NEW: Between Lies MSR/AU 10/13
Minismith
Author: N. Y. Smith
E-Mail Address: mini...@aol.com
Date: December 4, 1997
Rating: PG-13: Some coarse language, mildly disturbing themes
Category: SRA Alternate universe
Spoilers: None, really
Keywords: MSR, M/Sc/Sk Friendship,
Character death, Alternate Universe
Disclaimer: Story copyright reserved by the author. (Who else
would
want it?) Most of the characters contained herein (e.g.,
Mulder, Scully,
Skinner, Modell) are the property of Fox, Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, et al, who retain the rights to
those
characters.
Archiving: Just let me know . . .
Scully was silent through dinner despite Skinner and Alex's attempts to engage
her. She placed her empty plate in the dishwasher and stopped in front of Sam's
Art Gallery-- "Mamaggie's" official designation for the refrigerator. Sam's
artistic bent had progressed from abstract to cubist and was now in the
surrealist stage. Sam had a good eye for color--the brighter the better. His
latest masterpiece was a family portrait. The boy in the picture shared his
house with a lady with black curls and a lady with orange curls. In a separate
house, at the end of a long road, was a tall man with a shock of black hair.
Bright kid, admired Skinner. Scully slipped the portrait from beneath the
magnet, still silent as the kitchen door swung shut behind her.
"So, how'd it go with the attorney?" asked Alex.
Skinner rearranged his vegetables. "Everything goes to Sam. I'm executor and
Scully and I will be co-trustees for Sam."
"Is there much to deal with?"
"A few personal items and the house in Providence and the one on the Vineyard.
They're both paid for so Scully will have to decide if she wants to sell them
or keep them for the income." He stared at the door. "What about you? What did
your friend McGough have to say?"
"He said that Bill Mulder ran Project Solomon until sometime around 1980."
"And then?"
"And then he just walked away."
Skinner shook his head. "Doesn't happen. Like your friend said, that's a little
club you have to die to get out of."
"Yeah it is. Unless you have an insurance policy."
Skinner's long forehead furrowed. "It would have to be a good one."
"A really good one."
"And you'd want to keep it close."
"But safely concealed."
All roads lead to Rome . . . They nodded at each other in agreement.
Krycek opened the back door. "I'll set it up."
Skinner paused at the living room door. "I'll talk to Scully."
She had not returned to the house on the Vineyard since the night of Mulder's
father's death. The bathroom had long ago been cleaned but, in her mind's eye,
it still bore the blood of Bill Mulder. That morning, Mulder pere had summoned
Mulder fils to the Vineyard. Of course Mulder went alone--leaving her in the
middle of their discussion about what to do about Sam. She'd been angry with
him about leaving. But when she heard the terror in his voice when he called
that night, she forgot her anger.
"He's dead, Scully. He's dead."
"Who's dead, Mulder?"
"My father."
"Mulder, what happened? Were you arguing?"
"No. I don't think so."
"Mulder, did you kill him?"
"I don't know."
She'd immediately called Skinner who'd immediately called the SAIC of the
Bureau office in Providence who'd immediately sealed the scene in West Tisbury.
The SAIC from Providence had found Mulder cradling his father's head and
refusing to move until Scully arrived. He would periodically become still and
silent for several minutes at a time before becoming quite agitated and asking
wild questions.
Mulder's service weapon was found in his father's hand. There were powder burns
on the right temple. Paraffin tests were positive for both Mulders. Despite the
absence of a note and the fact that most people do not kill themselves with a
houseguest sitting in the next room, it was quickly and quietly ruled a
suicide.
The closure of the investigation into his father's death had brought no comfort
to Mulder. He was diagnosed as depressed and delusional and placed on temporary
medical leave. He never returned to duty. There were good days. In fact, the
days surrounding Sam's birth were the best he would ever have. But the
delusions returned with a vengeance and he committed himself to a full-care
psychiatric facility. Two lives ended that day, she thought sadly. A single
tear coursed down her cheek. Skinner took her arm and gently led her out of the
room.
The house was situated on the water and a wide porch capitalized on the view.
Alex turned his face to enjoy the freshness of the salt breeze that reminded
him of his own view and of Melissa. I wonder how she's feeling? Soon her belly
would be round and full and they'd lie with her belly pressed against his, each
tiny kick confirming their miracle growing inside of her. God, how I miss
her--how I miss them all . . .
The weathered wooden porch barely protested under Scully's light step.
Listlessly, she scanned the horizon. The contrast between her usual fire and
this lifeless passivity was heartbreaking.
Krycek leaned against the rail. "Do you want to keep the house?"
