Title: Only Darkness (1/8) Author: Ashlea Ensro Rating: R (mostly blood and gore, the odd obscenity, and rampant smoking) Category: XA Spoilers: Big one for FTF, smaller ones for The Beginning and Drive Keywords: CSM/Other, Scully/Other UST (slash) Archive: Anywhere, just let me know Disclaimer #1: None of the characters you recognize belong to me. Isis, McAlpine, Adam Levi, and the killer, however, are all mine. Agent Borisovskaya belongs to herself. :-) Disclaimer #2: I have never been to North Logan, Idaho. I have no idea how accurate my description is. No offense is intended towards anyone who actually lives there. Disclaimer #3: Smoking causes lung cancer and emphysema. Feedback and donations of Mr. Noodles salivated over at morleyphile@yahoo.com
Thanks to Anna and Rachel, who not only beta- read this evil thing, but put up with my constant whining about how I was NEVER going to get it finished.
Summary: A bizarre case brings Scully into contact with a woman from her past. Sequel to "karass".
Notes: Before reading this, I would highly recommend reading the original "karass", and not just because I wrote it. That story can be found at:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/ 7599/fic.html
If you really want to forge ahead without reading it (although I can't imagine why...) you'll probably still be able to follow this one. So, in any event, here's a brief summary of what you've missed.
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Isis, an aging MiB, (or rather, WiB), is sent on a mission by WMM shortly after Redux II to escort CSM into hiding in North Hatley. Because of the sensitive nature of the mission, she is under orders to kill herself as soon as it is completed. There's also the small matter of her psychic ability, which manifests itself in an ability to read the minds of anyone with whom she comes in direct physical contact, which makes her hazardous to the Consortium. CSM, of course, has other ideas. When they reach Canada, he offers her a chance to live in exchange for her service as an "informant" to Mulder and Scully. Concerned for the well-being of her 17-year-old daughter, whom she was forced to give up ten years ago, Isis agrees, and returns to DC.
Meanwhile, heroin addicts on the streets of DC are dying of mysterious causes, one of the symptoms being the appearance of a greenish lump similar to the growth found at the back of Emily Sim's skull. While Mulder is away at a UFO conference (Patient X), Isis drops the odd hint to Scully about the Consortium's involvement in the deaths. The search for the truth finally leads both women to Amanda Darrow, a Consortium agent who has been randomly testing a new virus on heroin addicts through a needle exchange program.
The morning after Darrow's arrest, she is found dead in her prison cell. All related evidence surrounding the case vanishes, and Isis is nowhere to be found. Betrayed, alone, and doubting her beliefs, Scully decides to tell Mulder nothing about the case when he returns from the conference.
"Only Darkness" is set almost a year after the events of "karass", shortly after Drive.
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"Only darkness can defeat the dark." -- Ursula K. LeGuin, _A Wizard of Earthsea_
CHAPTER I: MESENCHYME
"And when you're done You cock your gun The blood will run Like ribbons through your hair..." -- Tom Waits, _The Black Rider_
Strange, that there is a word for it.
There is a word for everything.
This mass of blood, bone, hair, flesh that lies splattered over the walls and floor, shattered into a million pieces. It is so random, so chaotic, that it surprises me that the English language would come up with a name to describe it. I wonder how anything could describe this.
Mesenchyme.
In a developing fetus, there is no differentiation between bone, cartilage, blood, connective tissue. It all originates from the same source, the same origin. Mesenchyme. And now, this bone, this cartilage, this blood, this tissue, now, after spending seventy-six years existing as separate components of a human body, have reunited as one.
It makes quite the mess on the floor.
The destructive potential of an explosive device small enough to fit into my hand is not to be underestimated.
There is little difference between a being in its mother's womb, on the verge of life, and this bloody, amorphous mass that awaits on the other end.
The newest recruit whistles under his breath. "My God." I wonder if he knows who he sounds like.
"Keep your voice down, and watch where you step." The police will be here in a few minutes - if we are effective, they will discover nothing. One suburban house bombed, no bodies recovered.
"Why..."
"That's not for you to ask." I am surprised at how snappish my voice comes out. "Bag it."
"It?"
I sigh. He can't be more than twenty-five, the little idiot. "Her." I acquiesce. It isn't important.
