"You, in my own home,
slunk like a viper, sneaking, sucked my blood..."

"Antigone," Translation by R.E. Braun. Lines 651-652. Used without
permission.
 

FROHIKE:

I know it sounds insane, but I'm so happy to be working again. I've been at it about a week now, and it may not be doing wonders for my heart or my ulcer, but it is making me feel connected again. Yes, electronically speaking, I'm linked to the world from my living room, but as I've said before, I'm a Luddite that way. I need to be out amongst the living.

Not that you'd call TMB a particularly social organization, although it's become more so in recent years. In the beginning, we were isolationist and solitary, but we did have each other. I could easily have become a hermit, and would have, had it not been for my two compadres, who always managed to find some way to disrupt my existence.

I could have become a hermit, but would I have been happy as one?

No. I don't think so. Especially not now.

After Dee died, I became something of an emotional recluse, more than I had ever been. I made certain I was among people and made some semblance of interaction. For a while, it was going through the motions, but after a time it became integrated, even if my interactions were very much limited to Byers, Langly, Mulder, and people on e-mail.

Martha has changed something in my life. Something I didn't remember feeling before, but now that it has returned, I can name it.

It is: I don't feel lonely anymore.

You may ask, how can you feel lonely with two persons living in the same small space you inhabit?

It's very easy. But at least it was pain with a purpose.

Which has become more important than ever, even amidst pleasant developments in my private life. I'd like to say there's no more distress in my life anymore. That all is well, that the heavens have opened up, the angels sing, and nirvana has been reached.

Not even. Not after cruising on line all morning.

I hear keys in the door. I'm wondering who's here right now-Byers is at work, Michael is at school, Langly is in bed...

Make a correction on that last one. Langly is not in bed.

He's looking a little better, has the sling off, which means he's got a shirt on in a normal fashion. The T-shirt of choice for today reads 'Arrested Development.'

I think, how appropriate.

"What're you doing out here? You're supposed to be in bed. How'd you convince your wife to let you out?"

"Didn't have to. It's Wednesday, she's working for Scully today."

Ah, yes. I just finished downloading her latest batch of data. I haven't read it yet, but I'm incredibly curious as to what she is learning.

"Where are your shoes?" I demand. He's wearing a pair of sandals, and it's 52 degrees outside.

"I'm wearing shoes."

"No, you're wearing sandals, not shoes."

"Semantics."

"No, you idiot, it's not semantics, it's you! You are planning to get over this someday, aren't you?"

"Hey, I'm better."

"Not better enough yet."

"Am so. I can breathe and it doesn't hurt too much."

"Wow, man, that's progress."

"Did you look over that stuff Ally brought out this morning?"

"What stuff? Oh, the zips. Not yet. That's next."

"Well, could you? I kind of would like to know if it works."

He's still coughing-not as badly, but he's still rampantly congested. And he's supposed to stand up with Byers on Saturday, along with the rest of us.

"You could've called from inside to tell me that!"

"Didn't wanna. I miss my old desk."

I know the feeling, pal. But still...

I have leverage, I discover. "I will look this over...on the condition that you get your sorry ass back in bed and take a nap."

"I got a disk sweep to do. And they come at 1, so I gotta get that done."

"And that takes what? Ten minutes?"

"Yeah, about that."

"You have everything else for them to pick up?"

"Well, duh! I wouldn't be sweeping my disk if I didn't!"

"Fine. Then get your ass back in the house and go take a nap, if you expect me to oblige you in any way, shape or form. Understood?"

He stands up, gives a 'sieg Heil' salute, and says, sarcastically, "Jahwohl, kommandant."

"Where's your son?"

"At Jaleel's aunt's house."

"Good. Now you have no excuses. Get in there, and I will be checking on you."

He sticks his tongue out at me as he leaves.

Kids.
 

I'm about to insert the first of Langly's zips when the phone rings. We don't get a lot of phone calls; e-mail is the preferred route of communication. And frequently, phone calls are not good news. I feel my guts lurch, just a little.

Oh, stop it, you old fool.

I set the voice distorter and turn on the tape. "Lone Gunmen."

"Frohike, turn off the tape."