Skinner walked to the end of the porch and returned. "The rental income would
make you and Sam very comfortable."
Despite the spring warmth, she shivered. "No." Skinner draped his suitcoat over
her shoulders. It fit her like a kaftan. "Mulder found only sadness here."
"Where do we start looking?"
"The rental agent put all the personal items in the attic."
Dust motes danced in the sunlight that streamed through the dormer windows into
the attic. It was still and hot. Krycek and Skinner opened every window that
would budge and the temperature soon cooled down to "roast."
The rental agents had not wasted much time on organizing the "personal items"
so the attic resembled Tutankhamen's tomb--stacks of boxes and piles of
pictures. Skinner dusted off a rickety chair and sat on it while he rifled
through a box marked "Desk contents." Scully sat on a small ottoman and flipped
through a leather-bound photo album. Krycek pushed aside a weathered creel and
picked up most of a stack of framed photographs. The framed photographs were
portraits of Fox and Samantha, mostly typical school pictures whose purpose
seemed to drain whatever personality might be revealed by the subject's face.
Despite the photographer's best efforts, some personality did show itself.
Although the faces were devoid of expression, the eyes of each child showed a
loneliness that haunted the father of Alexandreovitch and Ekaterin. He reached
for the remainder of the stack. "[Damn,]" he cursed, pulling a glass shard from
his bleeding finger.
"Let me see your hand," Scully ordered instinctively.
"I'm OK," he refused. He wiped the blood on his handkerchief. He pulled out his
pen and used its white tip to brush the glass shards from the picture's mat.
Fox and Samantha, October, 1974. He stirred the glass. "The picture's gone."
Scully reached for the mat. "October of 74? That would have been taken just
before Samantha disappeared."
Behind them a stair creaked and Krycek wheeled, drew, cocked and aimed his
weapon at the doorway.
The gentle ocean breeze was not strong enough to carry away the sickening
stench of stale cigarette smoke. "The front door was open. I hope you don't
mind." Krycek wondered if he told the truth as easily as he lied. The sunlight
streaming through the dormer window accentuated his pallor. He lifted the creel
and inspected one of the flies. "Sad to think this is all that's left of a
man's life." He set the creel atop a pasteboard box.
"What do you want?" Skinner growled.
The yellowed fingers fished a frame from the stack and brushed away the dust.
Young Fox must have been barely school age and baby Samantha toddled alongside.
"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have
been!'" His fingers gently traced the outlines of the faces. "Whittier," the
blue lips explained absently. He replaced the picture on the stack, turning the
faces down. "I suppose you'll sell the house?" He looked out the window at the
sea. "I can't imagine it holds many happy memories for you."
"No, it doesn't." Scully replied.
He sighed with a deadly rattle.
"Why are you here?" Krycek reiterated Skinner's question.
"A man spends the first part of his life making mistakes; the second part
living with the consequences of those mistakes; and the last part trying to
correct the mistakes. Only too late does he discover that fate is immutable.
And unforgiving."
The stair creaked again as he descended and the front door clicked shut behind
him.
"What on earth was that about?" Scully's face betrayed confusion.
"He came to find out if we have the evidence. Whatever the hell it is." Krycek
brushed his dusty hands on his trouser leg.
"Which means he doesn't have it."
Skinner scowled. "And neither do we."
The trip back to Washington was uneventful. Scully disappeared upstairs and
Krycek followed shortly after. Skinner was only half-listening to the news when
he sat upright and bolted up the stairs. He knocked on Krycek's door as he
opened it. Krycek's empty shoulder holster was draped over the bedpost. "Lose
something?" Krycek said from the doorway. His hair was wet and he wore only
jeans and a towel draped around his neck.
"McGough's dead."
"When?"
"Sometime last night. They found his body at his restaurant this morning."
Skinner hesitated. "Suicide. 9mm to the head."
Krycek grinned as he pulled down his white t-shirt.
"What's so funny?"
Krycek checked his pistol and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans. "He
didn't do it. He didn't kill himself."
"How do you know, Krycek?" He grabbed Krycek's t-shirt as he passed. "How do
you know?"
Krycek looked at the ceiling. "I know, man, I know. I served with McGough for 8
years. And when he stepped on an antipersonnel mine during a mission, I was the
one who dragged his ass home. I know." He looked across the hall at Dana's
door. "It's not safe for her anymore."
"You know she won't leave."
"I know. You've got to convince her. For Sam's sake."
Skinner nodded. "Where are you going?"
Krycek paused at the top of the stairs. "To check security." He held his pistol
down behind his leg. "You've got to convince her."