He goes out to the unmarked van parked on the other side of the street. I take a few steps before the remains of the retired granny, trying to make out traces of a face, hands - something.
Nothing.
I feel the young man's presence behind me. "What is it? What are you looking for?"
"A baby. Her baby."
"I thought she was in her seventies."
I shrug. "It's gone. The killer took it."
"When are you going to tell me what's going on here?"
I turn to glare at him. "When you grow up."
I hear him mutter, "Bitch."
Funny guy. "Bag it."
He gets down on his knees; the gloves snap on. Right now, I'll bet he's wishing he had three hands - the third to hold his nose. Nothing smells worse than a freshly exploded corpse.
Except maybe a rotting one. But cleaning up those aren't in our job description. Usually.
"C'mon. You're not going to tell me what a seventy-six-year-old woman was doing with a baby?"
"A fetus, actually."
"You people are fucking sadistic."
I don't respond. He'll learn. If they don't kill him first, he'll become as fucking sadistic as the rest of them. Maybe if he plays his cards right, he too can supervise inept little bastards on their first cleanup operations.
Maybe.
"Hey, Isis?" He pronounces it Issis. I'll bet he read it off his assignment sheet. "You know who killed her?"
I light up a Morley. "No." I inhale deeply. "But I will."
***
The buzzer jerks me from sleep - throwing on a housecoat, I answer the door.
He pulls me into the hallway, his lips on mine before I can speak, the smoke-laden breath in my throat - silence. I close my eyes, drawing him closer. There is something hard and cold under his overcoat - and it is not because he's happy to see me.
"Jesus..." I break free of his embrace, edging back into my apartment. "I hope you don't greet all of your employees like that."
This triggers a rare, almost unguarded laugh. He reaches into his pocket - before he can pull out the pack of Morleys, I put my hand on his arm.
"I hate to break this to you, but they passed a no- smoking bylaw last week. Something about fire regulations."
He follows me inside. "You should move."
"You don't pay me enough. Scotch?"
Another laugh. "At nine in the morning?"
"You only live once." I pour us each a glass.
"In my case that doesn't quite apply."
I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. Sipping the drink, I sit down at the kitchen table. "So...to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"
His hand twitches, wanting a cigarette. "Business, I'm afraid. And unpleasant business at that."
"Worse than cleaning up dead grannies?"
"How did you know?"
I offer an exaggerated sigh. "Your horizontally gifted colleague has seen fit to have me train our new recruit."
"I'll have a talk with him."
"I'd worry he'd have you shot again."
"You're one of our best. That sort of work is below you."
"Jealous?" I shrug. "The kid's okay. A bit green, but he seems committed. Asks too many questions, though."
He takes a swig of scotch. "Kill him."
"Oh, but then I'd have to clean up the exploded grannies myself. So..." I lean over and take his hand in mine. "Let me guess. You want me to find the murderer."
"I wish you wouldn't do that."
"Catch your killers for you?"
"No..." He tries to tug his hand away, then gives up. "Never mind."
"You don't know who it is, but you suspect Mafia- Man does."
A crooked smile. "Mafia-Man?"
"Would you hate me if I told you that despite all his efforts to have me killed, I preferred my former employer to this one?"
"Don't complain to me until you have the pleasure of dealing with Strughold."
"Zen you must take avay vat he holds most valuable...zat vith vich he cannot live vithout." I grin. "Yeah, I heard."
"If that was supposed to be German, it was abominable. If it was Yiddish, it was merely awful."
"Poor Scully." He stares at me questioningly, but says nothing. I reach over to snatch the gun from underneath his overcoat. "Who's this for?"
"Protection."
"From what?"
"From who." Another twitch. "I want to know who killed those women. And I want to know why."
"I'm a thug, not a detective."
"I was thinking you could use some help."
I watch him, grasping his meaning immediately. "Oh, no. Not after everything they've been through lately."
"There isn't another option."
I shake my head. "No - it's...can't you send someone else?"
"I wasn't aware that I was giving you a choice." He sighs - suddenly old, weary. "I'm not sure that there's anyone else to send without arousing suspicion."
"Doesn't your...colleague...want this stopped?"
He pours himself another scotch. "Certainly, but there have been complications."
Complications. The killer is one of our own. "Please. Don't do this."
Ice blue eyes bear down on me. "You know my feelings on the subject, I am sure. There is no other way."
