Disclaimers in part 1
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"The gods are well pleased when they see great men contending with adversity."

~~ Robert Burton -- The Anatomy of Melancholy~~
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SATURDAY, APRIL 3, 2000
LONE GUNMEN HQ
4:00 PM

FROHIKE:

Byers and I drive back to the offices, and Sari follows in her car. I believe she had other plans for the afternoon, but she also has someone who's helped her and may be in a great deal of trouble. As I park my ancient black Chrysler, I notice Deborah's car is already here. They're either fighting or fucking, I imagine. I'm not sure which I'd prefer to find. We don't hear any screaming as we enter the HQ, only the strains of music emanating faintly from Langly's room. Needless to say, the door is tightly closed and most likely locked. Damn. I should have put hidden video and listening devices in there. Then again, maybe not; there is such a thing as too much information, and this would definitely qualify.

"I guess they've kissed and made up," I say to Byers.

"You've always been one to state the obvious, Frohike."

"I'm getting a beer. Anybody want one?" I offer. "Looks like we're going to be settling in for some work."

" I'd prefer some tea, if it's no trouble," Sari says.

"How about you, Byers?"

"Tea would be great, thanks."

"I really appreciate all the help you guys have given me," Sari says, very softly.

"I really wish I could help more," Byers moans.

"Byers, if you don't shut up, I'm going to stuff those Terminator sunglasses down your throat." This elicits a giggle from Ms. Thomas and a wince from Byers. One thing about Byers: he responds immediately when threatened. We're ten minutes into setting up for silent running when the phone rings. It wouldn't take so long, but Lover Boy is engaged in extracurricular activities. At least he's doing it with another person for once, I tell myself. It's an improvement. "Can you get that?" I call to Byers. He obliges. Byers is usually such a total narc that it's been fun to watch his evil streak in action the past couple of days. The call's probably Mulder, returning my call.

"Mulder's on his way over. Scully's meeting us here," Byers announces after the briefest of calls.

"That was quick. No headline material, I see."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that yet. They've got information for us."

"Good." Unlike Byers, most suits know that weekends are made for Michelob, or at least comfortable clothing. Moose and Squirrel both show up clad in jeans, leather jackets and white T-shirts. They look like the frickin Bobbsey Twins. They're both eyeballing one another with a dismayed how dare you look. Fashion victims. I stare at the two of them, and they shoot me a glare that says, 'if you say a word, just remember, we're armed.'

I wonder what Mel's wearing today. She said she has the weekend off, one of her rare ones. I owe her an e-mail. I haven't had time to dash off more than a quick note to her lately. Part of the problem is that she's been asking me how work is going, and that's a hard one to answer.

Mulder, as always, makes himself right at home by flipping on the TV to a show appropriately entitled 'Jackass.' It consists of home videos of young males engaged in acts that will keep people like Dr. SaintJohn in business forever. I notice there are never any women in the videos. Not only does it make the show, in my opinion, not worth watching, but it also makes me wonder if having a double X chromosome set really does confer superiority. Langly watches it periodically and has been known to laugh out loud. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky, but the humor's lost on me. Or maybe it just reminds me too much of some of our recent endeavors.

"Mulder, we came here to work, not watch TV," the luscious Agent Scully says, reprimanding her errant partner.

"But I love this show!" he protests. She grabs the remote and sharply snaps off the set. He turns to his lovely partner. "You're such a spoilsport, Scully."

"Well, spoilsport or not, we have some information you guys might be interested in," she continues, returning to our office and opening her briefcase. The briefcase just doesn't work with jeans and a leather jacket for most people, but there's no way Agent Scully could ever look less than delicious.

"We're interested," Byers affirms as we continue to set up. He still can't do close eye work, but there are quite a few things he can do again. Thank God using his brain is one of them; I need at least one of the boys here. "But right now, we have a more immediate problem."

"What sort of problem?" Scully raises her incomparable eyebrow.

"We've learned the identity of Sari's source at Pinck," Byers explains. "It's an insider, a biochemist working in their research headquarters in Wichita."

"And I thought we lived dangerously," Mulder comments dryly, returning with a beer in hand.

"What, you didn't get me one?" Scully demands.

"You didn't ask," Mulder shrugs.

"You're supposed to ask me." She rolls her eyes, then gives him the pouty lip. Devastating.

"Allow me," I rise to grab a cold one for her and a refill for myself. Mulder, you're such a moron. I don't bother saying it out loud. I've said it before and we can all see how much good it's done. I bring the tea for Sari and Byers at the same time.

