NEW: Trace Evidence II: Hobson's Choice (03/10) (X/CRA)
Vampyres Incorporeal
Title: Trace Evidence II: Hobson's Choice (03/10)
Author: Saundra Mitchell
E-Mail: v...@netdirect.net
Feedback: Please!
Baltimore, Maryland
Home of Sarah Bayliss
Knocking softly on the door, Tim stared at the
welcome mat. Before the trial, he would have just
walked in; now he didn't know if he'd even be allowed
inside. After getting her message on the answering
machine, he had tried and failed to call her. Now, more
than a month had elapsed without contact. He would
consider himself lucky if she spoke to him at all.
"Hi mom," he said penitently as she opened the
door.
Shock, then hurt, registered on her lined face.
"Tim."
"I'm sorry I didn't call. Can I come in?"
She nodded stiffly. "Please."
Stepping inside, Bayliss caught a glimpse of the
pictures lined neatly along the staircase. Engaging
childhood smiles grew older by increments, finally
stopping with Tim's academy graduation portrait at the
top. Despite her dismay over his decision to skip
medical school, she had been so proud of him that day.
He followed her into the familiar kitchen, warm
from the oven, and the air just a little sharp with fading
ammonia. Sitting, he pulled his crutches off and slid
them under the table. He watched as his mother busied
herself at the counter, returning to her task of cutting
vegetables with a long, thin knife.
"Your physical therapy must be going well," she
said softly, scraping diced tomatoes into a bowl, then
starting on an onion.
"Yeah," he answered. "I've worked hard. I
couldn't stand that wheelchair."
"A lot can change in a month," she said
pointedly. "You could have called."
Tim was fairly certain the tears in her eyes
weren't being caused by the sweet Vidalia on her
chopping board. "I didn't know if you'd want me to."
She slammed the knife down hard, flipping bits
of onion onto the immaculate counter. "Since when has
what I wanted mattered to you, Timothy? I didn't want
you to be a police officer! I didn't want you to get shot!
I didn't want to find out on the six o'clock news that my
only son is gay!"
"I'm not gay, mom. I'm just not straight." The
word 'bisexual' refused to make an appearance. It
sounded shallow to him.
"You don't understand at all, Tim, not even a
little," she sobbed, leaning against the sink. Struggling
to his feet, Bayliss made the short distance between the
table and his mother without aid. Taking her in his arms,
he leaned his cheek against the top of her head.
"I'm not upset at your choice, not anymore," she
said, trying to stanch her tears. "If this is what makes
you happy, then I can accept it. God knows I accepted
this whole police business, and I'm proud of what you've
accomplished."
He let the issue of his sexuality being a choice
pass, focusing on what she was trying to say instead.
"You're still proud of me?"
"You know I am, Tim. I'm just angry that there
was this part of you I knew nothing about. Haven't you
always been able to talk to me? Haven't I always been
here for you?"
"Yes," he lied, remembering the sound of the
bathroom door closing as it trapped him with his Uncle
George.
"How did this happen," she asked, slowly pulling
away to look her son in the face.
He shook his head. "I don't know. It just did."
"Are you still seeing this. . ." she trailed off,
trying to sound calm. "Are you still seeing that Mulder
fellow?"
He nodded. "For now."
Eyeing him, she put a hand on her hip. "Are you.
. being safe?"
Pink flooded his cheeks. Talking to his mother
about condoms was the last thing he'd intended to do
during this visit. "Yes, mom."
"Bring him to dinner," she said succinctly.
"Friday night. Emma and John will be here with Kelly,
and your Uncle Toby said he'd come if he could."
"Jim's not coming, is he," Tim asked warily.
"Jim's an ass," she replied.
"I'm sorry I didn't call. I really am."
She stared at him squarely. "There isn't anything
else you need to tell me, is there? I want to know now if
there is."
"Well, there was that wild night in Tijuana with
the midget and the. . ."
Smacking him soundly on the shoulder, she
turned back to her vegetables. "I think that's quite
enough."
New Berlin, New York
Dusty State Road 8 filtered off into the pastoral
scenery of New Berlin. Surrounded by farmland, the tiny
town seemed to appear from nowhere, flanked by the
Rogue's Roost Golf Course on one side.
"What do you think, Scully, would I look good
in pink pants?"
She glanced over at him and rolled her eyes.
"Puce maybe. Pink, never."
As they moved further into the town, Scully
examined her surroundings. A drugstore, a small
farmer's market, a diner made up the first stretch of main
street, shaded by large oak and maple trees. Old men
talking and smoking outside the door of Tom's Diner
stopped to stare as the strange car drove past.
"Mulder, this is a stick and plumb town," she
started, being cut off by his odd stare.
"Stick and plumb?"
"Stick your head out the window, you're plumb
out of town," she explained quickly, ignoring his
laughter to get back to her point. "I don't see any hotels.
. motels for that matter. Where are we going to stay?"
"Utica, thirty miles that way," he said, still
laughing. "Unless you'd like me to change our
reservations to the Happy Memories Bed and Breakfast
up in Five Corners?"
"That's quite all right. I wonder where the
towers are?"
"Towers?"
She nodded seriously. "You know, the towers
with the satellite relays and perimeter defense weapons."
"Why don't you pull up here," he said, dismissing
her sarcasm. "We'll ask around about this AGilson.
