"Hurt you? Maybe I am laughing at you.
If I am laughing, it's out of sorrow."

"Antigone," Translation by R.E. Braun. Lines 678-679. Used without permission.
 

BYERS:

October 14, 2001
 

Four days until zero hour.

I'm looking forward to it, yes. I'm happy, I'm excited, I'm glad it's happening.

I'll be just as glad to see it be over.

When we were first assembling the idea of the wedding, I felt the wedding planner was a frivolous notion. I could not for the life of me understand Caroline's insistence that we use an outside source.

All I can say is that I'm grateful for her foresight. I don't think there is any way that I could have handled moving, starting a new semester, trying to make some nominal efforts at TMB, dealt with Frohike being ill, and planning a wedding all at the same time. We were unable to palm off the other tasks, but having Nicole do the wedding has been a lifesaver.

We're in our final appointment tonight, tying up some of the remaining details. Nicole overlooks nothing. She is a fanatic, down to the last candle on each table. This is why we appreciate her so much. She's concerned about the food, having never tasted Genie's cuisine, but we assure her that that won't be a problem. Most caterers give a tasting beforehand, something Genie didn't offer. We are unconcerned. We only hope that there will be enough to keep everyone satisfied, and that's probably a foolish concern. Genie does quantity right along with quality.

The tables will have fishbowls containing autumn flowers, and the candles will match. White linen tablecloths with rust-colored napkins. Juliet's people all have their dresses. I have yet to see Juliet's gown, but I've seen the ones for the members of her party-a deep russet color in a simple style. Elegant yet unpretentious-rather like Juliet herself.

My party appears to be well-assembled. I've e-mailed Mulder asking him if he's certain that his tuxedo is in order. He assures me that everything is taken care of, why am I being so anal about it?

Why? If you knew Mulder, you'd understand why. I have nightmares of him appearing in his white Elvis jumpsuit, greeting guests and ushering them to their seats with the classic 'thank you very much' as only Presley could pull it off.

I tell myself that there is no way Dana would ever permit this to happen. She can be formidable in her will, and she knows some physician tricks as well to reinforce it.

Of course, this is assuming that she's aware of what he's up to, which if this were in fact the case, I doubt very much he would make an announcement to her. In certain areas between Mulder and Dana, apology is better than permission.

We're sitting in Nicole's office, which resembles Frohike's in its organized confusion. The place never looks as if it gets attention, but ask her to find something, and her finger is on it.

She looks very tired this evening. I ask her if she's all right.

"I'm fine. But I just found out, I'm pregnant."

Juliet smiles. "You know that we are as well."

"I know. But I hate to upstage my clients."

Juliet laughs. "Don't be silly. I think it's wonderful."

"It'd be more wonderful without the morning sickness. Which is a misnomer, since I have it morning, noon and night."

"Juliet's been very fortunate so far." And she has. I felt so terrible for Dana the other night, looking tired and worn and pale, contrasted with Juliet, who is radiant and luscious and healthy.

"Who are you seeing for prenatal?" Juliet asks her.

"No one yet, I just found out. I know this sounds off the wall, but I think what I'd really like is a home birth."

"I don't think that sounds off the wall. We're doing the same thing," Juliet says to her.

At this point, I'm an outsider. While home birth does involve the presence of the father, particularly at the main event, there's just something about it that is the private domain of women. They have their own language for it. There's a rapport there that try as we might-and I'll admit, frequently we don't-men just will never have.

I can't decide if Mother Nature is a bitch or a goddess in view of this fact. Maybe she's both.

Juliet and Nicole talk for some time, and finally, it's up to me to cut the conversation short-I have work that needs attention at home, I'm tired, and I'm also beginning to feel awkward with nothing to contribute. Also, I know, I'm a Neanderthal in this way, but there is something about the openness with which women can discuss things physical and emotional that makes men squeamish. At least this man, at any rate. I can feel myself turning pink at several points in their exchange, even though I have not once been addressed directly.

Let's face it. I'm hopeless.
 

I've got to get all of this done. I need to see everyone this week, make certain that no loose ends are sticking out. I've got a stack of research papers to grade from my seminar that I haven't even touched-and I promised I would have them back this week. Everything needs to be in order by noon on Friday, which is when I'm leaving campus and not returning for ten days.

I'm looking forward to the wedding being over, but I can't wait for the honeymoon to start.

We're going to spend eight days and seven nights on Santa Margarita Island, which is a small Caribbean island off the coast of Peru. It has but one resort, and has yet to be overrun by tourists. Ally and Langly may enjoy the Mexican Riviera, but if you ask me, it's far too overpopulated to be romantic. One of the essential elements of intense romance for me is seclusion. Santa Margarita offers it in droves, which is about the only thing they offer in droves, aside from miles of secluded beach, golden sun, and calm turquoise waters.