Skinner stood in front of her Scully's door for a long time before knocking.
She was tying her robe when he entered.
"You look tired," she offered.
"Long day." He searched the room for the words to begin. "What are all these
notebooks?"
"Mulder's journals." She removed a stack of yellow pads from the boudoir chair
and motioned for him to sit. "I keep reading them, hoping to find the answer."
"Answer to what?"
Absently, she picked up one of the pads and started flipping pages. "The answer
to why he chose not to share it with me. The truth, I mean." He studied his
hands. "I wish I could tell you, Scully, I truly do."
"It's astounding. He could look me straight in the eye and tell me about alien
abductions and million-year-old parasites, but he couldn't tell me this. Maybe
Alex was right; maybe he thought I would try to change his course--convince him
to have the surgery."
"Maybe he thought he'd given you enough to worry about." He smiled ruefully and
she flushed. "What I do know is that when he told me you were pregnant, he also
told me he'd been given less than a year to live." He leaned forward, placing
his elbows on his knees. "He lasted 2 years longer than anyone expected. I
think you and Sam gave him that."
"But now what do we do? Before now I could almost make it--knowing he was
around somewhere. But now he's gone and, for the first time in my life, I don't
know what to do." She paced between the bed and the door clutching one of the
yellow pads.
Skinner studied the carpet pattern, words failing. Suddenly the yellow pad
whomped against the bedroom door and fluttered to the floor. "Dammit, Mulder!
Why did you have to leave me before I even realized that I loved you?" She
faced the bed.
Skinner picked up the pad from the floor and placed it on the wrinkled
bedspread. "McGough is dead, Scully. Krycek thinks he was murdered." He moved
the yellow pad and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. "He thinks--we both
think--you need to go to Sam and let us finish this."
She rocked, shaking her head. "No. I owe it to Mulder to see this through."
"You're wrong, Scully. What you owe him is to take care of his son."
She closed her eyes and leaned into his shoulder for one precious moment.
"When?"
He stood. "Tomorrow."
She picked up the photo from her bedside. "Sam's probably grown 6 inches since
we left."
He nodded then reached behind her on the bed to pick up a manila envelope that
was peeking out from one of the yellow pads. There was no return address but
the postmark--3 years old-- was Martha's Vineyard. The handwriting was the same
as he'd seen in the box marked "Desk contents" at Bill Mulders' home. Skinner's
breath quickened. Would Bill Mulder, knowing he was about to end his own life,
have sent his "insurance policy" to his son? Could they be that lucky? Hands
trembling, he pulled out the contents of the envelope. His heart sank. It was a
photograph--the one missing from the broken frame--the last one taken before
Samantha disappeared. Although they were older than in any of the other
photographs, the siblings' eyes haunted him. He held it next to the photo of
Sam. The resemblance was amazing. He started to scratch off a black spot from
on top of one of Samantha's shoes with his fingernail, but stopped when he
realized the "spot" was perfectly square. "Krycek!" he called from the doorway.
"What is it?" Scully followed him.
Krycek bounded up the stairs. "What?"
"Look at this and tell me what you see."
"You wanna tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for?"
"Just tell me what you see."
"What?" Scully asked again.
"I see Mulder and his sister." He turned the picture over and looked at the
date. "This is the picture missing from Bill Mulder's house. Where did you get
it?"
"It was mailed to Mulder from Martha's Vineyard. 3 years ago."
Krycek whistled softly and held the photo close to the lamp. "Here. On
Samantha's shoe."
"What is it?" Scully asked impatiently.
"It can't be," Krycek said in disbelief. "Nobody uses them anymore."
"Nobody except old spooks," Skinner offered. "Can you read it?"
"Yeah, I'll take out my Secret Agent decoder ring with the handy microdot
reader."
Skinner leaned against the door facing. "So what do you need?"
"Well, in absence of a reader-printer, I could make do with a non-reflective
microscope with a video monitor and a printer."
Scully chimed in. "We have access to all of those. In the Bureau's Forensic
Lab."
Skinner rubbed his eyes. "So do we do this now or in the morning?"
Scully tried to say, "Morning."
"Now." Krycek overrode her. "My team is detecting increased perimeter activity.
They recommend we move to a safer location. Now."
"What about Scully?"
"The situation's too hot. If we send her back now, we could risk revealing
Sam's location."
"And that's exactly what they want," disappointment showed in her voice. She
gathered herself. "When do we leave?"
Krycek checked his watch. "Let's meet in the kitchen in 15."
******
end part 10
mini...@aol.com
Regards,
The Minismith
mini...@aol.com
http://members.aol.com/minismith/index.html