Disclaimers in part 01
______
"While guilt burns
Like a fixed star
The sleepless man
Feels his blood
And the light of his eye
Drained"
~~Aeschylus -- The Orestea: Agamemnon, trans by Ted Hughes~~
______
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2000
LONE GUNMAN OFFICES
7:20 A.M.
FROHIKE:
"Not even a good night kiss from her?" I comment to Byers as I put the coffee on. I saw them as Sari drove away last night, and watched through the window as he stood there outside when he knew we were under surveillance, mooning after her.
"Shut up, Frohike," he says from behind the Wall Street Journal, his voice tired and annoyed.
"Aren't we in a lovely mood today?" He doesn't look up, so I'm spared his Look of Death. What day is it, anyway? I've been somewhere between awake and asleep for a while now. I keep hoping all this bullshit was nothing more than a nightmare, but no joy. "Byers? What day is it?"
"Wednesday the 28th... oh hell." His head comes up with a start. "I completely forgot."
"Forgot what?" To tell Sari you want to take her to bed? I almost say it aloud, but that would hardly enlist the boy's cooperation.
"It's Langly's birthday. It completely slipped my mind."
"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd act on your hormones, your mind'd be clearer," I mutter. I forgot too. Not that birthdays are a priority item, especially at my age, but Langly will resent the hell out of it if we don't at least take note. He may say he doesn't care, but he does.
"Frohike, I don't need this," Byers grumbles.
"What, you don't need to get laid?" I swear under my breath, but before he can respond, we're interrupted by heavy footsteps, loud yawning, and a few sneezes. It's Langly, clad only in his wifebeater tank top and boxers, glasses askew and hair going every direction but the right one. He's wearing the expected surly expression.
"Don't suppose anyone knows what day it is," he asks, sullen, still yawning.
"Byers says it's Wednesday," I reply casually, checking the pantry for waffle fixings. I bought some fresh strawberries before all this went down, and mold doesn't seem to be sprouting from them yet.
This earns me a glare from Langly, who stumbles toward the coffee pot. "You suck, y'know."
"Happy birthday, Langly." Byers takes charge of damage control. Better him than me.
"Nothing happy about it," Langly snaps, but at least Byers said something.
"I'll make you a deal," I say to Langly. "Put some pants on, and you'll get strawberry waffles."
He blinks. "Did you say strawberry waffles? Really?"
"Only if I don't have to stare at your legs."
"You make everything so fucking hard." But we get a bit of a smile, the first we've seen in days. I'm hoping this is a good omen, but I should know better by now.
Breakfast is surprisingly pleasant. We all eat more in one sitting than we have in days. Byers manages to turn off his kamikaze mission expression, and Langly treats us to some smiles. We tease him about Deborah, gently, and he handles it gamely. He bristles a little when Byers kids him about trying to suck up to his future in-laws, but instead of an acid retort, he simply aims the can of aerosol whipped cream at Byers' nose.
"Langly, were you planning on having children someday?" Byers taunts him. "Because if you don't put that can down, you can forget about it!"
"You're dead," Langly starts to squirt the stuff at him, but we're interrupted by the door buzzer. For possibly the first time in my life, I'm hoping it's Mulder. It is.
"Looking to mooch a free meal?" I ask him.
"Well, now that you mention it, it's the least you can do for me for schlepping Langly all over town," he says, tossing his suit jacket over the nearest chair, revealing an obnoxious Mickey Mouse tie. Make yourself at home, Mulder.
"Hey, that's my birthday breakfast!" Langly balks.
"You have birthdays? I figured you just stalled at 17," Mulder wags his eyebrows at Langly as he places himself at the table.
"That's it." Langly's been diverted from Byers and unleashes the whipped cream all over Mulder. Byers bursts out laughing, which is a much more welcome sight than the deadly determined surliness that's covered his face for nearly three days now.
"Hell of a way to treat your ride," Mulder glares at Langly and Byers as he wipes whipped cream from his silk Disney tie and starched shirt.
"Your fault, man," Langly calls as he runs up the stairs to save himself from retaliation. "You're wearing the mark of Satan."
Mulder rolls his eyes. "What is it with you guys and Mickey Mouse?"