"So we've got a whistleblower." Scully is already analyzing this. "Sari, how much contact do you have with this person, and what's the general pattern of inquiry and response? Thanks, Frohike," she says as I hand her the beer.

"It depends on what she's found out. Normally, when one of us contacts the other, the response is fast, within a couple of hours, or the next morning at the latest. We have a system of signals set up to indicate when we're trying to reach each other, so that the message doesn't stay in the drop box long. We delete all of our messages as soon as we download them," Sari explains to her.

"When was your last communique?" Mulder queries.

"I emailed her about 48 hours ago with our usual procedure. There's been no response," Sari says nervously, sipping her tea.

"48 hours isn't really that long," Scully points out. "Is it possible she's on vacation?"

"She's not scheduled for vacation, and she'd have told Sari if she was," Byers says. "We checked her personnel file at Pinck, and the vacation schedules." Sari nods, silent and brooding.

Mulder grabs some papers they've brought from Scully's briefcase. "What was the name again?"

"Nicole Jackson," Byers confirms.

"Okay, here's what we found out. The reason the Bureau got involved originally was that Pinck contacted the FBI a few years ago. They said that they had someone leaking information and wanted us to find out who the snitch was," Mulder tells us. "The Bureau started to investigate, but shortly thereafter, they called the whole thing off. They claimed they'd found their bad boy and would deal with it internally. It was bizarre."

"And right after that, we discovered that they'd been covertly experimenting with a deadly insect-based contagion on unknowing human subjects. God, I still can see those bugs." Scully shudders as if she'd picked up a sudden chill. Sari's eyes widen slightly.

"And now we've got another whistleblower," Mulder muses. "You been in her system?"

"We were on it when you showed up," I tell him. We're almost ready to go now; I've kept working all this time, and drinking my beer. And I can walk and chew gum at the same time, too.

Byers takes a seat next to me with Sari standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. Mulder and Scully sit at my other side. "Where's Blondie?" Mulder asks. I point in the direction of his bedroom. "Let me guess, he's got his Amazon woman with him. I'm not hearing much of anything. He must be boring her into unconsciousness."

"Mulder, shut up." Scully scowls at him. If she weren't such a lady, she'd deck him. Of course, her unwillingness to strike him doesn't mean she wouldn't shoot him. "What're we looking at here, Frohike?"

"Checking all her email accounts, not just the drop. Trying to get the time stamps of her last outgoing messages... She's got a pile up here, 83 new messages in her work box, none answered. Time stamp of the last outgoing was... 3/31/2000 at 7:17 p.m." Byers turns to me, saying nothing, but concern marks his face. He touches Sari's hand briefly. "Let's check her personal box at home... She's got an AOL account, piece of cake." I don't like what I'm seeing. "3/31/2000, 6:28 a.m. This lady's always at work, from the looks of it."

"Pinck: it's not just a job, it's indentured servitude," Mulder mutters.

"Let's look and see if she was on the Web at all since her last email," Byers is trying to be hopeful, but he's clearly getting desperate. Me, too. It doesn't appear that she was much of a surfer; she was on the company's website, but her last hit was, again, 3/31/2000. No keystrokes after 7:11 p.m. I don't like where this is going.

"Have you tried phoning her, Sari?" Scully suggests.

"We don't call. What we're doing is very risky and we don't want to compromise each other. We don't have each other's phone numbers," Sari is becoming increasingly tense, and the air of brooding around her grows deeper.

"Well, why don't we try it," Mulder suggested. "It's not like C&P can trace it here, right, boys?"

I hear a door open. Emerging from the shadows are two figures, approximately the same height, and I swear they're glowing bright enough to make a Geiger counter scream. They're both smiling, looking like a couple of cats who've swallowed a flock of plump canaries. "Well, well, we weren't sure we'd be seeing you two again," I comment. Deborah has the grace to look mildly embarrassed, but Langly just gives us a shit-eating grin.

"Sorry, we, uh... took a nap," Deborah apologizes, but turns pink as she says it.

"Why? Wearing Langly out shouldn't be any problem," Mulder quips. Langly shoots him the look of death, but it's still not enough to wipe that smile from his face.