Town this small, someone has to know who it is."
"If it's not a pseudonym," she reminded him.
Baltimore, Maryland
The Waterfront
Hobbling in the front door of his bar, Tim was
greeted by a slight brunette taking inventory. He
watched her for a moment as she bobbed up and down,
running her hands along the necks and making cryptic
marks on a yellow legal pad. When she realized
someone had walked in, she looked up quickly, then
returned to her task.
"We're not open yet," she said, still counting
bottles with one hand.
He nodded. "I know. I'm one of the owners."
For a moment, she was confused. Squinting in
his direction, she examined his long, gangly frame and
his face for signs of familiarity. Tim walked over to the
bar, and pointed to the "antique" picture behind the bar-
he, Lewis and Munch had posed for it in the weeks
before the Waterfront had officially opened, and it had
been there ever since in all its sepia glory.
"That's me."
She twitched her head to look at the picture,
then her stern expression resolved into a sheepish grin.
"You must be Mr. Bayliss."
"Call me Tim," he said, shaking her hand. "And
you're counting my whiskey because. . ."
"'Cause I hired her," Lewis cut in, pushing
through the kitchen doors. "This is Wendi Gritton."
"Oh," Tim muttered, as if that explained
everything. "Well, Wendi, it's nice to meet you."
Sensing that she was in the middle of things, she
nodded and looked over to Lewis. "I need to inventory
the dishes."
"A'ight," Meldrick said, allowing her to pass by
him and disappear into the kitchen. "You want
something?"
"Just water," Bayliss answered, trying to get
comfortable on one of the bar stools. "When'd you hire
her?"
"You was still in the hospital. Figured it'd be
easier to hire someone temporary-like than have me and
Munch try to cover all your shifts."
Bayliss regarded Lewis with a long, hard stare.
He recognized the other man's stiff, head-tilting posture;
he wore it when he talked undesirable drunks out of the
bar and confessions out of two penny yos. His quick
smile and warm demeanor were completely missing
from their exchange.
"Well, I'm back now," Tim said, cupping his
hand around his water glass. "I'll start back tonight."
"Hey, don't worry about it," Meldrick answered,
scrubbing at a nonexistent wet spot on the counter.
"Wendi can use the hours 'til you're. . . until you can get
around a little better."
"I want to come back." Tim's voice was flat and
cold.
"You sure? 'Cause Wendi can . . ."
"You don't want me here."
Lewis drew a hand over his moustache and
goatee. "I ain't never said that."
Pushing himself to his feet, Bayliss stared at the
floor. "You didn't have to."
Lewis leaned over the bar, forcing Tim to look
at him. "I'm just trying to give you a chance to get your
life back in order, okay?"
"I thought we were friends," Tim scowled,
poking a finger into Lewis' chest.
Outraged, Meldrick stepped back. "What the hell
you talking about, Bayliss? You can't hardly walk, so
how you gonna run a bar, huh?"
Slowly, deliberately, Tim peeled the hard plastic
bands from around his arms, and dropped the crutches.
He took a few halting steps away from the counter, then
back. Clutching the rail, he leaned forward.
"I don't need them," he said stubbornly, feeling
his legs protest against the sudden weight on them.
"How come you didn't tell me about hiring another
bartender?"
Lewis set his jaw. "Figured you had other things
to worry about."
"This bar," he started, punctuating each word
with an accusing finger, "Is one of my things. One of my
responsibilities."
"Just calm down," Lewis said quietly. "There
ain't nothing to get excited over."
It had been building for weeks, but he didn't
realize it until that moment. Rage swept over him; rage
that a nineteen-year-old drug runner had reduced him to
less than a man; fear that he would never again sit in a
white Cavalier and argue the merits of Looney Tunes
versus Merrie Melodies with Pembleton on the way to
stand over the cold remains of some unlucky citizen;
fury that four days in a courtroom had changed him
from Tim Bayliss, Baltimore homicide to Tim Bayliss,
resident Queer and editorial point.
Lewis, his partner in the Waterfront, his
colleague in the division on Thames Street, couldn't
even look him in the face. Grabbing the glass in front of
him, Tim fired it against the back wall, taking no
satisfaction when it shattered in a wet mosaic against the
wood paneling.
The both of them stood in stunned silence, their
eyes fixed on the back wall. Lewis waved Wendi back
into the kitchen when she came out to investigate the
noise. Finally, Bayliss picked his crutches up, then shook
his head.
"I want out."
Lewis did a double take. "Now that ain't
necessary, Tim."
"I want out," he said, more determined. "We're
making a profit now, you and Munch can afford to buy
my third. Y'only wanted me in to get the bar in the first
place. You have it, it works, I want out."
"We three, we're partners," Lewis protested.
With a bitter smile, Tim shrugged. "You don't
believe that anymore, and neither do I. I'm the same man
I always was, but you won't ever see it that way again.
Talk to Munch. We can get the papers signed
tomorrow."
There was only one man in the world better at
feeling sorry for himself than Tim Bayliss, and he was
busy with his partner in New Berlin. Pulling out his
wallet, Bayliss slapped a five-dollar bill onto the counter
("For the glass," he muttered.) Dragging himself out of
his bar, he left his crutches behind.
(End Part Three)