Seeing as it's Byers, I'll do it. Were it Mulder, that'd be another story.

"What's up, buddy?"

"Frohike, we need to set up a meeting."

"So? When do you get off? I'll be here probably into evening."

"Well, it's not exactly like that...I'm not at work right now."

"So where are you? Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, you fool?"

"No, no, not about the wedding, nothing like that."

My guts unknot slightly.

"Okay. So when do you want to do this?"

"Well, is Langly there?"

"Just sent the poor idiot back to bed. You do want him there on Saturday, don't you?"

"Well, we could do it there."

"All right. What time?"

"Say in about two hours?"

"Works for me. Two hours would be-" I check my watch-"one o'clock. Can you make it 1:30? Langly's spooky pals cruise here around 1."

"We can do that. And Luanne Russell will be here. Possibly Renegade as well."

"Renegade's here already? Wedding's not for four days. And he likes to avoid civilization."

"He's here. I saw him."

"Really. Well, I'm looking forward to seeing that dickrag. Is something wrong, Byers?" He sounds edgy. Granted, he's four days from becoming a married man, which can make anyone in their right mind edgy, but this is more so than usual for that situation.

"Um...there's another person in attendance."

I don't like the sound of that.

"Who is it?"

"Well...it's my father."

Now I really don't like it.

"Your father. We're meeting with your father."

"That would be correct." There's an unmistakable quaver in his normally calm, modulated voice.

Jesus.

"Do you care to tell me what this is all about?"

"When we get there, Frohike. When we get there. Where is Michael, by the way? We might need him."

"Michael is in school, and that's where he'll stay till he's done, and he's not getting involved in any of this, at least not yet. Not unless I say so." Fine. Call me an overbearing, middle-aged, potbellied, balding, dimwitted has-been, but on matters relating to my son, I am the all-knowing, merciless God of his universe, whether he or anyone else likes it. Or not.

"All right. But we're...never mind. I'll explain it all when I get there."

"You better, Byers. You better."

Goddamn right he better.
 

I decide to go in and spy on Langly. I told him no nap, no work. And I mean it. And if he thinks he can pull one over on me, he's got to be kidding.

I unlock the house. It's quiet here, which is extremely unusual. I don't even hear the television in the living room, which seems to never go off here.

I tiptoe down the hall. If he's asleep, I don't want to wake him, and if he's awake, well, the element of surprise will be welcome here.

I crack the door quietly.

Asleep. Definitely asleep. Mussed blonde hair flying everywhere, a mountain of pillows under it, and his nose buried in the covers. The breathing is still rough and wet, but less than it's been in recent history.

I close the door quietly. No sense in disturbing your own mandate.

Particularly when just for once, your mandate is being heeded.
 

I decide I'll let Langly sleep till 12:30, wake him up, feed us some lunch, he can pass his work to the men in black, and then we'll be ready to meet with the party about to descend.

Langly has given me the key to unlock his files, and it's a bitch. Jesus Christ. This is like a Russian doll.

But nothing compared to what lurks inside. If the key was difficult, then the contents of the magic box is worse.

The file's name is 'Porta,' named for a medieval cryptologist. However, Porta never envisioned anything like this. My knowledge of mathematics is not negligible. This, however, is a very strange algorithm, and this is going to take some work.

I'm forced to concede that our boy is a clever one. Langly spent his younger years fascinated with this kind of code and cipher stuff, and now that he's an overgrown child, he's perfected it.

Except that it's damn frustrating to work. I check my watch. 12:25, and I haven't even broken the first layer.

Fuck it. It's lunchtime.

Langly is still snoozing when I come in. Obviously he needed the nap, I'm glad I pushed him. This does mean, however, that I have to wake him up, a challenge in the best of times.

"Langly, it's lunchtime."

"Not hungry. Wanna sleep." He pulls the blanket over his head.

I pull it down. "Up, Blonde Boy. Your employer comes in half an hour. You need some lunch."

"Don't wanna."

Same pharse Patrick uses. I wonder how behavioral genetics would explain that.

"And we're having company in an hour."

"Don't wanna."

"Don't force me to throw cold water on you." And I will, if I have to.