We watch each other in silence. Finally, he finishes his drink and stands up, holding the gun out towards me in a gesture of surrender.
"I'll have the case transferred to Domestic Terrorism."
Domestic Terrorism. Is that what they are working on now? I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. "How do exploding pregnant grannies fall under Domestic Terrorism? It sounds like an X-File to me."
His voice is cold, but pervaded by a dry humour as he says, "Perhaps they were bomb couriers for a right wing militia."
I go to him, leaving the gun on the table.
"John..." He looks surprised - so rarely does anyone call him by name.
"I'll be in touch."
***
The light in the main hallway of my apartment has blown out, leaving the dirty walls and carpet swathed in shadows. The view outside my door is oddly surreal, a grainy, black-and-white movie devoid of any sign of human life.
I close the door, wander back inside where there is light, colour. Comparatively so.
It seems that I am an informant again. I suppose I should not complain, if it spares me from cleaning up granny-guts and dealing with little MiBs-in- training. But I am too old for this, too tired, and today is not a good day to die.
I reach for my trench coat, put it on, stand up, sit down. Shudder on the living room couch for a moment, trying to summon the energy to leave the apartment. Lift my sunglasses, turn them over in my hand experimentally.
Welcome back, Isis you old bitch, because this is the life for you.
Whether you like it or not.
I put the sunglasses back down and take the gun instead. All in all, it should prove more useful.
And I bid farewell to this dark and dreary afterlife, to the safe and mundane that has kept me breathing for the year that has elapsed since I last looked into the face of death. The game is beginning again, and I have no choice but to play.
So it goes.
End 1/8
Only Darkness (2/8) by Ashlea Ensro morleyphile@yahoo.com disclaimers in part one
CHAPTER II: MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO
"And to the one you thought was on your side She can't understand She truly believes the lie..." -- Tori Amos, _Space Dog_
There was a different sense of light outside of the basement, one to which Dana Scully had yet to become accustomed, despite having spent a good month at her new position. It was more than the constant movement of bodies shuffling between desks, more than the sound of voices answering phones or people barking in each other's faces - it was the light that bothered her. She traced her fingers in an abstract pattern over the surface of her desk, closing her eyes in a vain attempt to block out the swell of white noise.
She had no personal momentos on her new desk, not even a picture of her family. She kept the photograph of Emily in her apartment, and a portrait of her parents and siblings in her wallet. Mulder had that picture of Samantha on his desk, but she was always too worried about something getting lost, or accidentally knocked to the ground with a careless movement of somebody's arm.
Scully missed the dark solitude of the basement office. She missed it more than she missed the work itself.
"Hey Scully." Mulder's voice, grating in its false perkiness, broke her out of her reverie. "Rise and shine, we've got ourselves a brand spankin' new case."
She looked up at the file he waved in his hands. "Tell me it doesn't involve dung shipments."
Her partner laughed. "Oh, this one is *much* better." He opened the file to reveal the first picture, a collection of bone fragments and splattered flesh that could conceivably have once belonged to a human body. "The victim is Viola Targrosse, aged sixty-one. She lived alone in North Logan, Idaho."
"We're going *back* to Idaho?" Scully's tone was less than impressed.
"I promise this one doesn't involve fecal matter." He did not sound very confident.
Scully was staring intently at the photograph. "How did she die?"
"It appears to be an explosion of some sort."
"And we're being brought on the case because of a terrorism angle?"
"It seems that her son may have had some involvement with a local militia group. But he's disappeared."
"Of course." Scully closed the file. "When do we leave?"
Mulder flashed her a too-wide smile. "Bright and early tomorrow morning." A pause, then in a slightly more moderated tone, "You don't look excited."
"Are you?"
He sighed heavily, the burden of the past month evident in his eyes. "It's an open and shut case. We'll get in there, get out, and make Kersh happy. And then maybe-"
Scully glanced up as he broke off. "And then maybe what?"
Mulder swallowed, looked away. "Never mind." He tugged the file from her outstretched hand and tucked it under his arm. "Pack light, Scully. We shouldn't be gone for long."
***
Watching the ocean of clouds beneath the airplane, Scully already felt a thousand miles away from any sense of reality. Her fingers twisted the gold cross around her neck absentmindedly as she pressed her face to the glass.
His voice drifted to her from somewhere in the fog, calling her name. She jerked back to alertness. "Mulder?"
