Disclaimers in part 01
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"Now matter which way you ride, it's uphill and against the wind."
~~First Law of Bicycling~~
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TUESDAY, JUNE 27, 2000
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
1:35 P.M.
FROHIKE:
When we arrived in Deborah's room, I found scattered sunflower hulls around her bed; a sure sign of Mulder's presence. They remind me of rat droppings. It drives Byers nuts when Mulder spits them on the floor at our place. Once, Byers got so annoyed that he smacked Mulder with a whisk broom after sweeping up a pile of the damned things Mulder had spit on his desk. Mulder may not have entirely gotten the hint about hull spitting, but he did stop piling them on Byers' desk after that.
Langly should be here any minute unless traffic is worse than usual. Deborah's been in and out; more in today than yesterday. That should please Blondie to no end. It sure pleases us. She's managed to put together a few coherent sentences in the last hour. It's an encouraging sign.
Byers is still reading the files he's printed out, fretting and mumbling under his breath. I've been keeping watch over both of them. I examined the files closely. I'm convinced that something about this mess triggered the shooting. It curdles my stomach, and I've been dropping antacids the way Langly puts down M&M's. Every now and then, Byers marks or circles something with a blue highlighter, or utters a sharp, sotto voce curse.
Johnny's been wound up tighter than a mummy in a watch spring ever since he talked to Sari this morning. They had a fight over him driving her to work. At one point, I could even hear her shouting at him over the phone, though I couldn't make out the words. Knowing Ms. Thomas, I'm sure it was colorful.
They both dislike conflict and arguments as a rule, and he's still extremely upset over the whole thing. I know he wants to make sure she's safe, but she's spent the last three years of her life trying to hide. Now that her ex is gone, she's savoring her freedom and intends to keep it. Unfortunately, I can't blame either of them for their feelings, or their reasons for having them, and there really doesn't seem to be room for compromise.
"Uuh?" Deborah moans, waking again.
Byers is immediately alert and present, files momentarily forgotten, and I run a hand softly over Deborah's cheek. "How are you feeling, my dear?" I ask her.
"Shitty," Deborah says with a tired almost-whine. "Ringo here?"
Byers says "Not ye--" just as the door opens and Langly hurries in, followed by her parents.
"Stupid Fibbies," Langly mutters. They must have hassled everyone at
the door again.
"Ringo," Deborah says, smiling. He's there in a heartbeat, kissing
her carefully. Her parents are on his heels.
"I brought your folks, like I promised," he says. I can hear the strain in his voice. He looks like he's been through the wringer.
Gerard and Sarah Jane SaintJohn are shocked by their daughter's appearance, and extremely concerned. Her father is stern and angry, her mother anxious but relieved to hear Deborah's voice. They're shouting over each other, and while they don't shove Langly out of the way, it sure looks like they want to try. He stands his ground next to Deborah for a few minutes, holding her hand. When both of them give him a full-bore glare, he hurries over to me and Byers.
I hear him wheezing, and it's not lost on Byers, either. John hands him his inhaler, and Langly takes two hits. I hope it helps; he can't have more for 20 minutes.
"Are you okay, Langly?" Byers asks. He holds his hand out to accept the inhaler, but Langly pockets it. It's a cold day in hell when he's ready to carry his own inhaler. He must be anticipating that things are only going to get worse.
Of course, they do. "What's going on?" Mr. SaintJohn demands abruptly, staring at Langly.
"He has asthma. He took some Ventolin," Byers says.
Mr. SaintJohn snorts, and returns his attention to his daughter. "You really know how to pick 'em, don't you?" he says to her sharply. I don't think he means it. Sniping at Langly's probably about the only outlet for his distress, but Ringo looks like he wishes someone would kill him now. Mrs. SaintJohn snaps at her husband that he's being ridiculous, but he's obviously not paying attention and goes on and on about Deborah leaving "this godforsaken cesspool."
"Right. So she can go to New Orleans. Oh yeah, real safe there," Langly growls. New Orleans may not be DC, but it's still one of the cities with the highest crime rates in the US. Unfortunately, logic won't impress Mr. SaintJohn at this point.
"Did you say something?" Mr. SaintJohn snaps at Langly.