"Deb, these are Special Agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI," Langly says. Her eyes widen in disbelief. I get the impression that she's had a lot to swallow today. "Mulder, Scully, this is Dr. Deborah SaintJohn. Deb, Agent Scully's a doc too. Deborah's a third-year resident in emergency medicine." Scully extends her hand, and Deborah seems more at ease with her than she is with Sari, who she watches with intense suspicion. I suspect this is adding to Sari's discomfort. Deborah tightens her hold on Langly, fiercely possessive. Not that he isn't returning and appreciating the gesture, but I'm a little puzzled by what's going on here between Deborah and Sari. Well, right now, we've got other concerns. If they want to have a catfight, they can take it outside.

"Nice T-shirt," Mulder comments to Langly. I haven't seen this one before. It shows a picture of the Road Runner scurrying away from Wile E. Coyote, and reads, 'Speed Saves. Penn State Hospital Trauma Team.' Deborah must have given it to him. "You're branching out." It's red, not black. Well, at least now he has a shirt to match his red Chuck's.

The message, however, sticks hard in my brain. We need to keep moving. "Here's her phone number. Agent Scully, care to do the honors?" I pass her a scribbled note.

"What're you guys doing?" Deborah asks. She's curious but a little apprehensive.

"Remember Sari told us someone she knew hadn't been in touch with her for a couple of days?" Byers asks quietly, allowing Scully to make her call.

"A couple of days? Sometimes my mother doesn't hear from me for weeks," Deborah snorts.

"This is a little different," I say to her, not really wanting to explain. I don't know how much Langly's told her; obviously something, but as to the specific matter at hand, I doubt they've had time to do anything other than engage in tonsil hockey, with hide the submarine as a chaser. Langly's radiating, as is she. I hate them; where do they get off looking so damn happy at a time like this? I sigh. From getting off of course, I grumble to myself.

"The phone number's been disconnected, with no new number given," Scully announces.

Mulder's been acting as if he's not involved, but believe me, he hasn't missed a beat. "Scully, how do you feel about a little trip to Wichita?"

"I hate the Midwest this time of year," she says. I don't blame her, it's pretty nasty. "Frohike, can you bring up Sabre?" Sabre's the backbone of the travel industry's computer systems, and we can get a flight anywhere, at almost any time.

"Your wish is my command." I flick quickly through the mass of data. Wichita isn't exactly a hot spot for hourly junkets. The first available flight is tonight at 8:35 p.m. "For three?" I inquire.

"You're not going, Frohike," Scully insists. "We need you here."

"Blondie can take care of the technical end," I snap.

"Blondie looks like he's got other business he's taking care of," Mulder shoots back, making sure he gets his licks in. Deborah and Langly both blush, but they turn to each other and prove us correct with a lingering kiss. I'm ready to swat them both; that kind of PDA shouldn't be encouraged in front of people like me -- geezers who haven't been laid in ages.

"Frohike, one of you two has to be at Sierra on Monday, and the other will need to be here to monitor," Byers points out. "I'd do it, but I still can't see that well, and I have absolutely no desire to be blind for the rest of my life." Sari cringes behind him and rests her cheek against his head, closing her eyes as she moves her hands from his shoulders to clasp them tightly in front of his chest. He places his hands over hers. "It's okay, Sari, I'll be fine," he reassures her with a whisper. Deborah looks at the two of them curiously, confused.

"I see your point." Not to mention that this is what Mulder and Scully are trained for. I make the reservations and arrange for them to appear as already paid. All they'll have to do is pick up the boarding passes. "Before you two go anywhere, and before we get into this more deeply, I believe we all could use some sustenance. C'mon, Langly, time for lesson number 2."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" he protests. "Besides, it's almost time for Battlebots!"

"I love Battlebots," Deborah says, smiling in agreement and taking his hand.

"Battlebots is on? Oh, cool!" Mulder looks excited as a little kid.

"No one ever accused you of taste, Mulder," Scully comments acerbically.

"I have taste," he shoots back. "And you know we watch it together, Scully. Don't hide your true televised love." Scully blushes, but doesn't deny it. "Speaking of taste, Frohike, are you gonna make us something good?"

As if I'd ever turn out a bad meal. Even when they deserve nothing better than thin, cold gruel and artificial grape-flavored drink. The original menu for tonight was meatloaf, but Sari's a vegetarian, and while she wouldn't protest at being served meatloaf, I doubt she'd eat it. She says she's Hindu, and 'dead cow is right out.' It's a shame, because I make a damn fine meatloaf, if I do say so myself. The guys don't make meatloaf jokes either, which tells you what they think of it. But part of being an excellent chef is being flexible, and I pull together a delicious fettuccine Alfredo. And no low fat, low cholesterol version of the magnificent original, either. Nope, this is your basic heart attack on a plate, with cream and butter and freshly grated Parmesan cheese. It will be accompanied with steamed broccoli and a loaf of whole-wheat sourdough from the bakery where we get Byers his favorite cinnamon bread. Everyone went into the TV room, but I notice that Sari and Deborah have returned to the office -- I wonder if it's catfight time? If so, leave me out of it. There's enough drama in my life already.