I don't really care to go into why Disney is the ultimate mind control machine. We've been through that before. "Byers, get this mess cleaned up!" I bark.
"Why? Langly's the one that made most of it." He's returned to surliness. Well, it was fun while it lasted.
"'Cause I'm the birthday boy, and I don't have to do shit," Langly's returned, dressed and carrying two laptops. Byers shoots him a withering glance. "Like, are you ready, Mulder? And do we have to pick up the folks?" His voice has taken on a whine. When I give him a querying look, he says he and Deborah are going to play Quake.
"Got them another escort this morning," Mulder assures him.
"Yeah, probably someone quieter," Langly shoots back. "Can we get out of here already?"
"Don't get your shorts in a knot, Blondie. You guys figure out anything more from what you pulled down?" Mulder asks us.
"No, and we're not going to." I pass a warning glare to both Byers and Langly.
"What do you mean, you're not going to?" Mulder's puzzled.
"Just that," I say, crossing my arms. Let any of them try to overrule me on this one. "It's over. No one else is getting hurt over this. It's not worth it."
"Wait a minute!" Byers yelps. "When was this decided?"
Mulder chuckles. "Going soft on me, Frohike?"
"No, I'm just tired of people getting shot at, that's all!"
Byers finally gets his chance to give me the Look of Death. "I think we're already in too far," he says quietly. "Backing off isn't the answer now."
"We're backing off. It's done. It's over." I'm not kidding about this one.
"Fine. Do it your way." Byers' voice is like cracked ice. "You're still wrong."
He heads for the office stairs. "Where're you going?" I call after him.
He stops to eye me coldly. "To get some work done. Someone around here should."
LANGLY:
"Frohike sure is spooked," Mulder comments as we drive off.
"Yeah, well, he's not the only one. I ain't too happy about Deb getting shot up, y'know."
"Think Byers is right? That you're already too far in?" Mulder asks me.
"How the hell should I know? It's not like Byers told me jack shit about what's going on. Frohike's no better, the jerk."
All I do know is, I'm not letting this sleep. I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and why. Byers and Frohike can do what they like, but I'm on it. That's why the laptops today. And maybe me and Deb'll play a little Quake, too.
FROHIKE:
I head for the basement, trying to think of our next headline. The Area 51 stuff was promising, but I don't like the direction it's taken. Not that Area 51 stuff is ever totally benign, but having two people near to us shot at isn't exactly what I had in mind when I was thinking of risk.
Byers is already there. He doesn't say a word to me. He's obviously pissed at the universe, and most especially me, for wanting to put the brakes on this investigation. I avoid talking to him while he works. I hope he's not back on the files I told him not to pursue.
"Frohike, where are the disks?" he demands.
"What disks?"
"The disks of the Area 51 stuff. I took them off the system and put them on zips."
"Didn't you put them in the safe?" That's usually where strategic stuff goes.
"No, I locked them in my bottom desk drawer." He knows that the only other people who have keys are Langly and myself.
"I didn't take them, honest." I didn't.
He's about to lay into me, but his thoughts and mine meld into two words -- "Oh, shit!" We start tearing the place apart. It was messy to start with. It's well beyond that when we're done ripping apart our desks, and Langly's. He won't appreciate having his mess tampered with, but oh well.
"I bet Langly has them," I say, ready to kill the boy if he does. Things are bad enough already, and Blondie may have been idiot enough to grab them. Taking them out of here could be fatal. We could lose him and the disks at the same time.
"I don't believe it. I don't believe he could be so stupid," Byers moans as we hurry for my ancient Chrysler.
"Believe it." You, of all people, should. You're not doing much better yourself, I swear under my breath. This is a moment where our own stupidity is going to get us killed.
GWU MEDICAL CENTER
DEBORAH'S ROOM
9:00 A.M.
FROHIKE
We were going to pay Deborah a visit today, but since we're pretty sure Langly has the disks, it's a little sooner than we'd originally planned. Hope she's feeling up to company. We need to behave in a way that won't make the senior SaintJohns suspicious. God knows they're upset enough.
"No screaming," I warn Byers as we head up the elevator.
