Roadside Assistance 1 - repost
Polly Moller
ROADSIDE ASSISTANCE
an X-Files fan fiction by Polly Moller
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Highway 17 is a virtuoso trip for both car and driver. It's a road
that connects the South Bay (San Jose and other California places) with
Santa Cruz on the coast. Driving on it you can pass through the most
beautiful scenery around--redwoods, oaks, acacia, circling hawks, glimpses
of the ocean in the distance--without being able to take your eyes from
the road. It winds over the Santa Cruz Mountains, with turns that are
hairpin-sharp, gentle and gradual, and everything in between. It is the
kind of drive you never completely master.
Although I have driven it many times and know it well, the
wrecks I have seen compel me to drive it as seldom as possible. I drive
it with my invisible protective shield cast about me to extend my
awareness ahead and behind, and to the sides. This not only helps me
to avoid danger, but pricks the back of my neck when the Highway Patrol
is within radar range. (Not that I regularly speed. I only exceed the
speed limit on straightaways; but those who wrote the law never drove
17.) I am lucky enough to live in Felton, a small mountain town near
Santa Cruz where I work, with no need to brave the Hill and its
treacheries every day.
Late in December last year, however, I'd taken a networking
trip to San Jose and was on my way home. I had been to the big State
University to speak with their Music Department about their hosting
a concert by the New Music Ensemble I direct. In return I would host
theirs at my Music Department. Amiable though the talks had been,
we were all still in a recession, and at least at that point they
didn't believe the money was there.
It was dusk, and I'd switched my headlights on about a half
hour before. I drive a gray Hyundai, whose small frame has casually
climbed and wound along Highway 17 more times than I care to count.
I was more than halfway up the San Jose side of the Hill, nearing
the Summit, when I rounded a turn and saw emergency flashers. Like
a good 17 driver I lifted my foot from the gas and let the steep
grade slow the car down. Immediately I saw that the flashing car
was not blocking the road, but sitting safely in a turnout, with its
hood raised.
The next thing that happened is harder to describe. I found
myself slowly down further to examine the car, and more importantly,
it seemed, the man standing next to it. It appeared to be a function
of my shield, the same psychic attunement that warned me of danger; this
time it was asking me to pull over and assist the motorist.
It only took a moment to figure out why. The man was tall, lean
and wore his hair short, a little long on top...a lot like Will's. My
brother Will, six years younger than I, was at that time a student at
the FBI Academy. Perhaps I was just mistaking the stranger for my
brother? It didn't end there, and I slowed down further and nudged
the wheel to the right. I had a feeling that my shield had decided
that the stranded motorist was like Will in some way.
As my car left the road and rolled to a stop a little way
ahead of the flashing car, the man's head turned to look. I watched
him in the rear view mirror and realized he was definitely a law
enforcement being of some sort. He was driving a four-door automobile,
new, dark shiny paint job, with rental license plate frames, and he
wore a long coat over what looked like business clothes. Aside from
this evidence I can only say that my intuition convinced me that this
was someone like Will, and that I should help him.
I'm aware this makes no sense. Until that moment, I had
never pulled over to assist anyone. Reality decided a long time
ago that the road at night is no place for a woman alone who wants
to remain alive and uninjured. I took my time putting the car in
PARK and turning off the engine, turning on my own emergency lights,
while wondering why I had done this. Maybe I'd hoped it was Will.
I hadn't heard from him in so long, and his silence was so mysterious.
No one in the family had heard from him.
I could see the motorist a little better with the car stopped.
He had a darkly innocent sort of look about him. He had both hands
in the pockets of his long, black coat, which was blowing around a
little in the rising wind. I glanced at the sky, and saw that the
storm the weatherman had predicted that morning was coming. Charcoal
gray clouds were creeping over the mountains.
Taking a deep breath, and checking the state of my shield,
I opened my car door and swung my legs out, hearing my feet crunch
on gravel. (My shield can't be seen. It's a kind of dome of intuition
I make around myself as a magically protective custom.)
Standing upright, I took a few steps toward the motorist, looking
him straight in the eye so as to appear honest and harmless. "Good
evening, Detective."
He regarded me steadily and smiled a little. "Hi. Is it that
obvious?" His voice was relaxed, maybe a little ironic. At least I
didn't look like a threat.
"Yes. But I'm not sure I'm using the right title. Do you work
for a federal agency?" Inside I hoped so. Will was still very much on
my mind.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation." He blinked a few times and
raised his eyebrows.
"Hmmm." My heart leaped softly; outside I kept my face calm.
I felt that going into the reasons for my determination, and the hope
it ignited, might be embarrassing in some way, so I nodded my head at
his car, blinking yellowly before me. "Did you overheat?"
"Yeah, that's right. I called from the call box though. There's
a tow truck coming any minute from the rentacar place."
"That's good. Where are you headed? Can I give you a ride?"
Hastily I added, "They're likely to take your car back down the other
way, and I see you're pointed west."
"I was going to Santa Cruz." He frowned slightly, then
removed his right hand from his pocket and held it out, stepping
forward awkwardly on the gravel. "I'm Fox Mulder, by the way."
"Agent Mulder." I shook his hand. It was cold despite being
in his pocket. "I'm Mari Stevenson."