I hear him curse under his breath a few times, then slowly he tries to raise himself on his good arm. "Fuck. You were the one told me to go to sleep. Now you want me to wake up. Make up your mind."

"I did. I wanted you to sleep then, and I want you to get up now."

"No fair." He rubs his eyes and gropes for his glasses, which he manages to knock off the night table. I hand them to him. "Here."

"And I was sleeping this morning, and Ally didn't wash my hair, and I gotta take a shower."

"I don't think you'll offend anybody terribly."

"I gotta do my hair!"

Christ, of all the things he had to be vain about...

And he's losing it to boot.

"Just wet it down in the shower, it'll be fine."

"No, it's not, it's gotta get washed every day, not that you'd know about that!"

"Excuse me, dear boy, I do remember oily hair."

"Surprised you remember any hair."

He seemed to be in a better mood before I sent him to bed.

I groan. "Fine. I'll do your hair. But in the shower, Blonde Boy, you're on your own. I don't think you're that cute."

He looks at me, aghast. "Get real. Like I'd invite you in."
 

"Jesus, ow, watch it, Doo-hickey!" he yells to me. We're kneeling beside the tub, I've got my hands in his hair, which is under the faucet. And like most four-year-olds, he's not the most cooperative or uncomplaining of clients.

Baby Johnson's. Brings back memories for me of doing my own kids' hair when they were little. And they used to yell that I was too rough, too.

Langly continues to whine. "Jesus fuck, Fro, no wonder you got no hair left, the way you treat it!"

"Langly, shut up or I'll drown you."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Langly, if I wanted to do it that bad, I'd have done it already. You've certainly given me more cause in the past."

"Oh, like you never do anything wrong. Just the rest of us." He's sulking now.

"Oh, shut up, you're done. See? Rinse water's clean."

"I am not! You gotta put conditioner on it!"

Shit. The things I put up with.
 

I manage to finish Langly's hair and both of us remain, shockingly enough, alive and intact.

"You gotta wrap the cast," he says sulkily.

"I don't gotta do anything, except die and pay my taxes."

"Well, how'm I gonna take a shower?"

I'm tempted to let him suffer. It would serve him right. Allison has been good for him, but she's also spoiled him rotten. Basically, if he wants it, it's a mandate.

Which makes him an ever bigger pain in the ass. She needs to smack him around more. I'm pleased she's decided to be firm with Patrick. No point in ruining both of them.

One Hefty bag and six rubber bands later-which causes him to yelp numerous times, he claims Allison doesn't hurt him when she does this-he's ready to get thrown in the shower.

"And if you're drowning, don't call me," I say to him as I make my way towards the kitchen.

Allison needs to hurt that boy more often.
 

Searching Allison's kitchen is more a question of how much as opposed to what. There's never a shortage of food here.

Some of the food is definitely on the prescribed list-onions, peppers, garlic, eggplant, carrots, zucchini, spinach, tomatoes, pasta, apples, rice, couscous...

And then there's the illicit stuff-chocolate, ice cream, eggs, Cheddar cheese, butter, real coffee...

I'm dying for real coffee. I'm going to put some on. Hey, we are having company, after all.

I decide I'll atone for the coffee sin by making some grilled eggplant and roasted peppers, with some couscous on the side. I never fully appreciated couscous until Martha made it for me one night, redolent with saffron and garlic and cilantro. It was truly delicious. Granted, it's not an old-neighborhood cheesesteak, but it will suffice.

Langly appears just about the time the food is ready-the kid always did have a nose for mealtime. He's put on a pair of jeans, probably for the first time since Saturday when he had to get fitted, but he's holding the T-shirt in his good hand.

"You gotta help me get this on. And don't kill me doing it."

The temptation is overpowering. Ungrateful little bastard.

I finally work it on, amidst much complaining and a couple of shrieks.

He glares at me. "Good thing I got married. You'd have maimed me by now."

"Shut up and eat your lunch."

He then holds a hairbrush out to me. "I need my hair brushed."

"Oh, come on, Langly, brush your own damn hair!"

He looks hurt. "Ally does it for me, or Miranda."

