November 22, 1998

Monday already. We had played cards and bullshitted until 5:30 a.m., leaving me just enough time to get in the shower, get Miranda up, and hit the vast unknown expanse of the universe known as metro D.C. I had been generously supplied by my hosts with maps, including GPS coordinates of the places I needed to get to and a fairly extensive list of moderately priced
bars and restaurants.

Arrangements had been made for me to pick up an FBI motor pool car until my Sentra arrived, so that was the first stop on the list. Byers had had the least to drink and generously offered to escort me, with the proviso that he could drop me off not too close to the building. By the time I got out of the shower, he was already dressed in a very well-cut suit, looking like a
college professor from another era. Which, I found out, he was. A professor, that is, not necessarily from another era.

Miranda was not having a good hair day, and I hated to have to push her to move it along on her first day in a new school, but I didn't have a lot of options here. By the time she was ready, I was ready to keel over from exhaustion and she was a basket case. If Byers was unnerved by the display of female morning ritual behavior, he didn't show it. Without a comment, he stopped at Starbucks and graciously provided Miranda with a vanilla mocha, me with a tall latte, and both of us with chocolate croissants. I wasn't going to ask how he knew. This was getting to be an old drill.

The previous night's sleet had changed to rain, and the roads were still slick. As for the traffic...Los Angeles traffic is legendary for its sheer volume, but this...and I, born and bred in the land of the endless summer, was supposed to drive in this shit?! Sure, it rains on the west coast. But not for half the year, and it never gets cold enough to freeze near the coastal regions, where I had always lived.

After politely inquiring if we had brought umbrellas--we had--Byers wished us well and indicated he would be back later in the afternoon, but if I needed to get back sooner, Langly and Frohike would be in all day. (Probably sleeping, I thought enviously).

Miranda and I went to the information desk in the lobby, and a call was placed to human resources. Fortunately, our loaner car was ready, and we were directed to the motor pool. After I got Miranda enrolled in school, I would come back and do my HR paperwork. I was scheduled to meet Assistant Director Skinner at 11:00. Then I was supposed to pick up the keys for our temporary townhouse, and I would get Miranda at the end of the school day. Tomorrow I would meet with Dr. Scully. Our moving van was supposed to be there on Wednesday, which meant we should be in our new place on Thursday, which, ironically, was Thanksgiving.

"Oh, God, Mom, it's a white Taurus," Miranda moaned. This was sort of a joke with us; on the occasions we had needed to rent a car, we always seemed to end up with white Tauruses. I really think that all rentals and pool cars are white Tauruses.

"On the other hand, the price is right," I muttered. Fortunately, I had become familiar with the setup of a Taurus from our previous rental experiences, so acclimation was not a huge deal. Good thing it wasn't--I doubted I could have dealth with that right now.

Getting out of DC made driving the San Diego Freeway look like an event for amateurs. The car was significantly larger than my Sentra, the roads were slippery, and I was half comatose. A wonderful combination when one had things to see and people to do. I also realized that I was going to have to invest in some clothing for Miranda and myself; it gets chilly in Southern California, but chilly for us was equivalent to the daytime high here.

We were quiet until we made it to the Virginia border. Our new state of residence, at least for now.

"Mom." Miranda's voice was so soft I barely heard her.

"What is it, pumpkin?"

"Mom...I really miss Daddy."

Oh, God. I missed her daddy the way I would miss my left arm at this point--and I'm a southpaw. Not only did I miss Eric, I missed everything that went with life with Eric. It wasn't just that he was gone, although that was certainly the major component. It was as if the whole...essence of everything had changed.

"I miss him, too, sweetheart."

"Mom, I'm scared."

I should have been comforting here in this moment, shoring her up, letting her know that it would be all right. But the words fell from my mouth before I could stop them.

"I'm scared, too.

***

In good weather, Virginia is probably a beautiful state, but this morning, it was just cold, grey, and depressing. My hosts did do an outstanding job of directing me to the middle school were Miranda would attend. Miranda, who had been a combination of sad and apprehensive on the drive, brightened appreciably upon viewing the school grounds. The school had well-manicured grounds, obvious even in the inclement weather, and was in far better repair than the school she had attended in Los Angeles. The standard evil office crone was present upon arriving (I think it's a law that every school must have one), but the assistant principal, the principal, and the guidance counselor were all kind and solicitous, and paired her up with a student who would have the same schedule as her. By the time she was ready to leave for her first class, she was in a far better frame of mind than she had been, and certainly a better one than I had on. Unfortunately, we had been talking for so long in the guidance counselor's office that I was not going to be able to do my HR paperwork if I was going to meet Assistant Director Skinner on time.