"Take that advice yourself," he retorts. He's looking real squirrelly right now, so I'll let it pass.
So help me, if Langly has the disks, I'll strangle him. If he doesn't, I'll strangle him later, after I find them. We're definitely not reacting well to anything today. Nobody's been getting enough sleep to stay sensible.
Mr. and Mrs. SaintJohn are talking to their daughter as Langly occupies one of the chairs, wrapped up in his laptop. I swear the boy has no manners.
"Good morning, sir, ma'am," I greet them. It's obvious they didn't get much of a night's sleep either.
"Mr. Frohike," Mrs. SaintJohn is warm in her greeting. Mr. SaintJohn doesn't say anything, but does shake my hand this time.
"What're you guys doing here?" Langly's head pops up like a jack-in-the-box.
"We thought we'd come and see how you're all doing," I say nonchalantly, but pass a look to Langly that says, you're dead, boy. "Langly, can you step out for a moment?"
What I'd really like to do is take him by the scruff of his neck and drag him out as I berate everything from his computing talents to his manhood (not that there's much difference for him), but I employ some restraint. No point in upsetting the SaintJohns and their daughter.
"Ringo, hurry back," Deborah calls out groggily.
Byers and I drag Langly down the hall and shove him into a supply closet, with us close behind.
"Come into my office," Byers says as he shuts the door. He keeps his hand on the doorknob, to keep out intruders. We've gotten good at locating supply closets. They make great impromptu conference rooms.
"What the fuck? What're you trying to do, humiliate me in front of Deb and her folks?" Langly spits at us.
"Oh, I suspect you can do that quite well on your own," I return, with considerable vitriol. "Christ, Langly, one billion sperm and you were the fastest swimmer?" I'm ready to smack him upside the head.
"What're you doing with the disks, Langly?" Byers' voice is sharp and cold, like broken glass. "Taking them out of the office was insane. Are you trying to get us all killed?"
Langly's eyes turn to ice. His voice, instead of rising to a shriek, becomes a low, menacing growl. "Look, you guys said you were gonna give it up. Fine. Do whatever you like. But I'm gonna find out who did this to Deb, and if you don't like it, then I'll see both your asses in hell!"
"The answer may not be on there," I say quietly.
"Yeah? Where else do you suggest we look?" he demands.
"Hard to say. We seem to have a penchant for pissing people off in general." I shrug.
"Yeah, well, it wasn't *your* girlfriend that took a bullet!" Sometimes Langly can look so young and vulnerable, but those qualities are overcome now by age and rage. In this moment, he looks every moment of his 35 years, and then some.
"Dude, your job right now is to get your girlfriend well, not fuck around in something like this," I say harshly.
"I'm not letting it ride. Somebody's gonna pay for this."
Byers stares at him. "Give us the disks, Langly. We'll find out what's going on. Believe me, we're not going to let it go, either."
I protest. "Wait a minute. We agreed-"
Byers' face is hard. "We agreed to nothing. You tried to coerce me, and I went along with it, but I'm with Langly. We need to figure this out, and soon. We're wasting time here."
Langly sighs. "I'll get the disks. You better not be shitting me, Byers. I told the folks I was working, figured they might be a little more impressed with me. What am I supposed to do now?"
I shrug. "Play some Quake?"
He sighs, deflating. "Yeah, maybe I should. Man, I can hardly think straight with them in the same room. I wish it was just me and Deb. I mean, I guess her mom is okay, but her dad hates my guts. He's always glaring at me like it's my personal fault that Deb got shot. Hell, it probably *is* my fault."
Byers opens his mouth to reply, but I know what's coming and speak before he says anything. "It's nobody's *fault,* either of you. We're in a mess, and these files have something to do with it. It's pretty obvious that they're trying everything short of shooting us to keep us away from it."
"That's because they know that shooting us won't work," Byers says grimly.
I don't like the mood he's been in since Deborah was shot. There are times when his determination overtakes his good sense, and I saw him charge an armed man to save Mata Hari. Sometimes I think Byers has a suicide wish buried down deep. He may not realize it, but he sure acts like it in his more spectacularly stupid moments. Granted, sometimes that impulse has saved our lives, but right now, I'm genuinely afraid for the guy. He just can't seem to stand back from this one, and I wish I knew why. Right now, I'm not even sure that he knows.