"There's something going on here, Scully."
He was reading over the file again, only once glancing towards her. She saw his pen brush quickly over the margin of the report.
SOMEONE WAS WATCHING US AT THE AIRPORT.
Scully rubbed at her temples. "Mulder..."
"I know how this sounds."
"No...I..." It was too late to search for appropriate words. "You're searching for something that isn't there. This is a legitimate case, given to us by our legitimate superior..."
"Then why have us followed. She was watching us, Scully, I swear..."
"She?"
He turned his attention back to the file. "There's something we're not seeing here."
The clouds outside the window suddenly seemed more interesting. "Mulder?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever asked yourself why we keep doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Playing into their hands. Playing the game."
"I ask myself that every day."
A long pause. More clouds swam beneath them. One looked like a man's drawn and lined face. One looked like a dragon.
"How do you answer?"
"I don't."
The pilot announced that they were half-an-hour from Idaho.
Scully closed her eyes, opened them again. Returned her stare to the window, to the sky.
This time the clouds looked like clouds.
***
I arrive in Idaho on a later flight than Mulder and Scully. I saw the way he was watching me at the airport - I do not want to reveal my involvement with the case. Not yet, anyway.
Once again, the organization has underestimated the man's paranoia. It may be useful to us one day, but now it is merely irritating. A needless complication. I would prefer to deal with Scully alone, but Mulder is along for the ride, it seems.
I am aware that she told him nothing about the Darrow case; I would know even without the surveillance. And I am aware that she told him nothing of me.
And even if she had, he is unaware of the grudges I bear against him.
But it is still tonight, and they do not know how close I am. How close they are. Alone in the motel room, I open a bottle of red wine, holding my cigarette between my teeth. A silent toast for one: to secrets and lies. To informing. To Idaho, and the smell of cattle shit along the highway.
To the knock on the door that breaks my solitude.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't *him*. Here in the middle of nowhere, dressed in his black suit despite the heat, looking more than a little out of place. I realize with a start that I don't even know his name.
"You might as well come in." I move aside to let him through the door. "Were you following me?"
The young man actually blushes. "I am under orders."
"Of course." I take a long drag of my cigarette. "They know I'm here."
"Who do you work for?"
"Has it occurred to you that it isn't any of your business?" Silence. "Listen, son, I've-"
"Adam."
"What?"
"My name's Adam, not son. Adam Levi. You didn't know that, did you?"
"And my name is Isis, not Issis." He's a cocky little bastard. "I've been in the game much longer than you have. I know how to play."
"Why are you important?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Perhaps I'm trying to learn the rules of the game."
Interesting. He's a sharper kid than I thought. "Wine?"
He shrugs, then nods. I tip the bottle into one of the complimentary glasses supplied by the motel. "So," I feel my lips curl into a smile. "Who do you work for, Mr. Levi?"
An innocent blink. "Why, the organization, of course."
"That's good to hear."
"And you?"
"The same."
"That's what I thought."
Silence. If I could somehow make physical contact, I would know everything, understand everything. Who he is. What he wants. Why he is here, all the way from Washington, and on whose orders. I could reach out with a flickering touch and he would never know.
But...I do not. Because a part of me likes not knowing. At least for tonight, I can imagine what it is like to be without this curse. To converse in a way that approaches normality. Sooner or later I must know, of course, but...
Not tonight.
The cheap glasses clink together. He grins over at me.
"Welcome to Idaho," I say.
***
"What do you mean the body was cremated?"
Mulder fixed Sheriff Casson with his best deadpan stare, while Scully put her hands on her hips and frowned.
"Sheriff, as I am sure you're aware, this is a federal investigation." Scully's tone was cold, professional.
"The house hasn't been demolished yet."
"Great," Scully fought to stay calm. They were standing in the middle of a cornfield in the blazing heat of the afternoon while this man calmly informed them that the victim's body had been disposed of early that morning.
"Sorry." A pause, as no one forgave him. "The house is this way."
It had not been much of a house before the explosion, and it was much less of one now. A bare, burnt-out shell, shattered glass hanging like icicles from the skeleton of the wall, it stood menacingly dark against the brightness of the cornfield, surrounded by a line of yellow police tape. The door had been blown off its hinges and the black opening was welcoming mouth. Scully followed her partner inside, wincing at the shattered family portrait still hanging crooked on the wall.
