NEW: Trace Evidence II: Hobson's Choice (06/10) (X/CRA)
Vampyres Incorporeal
Title: Trace Evidence II: Hobson's Choice (06/10)
Author: Saundra Mitchell
E-Mail: v...@netdirect.net
Feedback: Please!
State Road Eight
"Mulder, slow down," Scully frowned, checking
and rechecking her seat belt. "Whatever's on those tapes
will still be there in a half an hour."
"Aren't you the least bit interested in what's on
them," he asked, tearing down the dark road at well
over the speed limit.
"Interesting in the context of a delusional man's
fantasies, yes."
He narrowed his eyes. Their sabbatical from
skepticism had spoiled him; now her usual cynicism
wore on his nerves. "Is it going to kill you to keep an
open mind?"
Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"Yes, there are fantastic elements to this.
Perhaps some of them are just coincidence, but we don't
have any evidence against his version of the truth yet."
"You can't prove a negative," Scully snapped.
"This whole case is an exercise in wasted time, Mulder.
He can't even prove that whatever was in that jar was
ever in his head. All we have is what he told us."
"And these tapes."
"Which may be absolutely nothing."
"Or they might be definitive proof of a
conspiracy."
She sighed. "You know, for someone whose
motto is trust no one, you're awfully confident in the
ramblings of a total stranger."
"Damn it, Scully," he shouted, then stopped
suddenly. His face went pale. "Scully, your face. . ."
Confused by the startling change in his
demeanor, she reached up to touch her cheek. Slowing
the car to a stop on the side of the road, Mulder reached
into his pocket and fished out a rumpled napkin.
Hesitantly, he gave it to her, then guided her hand to her
nose. She stared at him, then down into the tissue.
Blood, bright red, stained the white paper. To Mulder, it
looked almost black, but he recognized it all the same.
"Drive," she choked out, pressing the napkin
under her nose.
"Scully, you should. . ."
"Just drive."
Baltimore, Maryland
Bayliss' Apartment
Eight shots into a bottle of Wild Turkey, and
halfway through a case of beer, Bayliss stretched out on
his couch, enjoying the curious sensation of numbness in
his teeth. Inspiration hit him, and he reached over his
head, fumbling on the coffee table for his wallet. Picking
the phone up, he dropped it not-so-gently on his chest,
and picked up the receiver. Dialing a familiar number, he
was as surprised as anyone to find Frank on the other
line.
"Hey Frank, I'm sorry to call so late," he
mumbled, trying to sound a little sober.
"What the hell do you want, Bayliss?"
"I left my crutches at The Waterfront. I was. . .
could you bring them by tomorrow morning?"
"You called me after midnight to ask me this?"
"Yep."
He heard Frank's disgusted sigh. "I'll talk to you
tomorrow."
His partner hung up on him. Frowning
cheerfully, he dug through his wallet until he found
Mulder's business card. Turning it over, he slowly read
the numbers written in his lover's brash handwriting,
then carefully translated them into keys on the phone
pad. He bounced his foot to the tune of the ringing on
the other line, once, twice, three times.
"Mulder."
"Hi," Tim said, his voice low from exhaustion
and alcohol. "Miss me yet?"
"Tim?"
"How many boyfriends you give this number?"
"It's three in the morning," Mulder said softly.
"I'm lonely."
There was a short pause. "I'm sorry. I wish I
could be there."
"I was thinking, I could join the FBI and then
you could tell me what you do all day."
"You're too old to join the FBI."
Bayliss' head lolled to one side, following the
motion of his rolling eyes. "I've been drinking."
"I can tell. What's wrong?"
"Do you still love me?"
"You know I do," Mulder answered simply. "Is
everything okay, Tim?"
"Not. Okay. But that's okay. Mom wants you to
come to dinner on Friday, so ask your mom if it's okay,
okay?" Laughing at himself, he barely heard Mulder's
response.
"Then I guess you talked things over with your
mom."
"Yep. Talking, crying, shouting, the usual. Hey,
how's Scully?"
"Sleeping."
"Oh, well that's good. I bet she's pretty when she
sleeps."
"I wouldn't know," Mulder said. "Tim, what's
wrong?"
"I'm selling the bar. Well, not the whole bar. My
part of the bar." Tim stared at the ceiling, watching
darkness crawl over his vision, then recede. He
wondered if he could count to fifty.
Shock was evident in Mulder's voice. "Why?"
"I'm gonna pass out now," Tim said seriously. "I
love you."
Without waiting for a response, Bayliss let the
phone fall out of his hands, and he wasn't awake to hear
it hit the floor.