I need to put a stop to this right now, before Langly shoots his mouth off and Mr. SaintJohn gets completely out of control. The last thing Deborah needs is a screaming fight, and that's what I fear it'll come to in the next ten seconds.
I walk over to the man, who rivals Skinner in size and bearing. "Sir, I'm Melvin Frohike." I offer my hand. He ignores it, but I'll let it slide. "We spoke yesterday. Richard was there on time, I assume."
"Uh -- yes. Yes, he was." Mr. SaintJohn is off balance, but that's the idea; get him off his rant.
"I couldn't help noticing your jacket. Army, I see. You were at Bien Hoa, weren't you?"
He eyes me quizzically. "How did you know? Were you in country? "
"Yeah. Marines. Khe Sanh. I recognized your division emblem."
Khe Sanh was one of the bloodiest battles of the war. It gets a little respect from the Not So Jolly Green Giant. Finally, he extends his hand. "Mr. Frohike." At least he didn't call me Melvin.
Damage control is underway, but Langly, smart ass that he is, could easily stir the waters again. "Byers, get him some lunch."
"Hey, I just--" Langly protests.
Byers knows what I'm staging here. "Langly, I don't care if you're hungry or not. I'm starving. Let's go." He motions to the door.
Langly protests, but Byers grabs his arm and drags him out. Blondie may be pissed now, but he's gonna thank me later, assuming I can pull this off.
"Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn, I can't say how sorry I am about what happened to Deborah." I walk over to the girl's bed. She's crying silently. Her mother glares at Gerard.
"It would never have happened if she wasn't here," Mr. SaintJohn rumbles.
"Gerard, you don't know that!" his wife snaps. She's clearly irritated. If she's having similar thoughts, she's keeping them to herself for her daughter's sake. Her tone implies that he'd damn well better do the same.
"It's true," I tell them. "GWU's in a dangerous neighborhood, but as far as security goes, it's one of the best in the country. Not that this is saying much, but it's something. The staff reacted fast, and her advisor did the surgery. He's one of the best trauma surgeons in the country." You can bet I checked out Dr. Gary Waldinger. If I thought for an instant he wasn't on the up and up, I'd have insisted that Deborah be moved to another facility. Fortunately our encounters here, while not pleasant, have been consistently high quality. "Deborah will recover just fine, and she'll get superb training under him."
"And what good will it do if she keeps getting shot up?" he demands harshly.
"I don't think that will happen." Well, that's what I'm hoping. As long as she's around us, there will always be the potential for other incidents. I'll be damned if I'm going to say anything about it, though. It's Deborah's choice, not his.
"Are you a journalist, too?" Deborah's mom asks. She's still trying to calm her husband. I suspect she's had a lot of practice, but not with a seriously injured daughter to complicate things.
"I am."
Mr. SaintJohn rolls his eyes; obviously he has as good an opinion of the press as most Americans. Before he can say anything, though, there's a knock at the door.
"I'll get that," I tell him. I just hope it's someone we know.
Well, I know her, but she's not someone I want to see. It's Kate Sandridge of the Washington Post, Metro division. Kate is a bulldog crime reporter; she'll do anything to get a story. We had a one night stand some years ago, where I discovered she was considerably less interested in my sexual prowess than my background for a story she was having trouble researching. We've been civil since then, but barely.
"Melvin. Trying to scoop me again?" she says, with barely concealed ire.
"I'm not here as a journalist. I'm here as a friend."
"Who is it?" Mr. SaintJohn bellows, so loud that even Kate jumps back a bit.
"I'll take care of it," I tell him. I turn back to the current source of heartburn. "Listen, Kate, I know you want a story, but you can't come in."
"This is news. Who the hell are you to tell me where I can and can't go?" she demands irritably.
"Listen," I keep my tone low, "her parents just got here. The girl's conscious but she's still pretty shaky. I don't think your being here is going to help her."
"You're just trying to get the story out from under me," she hisses.
"I'm not getting any story out of this. Believe me, she'd be better off if you just leave it alone." I don't mention that my ass is in a sling too. It would only goad Kate into pushing me.
She stares at me, brown eyes hard, her full lips pursed. Make no mistake, Kate Sandridge is one fine looking woman. She wasn't a bad lay, either.
"Kate, if I find anything, you'll be the first to know." She knows how much she can believe that.
She glares at me for a moment. "Don't make me write something else about you on the wall in the little girls' room." She turns and storms down the hall.
