating with us," Scully
offered, standing behind Mulder's chair.
"Did you see a man in your cell, Harris? Did he tell you to
start writing?"
Harris looked around the room almost as if he was waiting
for something. "The man...he keeps on comin.'"
"Does he frighten you, this man?"
Harris just bobbed in place, a dribble of spittle beginning to
drip out of his lip as he made a low moaning sound.
Mulder pulled out a copy of Joshua's gaunt suspect sketch
and pushed it in front of the man. The response was
instantaneous.
Harris leapt to his unstable feet with a shout and tumbled
backwards, knocking the chair over. Mulder was up and
around the edge of the table, grabbing the picture and
holding it close to Harris as the disheveled man tried to crawl
under the table away from it, babbling.
"Go away, go away!" Harris yelled at the sketch and Mulder
could feel Scully's hand on his arm urging him to pull back.
"Mulder, they're coming..."
Mulder heard the safety door ding and he got to his feet.
Harris was still kneeling on the floor bent over, holding his
head, mumbling, "We've found you, We've found you..."
Lt. Jarvis stepped in, shaking his head. "You're not going to
get too far that way, son. Now the man's gone and pissed on
the floor."
"That's spit," Mulder replied sharply and exited the room.
******************************