Time to meet the man who had been responsible for dragging me into this.

***

Thank God for friends who are spies. (Were they friends? I wasn't sure. Maybe they provided map service to just anyone). Without their detailed maps, I would never have found my way back to DC and, even more importantly, I would have gotten lost finding the parking garage.

Since I had not completed my HR paperwork, I had to be escorted. A woman, perhaps a few years younger than myself, with her blonde hair in a dancer's knot came to escort me. She introduced herself as Kim, AD Skinner's secretary ("They call us administrative assistants, but we know better").

The one thing that struck me was the profusion of suits. In California, we don't do suits. It's not that kind of place. I didn't even know that they made this many suits. It was like the first time I went to the zoo with Miranda as a baby. I had no idea there could be so many baby strollers.

So here I was, standing next to Kim, who was immaculately attired in a cobalt blue suit, a cream-colored shell, hose, and matching pumps. I was clad in my broomstick skirt, long sweater, leggings, and combat boots. Never occurred to me to ask about the dress code.

I waited until I was bidden to enter the sanctum sanctorum. Of course I had to wait. What kind of power tripper would see someone without a proper holding time? (My dad would have, but that's another story).

A gentlemen, expensively dressed, walked out, smoking a cigarette. I did notice the "No smoking" signs. Obviously this guy never heard of Fun with Phonics, or he just didn't give a fuck.

"Mr. Skinner will see you now," Kim ushered me in.

If this guy wasn't military, I don't know who was. He was balding, tall, strongly built, and his shirt collars looked like they got extra starch. He was probably a few years older than me.

He didn't smile.

"Ms. Gerstein. Welcome." The voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly. I got the feeling the "welcome" was standard issue.

I reached over to shake his hand. His hands were easily twice the size of mine.

"Thank you for coming."

I wanted to say that I really had nothing to do with it, but he didn't look like he was in the mood to brook a smartass right now.

"Do you have any questions?"

Oh, boy. Did I have questions. I restrained myself, however, and attempted to be selective.

"I think I understand what the job entails from your communique. But I am sort of curious: I've been assigned to your training facility at Quantico. But from what I understand, you don't get involved in training at all. So I'd like a bit of a rundown on the org structure here."

Skinner studied me for a moment.

"You know we do have a...dress code here."

Wonderful. Getting off to a great start here.

"But since much of your work will take place in the laboratory settings, and in classrooms, we are not going to make an issue of your...unconventional attire."

Me, unconventional? I'd been referred to as a number of things, but I think that was a new one. I'd spent my life, all 43 years of it, being a nice Jewish girl and doing pretty much what was expected of me. I tried very hard to stifle a giggle. I'd have to tell Eric that one when I...apparently my mind still couldn't wrap around Eric's being gone.

Focus, Allison, focus. Now is not the time to be a wiseass or a neurotic.

"As I believe was indicated in the package you received, you will accompany Dr. Scully to all of the sessions she teaches, and you will offer sign language classes for individuals working with her, as well as working individually with her. And Agent Mulder. You will also assist her on any consultations she may have with other departments. Since the development of
her...disability, she has been removed from the field, but she may be required to consult with law enforcement agencies outside the area from time to time, and you will accompany her."

"Sir, I'm sorry, I was not aware this position involved travel. I have a 13-year-old daughter, and this is not a contingency I had prepared for."

Skinner gave me another nonexpression. "Then perhaps you should prepare for the possibility. For the time being, travel will probably be minimal, so it shouldn't be a problem for you to make future arrangements." I had to believe this guy had no kids, or he would never have made a statement like that.

"You will be meeting with Agent Scully tomorrow at Quantico."

"Yes, we discussed that."

"Very well. You will be expected to report for work next Monday. I think that's all for now." He stood up, and I followed suit.

"And Ms. Gerstein?"

"Yes?"

"I'm very sorry about your husband."