"Who was that?" asks Mrs. SaintJohn, wiping her daughter's face with a cool cloth. Her husband is holding his daughter's hand.
"Daddy, that hurts," Deborah protests, her voice weak. He's got her hand in a death grip. I understand why he's doing it, but her hand is pierced by an IV, and it's got to be painful.
"A journalist. Washington Post." I don't really care to give any further details.
Mr. SaintJohn doesn't miss a trick. He's sly, I'll give him that. "Sounds like you know her."
"Well, you know, journalists tend to know each other." He doesn't need to know I've known her in the carnal sense.
He looks unconvinced but lets it go. "Why is the FBI at her door? Why not hospital security?"
I don't want to explain that, either. "We have friends at the Bureau, and we called in a few favors."
He grunts. "Thank you."
Mrs. SaintJohn smiles at me. "We really appreciate it, Mr. Frohike."
"It's just Frohike, ma'am." I pause for a moment. "I'd be happy to stay with Deborah if you'd like to get some lunch."
"We're not going anywhere." Mr. SaintJohn is firm on that, but his tone is less threatening than it was before.
"Then perhaps I could bring you some of the finest cheesesteaks in DC?" I offer. I could go for a cheesesteak myself. It's comfort food.
Mrs. SaintJohn smiles. "That would be lovely, thank you. And you can call me Sarah Jane."
Mr. SaintJohn reaches for his wallet, but I assure him lunch is on me. As I head out I let out a long breath. Part One of Mission: Impossible is accomplished. Now for Part Two, the really impossible mission -- convincing them Langly's a great guy. I'm not exactly convinced myself.
BURGER KING
2:02 P.M.
BYERS:
"I'm not hungry." Langly's hands are stuffed deep in his pockets. His feet are planted wide, and his jaw is set in a hard line as we wait to order.
Two can play at this game. "Langly, do you know why we're here?"
"You're trying to make me eat."
"Exactly. It's because this is my preferred diet." I'd eat almost anything before I'd eat what passes for food here. For him, the usual: two Whoppers with cheese, no tomatoes, extra large fries and enough Coke to drown in. I settle for a limp salad, chicken sandwich and an iced tea. We sit, and Langly stares at the allegedly edible grease blobs in front of him, not touching anything.
"Langly, I paid for that. Eat it."
He glares. "Why won't you show me what you're working on?"
I almost drop my iced tea. With Deborah hospitalized and her parents here, the last thing I expected him to do was pay attention to work. "I don't even know what it is yet."
"But you think it's connected to why Deb got shot." His angry blue eyes bore into me. I flinch; I suspect it's true, but I don't have proof.
"I don't know." I'm sticking to my guns here. I can see the word 'liar' forming on his tongue when my phone rings. I grab it from my pocket, grateful for the rescue. "Byers."
"Been trying to reach you boys. Where the hell are you?" It's Mulder.
"In the Burger King on 33rd. Why?"
"Well, get your asses back to the office. I have something."
I want to ask him what it is, but not on the cell. I don't care how good Frohike says the security fix is, I still don't trust it. You might as well broadcast it on tv. "Give us an hour." I click off.
Langly eyes me, even more suspicious now. "What was that all about?"
"Not sure. We'll find out later."
He groans. "Great. I'm gonna spend all afternoon with the 'rents and no moral support."
"Eat something." I take a cautious nibble at the grilled chicken sandwich. It's awful, as usual. Ringo sighs and takes a bite. It's a small victory, but something tells me that they're the only kind we'll be having for a while.
LONE GUNMEN OFFICES
3:20 P.M.
BYERS:
Mulder was adamant that we meet as soon as possible, but as usual, he's late. "Should've figured as much," Frohike grumbles. "Between him and Langly, one of them's gonna be late for his own funeral."
The buzzer sounds, and it's Mulder, finally. "Where were you? We rushed back here and you don't even have the decency to arrive on time." I feel bad about snapping at people, but Mulder richly deserves it today.
"I'm trying to help you guys, and this is the thanks I get?" He whispers something to Frohike.
Frohike snorts. "With him, it's always that time of the month." I'd strangle them both, but I need to know if Mulder has anything.
"What have you got?" Frohike asks, taking the disk from Mulder.