"Any news on the son's whereabouts?" she heard Mulder ask.
"He's been out of town for two weeks," Casson's voice floated over the shadows. "You think he might be involved?"
She wondered if Mulder could see her trademark eye-roll in the darkness.
"Do you have any other suspects?"
Casson coughed. "To be honest, Agent Scully, we're completely baffled by this." He swung his flashlight around to illuminate a dark stain on the wall. "We think this is where she died."
"You think?" Mulder laughed awkwardly to take the edge off his sarcasm.
"The explosion happened two nights ago. It woke the neighbors, but no one witnessed anyone entering or exiting the house."
"And the son's been out of town for two weeks?" Scully asked.
"Uh...yes." Casson shifted from one foot to another.
"So you don't have any suspects," Mulder was examining the bloodstain on the floor.
"Not...as of..." Casson broke off. "You know, they told me this was your specialty."
"Mulder, can I talk to you for a moment?" Her eyes went to Casson, who obediently stepped into the next room. She lowered her voice to murmur, "What are we doing here?"
"What we always do." He shrugged, returning his attention to the bloodstain. "We have no body, no suspect, no real evidence."
Scully grinned. "Just like old times." She fumbled with her latex gloves. "So, what do we do?"
"The motel's booked for two more days, at least."
"I don't see the point in staying here."
Mulder was quiet for a moment. "Neither do I, Scully," he tried to smile, "But maybe we can get a feel for what Kersh is thinking. What we're dealing with now..."
She nodded. "Two more days."
He sighed deeply. "Two more days."
Neither of them spoke on the drive back to the motel.
***
The desert was blisteringly hot.
Moonlight illuminated the dunes in violet and blue, the wind lifting clouds of sand, millions of sparkling crystals, tossing them across the hills without thought, without intention. The sand stung at her eyes as she staggered, barefoot, and her steps made no mark upon the purple earth.
She had been here before; she knew this place. Knew this dream.
As if by rote she knelt in the sand as it blew away, revealing a tiny white coffin.
She lifted the lid, slowly.
The dead child's eyes opened.
<Mommy?>
<Mommy, let me go...>
"Emily..." she whispered, her voice echoing over the desert. Thin fingers reached for the cross around her neck, but it was gone, blown over the dunes in the swirling wind. She could see its glitter as the breeze snatched it away, and she needed to find it, to grab hold of it, but Emily still lay in the coffin, eyes wide open in the befuddled innocence of youth.
She did not go. She couldn't.
And a shadow fell over the desert, and a black- gloved hand snatched the glimmer of gold, and she looked up, though she knew she could not bear what she would find.
The woman whose name she did not know regarded her in silence.
<A circle repeating...>
<We are all connected.>
Scully woke up with a sharp cry.
The air conditioning in the motel room must have been broken, because it was making a strange thumping noise and the room was hot. Heat...Scully's mind worked quickly...it was hot, and that was why she had dreamt of the desert. She repositioned the pillow under her head, glancing briefly at the digital clock on the night stand. Sat up again. It was too hot to sleep.
Pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, she padded outside into the hall. Waking Mulder was out of the question - he was no doubt in the grip of his own troubled dreams, and she would leave him to them.
It was four in the morning, after all.
The highway outside the motel shimmered with a pale luminescence, a gleaming blade slicing the flat earth in half. Her eyes followed it, tracing the lightning paths of headlight beams. Not a single light shone from any window in the dark buildings that dotted the landscape. It was Scully and the midnight truckers, the only ones mad enough to be awake, awake enough to be mad.
The footsteps behind her were so quiet she did not hear them. It was the scent of cigarette smoke that alerted her to the presence of another.
"There are no chance meetings, no coincidences," the husky voice did not seem incongruous with the solitude before dawn. "Everything happens for a reason. Wouldn't you agree, Dana?"
She shuddered almost imperceptibly at the sound of a match being struck. "You never struck me as a fatalist." Her own tone was low, barely a whisper.
"People change. When circumstances demand they do so." A pause. The shadow crept closer. "I'm here as a favour, Agent Scully."
Scully swallowed hard. "A favour to whom?"
"You need me. Otherwise you'll go nowhere on this case."
"Perhaps I would prefer that to-"
A slight smile. "To what? Viola Targrosse was not the first woman to die like this."
