Disclaimers in part 01
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"I tell you there is such a thing as creative hate!"
~~Willa Cather - The Song of the Lark~~
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FRIDAY, JUNE 30, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
12:17 A.M.
FROHIKE:
"We're gonna find that bastard, and when we do, he's mine, man. I'm gonna truss him like a turkey." Langly's shouting and his face has gone bright red, somewhere between furious and livid. I can understand his sentiments. I'm having more than a few of them myself, but this is a time for cool heads to prevail.
Byers is in that mode, fortunately. Sari having a temporary bodyguard seems to have calmed him enough to think clearly about other things. He's sitting at his desk, chin in hand, an intent look on his face. "They're connected, Fletcher and Monroe. The question is, how?"
"I think first we need to find out where Monroe is and who's doing his dirty work," Scully says.
"I doubt he's in DC; he may be an asshole, but he's not stupid enough to resurface here after the Pinck debacle," I add.
Langly's voice rises. "He's got balls surfacing at all!"
Byers wrinkles his brow. "There's been no mention of him on the otaku boards, and believe me, everyone there watches out for him."
"Just because no one's seen him doesn't mean he's not there. Obviously he's around," I observe dryly.
"What if it was Fletcher, not Monroe, who was responsible for Deborah's injuries? He certainly knew of them." Byers is still analyzing the situation.
"Nah. We dug up some files on him. Not his style. Fletcher's a pain in the ass, but he's also a coward." That much is obvious.
"Moose and Squirrel seem to think Fletcher was the caller." Langly is still red, but he's lowered his voice, much to my relief. "All I can say is, he better not ever fucking call here again!"
Mulder and Scully look at him, puzzled but vaguely amused by the nicknames. "I think the stooges nickname is justified," she mutters to him.
"Actually, that's exactly what we want him to do," Byers says. "He knows we have something he wants."
A light goes on in my head. "Byers, when you went in, you didn't copy the files, you hijacked them."
He nods and grins. "The copy protection was massive. It was easier just to walk out with them." He shoots me an accusing look. "I don't suppose you'd have done it differently."
"No, actually, I wouldn't have," and that's the truth. If you can't copy it, just steal it. They say bad hackers imitate and good ones steal. I'd like to think we're good.
"I'm going in after him," Langly turns towards his work station.
Once again, Papa Bear must intervene. "Langly, how long till Deborah's parents leave town?"
"Saturday morning. Not soon enough for me," he grumbles.
"Mulder, are you having them protected once they're out of the area?" I ask.
Mulder shakes his head. "I don't think they're targets."
"Yeah," I say, "chances are they figure they'd be doing Langly a favor if they went after them."
Langly makes a face at me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm right, or if he realizes that fundamentally, the SaintJohns are getting a bad deal all around.
I sigh. "Langly, just be cool until they get out of town and land in New Orleans."
He crosses his arms and sulks. "Fine. But after that, man, total war!"
"Listen, buddy, we want him just as bad as you do," and ain't that the truth. Langly's gonna have to get in line to have their asses. If he thinks he's the only one whose life is being fucked up by these two jerkwads, he's got another think coming. "But it's late, and I'm declaring it a night."
"I agree," Scully says. She looks over at Mulder. "We have some things we need to deal with. Come on, Mulder."
He shrugs. "Later guys. Try not to stay up all night with the physics textbooks. Frohike's video collection's more interesting."
Byers looks up in protest as they leave. "Frohike, we've got way too much work to do."
Yes and no. "We can't get much further without assistance from the Boy Genius of Physics, and he's not here right now." I glance at Langly. "Why don't you let Deborah spend her last night alone with her parents? You should come along."
"I'm not going." His determination is blunted by a harsh yawn.
"Listen, buddy, you haven't left her alone with them all week. You owe her." Actually, I couldn't care less how they feel about it, but he sure as hell needs a break from them. I study them both. "No one's gotten much sleep this week, so I'm ordering everyone off to bed."
"Including yourself?" Byers eyes me skeptically.
"Especially myself." I'm not kidding. Byers and Langly glance at each other, shrug, and begin their way up the stairs. I follow along, my bones heavy with weariness. God, just one night of decent sleep. Please.
