"For their grand schemes and bold words
the proud pay with great wounds..."

"Antigone," Translation by R.E. Braun. Lines 1532-1533. Used without permission.
 

BYERS:

October 15, 2001

I barely got any sleep; I shut off the alarm as I make my last fruitless attempt to close my eyes and give myself over to the slumber gods. Morpheus is not my friend right now.

The image in the mirror reminds me of the cost of this. My eyes are lined and rimmed in flaming red, every wrinkle I have is exacerbated, and my skin has a grayish cast to it. I'm going to look wonderful in my wedding pictures if this keeps up.

I'm about to step into the shower when the phone shrills. It's not even 6 a.m. This could only be my father.

I manage to grab the phone before it awakens Juliet. I'm hoping she was not disturbed by my restlessness during the night. I can't imagine how she wasn't, and this makes me feel guilty.

"Dad?" I pick up.

"No, this is Judy." His secretary, the only mortal that works the same hours as my father. "Your father is landing at BWI at 7:50 a.m."

Which means that he will be in my office sometime around 9 a.m., provided traffic is not any more snarled than is usual.

"Thank you, Judy." I replace the phone. Judy has no particular affection for me, nor I for her, and I don't wish to continue conversing with her, particularly at this hour and in my current condition.

Juliet must have been awakened by the phone after all; she pads into the hallway, rubbing her eyes. She's clad in her Tasmanian Devil oversized T-shirt. Juliet definitely has a childlike streak in her, an aspect of her I cherish, particularly in view of the fact that I have so little of it in me. I can be very childish, to be sure, which is not the same as being childlike.

But I am trying.

"Your dad?" She asks, covering her yawn with a fist.

"Uh-huh."

"Doesn't he ever sleep?"

"He thinks sleep is for the weak."

"Suppose he feels that way about food, too."

"No, he recognizes the value of a good meal for cutting a deal."

I hate how cynical I sound. For all I know, he could be coming with very charitable intentions.

Unfortunately, past experience, at least as I have perceived it, is so ingrained as to be automatic.

Maybe that's the problem. My perception.

When we were not speaking, there was a certainty to my perception. I knew what to expect, what to think, how to feel.

These days, I have no idea how I view my father. It's such a mess. And I hate mess, especially in the area of emotional perception.

All my life, I've strived for clarity...and the older I get, the muddier things become.

Juliet wraps a gentle arm over my shoulder. "Feel like a shower?"

"I was just about to take one."

"Feel like some company?"

Actually, I'm not really in the mood...but she looks so playful and so at the same time, so longing...I don't have the heart to say no.
 

I'm glad I didn't.

No, it's not one of those porn-movie classics this morning...but the body massage was simultaneously relaxing and invigorating.

And I get to enjoy the sight of her swelling breasts.

"How large do you think they'll get?" I ask her, and I can't help but feel a little mischievous.

She grins. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."

I'm looking forward to that. Unlike Frohike, I've never been much of a breast man; I'm more inclined to notice a woman's legs first. Juliet's current state, however, could do much to convince me to expand my horizons.

There's something so rich and earthy about her being pregnant. She's so radiant and alive. I've been told that pregnant women glow; Juliet certainly does.

I feel a little less uneasy by the time we've run out of hot water.
 

The relative relaxation I felt after showering with my bride-to-be dissipates more and more as I edge closer to my office. The traffic isn't helping; even at this hour, it moves at a painful crawl and in massive volume.

But I'm there before he is, for which I'm grateful. Now I'm trying to focus, think about what to move around for the day. I'd had a full day, packed to the gills, planned out. Somehow I don't think that's going to happen.

I decide that at this hour, and the way things are going, picking and choosing is not going to work. I e-mail everyone on my list and inform them that I will be unavailable all day.

I manage to get some other correspondence answered when he arrives, two Ving Rhames-look alikes accompanying him. He silently ushers them outside and orders them to close the door.

My own office, and the moment he steps into it, any semblance of authority I had vanishes.

"Nothing out of the ordinary last night?" My father is not given to small talk; he's accustomed to plunging right ahead into the task at hand.