Utica, New York
Comfort Inn Room 113
Closing his cell phone, Mulder tossed it on the
night stand, then peeled his glasses off. The tapes could
wait until tomorrow. Knotting his hands in his hair, he
rolled back into bed. His thoughts drifted briefly to
Scully, sleeping peacefully in the adjoining room. She
was attributing the nosebleed to the dryness of the air,
and refused to let him broach the subject of other
possible causative factors. Vying for his mind's
attention, Tim's voice, slurred and slow, echoed in his
ears. Squeezing his eyes closed, Mulder felt very small
in the double bed; he was unable to help his partner, and
unable to comfort his lover. Life had been a lot easier
when he was one man against the world, he decided.
"Mulder?"
Fluttering his eyelashes, Mulder slowly drifted
from slumber to a waking state. When his vision cleared,
he found himself staring up at his partner. "W'time is it?"
"It's after nine," she said. "You slept through
both of your wake up calls."
Sitting up in bed, he ran his fingers through his
tousled hair. "I was up late."
"So what's on the tapes?"
"I don't know. I haven't watched them yet.
Wanna make some popcorn?" He wiggled his eyebrows
at her.
"I took the liberty of ordering us a real
breakfast," she smirked.
He smiled. "All right. Pizza and beer. My
favorite."
Winding the tape back, Scully raised an
eyebrow. "It just looked like him." Pressing play, she
listened to Andrew's whispered commentary again.
"I'm just behind the dumpster at the feed store,"
his voice crackled as the video shifted up and down,
trying to focus on the front door of the sheriff's office.
"The men in the sedans have been inside for about an
hour, and I expect they'll be coming out any time. . .
there they are."
"Pause it. . . now," hissed Mulder, leaning close
to the television screen. "It is him, Scully!"
Putting on her glasses, she moved to stare at the
screen from a comically close distance. "It looks like
him," she admitted slowly. "But I'm not willing to state
definitively that it is him without a better picture."
Popping the tape out of the VCR, Mulder slid it
into its paper case. "Then let's send it in. Danny can
upload finished screen captures to us in no time."
Scully nodded. "So what next?"
"Hot monkey love?"
Rolling her eyes, she stood up to stretch her
back. "I was thinking more along the lines of checking
into Gilson's story."
Mulder nodded. "Foreplay is good too."
Baltimore, Maryland
The Waterfront
Shaded under sunglasses and a gimme cap, Tim
eased himself into the bar, trying to avoid sudden
movement. He hadn't had a hangover like this in years;
the kind where his head shrieked at everything
resembling sound, light, or motion. Before leaving the
house, he had considered hair of the dog, but in opening
the bottle of Wild Turkey, his stomach rebelled
violently. Much like anyone else in the throes of the
morning after, he had promised himself he would never
get that drunk again, but his body was determined to
make sure he kept it. Waving his hand weakly at Munch,
he slid into a bar stool.
"Did you get the license plate number," Munch
asked, pouring a glass of seltzer water and sliding it to
Tim.
Bayliss pulled the brim of his hat down a little
further. "Ha. Ha."
"So what are you doing here before noon, my
friend, my colleague, my one-third partner in a loan we
haven't paid off yet?"
"Where's Meldrick?"
"Mr. Lewis should be arriving shortly, hopefully
with toilet paper."
Closing his eyes, Tim didn't bother asking. He
wrapped his hand around the glass of seltzer water, and
tried to choke some down. Another jolt of nausea
rippled through him, and he pushed the drink away. He
flinched when the front door slammed open, bright
sunlight filling the room for a moment.
"Morning, Mikey," Munch said, flipping a towel
over his shoulder. "Martini lunch?"
Kellerman shook his head, walking behind
Bayliss. He paused, then took a seat two stools down
from him. "Nah, screwdriver breakfast."
"Mike," Tim greeted him.
"Tim," came the response.
"What's new?"
"Same shit, different day," Mike muttered,
thanking Munch for the drink with a nod. "My tab?"
Munch leaned over to Bayliss. "You know, if he
ever settles his tab, our loan will be paid off in fiduciary
history-making time."
Kellerman took a sip of his screwdriver and
frowned. "Considering how tight you are with the
liquor, I'm surprised it's not paid off now."
"I'm hurt, Kellerman, really."
"Hey, I heard you put down the Rowan case,"
Tim offered.
With a shrug, Mike swallowed the last of his
drink. "Yeah, it's down."
"Well, congratulations," Tim said weakly.
"Yeah, whatever, thanks."
Tim turned to stare at Kellerman. "I believe the
term you used was 'snarky'?"
"Thanks for breakfast, Munch."
Ignoring the pounding in his head, Bayliss turned
himself around on the stool, catching Kellerman's
shoulder as he walked by.
"Good to see you too," Bayliss said pointedly,
almost eager for an overt display of repudiation. With a
furious scowl, Mike peeled the hand from his arm, and
made his way outside in silence.
(End Part Six)