SARI:

"Thank you for agreeing to talk to me," I say to Deborah. I 'm trying to figure out what I've  done to ruffle her feathers so. "You seem upset and angry with me. I don't understand why."

Deborah gives me a guilty look, but recovers her composure. "Okay. To be honest, I'm really kinda put off by the way you're always touching everybody. It's weird."

"And here I thought it might have been the poetry," I tell her with a chuckle. I think this will be easy enough to explain. "Deborah, you need to understand that I'm from a very close family. We've always been very physically affectionate, lots of hugs. Mom always says that everyone needs at least a dozen hugs a day to be healthy and sane. It's one of the ways I... communicate, I guess you'd say. When I was a kid, my sister and I would have sleep-overs where we'd push our beds together, and we and our friends would all puppy-pile on for the night. Sometimes we'd have half a dozen of us lying all over each other. It's just the way things have always been in my life. To touch others and to be touched by them gives me a sense of safety, stability. It helps me feel like I'm in accord with the people around me. It's a way I express my friendship and affection for other people." Sometimes I think it's also a fundamental part of the difference between growing up on the east and west coasts.

"I guess I feel that touch can't lie the same way words can. As a poet, words are essential to me, but they only partly express what touch most viscerally evokes, and it takes a certain art for them to do that with any degree of true success. Touch is deeper, a more fundamental phenomenon; we touch long before we speak. It can be soothing and healing, like someone rubbing your shoulders or your neck. It can reassure, as when a friend takes your hand in the dark. It can wordlessly convey a shared fear. You can tell a lot about people by the way they touch others, if you know how to watch. Touch conveys the deepest emotions of trust, friendship, concern and love, and certainly some feel that this aspect of touch leaves them vulnerable in some way. I try to be conscious of other people's boundaries, because I know that not everyone feels as I do. I ask before I hug someone I don't know, and I back off when they move to end it, but I had no idea you would find it threatening, especially if I was touching someone else. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." I offer her my hand, an invitation to experience this as I do. She relaxes, and reaches out to take my hand for a moment. The tension dissolves from her face, and her stance eases.

"I'm sorry," she replies. "My family isn't very touchable, and the fact is, unless I'm treating a patient, I usually avoid touching other people at all. Except Ringo, of course." This generates a big smile from her. "He's really something special."

"Yeah, he is. He's really very much in love with you, you know." I think she needs this reassurance. "In the short time I've known him, if he isn't thinking about his work, he's thinking about you."

"He is?" I nod. "I guess it's just..." she giggles uncomfortably, "...I've got my hands digging around inside people so much that when I'm off shift, and unless it's someone I'm really close to, I tend to avoid physical contact. Maybe I'm the one who's weird.

"There's no need to apologize, Deborah. Everyone's different, and you are what you are. I just don't want you to see me as some kind of competition, or to be uncomfortable around me. That's not what hugging someone like that means to me."

She reminds me of so many young women I've met; secure as professionals, not nearly so secure in their private lives. If Ringo's leveled with her about what he does and the risks he takes, as John has with me, she's had a lot to absorb. These men, my friends, are involved in some very dangerous things, as I am occasionally myself. I think it's a testament to their skill and determination, and their sheer survival instinct that they're still alive. I, for one, am very glad this is so. They're fine people; sometimes fearful, but very caring and devoted, especially to each other. The world needs more like them.

"Anyway, thanks. I'm gonna go watch Battlebots. You coming?" She gives me a shy smile.

At that moment Frohike, who's busy in the kitchen, calls out to me. "Sari dear, could you send Byers in here? The table needs setting."

"I'll do it," I offer. I really don't mind. I'll join them for Battlebots later.

"Are you sure? It's really his job."

"No, I'll take care of it. After all you've done for me, the least I can do is set the table for you."

"Are you and Miss Deborah all right?" he asks when I enter the kitchen.

"I think so. It was just a misunderstanding, but I think she knows now that I am in no way interested in poaching her man out from under her." I give him an evil grin. "I think this is a lot for her to deal with, too. I know it has been for me."

"For all of us," he says. It's certainly not about to get any easier.

End part 13