"No...unless you characterize insomnia that way," I yawn.

"Not for me."

In that moment, it occurs to me that maybe part of the reason he doesn't sleep much is not that he chooses not to, but that he cannot. I wonder.

"I've dispatched two individuals to your home. They'll be on 24 hours, changing shifts after 8. No one leaves until the next shift has arrived."

"They're there already?" I haven't heard from Juliet on this.

"I notified your fiancee from the Airphone."

I see. One thing about my father, he's not shy about taking liberties...

Come on, Byers. Cut the man some slack. He's not the enemy...

In his own way, perhaps he has been trying to make amends. Perhaps this is another step in the process. As for his rather overbearing manner, well, he's nearly 70 years old...

Oh my god. He is nearly 70 years old. This is a sobering thought.

And right now, he looks it.

"What did you need to talk with me about?" I ask politely. I have no wish to be the one to upset things here. I will not succumb to exhaustion or suspicion or simple carelessness, I vow to myself. I will hear what he has to say.

"I came...to have you tell me what you can do."

I blink. "I'm sorry?"

I must be more tired than I thought.

"You were saying last night...that you have 'friends' with 'unusual talents.' Did you not say this?"

"I did. Yes, sir."

"I'd like to know if they could perhaps be of some assistance."

I hesitate here. My father's practices and politics are well-known to Frohike and Langly, and they're disagreeable to them. We did some exposes on his labor practices in Southeast Asia.

Right now, I'm grateful he's never seen those articles. And thinking about it, while yes, our expose was well-researched and legitimate, I wonder why I chose his concerns as opposed to any of the hundreds of others engaged in the same-and perhaps even more odious-activities.

Simple. I was angry. I did it to be hurtful.

And this in a way makes me very ashamed. Not of my work, but of my intentions.

"What sort of things would you like us to do?"

He hesitates. "I'm not going to be concerned with the particulars. The overall goal is to get these incidents in my plants to stop-"

"You've had more incidents?"

"A number of them, in the Asian plants and in the ones in the US."

I really have been out of it. Well, preoccupied, at any rate.

"I've had two managers killed in the last month."

"What were their positions?"

"Jules Rothberg was president of the lumber processing operation in Washington."

"Okay. And the other?" I'll try and get more particulars one each after identifying them.

"Nathan Washington. Head of manufacturing operations in Taiwan, plastics."

My head swims. These are both huge operations, thousands of employees, many confounding variables...

Fortunately, we do have friends, and fortunately, I'm at least conscious enough to realize it.

"This sounds like something that could be handled by Luanne Russell."

"I'm sorry?"

"A friend of ours. She runs a business that deals with industrial espionage, corporate insurrection, sabotage, things like that. Juliet does consulting for her, actually."

"How well do you know her?"

"Luanne is ex-FBI, specialized in computer related crimes. She now has her own firm." Right in our old offices, no less. "And she has a very capable...associate." I'm fairly certain Renegade would not want his identity revealed to my father, especially when you consider that Renegade has probably taken money from my father's corporate coffers. Renegade is not greedy. He never keeps the proceeds, but always transfers them to organizations he feels are in need of it.

Frohike, Langly and I have always drawn the line at raiding bank accounts and credit lines. We don't have any problem with getting free long distance (a practice known as phreaking, and I hate the term), or with visiting in places where we're definitely not invited. But we have a strange morality about other people's money, save for the fact that Frohike charges his 976 calls, magazine subscriptions and video purchases to Mulder's Visa. As far as Frohike is concerned, that's not stealing. That's payback. And I'll bet he hasn't done much, if any, of it lately.

Right now I don't care to get involved in a discussion of the morality of what we do. It's complicated, and sometimes I have a hard time justifying it even to myself.

"I'd like to see her." My father's turn of phrase is not so innocuous as it may sound. It is tactfully worded, but the intention is clear.

I will take him to see her now.

The Force must be strong in him. Or something.
 

We are able to reach Luanne. I tell her it's urgent, I need to see her immediately, and I have a potential client with me, may we come by?