"Took it over to a friend at the Pentagon, had him take a look at it," Mulder says, grabbing a soda from the office fridge.
"You have friends?" Frohike asks, his voice thick with irony. I can't help giving a sharp chuckle.
"Only when I pay them enough," Mulder says blithely.
None of this should have gone anywhere, and I'm growing even more deeply annoyed with him. Most of the time he keeps the stuff we give him closer than he keeps his skin. Well, unless it gets stolen. "The fewer people that know about this, the better."
"C'mon Byers, chill. This guy's righteous. He's helped me before. "
"So what did this 'friend' tell you?" I demand. I should be more gracious, but the knots that started in my stomach have worked their way through my entire body. My muscles are so tight they might snap. I wish Sari had left a message for me, but of course she hasn't. I'd call her, but after this morning, I have a feeling she'd slam the phone down without even letting me speak.
"Well, he says it's Air Force encryption."
"We knew that," Frohike snaps at him. "What have you done for me lately?"
"Boys, boys, a little patience, please. He tried to crack the algorithm."
"What algorithm?" I ask, confused. "We sent over plain text."
"I don't know. He started on it, but said it wasn't going to happen there. I told him to come over here. He should be here --" the buzzer sounds, "-- right about now."
The sound startles me and serves only to make me more irritated. "You brought him here? You told him where we live?" I'm about ready to deck him. Things just keep going from bad to worse.
"Relax, Byers. You know him." Mulder gets to the door first, with Frohike and I close on his heels. I stare at the face in the security camera.
"Kimmy?" I blink. I turn abruptly to Mulder. "You two know each other?"
Mulder begins singing 'It's a Small World.' Now that miserable song'll be stuck in my head all day.
"I see you're slumming again, Kimmy," Frohike says to him as he enters.
"Yeah, my social life's been in decline since I met you guys," Kimmy retorts. I almost laugh out loud. Kimmy's never had a social life. "Not to mention that one of these days, I'm gonna get fired."
"Kimmy, if you're not comfortable with this--"
He cuts me off. "I shouldn't even be here with you girl scouts. Every time I do something for you, my ass gets fried. I got no desire to end up like Jimmy." I cringe. Kimmy's twin brother Jimmy was killed last year, helping me find Susanne. "So where's Blondie? Still with the wife?"
"The 'wife,'" Frohike growls, "isn't having the best day of her life, either."
"Langly's a total wuss. Like last week, we were gonna game. I got the best new set of cheats around, too. So what does girly-man say? He's spending the day with her. God, he's whipped."
"Kimmy, shut up and get to work," Mulder says, "or no Jolt for you."
He sighs the sigh of the long-suffering. "Fine. I'll get it started. But once I break the encryption, I'm gone. I was never here. I never talked to any of you."
"We broke that encryption. Mulder, you're wasting our time!" I'm utterly irate.
"Not so fast, ladies. So you broke the first layer. Any pussy can do that. It's what's under it that counts," Kimmy says.
"What're you talking about?" Frohike demands.
"Ghost files."
I shake my head. "That was plain text in there!"
Kimmy smirks at me. "That's why I'm the king, and you're not."
Frohike snorts. "That's why you're a virgin, and I'm not." Kimmy gives him a murderous look, but doesn't deny it. Kimmy's never been laid in his life, and it's not just women that won't have him. As he once muttered, when utterly drunk, 'being bi means getting rejected by twice as many people.'
He starts working, then glares up at us abruptly. "You mind not breathing down my neck?"
Frohike smiles and snipes, "Just observing the master." He motions, and we head upstairs.
"Little tetchy, isn't he? You guys seem to have that effect on people," Mulder says, still calm.
"Please. I'm not in the mood for anyone's PMS today," Frohike groans.
"Frohike, do you have to be so offensive?" I snap.
He glowers at me. "Look, I'm sorry you got into it with your chickadee this morning --"
"For the last time," I bellow, "she is *not* my chickadee, and I wish you'd lay off!"
"Whatever, Byers. You've had your shorts in a knot since this whole thing started."
I hate today. "I'm worried about her! Aren't you even the least bit worried about Ms. Scarlett?"
Frohike closes his eyes and leans back in his chair with a groan. "Mulder, you packing?"
"Always."
He points at me. "Feel free to use it on him." And I thought the day couldn't get any worse.
End part 6