Of course, who said anything about seeing the beach? We'll enjoy it, provided we get there-and if we don't, all the better.

Juliet is clicking away at her work for Luanne Russell. She's been frustrated with it lately. Juliet is herself a most gifted programmer-security analyst-hacker-and she's been daunted. I've said I would help her but I'm so swamped with my own work that I've been unable to make good on my promise. And it's her intention to have this particular phase of the project wrapped up by Thursday night. She has important things to do on Friday, like get her hair and nails done, have a massage, enjoy
some aromatherapy.

First things first. Check my e-mail to see if I have any panicking messages. There are none that require immediate attention, thank God. I then shift to my personal account and see if anything has come in. There's one from Langly, asking me to contact him about an FTP upload when I get a moment.

When I get a moment is the operative phrase here. And it doesn't look as if that will happen soon. I groan, staring at the stack of papers in front of me screaming 'grade me.'

Right at the moment I'm tempted to just let everyone's effort receive a resounding 100 points-a sort of let's not and say we did moment.

No, these are PhD candidates, and they live for feedback. There are the occasional ones that are content to see you once per quarter, and only when you seek them out and not vise versa, but they are the exceptions, not the rule. Lack of commentary will arouse something on the order of civil insurrection.

I pull the first one, and I am sorely disappointed. There's no intellectual rigor in this paper, nothing substantive to answer that all-important question in research: 'So what?' The arguments are unconvincing, and there's so little proof here it's pathetic. This could be a freshman writing assignment for the quality it exemplifies. It reads a lot more like polemic than research. And since I'm not in the mood to grade papers, and I have to, I let this student have it. They want feedback, I'll give them
feedback.

The second one is not significantly better. It's a passionate paper, and I know that the young lady in question is strong in her beliefs and her politics, but she does little to serve the purpose of intellectual discourse here. The sad thing is, unlike the first paper, it has the potential to be an excellent work. It needs of course more supporting evidence, and some careful coding could eliminate some of the organizational difficulties she's experiencing, but above all, she needs to do more fieldwork, and in doing more fieldwork, needs to frame her questions in a more open-ended fashion as to not arrive at a foregone conclusion. I think this work can be salvaged,
but not without a great deal of effort on the candidate's part.

Juliet stands up finally and puts her hands on my shoulders, beginning a slow, gentle massage. I hadn't realized how tense I was until she began this action. Her fingers are long, her motions soothing. And I find myself melting against her as she continues this. I had no idea how much tension I was carrying in my back before this, but apparently it's far more than I suspected.

"You coming to bed?" She asks me.

"Soon. I'm going to go through these two papers one more time and see if I can find any redeeming value to them." Never rely on your first read. It will tell you things, but not everything. It's mandatory you read a second time.

"I'm tired, so if you don't mind, I'm going to turn in."

"Are you all right? It's pretty early, isn't it?"

She laughs. "John, it's 11:30!"

Time flies when you're having fun. Or not.

"Let me see if I can get through the second one. That one I can at least look at again without having the wild urge to expurgate."

She laughs, her deep, rich musical Juliet-laugh. "John, was I as bad as you when I was in academia?"

"You were worse."

"I was afraid of that." Juliet was a demanding professor, and had little patience for slackers in her tutelage. But she's always indicated a strong desire to avoid being known as a stuffy academic.

I don't think that's ever been a problem for her. Now for me, that's another story.

She leans over to kiss me and I sneak my hand to her belly. I know there's no bump there yet, but the idea that our baby is lurking in there is exciting and terrifying all at once.

"You think it's a boy or girl?" She asks me.

"No idea. Just so it's healthy and has the correct number of parts, and then I'll be happy."

"I think this will be a very healthy baby, and we'll be a very happy, healthy family."

I lean my head against her breast-now as of the last few days, I've detected some changes there, and they definitely have appetizing possibilities. I'm about to rethink my position on this individual's research paper when the electronic shrill of the phone interrupts us.

"Shit." Juliet voices exactly what I'm thinking. Phone calls at this hour are never good news.

And it better not be Mulder, or I'll strangle him.

"Yes, he's here. Are you all right, sir?" She covers the microphone and mouths, your dad.

"Let me speak to him." I motion for her to give me the phone, she kisses me quickly and then leaves me to the call.

"Dad?"

"John. How are you?"

This does not sound like my father. My father is forever confident, cool, unshakable.