She hesitates. Luanne does not like people to come to her offices. She chose our former location for its unlikeliness and its anonymity. And let's face it, what she does, it's best if her presence is elusive. What she does carries these days all the safety and security of professional assassination.

I promise her that the client's bona fides are not subject to question (even if I don't exactly feel this way myself, I'm not going to confess to this in front of my father). She agrees, albeit not without reluctance, to see us, and to see us as soon as we can arrive.

I'm grateful I cleared my calendar. Somehow I don't think I'll be back in my office today.
 

We take my father's limousine. You would think this would make us stand out in the neighborhood we will be visiting, but the only aspect of it that would make it stand out is its conservatism. No spoilers or hood ornaments. The pimps in the area like to make a statement with their cars.

When we lived there, we knew many of the pimps, and most of them seemed all right. It was a strange mix, that area, which meant that we blended in very nicely. The police officers and prostitutes, the drug dealers and the bodega operators, who were not always mutually exclusive-we knew most of them, and were on good terms with them. People minded their own in the old neighborhood, and our activities went utterly unnoticed.

I wonder how Luanne is doing in adapting to this environment.

The building looks-and smells-the same. We always had someone seeking shelter sleeping in the doorway. And as long as they minded their house manners, they would be undisturbed. There are still the stray cats roaming about, and they look well-fed and sleek. I wonder if it's Luanne who is doing the feeding; I don't know much about her personal life, but I do know she likes cats. She was an enthusiastic proponent of my gift of Tivvy to Juliet.

And the marvelous aroma of the cheesesteak place next door, even at this hour of the morning, grabs my nostrils and refuses to let go. Grilled meat and onions and peppers, melted cheese-I wonder if I could convince my father that there's no better restaurant in the area.

Looking around, I don't think that notion would be a hard sell, but he might prefer something more civilized. I decide that on my way out, even if he objects strenuously, I will get a takeout. I hadn't realized how much I missed this particular neighborhood delicacy till now. My mouth waters at the concept of a large, greasy cheesesteak on the fresh Italian rolls they always have, accompanied by the oiliest, crispiest fries I've ever encountered-they may be the only place left in the continental US that still fries their potatoes in beef fat. (I'm sorry, McDonalds' fries never tasted the same after they went to vegetable oil), and topped off with a real-ice cream chocolate shake. Heart attack in a sack for under five dollars. You can't beat it. And far tastier than Bertie's boiled Irish dinner in the pub across the street, although the Guinness is draft, not bottled. One of our old rituals was to have dinner from the cheesesteak place and then get drunk at Bertie's.

My father seems to have noticed it as well. "What's the smell?"

"The cheesesteak place next door."

He shakes his head. "I've not had a cheesesteak since I was a boy. I used to really enjoy them." He sounds...wistful?

And it's a tiny detail, but once again, illustrates how little I know of my father.

"We could...get some on the way out," I suggest hopefully. "They are excellent."

He eyes me skeptically. "You've been to this...restaurant?"

"Well, actually, yes."

"This seems a bit removed from where you reside."

"Well, the fact is, these very offices are where we used to live and work."

He stares at me in disbelief, but makes no comment beyond a subtle shake of the head.

He's not likely to comment on the slum-like setting; my father recognizes that not every enterprise should be located in a gleaming palace of glass and steel. In fact, he has been known as the god of cheap real estate, locating plants in seemingly undesirable locations because he was able to get the land for such a reasonable price. No doubt this tendency has been exacerbated by the use of global interlinked technology.

The door looks the same, and the buzzer has not been replaced. Luanne generally does not see clients in her office; no doubt she has no concerns as to what they think of her surroundings.

I hear the familiar unbolting of numerous locks. I'm slightly amused. She has no doubt had everything rekeyed, but she left all the deadbolts in place.

She greets us herself, clad in jeans and a blue and white Oxford shirt. And I notice that some of her more noticeable assets are not completely unnoticed by my father. Luanne is the daughter of a Presbyterian minister from Maine, and ironically, she developed early and voluptuously, making her an even more vulnerable target for commentary from her less-than-sympathetic classmates.