LONE GUNMEN OFFICES
9:15 A.M.
FROHIKE:
For a change, it was a peaceful night. We all slept the sleep of the dead, and did we ever need it.
Byers is sitting at the kitchen table, starting to wade through the stack of newspapers we receive every morning. He's looking fairly chipper, and the dark circles under his eyes have receded quite a bit. "Coffee's on," he says to me, his voice calm and peaceful for the first time since Monday.
"Looks like you finally got some sleep," I comment.
"You too," he answers. Oh yeah, and I won't mention those sweet dreams of Mel Scarlett.
"Oh, man, last day of the 'rents," Langly says, heading for the coffee maker. "All I gotta do is survive like 24 more hours." He looks better than he has in days. "You make the coffee, Byers?"
"Yeah," Byers says, not looking up.
"Thought so. I can't stand my spoon up in it."
"Blondie, you've got no room to criticize my coffee," I comment. "I happen to like a brew that puts a little hair on my chest."
"That ain't where you need it," Langly shoots back. His retort actually produces a strange feeling of calm. This is a normal morning. Life is beginning to get back on track. Then the phone rings. God, what now?
"Get the phone, would you?" I say to Langly.
"Why me?" He glares at me.
"Because you're up, and you're the youngest, and I told you to."
He sticks his tongue out at me as he slogs towards the phone. I smile. Yes, things are looking up.
Before I know it, Langly's waving at us to get the tracing equipment up and running. He covers the receiver and hisses, "It's him! The dick that called us before!" He hits the speaker button.
"I heard that!" The electronically altered voice snaps.
It looks like I spoke too soon. "Fletcher, you bastard, you can cut the shit. " I groan. I'm sure it's him. I hope it is.
"This isn't shit. I've got problems, and you boys are going to help me solve them." Even with the electronic distortion, we can tell he's trying to sound tough, but he comes off as fearful.
"Excuse me, but do we look like your slaves?" Langly retorts. "And why the fuck would we do anything for you, you asshole, after what you did to my girlfriend?"
"Hey, I had nothing to do with that!"
"Like hell you didn't!" Langly's losing his temper, so I motion to him to stay calm. I pick up the receiver and turn the speaker off.
"Listen, punkass," I growl, "you don't go around telling us what we will and won't do. And none of us are in any frame of mind to help you with jack shit, not after what you did to Deborah and Kimmy."
"Hey, it's not my fault that some people can't follow instructions. All I wanted to do was scare you guys. I had no intention of anyone actually getting hurt."
"I don't care what your intentions were, you jerkwad! You sicced Monroe on us --"
"That's where you're wrong, Sneezy."
God, I hate this man. I really, really hate him.
"I can explain everything, but I need my data back." He's trying not to plead, and doing a lousy job of it. Man would make a terrible actor.
"I'm listening."
"You bring the data, I'll tell you what I know."
"Uh-uh. If you can explain what happened, tell us now." I think we're being set up, and I don't like it.
"I'm not saying a word. Bring me the data, and we'll talk. Meet me at the Library Lounge at 11:30."
"No way, man." Not the Library Lounge. God knows who'll see us there -- or him. If Monroe's up to something, the last place we need to be seen is among the DC hoi polloi. The bartenders there have a habit of remembering things, especially things that look out of place. Byers is the only one of us who'd actually blend in there. "You meet us at the Limerick." That's our bar. Granted, our bartender sees all, knows all, but he can be persuaded to forget when it's convenient, or if you offer him cash.
"What, that dive?" he scoffs.
"I see you're familiar with it." Time to let him know he's not in charge. He's had his illusions for long enough. "You want to talk, you meet us in the Limerick."
"Excuse me, but I'm supposed to meet with one sizzling hot blonde in two hours, and if I miss this date --"
"And this would be my problem because...?" I have no interest in spending more time with that sleazeball than absolutely necessary, although getting him to miss a chance to philander might be worth it. I don't understand why jerks like him can always find good looking women to mess around with. It's just wrong. "Byers and I will meet you at 11:30 at the Limerick."
