REPOST: Trace Evidence 3: Say Goodnight (03/10), Saundra Mitchell
Vampyres Incorporeal
Title: Trace Evidence III: Say Goodnight (03/10)
Author: Saundra Mitchell
E-Mail: v...@netdirect.net
Feedback: Please!
Rating:R
Later
Mulder rang the bell again, tapping
his foot impatiently. He knew they were
in there; it was just a question of how
long they would make him wait until they
let him in. When the door swung open, he
stared in disbelief. Frohike. Shaven.
With a new haircut. Wearing a suit
pinned together for adjustment.
"Going to a funeral?" Right after
he said it, Mulder remembered. "Don't
slam the door on me. . . ow, damn it,
Frohike, I have a surprise for you,
Jesus!"
"How can you think this is funny,"
Frohike demanded through the screen.
"I'm not going to stand here and listen
to you badmouth her memory. . ."
Mulder held up a hand to quiet him.
"Will you shut up and look?"
Peering down the walk, the older
man's jaw dropped. Scully smiled
sheepishly and waved to him, quietly
muttering something to Munch. Glaring at
Mulder, Frohike struggled to come up
with the right words. Mulder's proud
grin was deflated by what he finally
managed to say.
"What's he doing here?"
"They need a private place to stay
while we investigate Scully's untimely
demise," Mulder explained quickly.
"Munch is. . . Munch is okay. Fucking
batty, but he's okay."
"Is she holding his hand?"
"Uh, yeah," he whispered, rolling
his eyes. "I don't know the details."
Inside
"What're you doing," Munch asked,
hovering over Langly as he machine-
gunned commands into his computer. When
Langly didn't answer, Munch turned to
Frohike. "What's he doing?" Still no
answer. Mulder shrugged his shoulders,
grinning. Much would have to sink or
swim with the Lone Gunmen on his own.
"Oh, so this is the thanks I get
for believing that ridiculous story,"
Munch scowled. "This is the thanks I get
for sitting through six hours of what
any right-minded detective would
consider complete and utter bullshit,
then believing it. This. This is the
thanks I get."
"He's renting you a house," Frohike
muttered, glaring. "You can't very well
stay here."
"Oh, I can feel the love in here
tonight," Munch sighed, leaning down to
face Mulder. "Why here? Why did you
bring me here? We know how to rent a
house, don't we?"
Mulder leaned back and smiled. "You
have eighteen hundred dollars to spend,
Munch?"
"Okay, this isn't so bad." Munch
looked around. "So what do you guys do
here?"
"We'd tell you, but then we'd have
to kill you," Langly said, cracking his
knuckles in a brief respite from typing.
"Ha ha," Munch said, then caught
the expression on Frohike's face.
"They're not kidding, are they?"
Mulder shook his head, trying not
to laugh.
"Your life scares the hell out of
me, Mulder."
"Okay," Frohike said, spreading a
handful of small earpieces out on a work
bench. "These here, the ones with the
red dot, are just receivers. One for
you, one for Bayliss, Mulder. Now these,
with the blue dots, are transceivers.
They're sensitive enough to pick up a
whisper, so don't worry about speaking
up. They have a range of 300 yards, give
or take a yard or two."
Scully picked one of the
transceivers up, and carefully slid it
into her ear. "What about a camera?"
"Well, I can't get it much smaller
than this on such short notice," Frohike
answered, pulling a particularly gaudy
brooch out of a drawer. "But it'll work.
It's going to transmit back to our
satellite- no way to hide an array truck
at a funeral."
"Hey, where's the pen-gun," Munch
joked, smiling at Scully.
Langly grabbed a silver-barreled
pen from his front pocket and waved it
in front of Munch. "Nine millimeter, one
shot, but I'm not giving it to you."
For the first time in his entire
experience as a 60s revolutionary-cum-
murder police, Munch was speechless.
Taking a step back, he surveyed his
surroundings. Computers, cameras in
jewelry, guns in pen disguises, and the
fact that they were going to be staking
out Scully's funeral all blended into a
single, sudden sense that he was in way
over his head. The brief rendition of
"the government does these bad things"
on the car ride over didn't begin to
cover this Faustian version of the
Twilight Zone.