***

Well, THAT had been depressing as hell. And weird. I'd been under the impression before I came that I was a somewhat sought-after commodity. After that exchange, who knew? I did the mountain of HR paperwork--and I thought state government agencies were bad. But at least I had health insurance now, or what passes for health insurance in the late 90s. I had an ID badge with an absolutely dreadful Polaroid in it--who was that dead person, anyway?

I needed grounding, quick. My animals probably missed us horribly. I hadn't seen them since Saturday morning when I put them on the plane for DC. I knew they had arrived safely, since I had burned up the phone line to the kennel until I knew they were settled in. They were probably going to hate me there. So what.

The kennel was called a "pet hotel" and to my delight, my animals were in a lot better digs than I was staying in. And while they were delighted to see me, they were not in the depressed condition that I thought they might be languishing away in.

"You must be the wife." The attendant looked me over.

"Huh?" Now I was really baffled. Not that it took a lot to baffle me at this point in time.

"Your husband, isn't it? He's been here twice a day since they came in. Plays with 'em and pets 'em.   Says they're going home in a couple days."

"What did this person look like?"

The attendant looked at me as if I was an idiot. "Tall guy, dark hair, good looking."

Mulder. I was going to have to do something nice for the dude.

***

Miranda seemed to have survived her first day in a new school (in a new life, for God's sake), but was disappointed that her teachers here felt the same way about homework that they had in Los Angeles--namely, more is better. I got the rundown on all the fashion victims, the posers, real humans, whatever. I am envious of Miranda's ability to scope out people. She is terribly perceptive, and she is careful. I never worry about her succumbing to peer pressure. It's just not in her.

We arrived back at Chez Mess and were greeted by what looked like a flurry of publishing activity. "The Lone Gunmen." So these guys were magazine publishers. I hadn't heard of the publication, but then, I never was much of a magazine reader.

"Need some help?"

Frohike turned to me. "Not at the moment, but when we're done, we need to get it mailed out, and we like to vary our mailing locations."

"I see."

"If you wanna help, I'm hungry," complained Langly. "You could get me something to eat." He raised his eyes over the plastic-framed el cheapo glasses he wore. "Unless, of course, you're one of those that only makes reservations for dinner."

Now I was pissed. I am familiar with all the JAP jokes; I've even told a few of them. But not being in the mood, and having known this individual less than 24 hours, I was annoyed.

"For your information, I can cook. My husband died in a car accident, not from food poisoning." I spat the words out at him.

"Hey, hey, no harm, no foul. I was only jiving you."

I was giving him my most irritated stare, and to my gratification, Byers and Frohike had looked up from what they were doing and were silently warning him not to go there.

"To be quite honest, I have been told I am a very good cook. In fact, I'll prove it." I flounced upstairs, where Miranda had settled in with her 5000-plus channels of passive entertainment.

The kitchen was pretty much devoid of anything that could be transformed into anything edible, unless you count beer, classic Coke, salt, pepper, coffee, and ketchup as basic food items. Cookware had apparently been considered optional here, but there was enough of it to make something decent, and it was clean. Probably belonged to Byers. If I wanted to concoct something, I was going to have to hit a supermarket. And I was going to need some more cash.

Frohike directed me to a glass on one of the worktables, told me to take what I needed, and handed me a map to the Safeway. He had apparently been aware of the sorry state of provisions upstairs. I took requests (Granny Smith apples for Byers, J&B for Frohike, and Bubblicious in any flavor but grape for Langly) and sped off.

***

"That, my dear, was delicious. I haven't dined so well in ages."

"Frohike, it was chicken, potatoes and salad."

"Like I said, I haven't dined so well in ages."

"I didn't think rich girls cooked," Langly mumbled over a mouthful of brownies (made by yours truly) and ice cream.

"My mother is the rich girl, not me." Cooking was probably the smartest thing I could have done; I could focus on something productive, and I actually ate. (Besides, you should never trust a cook who won't eat her own products). I hadn't eaten a full meal since Eric died; I had lived primarily on the basics of caffeine and nicotine, and I was somewhat surprised to find my plate empty. And it was nice to have an appreciative audience. Inquiries abounded about my meeting with Skinner, and I was
assured that he was just that way, that it was nothing personal.

I actually slept that night.
 

END OF PART 3