"I'm not surprised."
"No...you've never been one to underestimate us. It's been a well-kept secret until now. This has been going on for months."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I know something else. Something that will surprise you."
Scully turned towards the shadow. "And what is that?"
"Viola Targrosse was pregnant. So were the others."
The bright glare of a passing truck flashed across the shadow's features, turning them a deathly white. Unmoved, Scully continued to stare. "Are you making a confession?"
"We had nothing to do with the murders."
"We?"
"I was hoping for a warmer welcome than this."
"You're out of luck."
"That's unfortunate." The orange ember of the shadow's cigarette bobbed once, then was tossed carelessly to the ground. "Well, good evening, in that case. I hope Assistant Director Kersh is...understanding...in this matter." The figure started to walk away.
"Wait." Scully felt a heat flush her face, and her hands were suddenly cold, trembling. She tried out the word tentatively - she had been so afraid before. "Isis."
Slowly, her erstwhile informant turned towards her, dark eyes shining against a background of stars. "Dana."
Scully drew a quick intake of breath, then said, "Welcome back."
Isis nodded somberly. "That's a start," she said.
And disappeared into the night.
End 2/8
Only Darkness (3/8) by Ashlea Ensro morleyphile@yahoo.com disclaimers in part one
CHAPTER III: UN FIL DI FUMO
"Un bel di, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo sull'estremo confin del mare E poi la nave appare..." -- Puccini, _Madama Butterfly_
I hear steps behind me, but I do not turn around until we are well out of the reach of both sight and sound from Dana Scully. When I do turn, my gun is drawn.
"Who sent you?"
Levi backs away slightly. "I already told you."
"If that's true, you shouldn't be so damn careless. It'll get you killed someday."
"You've kept things from me."
Satisfied that he is too inept to be on any sort of assassination mission, I begin walking again. "That shouldn't come as a shock."
"It's not just the killer, is it?"
The smoker was right; I should just shoot the little bastard.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're here for a different purpose. *They* are here for a different purpose."
"They?"
"Mulder and Scully."
I light a cigarette. I remember at some point resolving to quit, but the tedium of the past few months has given me little else with which to occupy my hands.
"What about them?"
"Why?"
"Adam..." He glances up as I say his name. "You're not making any sense."
"Why are you helping them find the killer?"
"What makes you think I would do something like that?"
"That *is* what you're doing, isn't it? Why we're here?"
"I know why I'm here. I'm not exactly sure why you're here."
"The woman who was killed, Viola Targrosse...why not just dispose of her body like the others? Invent a cover story, handle the matter internally?"
"They've taught you well."
"I thought it was policy."
I blow out a puff of smoke. "Policy just changed."
Levi's round blue eyes narrow only slightly. "Because of him?"
"Please, Mr. Levi. Be more specific."
"The man who smokes the cigarettes."
Under other circumstances I might have laughed. "You think he changed our policy?"
Levi keeps walking, his gaze picking out the shape of every shadow. "No," he says slowly, "I think he's working against policy."
"I wouldn't make such accusations if I were you."
"I've heard rumours."
"You shouldn't listen to them." I toss the cigarette into the field, stop, grind at it with the heel of my boot. "Mr. Levi?"
"Yes?"
"He...and I...are in a better position to know the policy, or to change it, as the case may be, than you are. Don't forget that."
Another furtive glance. "I'll keep it in mind."
He may not have much knowledge of the chain of command, but he has the language down pat, the means of stating one thing while saying another. They learn fast these days. It took me years to master Consortium-speak.
We walk in silence for awhile. The motel is not far away, and it is a pleasant evening for walking.
"Levi...that's a Jewish name, isn't it?"
He looks puzzled. "My family was never very religious."
I smile slightly. "You're lucky. You know who the Levites were? One of the tribes of Israel..."
"I think I read something about it, somewhere." His voice sounds very young, very small in the darkness.
"One of their duties was to mop up the blood of animals after ceremonial sacrifices."
"Your point?"
"I was making conversation."
"Is that all you think I'm good for? Mopping up blood after the organization's sacrifices?"
"That's what you're doing, isn't it?"
"And what are you doing, then?"
I light a new cigarette. "I wish I knew."
And we walk back to the motel.