Baltimore, Maryland
Homicide Unit
Tim walked solemnly into the squad
room, unable to make eye contact with
his colleagues. He was afraid that if
they got a truly good look at his face,
they'd know truth. The inevitable
comments and condolences would come, and
it was in his nature to try and make
people feel better. Lying about this
left a sour taste in his throat. Lewis
accosted him first, putting a stiff arm
around his shoulder in an effigy of a
hug.
"We all pitched in, to send
flowers," Meldrick mumbled. "We put your
name on the card."
Tim nodded. "Thanks. . . thanks,
I'll pay you back."
"I think we should have a . . . a
wake or something, at the bar. I mean. .
hell, she was up here close enough to
be part of the unit. Sure feels that
way."
"I. . . I'm not . . . Mulder needs
someone with him right now," Tim
stuttered. "It's a good idea. We should
do it, maybe next week?"
And so it went, passing the
gauntlet of the concerned on his way to
Giardello's door. The only ones who
hadn't made a concerted effort to talk
to him were Kellerman and Falsone. He
understood Falsone's lack of interest-
he barely knew Scully, and what he did
know of her was her smile as she shot
him down. There was an explanation for
Kellerman's reticence too, but Tim was
too nervous, too tired to worry about
it.
Just as he moved to knock on
Giardello's door, Frank appeared from
the locker room. Dressed in a crisp grey
suit, he wore a small black ribbon
pinned to his lapel.
"Tim," Pembleton said softly,
crossing the distance between them
quickly.
"Hey Frank," Bayliss said, his
discomfort growing. This was his
partner, a man he willingly entrusted
with his life, and he was going to lie
to him. "How. . . how. . . how are you?"
Folding his lower lip under his
front teeth, Frank shook his head. "I'll
be all right. Gotta go home tonight and
explain it to Livvy, though. She . . .
she knows something's wrong, and last
night. . . I just couldn't tell her. I
could not tell her."
"Hard," Bayliss choked. "That's
hard. . ."
He looked away, anchoring himself
on the bland walls of the unit. "Tell
Mulder I'm sorry for his loss."
Tim couldn't do it. Everyone else,
he could nod and agree, but not Frank.
Not about this. "You can't. You can't
tell Livvy, Frank."
"I have to tell her, Bayliss,"
Frank said scathingly.
Grabbing his partner by the
shoulders, he leaned in close to his
ear. "Please just trust me. Just trust
me. Let me talk to Gee, and then we'll
have lunch, and I'll explain everything,
I promise. Okay?"
Pembleton's eyes widened, and his
brows curled in angry furrows. "Explain
what?"
"Just let me talk to Gee, let me
get my vacation paperwork put in, okay?"
The Waterfront
"You've got to be better at keeping
a secret than me," Tim pleased
miserably. "I know it sounds crazy, I
know it doesn't make any sense, Frank. .
"
Straightening his spine, Pembleton
smiled a very ugly smile. Unpinning the
black ribbon, he laid it on the bar.
"You lied to me."
Shaking his head, Tim was
distraught. "I didn't. I didn't lie to
you. When I called you. . . when I
called you, I told you exactly what I
knew to be true. I didn't lie to you,
Frank, but you have to . . . you can't
say anything. Not to anyone. Not anyone,
not even Mary."
Standing up, Pembleton brushed off
his jacket. "Not to my wife. Not to my
family."
"If you tell her," Tim said,
forcing Pembleton to look at him. "If
you tell her, they could get hurt. I'm
only telling you because I can't lie to
you, Frank. I can't, I can't."
"You know, I'm beginning to wonder
about that." Pembleton pulled himself
away from his partner. "You've gotten
pretty damned good at it lately."
"Frank. . . "
"Tell Dana to call me when she
rises from the dead," he growled,
storming out of the bar.
Washington, D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
With Scully and Munch comfortably
installed in the house in Alexandra,
Mulder made his way back to work. He had
to grab a few files, irritate Skinner,
and sneak out a copy of a copy of the
autopsy report. Adjusting his
sunglasses, he flashed his badge at the
guard, and ducked into the first open
elevator. Staring at the ceiling, Mulder
hummed along to nothing at all.
The doors opened a level before his
floor, and he automatically stepped over
to allow another man inside. The man
pushed a button, looking away from
Mulder as the elevator lurched into
motion. After a moment, the man reached
out and grabbed the emergency stop
button.
"What the hell are you. . ." Mulder
began, then stopped. Another ghost stood
in front of him, another wraith in the
flesh.