"You want me to meet you in Southeast DC? Unbelievable." He laughs, but he's nervous. He thinks he's fooling us; he's wrong.
"You want to talk to us, you be there," I tell him firmly.
"And bring the data with you."
"I said we'd meet you." And that's as much as I'm promising. I hope I don't regret that.
LIMERICK TAVERN
SOUTHEAST DC
11:50 A.M.
BYERS:
"This could be a set up," I warn Frohike.
"I'm well aware of that." He stares at the street ahead of us.
"We didn't have to agree to meet him."
He's driving the Chrysler, I'm in the passenger seat. He glares at me meaningfully. "Did you have a better idea? If you did, you should have said something earlier."
I groan. I really didn't, but this is giving me the creeps. "We're not handing over the data, are we?" I have the discs secure in the inside pocket of my suit jacket. I'm beginning to think I should have left them in the safe.
He shakes his head. "Not unless we absolutely have to. It's still our best bargaining chip."
"I think it's odd that he didn't mention any of the hidden files. It's as if he's completely ignorant of the other data, and the black box material."
"He's completely ignorant, I'll give you that," Frohike snaps, swearing under his breath as he searches for parking.
"But don't you think he would have at least mentioned it?"
"I really believe he doesn't know shit. Maybe he doesn't know that Kimmy cracked the ghost files, and doesn't want us to know about them. Our memories were fucked about the black box data. I don't think he has any idea we have that." Frohike snorts.
"What if he's got his goons out in force? They've already gotten to Deborah and Kimmy."
Frohike snorts again. "Only mistake they made with Kimmy was missing."
"Frohike!"
"Oh, get over it, Byers. I like the little turd, even if he is a pain in the ass. Fletcher said he was just looking to harass us, but Monroe got crazy on his own."
We pull up to a space about a block from the Limerick. Bernie, the proprietor, is generous about extending credit on tabs, but the two parking spaces behind the tavern are his and his alone. "You don't actually believe that, do you? What if he's snowing us?" I ask anxiously.
Frohike eyes me as he opens the door. "Then we're fucked."
Now there's a warm, fuzzy thought.
"Your friend's in back," Bernie flicks a thumb toward the back of the tavern.
I want to tell Bernie he's not our friend, but I let it go. I'd also like to bag this right now and get the hell out of here. I'm still nervous that we're being watched, and I don't like the sensation.
"What, Blondie wimped out?" is the first thing that emanates from the mouth of the man sitting in the back booth. I try to come up with a snappy rejoinder, but all I can do is gape; he's dressed so badly he makes Frohike look like a Paris runway model. Whoever designed that Hawaiian shirt should be shot, after prolonged torture. I consider donning my sunglasses.
"Could you have made yourself a little more obvious?" Frohike snarls at him.
"Hey, you were the ones that insisted on slumming. I just dressed the part," he smirks. "Come on, sit down, it's noon somewhere in the world. In fact, it's only 8 minutes away right here." Bernie comes by quietly and the man we presume to be Morris Fletcher orders another Bombay Sapphire martini. I wince. Bombay is fine gin, but there's just something about a man who'd drink something blue, especially before lunch. I ask Bernie for a club soda with a slice of lime. Frohike doesn't order anything.
I'm tempted to note that there have been more than a few individuals in suits, aside from myself, that visit this establishment, and that they tend to be well-placed government higher-ups looking for an honest drink and discreet conversation, but I doubt Fletcher would understand the word 'discreet.'
Frohike wastes no time. "Start talking," he demands.
"What, not even a little 'hello, how are you?'" Fletcher clucks his tongue, condescending. "I was going to ask how Langly's sweet young thing was doing, but you won't even give me a chance."
"This isn't a social call," I say. "If you have information, we want it, and we want it now."
"What about my data?" Despite his bravado, the man is decidedly nervous. His eyes dart about and his fingers fidget with the drink.
"What's the deal with Monroe?" Frohike dives back in.
"Are you going to give me my files back?" Fletcher is almost whining
now.
"That depends upon whether or not we like your answers," Frohike shoots
back without missing a beat.
"You told me you'd give them to me," Fletcher pouts, not unlike Langly does.