Then again, if he's getting as attached to Sari as I think he is, he may be reacting to this situation the same way he reacted to Landau when Susanne was threatened.
"Okay, Byers, we get the picture," I tell him.
"I'm not backing off this until we find out who shot Deb," Langly insists again. "This is total war, salt the earth! Nobody hurts Deb without paying for it." Some days I think we've all been living together too long. Byers is starting to rub off on the boy, and not in a good way.
"All right!" I snap. "I get it. But we have to examine the new files before we know where to go from here. We still haven't had much of a chance to actually look at them since Kimmy cracked them."
"So let's get the damned disks and get on it," Byers says.
OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMEN
4:24 P.M.
BYERS:
I've been working my way through the series of files all day. Their contents appear to be, if anything, even more confusing than they were before Kimmy supplied us with the new ones. One of them consists entirely of some kind of mathematical equations, and beyond recognizing them as hard-core physics, I'm at a loss to know what to make of them.
I can tell that there are two distinct sets of information here. The surface material gave us information on both an advanced, but more or less ordinary stealth plane, and on something that still looks very strange. The equations and the ghost files that I pulled down, however, seem to relate exclusively to the inexplicable, possibly extraterrestrial nature of some of the other files I got while I was in. I'm starting to suspect that the stealth files are just cover for the more bizarre material.
Frohike has been avoiding me, which has been fine with me, as I've been badly out of sorts. What little sleep I had was haunted by nightmares, flashing images of Sari, Susanne, and Deborah, the three intermixed in unstable scenes filled with blood and terror. It's as though they had all three become one in my subconscious last night, morphing into each other, faces and bodies in flux. Then there were the flashes of Langly in the foundry, and Landau gloating with a cartoonish evil overlord laugh. I dreamed of gunshots and torture, and all my friends dying around me, knowing that it was all my fault.
I refrained from calling Sari this morning, despite my feelings of dread. She may very well be right; my habitual paranoia, fed by two friends being shot or shot at, complicated by the lack of sleep and the nightmares I've been having again, are probably distorting my judgment. I don't know that Deborah and Kimmy's shootings are related. I believe they are, but unless I can find something to link them, it really could be just my guts being twisted by recent events. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I really should at least contact Sari now that the work day has mostly gone by.
A woman whose voice I don't recognize answers Sari's new number on the first ring. Probably her new secretary. "Ms. Thomas' office. May I help you?"
"Is Ms. Thomas in?" I ask. "This is John Byers. I'd like to speak with her if I may."
"Just a moment, I'll see if she's available."
I'm put on hold, with the inevitable music tape loop for background. It's innocuous, but annoys me to no end. Classical music done as muzak has never been my favorite genre. Eventually, Sari answers.
"John, how are you today?" she asks. I can hear in her voice that her day has been stressful, but she doesn't sound upset. This is a good sign.
"I'm fine. Been working on the project we talked about. Things are looking even stranger than last night. How has your day been?" I try to keep my voice neutral, despite my own stresses.
"Not too bad," she says. "I've been running back and forth between my old office and my new one, with a crew of people to move boxes. You're lucky you caught me at this number. I was almost ready to head down to my old office for the last load of packed files."
Now for a moment of truth. "Would... Sari, would you consider coming over for a while this evening? I've been thinking about what you said, and maybe I am getting a little overwrought about this. I'd like your opinion on some of the things I've found today."
I hear her draw in a deep breath, then sigh. "Sure, John..." She pauses for a moment, but I can hear that she isn’t quite done. "I don't suppose you'd be up for that dinner out tonight?"
My first instinct is to say no, but our conversation yesterday was tense and uncomfortable for both of us. She's offering me an olive branch here, and I should accept it. "I think we could," I tell her. "It'll depend on what Frohike has to say. He's been working on this too, but I don't know what he's found yet."
"I guess that's fair," she says. "I'm not working late, so I'll be out of here probably about 5:30. I could be at your place by 6:30, if you'd like."
I smile, feeling slightly less stressed already. "I'll be looking forward to seeing you."
End part 9