Only now, he indeed sounds shaken, not stirred.

"I'm well, thank you...I was just grading some papers...is everything all right?"

He swallows a hard breath, which is audible. "No, it's not. That's why I'm calling. John, I realize it's late, and this being only a few days prior to your wedding-"

"What's going on, Dad?"

"John, please do not take this the wrong way-"

"Dad, just tell me what's up. Please, sir." I correct my impatience. Even in what appears to be his agitated state, he's likely to chide me on my lack of manners and control.

"Is everything all right with you and Juliet?"

"Seems to be. Why?"

"Have you had...any unusual incidents lately?"

I hesitate here. Yes, there certainly was an unusual incident recently, the result of which was a major investment in bulletproof thermapane glass. But do I want to tell him this?

"Why do you ask, sir?"

"Well, I arrived home approximately an hour and a half ago...and when I arrived, I found that my home had been shot up."

I feel my veins freeze over and my breath grow hard.

"Was...anyone hurt?"

"John...Stasia was killed."

Stasia, the maid. Oh hell.

"I'm...sorry, Dad. Truly I am."

"I regret Stasia's circumstances. But my real concern is what is happening with you and Juliet. Has there been anything out of the ordinary that has occurred at your home or work?"

"Actually...we had our bedroom window shot out not long ago."

I think I hear a muttered 'Oh my god.' "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, Dad, we're fine."

"What kind of precautions are you taking?"

"Well, we did install bulletproof glass after the...incident."

"Good. John, I'm going to send some of my guards-"

"Dad, that's not necessary."

"I disagree. They'll be sent to your home first thing in the morning."

"Dad, what is this about?"

"I don't know. But the same thing happened to Katherine and Craig. God forbid anything ever happen to them or the children."

"Kat had this happen?"

"She did."

"I spoke with her on Sunday. She didn't say a word."

"John, I went to her home after it happened. And happen it did."

Kat must have been in one hell of a state to call Dad. Kat is normally a calm woman, not given to knee-jerk reactions of any type, and particularly disinclined to let Dad know.

Just when I was beginning to feel safe again...

"I wish she'd said something."

"I think she's doing everything she can, but I've dispatched 24-hour security to her home and to Craig's office. He's received some very odd threats lately."

"Craig's a dermatologist!"

"Craig's a dermatologist with a side job. Craig's been performing abortions for women who've requested them."

"I didn't think they needed the money."

"They don't. Craig isn't charging."

"And I had no idea he had any knowledge of gynecology!"

"Apparently he learned enough in medical school to do them...which is how he supported himself and Katherine during his residency, I've come to find out."

"Kat was working then."

"Enough for them to live on, but not enough to cover Craig's medical school expenses and debts. Craig is not a wealthy boy, as you know."

Craig's not from a poor family, to be sure. Solid middle class, the son of two high school teachers. But not enough to help him finance.

"And to his credit, Craig never asked me for a damn red cent, and neither did Katherine. Now I wish they had. He was so damn determined to show me that he didn't marry Katherine for her money-"

"He didn't, you know." Craig is many things, but Machiavellian is not one of them.

"And I never knew it till now. Goddammit, why didn't they tell me?"

"Do you think these...incidents have anything to do with this?"

"I have no idea. If it were only Craig and Katherine, I'd say yes. But why you and Juliet? Why me? Why my housekeeper, who didn't have a clue?"

"You say Craig is doing this now?"

"I do. Began with one of his acne patients. Came in pregnant, she was apparently in quite a state, and Craig asked her what was wrong. She told him. Craig decided he was a man with a mission."

"Somehow, I never think of Craig that way." Craig, to me, is an easygoing, good-natured guy who likes being with his family and a good game of golf. Medicine to him is a way to make a comfortable living, not an obsession. I think that's why he took up dermatology.

"Neither did I. Craig's not much of a talker. I finally pulled it out of him what was going on. I asked him to stop."

"And he said?"

"He said no. And the worst part is, Katherine supports him!"

Kat was always pro-choice...and my little sister is one to put her money where her mouth is.

I shudder.

"Did Kat know what he was doing during his residency?"

"She did, and she endorsed it back then. Of course, they weren't having their home shot at then!"

What frightens me most is that being shot at will be insufficient to deter Kat. And what doesn't deter Kat, doesn't deter Craig. Kat has always been the dominant one. He may make the money, but she calls the shots, and both of them have always seemed happy with that system.

"This might not be what this is about at all, Dad."

"I just said that. You were listening, weren't you?"

I'm somewhat encouraged. This sounds more like my father.

"Yes, sir, I was."