***
She was still shaking when she reached the motel. Scully passed by Mulder's room, glancing at the crack under the door, glowing faintly from an inner light. Her breath a slow exhale of relief, she rapped on the door frame quietly.
"Yeah?" His voice sounded muffled.
"Mulder, it's me."
A pause, then the door swung open. "I didn't think you were up." His hair was tousled, but he was still dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing that day, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. She saw his laptop, a square blue glow in the dim light of the motel room.
Following her glance, he said, "I was doing some background research on Viola Targrosse's son. I don't think he's involved."
"I don't think so either."
He motioned for her to sit down. She slumped bonelessly on the bed, transfixed by the computer screen.
"You're probably right," His words stunned her. "We're wasting our time here."
"No...I..." Scully looked around the room, but no object existed which would offer her any support. She folded her hands in her lap, then reconsidering, readjusted the chain around her neck. "I came here to tell you the opposite. I think we should stay longer."
He appeared as startled by her statement as she had been by his. "What did you find out?"
"Nothing...not really. But...I have a feeling."
A quirk of a smile. "A hunch, Scully?"
"You could say that." She paused, her next words deliberate. "You haven't checked to see if there were any other similar cases in recent months, have you?"
"That was one of the first things I did. There are no records of any previous incidents."
"Oh."
"Why?"
"I was...uh..." She looked away. "Just wondering."
"What's wrong, Scully?"
Her gaze swung towards him. "Mulder, there's something I never told you."
"Wh-" His voice was cut off by the ring of his cell phone. "Dammit." He picked it up. "Mulder."
She watched him as he listened for a few seconds. He mouthed the word, "Kersh," at her.
Scully winced inwardly. They were going to be taken off the case. They could not gain a half-step in front of the faceless men that controlled their lives before the enemy took two. It was the way things had always been - although this time she wondered if they would have the freedom to push ahead regardless.
If they would have the drive to persevere this time.
Somehow, she doubted it.
He hung up. "He wanted to know if we've named any suspects yet."
Scully blinked up at him. "And?"
"That was all."
"He's not taking us off the case?"
"Why should he? It's just the jerk-off assignment he loves to give to us. Now...what were you going to tell me before?"
Dark eyes in a haunted and lined face sifted through her memory.
"Just...nothing..." She trailed off. "Try to get some sleep, okay?"
He smiled and nodded, and he did not press it any farther.
***
Scully blinked, shading her eyes from the sunlight streaming through the window as she awoke, the blinds too translucent to keep the morning from seeping into her room. Groaning, she forced herself to stand, staggering gracelessly towards the bathroom.
The sink was rusted around the drain, the mirror cracked at one corner. She had stood in a hundred bathrooms of a hundred motel rooms across the country, staring into a face that only grew progressively wearier. This one was no different. Always the threat of the unexplained, the shadow lurking behind the shower curtain, the knocking against the frosted glass of the window.
Six years of working with Mulder could have brought out the primal bogeyman fear in anyone.
But then there were those cases where the bogeyman seemed like a breath of fresh air. When the threat that lurked behind every step had a human face, dressed in the business suit of the most mundane of men, whispering soft words that betrayed a higher purpose. A more subtle, elusive danger.
She had come to Idaho expecting the bogeyman. She was not prepared for this.
Not now. Not after everything that had happened; she could not stand more mind games, more heartbreak. They did not even have the flimsy shield of the X-Files to wield.
<What am I doing here?>
She wondered, absently, how much Kersh knew. Whether he was Their lapdog too. He was cruel enough to be, certainly.
Scully wished she knew, one way or the other.
Half an hour later, Mulder was at her door.
***
The drive out to the crime scene was only ten minutes, but it was a painful ten minutes, with Mulder steering with one hand and rotating the dial with the other, trying desperately to find a station that wasn't playing country music. Apparently, he trusted Scully with his life, but not with finding a decent radio station. She smiled a little at this, watching the blur of yellow cornfields rush past them.
Casson met them outside the house, his squarish face twisted in an unreadable expression.
"Is something wrong?" Scully asked as she approached.
"You could say that." He glanced towards the house. "I just got a call. Ted Targrosse is dead."
"The victim's son?" Mulder asked.
"It was a stroke, apparently, although he did seem a bit young for it." Casson shrugged. "Guess you don't have any other leads?"