I hope they're eating their hearts out now. She is in her late forties, with thick blonde hair, today pulled back in a silver clip on each side, with light, freckled skin and the greenest eyes one could have without contact lens assistance. I know that she wears glasses, and that the eye color is real.

She motions us in, and I'm struck by the difference in the interior. Whereas we did very little in the way of esthetics while we were in residence, Luanne has gone the other route. The previously dingy, dark walls have been painted in a soothing cream color and she's added much in the way of ambient light. Thomas Kincade paintings grace the walls, and her furniture is, well, feminine in the extreme-chintz and Queen Anne styling in her wood pieces. She lives here, just as we did, but the place is clean and homey and cheerful.

Then again, she never did have to deal with Frohike and Langly as roommates. I'll bet the bathroom looks one hell of a lot better than it did when we lived here. From time to time, I miss being with them, but I don't miss being the only one that ever cleaned the bathroom. Had I left it up to them, the entire place would have been submerged in filth.

She is a consummate WASP, which means I'm well at ease with her. She explains to my father that she lives and works here, and that she rarely, if ever, receives clients here. She does not like her location known, and receives her mail in a P.O. box in another city, which she does not name. I happen to know it's Lanham, Maryland, but he will discover that soon enough. Luanne Russell's services are excellent, and she has a pricing framework to match. She does not work on the cheap. She doesn't have to, and she shouldn't. Her work is, as Juliet and I have discovered painfully, not without risk, and requires a great deal of diplomacy and technical
expertise. Those things cost. Sometimes dearly.

"Mr. Byers, please fill me in." I sense that my father is at ease with this woman who, while courteous in the extreme, is not given over to small talk and wasting time. Her time is money. A philosophy he can respect.

"I've experienced an unfortunate incident at my home in Scarsdale, New York."

She looks puzzled. "Scarsdale, New York? Mr. Byers, I don't want to make it appear that I'm trying to dismiss you, but Scarsdale is several hundred miles away, and I'm sure there are good investigators in New York City-"

"I need someone I can trust. Discreet, professional."

"I'm going to warn you up front that I'm not an inexpensive proposition."

I think of the comment Frohike once made about her. Easy, but not cheap. I should shut up now.

"Payment is not a problem."

She nods. "And then there's the nature of the job. I'll warn you right off that if I find that what you would ask me to do is in any way in conflict with my personal or professional ethics, I won't take the job."

"Understood."

"I see. Now, do you have any questions regarding my qualifications?"

"John has...outlined them for me."

She nods. She wouldn't expect otherwise.

"My home was shot at last night. During the shooting, my housekeeper was killed."

She frowns. "That's a police matter, Mr. Byers. I think you need to discuss it with them."

"That's been done already. I believe it's more complicated than that."

Luanne is tough to convince, but she is listening. "Go on."

"My daughter's home was shot at in similar fashion a little over a week ago. Thank God nobody was hurt."

"Were the police notified?"

"Yes, they were. I've posted 24-hour guard service at their home and at my son-in-law's place of business."

"That would seem prudent. What is the nature of your son-in-law's business?"

"He's a physician. Dermatologist."

She's puzzled. "It would seem unlikely that a dermatologist would be a target for a shooting. Unless somebody was really, really unhappy about their acne treatment, and even then, it doesn't make sense."

"He has a...side business, if you will."

"Doing what?"

"Performing pregnancy terminations."

She swallows. "I see. Abortion is now illegal in the state of New York, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are correct. Just as a curiosity, have you any idea how much money he is taking in from this business?"

"I believe he performs all services gratis."

Her eyes grow wide. "So it's not a business, so to speak. And I suspect his...reputation is spread primarily via word of mouth."

"I would assume so. And then, approximately a week ago, the same thing happened to my son and his fiancee here in Arlington, Virginia."

Now he has her attention. "Do you think this is related to your son-in-law's activities?"

"Possibly. But I don't believe that that is all of it."