"If Allison or Miranda have chosen to be your personal stylists for the duration of your injury, that's their problem. Mine is getting you to eat some lunch. Now sit down and shut up."

Arrested Development. Indeed.
 

The gate buzzer sounds for lunch, and the men in black arrive for their pickup. Langly lets them in, they go about their business with his computer, and leave.

They give me the creeps.

"You say we're having company," Langly says, downing a mouthful of eggplant. "Hey, not bad. Least you got one redeeming quality."

"Langly, why I've let you live this long, I'll never know. Yes, company's coming."

"Who?" He scarfs up some roasted peppers. "Hey, Frohike. You gotta show Ally how to make these. She cooks 'em too bland. I mean, they're like okay, but these are awesome."

"Well, Byers, for one."

"You woke me up for Byers? Byers can come around any time! And anyway, doesn't he have his day job till Friday?"

"He's off today. There've been some complications."

"What kind of complications?" He's now working a mouthful of couscous. The words come out rather like Dana Scully-Mulder's do these days.

"Well, Luanne Russell is coming."

"Lu's coming over? She know I'm sick or something, want to either wish me get well or finish me off?"

"Langly, if she wanted to finish you off, I'd pay her, and hold you down. Yes, she's coming. And apparently her partner is here."

This gets his attention. "Renegade's in town? Awesome."

"They apparently need our...expertise. Or at least a few warm bodies they trust."

"Cool." Langly enjoys Renegade, perhaps the most of all of us.

"And Mr. Byers will be here."

"You said that."

"No, I meant Mr. Byers. As in Mr. Byers, senior."

He sets down his fork. "Excuse me? Byers is bringing the stickuphisass here?"

"That seems to be the case, yes."

He coughs again, and glares at me. "'Scuse me, but last time I checked, this was my house, and I sorta figured I could say something about who comes around and who doesn't."

"It's not personal, Blondie. It's business."

"Yeah, and don't I get something to say about it? That dude's a major asshole, and I don't want him here."

"Byers requested the meeting. And the only reason we're having it here is because of you, so shut up. I'd have been happier to meet on more neutral territory, personally."

He looks alarmed. "We're not gonna let him in the offices."

"No, we're not," I placate him. "We'll do it in your living room."

"Ally won't like it."

"How long is she at work for?"

"Usually cruises in around 4...I think..."

"That should be plenty of time."

He looks skeptical. "She's gonna be mad, Fro. She's been real unhappy with the spooks coming around here, and she sees this bastard, she's gonna blow. Tell ya, she's more paranoid than all the rest of us put together."

Allison has been a tad xenophobic as of late. I sense that she feels very vulnerable in view of the current climate. And being terribly protective of her family, she is likely to be strongly suspicious of any unwanteds darkening her doorstep.

"Look, I'll tell her it was my idea, not yours. And she really won't be that upset. I promise. I mean, let's face it. Mr. Byers did help Martha...and me...immeasurably."

"Yeah." He sounds unconvinced. "I dunno, Fro. Lately like she and Miranda...they seem like they're real scared about stuff. And Ally and 'Randa aren't fraidy cats. They're really not."

"How is Allison on drinking?" I'm curious.

"Less than she used to, to be sure. Maybe that's why she's so jumpy."

I doubt that that's all of it, but I let it go.

I debate on telling him what I have learned of Miranda. Perhaps he already knows, and he and Allison are dealing with the problem in their own fashion. I should give them the benefit of the doubt-she is their responsibility, ultimately.

That's a cop-out, Frohike, and you know it.

I have this internal dialogue, but it never makes it to the surface. The gates open at 1:21 p.m. I check the video monitor. A large, black Lincoln limousine makes its way into the driveway, followed by a navy Nissan Altima. Luanne Russell's car.

Well, it would have to be someone who knows the code to the gate. Luanne and Renegade don't, but Byers does. I just hope he's with them.

Langly gives me a skeptical eye. "You got any clue what this is about?"

"Not a one."

"Great. That's just great. Papa Byers and we don't know what the fuck he's here for. This sucks, Fro."

"Yeah, I'd go with that."

And it does, to be sure.

But I do get to have some real coffee.

It's almost worth it for that.

END OF PART 81