"Not as of yet." Mulder put his hand on Scully's arm, guiding her inside the shell of the house. "How do we get rid of that guy?" he whispered.
She smirked. "It's his jurisdiction..." She couldn't take her eyes away from the bloodstain on the wall. "The son wasn't exactly a suspect."
Mulder nodded. "He was all we had."
She swallowed. Wondered if she should take the risk. "He was a diversion," she said in a low voice.
The comment caught Mulder's attention immediately. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
She was quiet for a moment. "His name was brought up as a pretense. To have this case transferred to Domestic Terrorism."
Scully felt her partner's hand on her shoulder, turning her slightly to force her to look up at him. "Transferred from where?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.
"The X-Files Division." By the expression on his face, she knew she did not need to elaborate, but she did so, if only to convince herself. "There is no official cause of death, no motives, no suspects, not even a body."
"I know..." He glanced briefly at the charred wall. "I thought so too, but I didn't think you would be the one to bring it up. The question is why."
She shook her head. "The question is by who."
A faint amusement sparkled in his eyes. "You've been working with me too long, Agent Scully."
"We shouldn't talk here." She glanced around. This must be how Mulder felt most of the time, she thought. "And if I hear * one* 'secret squirrel' comment from you..."
"What do you know?"
Scully shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Not here."
His tone was softer, graver. "What do you know?" he repeated.
"That we're being watched."
"By who?"
A pause. Their gaze met again, and then she looked away.
"Ah, shit."
"We have a choice, Mulder. We go back to Kersh and tell him that there's no leads, that the case is closed - it might even have been a gas explosion - and we let it lie. And that might be the best thing to do. Or...we follow it, and take whatever comes."
He laughed. "You should know the answer to that by now."
"Then we walk out of here and act as though nothing happened. As if we know nothing. We'll get some samples and send them to McAlpine in the lab, and let Casson finish up his investigation."
"And then we track your lead."
"Who says I have a lead?"
Another pause. Scully shrugged. Knelt down to pick up a piece of charred wood in her gloved hand.
Pretended as if nothing was going on.
***
"They're smart," Levi comments.
I resist the urge to reach for another cigarette. "Not smart enough, it seems."
"You've given them a lot, haven't you?"
I reply with silence. It isn't any of his business. "You want a cigarette?" I ask finally.
"I don't smoke."
For the first time I allow myself to smile. "That's good, Mr. Levi. Adam."
"Huh?"
"It's a nasty habit. Causes lung cancer, you know."
He squints. "Is that it?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Is that why you're being so careless?"
"I'm far from careless."
He thinks he understands it all, the little fool. He thinks he knows me, when with each passing moment I realize how little anyone knows about anyone else.
I exclude myself from that count, of course. I know far too much.
About everything.
"You're dying," he says softly.
"We're all dying, Adam," I reply, then, "Yes."
"Of cancer?"
"Something far more deadly." I think of the photograph of my daughter tucked in my wallet - somehow I can feel the weight of it, dragging me into the grass. "It wouldn't be anything you would have heard of. It's something rather unique to my condition." I cock my head in his direction. "They told you, didn't they? About what I am."
"Of course."
I nod. "You've been careful not to make physical contact with me. I noticed that."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"I've seen it before, in other cases. It's what happens when you bear the burden of everyone else's memories. Sooner or later, the pressure is too much to stand. And then it kills you. Except in my case, it's sooner rather than later."
"I'm sorry to hear that." The tone of his voice is flat. False. I suppose I shouldn't care, really. "Does *he* know?" A pause, when I don't respond. "Your lover...the Cancerman."
"I was unaware that it was general knowledge." Not that they don't know, all those faceless grey men. Of course they know - they are in the business of knowing these things. I could never assume that they would be unaware of a colleague's vulnerabilities. Though I am surprised that Levi knows - he seems too low on the food chain for that.
"No," I say finally, "He doesn't know." I wish the boy wouldn't gape like that - he looks like an idiot. "You probably shouldn't call him that either."
"But you're not sick, are you?"
Should I be touched? "Not yet."
"How do you know?"
"Levi?"
"Yeah."
"Do you know what happens to people who ask too many questions?"
He shuts up fast. Good. I knew he was a smart boy.
"What now?" He can't resist asking another question, it seems.
"I believe it's time I paid our agents a visit," I reply, "Both of them."
End 3/8