"I see. Tell me, have you had anything unusual happen at any of your operations, Mr. Byers? Odd incidents, labor disputes in previously amenable settings, technical problems of an unexplained nature?"

"Well, yes, we have." He seems reluctant to admit this, but this is the reason you hire Luanne Russell.

She nods. She asks him to detail some of the incidents, and he gives thumbnail sketches of what has transpired at plants in North America and in Asia as well.

She's thinking. "What kind of investments do you hold, Mr. Byers?"

He hesitates. My father grew up believing it to be crass to discuss one's holdings. Not crass to be blatantly acquisitive, but crass to talk about it.

"I'll need your latest investment records, and any corporate records you can provide me with would be extremely helpful-memos, personnel records, the like."

"That's a lot of paperwork. I have over 50,000 employees globally."

She's picked up a Waterman pen and is tapping it against the arm of the sofa. Her yellow legal pad is balanced on her knee. "You realize then that I'm going to have to subcontract much of the work."

He looks alarmed. "That makes me rather nervous. Some of this material is highly sensitive."

"Which is why I choose my subcontractors very carefully." She switches her green gaze to me. "John, I'm going to need to get together with you and Langly and Frohike."

"I don't know if that's possible. Frohike is still recovering-" all right, he's gone back to work on TMB, but I'm not certain he's ready to enter this sort of world again -"and Langly has been working from home with a broken arm and pneumonia."

She's thinking. "I really have to be careful on this one. I'd still like to at least get their input on this. Do you think it'd be possible for all of us to meet, say, this evening?"

"I don't know. I'm going to have to get past their...gatekeepers first."

She smiles, for the first time. "Ah, you mean Allison and what's the name of Frohike's new lady?"

"Martha."

"Ah yes. Well, I can understand their perspective, but I think they can be convinced..."

At that moment, a tall, burly redheaded figure enters the room, clad in a plaid flannel shirt, aged Levis, and hiking boots. Gold half-glasses slide down his nose. He looks like Paul Bunyan, and he's equally legendary in my world.

This is K.C. Curtis, aka Renegade. I decide to let Luanne make the introductions, seeing as I'm not certain as to how she would like this handled.

"Mr. Byers, I would like you to meet my partner. He goes by Renegade." She motions to him.

And he catches me. "Byers! What are you doing here, you lousy little WASP wimp?" Renegade chuckles loudly at his own statement. He spends much of his life living by himself in an isolated cabin somewhere in the Rockies; social contact is something of a novelty for him.

"This is my father, James Arthur Byers," I introduce my father. I'm suddenly nervous. I enjoy Renegade's company and bantering immensely, but I'm not certain how this will play with my father.

"Was gonna ask who the stiff was. Hey, Lu? This the client you were talking about this morning?"

"One and the same." She nods to him.

When Luanne introduced Renegade as her partner, I wonder if my father caught on that the word partner in this case can be taken one of several ways.

"So what's the deal?" He asks her.

"I think we need to meet with some of our friends." Renegade knows who he means, and nods in assent.

"Got it," he says. "Be seeing you, Byers." He gets up and leaves the room.

My father's brow wrinkles. "You know this man?" He says to me.

"I do. He's...one of the very best." I don't care to elaborate on that, and a glimpse from Luanne warns me that I've gone as far as I can with impunity.

"So the next step is meeting with everyone." My father addresses Luanne.

"Yes. John, what's your schedule like for today?"

"Clear now." Thank God I cancelled everything.

"Good. If you would, please contact Frohike and Langly and request that we all meet sometime today. I'd like to get moving on this." She looks at my father again. "I'll draw up a contract in the meantime, and we'll discuss it before the meeting. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

This is our cue for dismissal.

Standing outside, my father presses his lips together. "Odd woman. But seems competent."

I almost burst out laughing. Luanne is very possibly the most conventional of all of us. But I stay silent.

"Where to now?" I ask my father.

He looks at me as I'd lost my brains on the sidewalk. "Why, the cheesesteak place, of course."

Yes, of course.

My brain does not want to function.

My body may be here, but my brain is on Santa Margarita Island.

Where I can't get soon enough.

END OF PART 80