"Listen closely, and listen well,
Agent Mulder," X said, apparently
unfazed by Mulder's stunned expression
and the grating klaxon in the
background. "I know your partner's
alive. I know she's on 4256 Kings Fall
Boulevard in Alexandria with a detective
from the Baltimore homicide unit. If I
know all this, what do you think they
know?"
Mulder stared at X, dumbfounded.
"You're alive."
"Our time is up." Pushing the
emergency button back in, the elevator
whined into action.
Mulder grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Wait a minute. . . wait a minute. Who
are they? How do you know all of this?
What's going on?"
The doors opened, and X bowed his
head as he stepped out. "All lies lead
to the truth, Agent Mulder. It's a
familiar refrain, isn't it?"
4256 Kings Fall Boulevard
Trying to straighten her blouse,
Scully picked up her ringing cell phone.
Munch spread himself out on the couch,
making faux alluring faces at her.
Stifling a giggle, she managed to say
hello.
"Get out of there," Mulder's voice
said, then the line went dead.
The color drained from her face.
Looking around, she estimated how long
it would take them to gather their
things and vacate the premises.
Munch felt the mood change
immediately. "Dana?"
Slipping into her shoes, she
grabbed her laptop and the box of
equipment Frohike had given them. "Let's
go."
"What's going on?"
She shook her head. "I don't know
yet, but we have to go."
Munch grabbed her by the wrist as
she moved past him. Pulling her close,
he pinned her against his body with his
arms. Despite his appearance, he was
surprisingly strong. Staring down into
her wide, stormy eyes he ignored his
first impulse, but acted on the second.
Leaning down he caught her lips with
his, breathing in the exotic scent of
her skin. She responded hesitantly,
snaking her arms up to take his face in
her hands. Leaning into him, she forgot
Mulder's urgent warning for a moment. It
felt good to touch someone else,
comforting to taste an eager, unhurried
kiss. Slowly pulling back, she smiled at
him, a genuine smile that lasted only a
moment.
"We have to go," she repeated.
"I should have hidden that
newspaper," he said ruefully.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Fingering through the files on
Skinner's desk, Mulder read the tags
quickly. He probably only had a minute
or two more of solitude before his
superior reappeared, and he had to get
the coroner's report for Scully. Finding
it, he glanced over the front cover,
then tucked it into a handful of files
he'd already been carrying.
"I told you to go home," Skinner
said as he opened the door. "I meant
it."
"Sir," Mulder said softly. "I
wanted to know the results of the DNA
testing."
Skinner sighed. "Agent Mulder, if
you're already convinced that Agent
Scully is alive, there is no evidence on
earth which will dissuade you from that
position."
Mulder cocked his head. Something
wasn't right. "You have the results
back, sir?"
"I do, and they've been forwarded
to Washington homicide. Go home, Agent
Mulder. Get drunk, grieve, whatever it
is you do to comfort yourself, but I
don't want to find you back in this
building until after the funeral."
"What were the results, sir?"
With another sigh, Skinner opened
his desk drawer. "A ninety two percent
match."
"Only ninety-two," Mulder asked,
surprised. "That's not even admissible
as conclusive evidence in trial."
"I'm aware of that. However, in
light of the circumstances, ninety two
percent is good enough."
"No tattoo, no ID, no cross
pendant, and an imperfect DNA match. . ."
Skinner slid down into his chair.
"Go home, Mulder."
"Sir, I . . ."
"Now," Skinner shouted. A wall of
tears welled in his eyes, but did not
fall. Glaring angrily at Mulder, he
shook his head. "I want to believe it's
not her as much as you do. I would give
anything to know this was all a cruel
hoax, but it's not. It's time for you to
face the truth, Mulder. Scully's dead,
and she's not coming back."
"We'll see about that," Mulder
said, slipping out of the office.
Heading toward the elevator, he mulled
over what he'd just seen. Skinner was
notoriously tight-lipped when he wanted
to be, but it was different this time.
In fact, the difference nagged at him
all the way downstairs and out of the
building. Reaching into his pocket for
his keys, Mulder unlocked his car door.
Tossing the files onto the passenger
seat, he had an epiphany. The
explanation was so clear he almost
kicked himself for missing it before.
"He loves her," he told himself
with certainty.
(End Part Three)