"Good, because I'm not convinced that there isn't more to it."

I swallow hard. The moment of truth is about to arrive.

My father has no idea as to what my avocation has been for the last dozen years. As far as he knows, I'm a university professor, now a department chairman, and that's what I do.

It is what I do...but it's not all I do.

He's never known this. I've often imagined that perhaps he has some sort of idea, or perhaps has even sent his spies out after me...

No. I honestly don't believe he knows what it is we do.

And I'm not ready to force the entire weight of revelation upon him...but I do want him to be aware that there are certain...resources at his disposal.

"Dad? Um, would you like me to do some...investigating?"

This will be the telltale reaction.

He splutters scoffingly.

He does not know.

"John, I've got far more resources at my disposal than you do...what the hell makes you think you could find out anything more than what my people could?"

"Well...it's not just me...I have certain...friends...who have some unusual talents."

He's silent.

I cannot believe it. I have rendered my father speechless. Why he is, I'm not sure. Shock at the implications of the statement I just made? Shocked at my boldness in asserting such a claim? Or just in shock from all that has transpired?

"What kinds of...talents do these 'friends' of yours have?" He sounds cynical, disbelieving.

This is actually somewhat comforting. I'd be terribly concerned if my father bought into this wholeheartedly. I'd worry that somebody had drugged his bourbon.

"Let's just say that they have ways of getting information via unconventional channels."

He hesitates.

"And what is your role in all this?"

Do I lie? Do I say I have nothing to do with it? Do I say I have peripheral participation? Or do I confess to having been one of the progenitors of the whole thing?

I'm momentarily silent.

"John...are you involved in any illegal activities? Because if you are, you damn better tell me now. I don't need any more surprises like I had with Craig."

"Well...some of the things we do...could be considered legally questionable. Most of them fall into the gray areas."

"And some of them are outright flouting of the law."

"That is possible, yes."

"John, don't give me this bullshit. I don't have time for it. And it could be problematic if you don't tell me the truth."

Problematic for whom?

And what truth does he wish to know?

"Dad...have you ever heard of a publication called 'The Magic Bullet'?"

"Never. What sort of publication is it?"

I forget. If it's not Forbes, Fortune, or the Wall Street Journal, he doesn't read it. Even the Sunday New York Times frequently escapes his notice, unless one of his staff brings something to his attention.

"What sort of publication...what we do is-"

"You're directly involved in this?"

"I'm...one of the editors."

"I see. How many editors do you have?"

"Three. Sometimes four." Michael is still primarily a contributor, but I think he proved himself equal to editor status over the summer. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

"And how long have you been in existence?"

"Twelve years, seven months."

I think I hear a sharp intake of breath.

"And what sort of...material do you deal with?"

"We...we do exposes. Government coverups, military black ops, corporate-"

He cuts me off. "Don't say another word."

"I thought-"

"Not now. Save it. I'll be down in the morning."

"I have to be at work tomorrow-"

"Fine. We'll meet there. Give me your office and building number."

As if five years old again, I relay the information, albeit a bit reluctantly.

"You don't have to do this, you know." I think I'd prefer for him to come down for any other reason. Well, almost any other reason.

"Yes, I do. I need some answers, and I'm willing to pay for them, and I'll get them any way I can." He pauses, and I think I hear him sigh. "Twelve years. How well do you know your...colleagues?"

"I know them very well. And I trust them." I should think after twelve years, I should know them.

"Good. Because I've had two children for nearly 38 years now, and I come to find out I don't know the first thing about them."

Is he angry? Maybe a little. Worried? Definitely. Probably as much for himself as for Kat and myself.

But I hear something else I don't think I've ever sensed before.

Regret.

I bid him goodnight and replace the phone in its cradle.
 

Any notions I had of doing a second read on the research papers I've already perused are tossed by the wayside. I don't want this night to go on any longer. And I'm just as nervous about the next day's approach.

The only thing left to do is crawl into bed next to my fiancee, a mere days from being my wife.

The light is on low in the bedroom, but has not kept Juliet from falling asleep. Her face is peaceful, gentle. Sleek dark hair falls on the pillow, long lashes brushing her cheeks, her lips slightly parted. The swell of her breasts appears just above the covers. And there's definitely a swell there; she's getting bigger.

Oh God. I'm responsible for her...and for the tiny life growing inside her.

I have to keep them safe. I have to protect them from anything that could harm them.

Watching Juliet, and our baby inside her, sleeping softly, I'm filled with intense tenderness...

And incredible fear.

I crawl into bed, praying that the warmth of her will chase the demons of the night away.

END OF PART 79