"We said we'd meet you." Frohike eyes him levelly. "Now are you going to say something, or are we wasting our time here?"
"What do you want from me?" He seems wary, even more nervous now.
"We want to know what your connection is to Monroe," I say icily.
"I have no connection to Monroe." He fidgets uncomfortably. Of course, I'd be embarrassed in that shirt, too. Somehow, though, I don't think that's what's causing his discomfort.
"You said you did," Frohike stares at him.
"I did not. All I said was that Monroe got a little carried away. I didn't say I had anything to do with him."
"Then how did you know about what happened with Deborah? And Kimmy?" I demand. "Or where we all were the other night?"
"Look, all I want is my data back. You don't understand. My ass is on the line here," he pleads. "I really didn't have anything to do with Monroe."
"But you had his goons shoot at our friends," I say coldly, "and nearly kill Deborah."
"I did no such thing. I ordered my... well, we do have people trained to handle that sort of thing. But all they were supposed to do was scare her, so that you clowns would get nervous and back off. Apparently Monroe got wind of it, and decided to do a little work of his own, making it look like our people did it."
Frohike contemplates that one. "You know what I think? I think you're lying," he says, staring directly at Fletcher, who flinches under his uncompromising gaze.
"I am not lying to you, guys. Seriously, why would I want to hurt you? You guys are my heroes."
I make the mistake of sipping my club soda while he speaks, and end up spluttering the mess all over the table. Frohike rolls his eyes, muttering, "Gimme a freakin' break."
"Where's Monroe?" I demand sharply.
"How the hell should I know?" Fletcher snaps back. "I'm not on Monroe watch."
"You know where he is," I press.
"He went underground. At least that's what I hear," Fletcher continues nonchalantly, but he won't look at us.
"He was supposed to lose his job," I point out. That was part of the agreement with the Justice Department, or so we'd been led to believe. "We've been keeping an eye out for him, and believe me, so have our friends," I remind him.
"Yeah, your 'friends.' I've seen your friends," Fletcher snorts, motioning Bernie over to refill him.
It's past noon now. Maybe a liquid lunch isn't such a bad idea.
"Another club soda?" Bernie asks me.
"No, make it a Tanqueray and tonic, please. Extra lime." Frohike raises his eyebrows at me, shakes his head, and adds a J&B neat to the tab.
When our drinks arrive, we press on. "Where's Monroe?" I ask again.
"I don't know."
"Well, if you don't know, you're going to find out," Frohike growls at him.
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Tell us if he's working for you."
"He doesn't work for me!"
"Well, he's working for someone!" I fire back, my nerve enhanced by a little liquid courage.
Fletcher hesitates. "I don't know where he is."
"But he's in your organization." He has to be. "Despite the fact that he was supposedly fired."
Fletcher laughs maliciously. "You don't seriously think guys like him ever get fired, do you? I got news for you. People like him don't get fired. If his bosses want to get rid of him, they'll kill him. Much cleaner that way."
"So why the hell is he gunning for us?" Frohike says angrily. "He's got his job. He's obviously protected."
"Yeah, but you guys exposed him. And he's mad."
He takes another swallow of his drink, the third he's had since we've arrived, and he had at least one before we got here. "I'd like my files now, guys."
"Forget it," Frohike says coldly to him.
"I have to have them!"
"Oh, you'll get them," Frohike promises. "When you deliver Monroe's whereabouts to us."
Fletcher feigns disgust, but mostly what I see is fear. "And what do you plan to do? Expose him again in your silly little rag?"
"We're going to put him out of business, once and for all," I assure him, with more boldness than I actually feel. "We plan to make certain he never comes near us again."
Fletcher chuckles. "Right. Sure. You guys kill me. First you think you're the saviors of the free world, now you think you're going to take on Monroe."
Frohike smiles coldly. "You do need your data back, don't you?"
Fletcher says nothing.
"Find him. And get ready to deliver him to us. C'mon, Byers. Let's get out of here."
"Guys, you don't understand. If I find Monroe and hand him over to you... damn, I might as well cut off my testicles here and now."
Frohike shoots him one last, amused look. "You have testicles?"
End part 12