"Mari?" He seemd intent on pronouncing it right, which was
gratifying. "So, what title do I use on you?" He put the hand back
in his pocket, and leaned against the driver's door of the disabled
car. Standing closer, I found he was about six feet tall, about the
same size as my fiance', but not as tall as Will, who was at least
six feet two.
"I've got a doctorate," I said. "If you want you can call
me Doctor. Ms. works also."
"Okay, Dr. Stevenson." He smiled briefly and cast a look
at my car, head on one side. "Before I consider your offer,can your
car really climb this hill?"
I laughed. "How many times exactly have you been to California,
Agent Mulder?"
"Lots." He blinked. "I guess I just always drive big cars."
"My car doesn't even break a sweat on this hill. I can
guarantee that." Although I wondered how fast it could accelerate
from a stop on this steep grade.
"Okay. After the truck comes, we'll go. Thanks for rescuing
me."
"Not a problem." _Perhaps when we're driving,_ I thought,
_I can ask him about Will. It's a long shot but maybe he knows what's
happened to him._
*
The truck driver was a surly character who eyed us suspiciously while
he readied the car to be towed. Agent Mulder explained the situation
three times in the same languid manner: he didn't need a ride back
to San Jose; he would not be renting another car at this time; he was
continuing on to Santa Cruz. The driver became more and more incensed
with a combination of disapproval and envy. By the time he drove off,
towing the blinking car, I was close to laughter.
I opened my trunk and let Agent Mulder deposit his garment
bag, flight bag, and briefcase. Next I opened the passenger door
for him. "What did you get that doctorate in, Doctor?" he asked.
I ran around the car and got in on my side. He was adjusting
the passenger's seat for his height. "Music," I replied.
"Composition?"
Pulling the seat belt across me, I got a momentary feeling
of how weird this was. There was a strange man in my car, although
I had no doubt he was trustworthy. He was a dark, self-contained,
but completely unmenacing presence. I started the car up, took the
brake off. "Just a minute. I have to make sure we get back on the
road."
I soon discovered it was a really bad place to try to get
back on the road. I put the car in reverse and backed up to the
furthest downhill edge of the turnout to get the most speed I
could. Signalled. When my chance came, I hit the gas. The car
obeyed with a gratifying display of low-gear power. A car appeared
behind me and had to go around, but we were safely underway.
"Performance practice," I answered him finally. "It's a
rebellious but respected musicology discipline. We study _how_
music was performed in history, and how it's being performed now."
"Hmm. This doesn't help me with how you figured out _my_
profession so quick." He paused. "Don't tell me you can smell it."
I laughed. "No," I answered hastily. "I have a brother
at Quantico." There it was. I could see Will in my head.
"Ah! What class?"
"This year's. He's supposed to graduate. His name is
Will Stevenson." My heart started to step up its beat. Had Agent
Mulder heard of him? Had he heard any gossip?"
"Haven't heard the name yet. What's his specialty?"
"Well, his degree's in Psych." I was careful not to sound
disappointed. One-handed, I guided the car around a turn and started
the final climb toward the Summit. "Get ready for a view on both sides
of the car."
We emerged onto a short level stretch of road, with restaurants
on both sides. The dome of sky was dark with storm clouds. On either
side of us views of forested valleys spread themselves out, and the
hillsides were dotted with the widely spaced lights of houses and
cabins. Agent Mulder craned his neck and looked around. "Very nice,"
he said.
"His degree's in Psych," I continued, "and he wants to do
profiles of serial killers."
I felt, rather than saw, Mulder's wry reaction. "That's what
you do, isn't it?" I began excitedly, looking at him as best I could
and still watch the road.
He took a breath and nodded. "Yeah, mostly."
"I though you reminded me of him a little bit. Looks like
you've got that in common anyway."
"Must be something in the water," murmured the passenger. I
sensed he was done talking about this, and my excitement evaporated.
Of course he wouldn't want to discuss his work. To pursue the subject
of Will felt a little strange at this point. I had to ask him
something else.
"Where are you staying in Santa Cruz?" I asked next. Maybe
if I didn't get the courage up to ask him about Will's disappearance,
I could call him later at his place of lodging.
"I just flew in today," Mulder answered. "I haven't made
any reservations yet. Can you recommend a place?"
"Well, the Dream Inn is the traditional place on the Boardwalk,"
I began slowly. "Although it's usually full. It's winter though, so
there might be a vacancy."
There was a pause while he considered. "That sounds fine, if
it's not out of your way."
"Not at all. I have to show you proper Santa Cruz hospitality.
I suppose you aren't assigned out here?"
"No, I'm from Headquarters."
I fought down the urge to sigh. I'd met an actual FBI agent
completely by chance (or not; who knew), and he hadn't heard of Will.
There had to be another, _right_ question I could ask. I was passing
the various turnoffs that led to Scotts Valley and Felton. Santa
Cruz was not far off. At least I had the drive through town to the
Boardwalk to amass my courage.
Soon the highway ended and I was threading the Hyundai through
town, pointing out landmarks (as best I could--night had truly
fallen) while I thought of what my shield was telling me about the
man beside me. He had a certain warmth about him, under all the
darkness. He was carrying a weapon. I wondered what case he was
working on that brought him to Santa Cruz. Somehow that didn't seem
too threatening a question, so I asked it. "Are you here to work
on a case?"
"No, I have a few days off before I have to meet my partner
in L.A. I thought I'd drive down the coast."
"How come you're in work clothes then?" It slipped out
from under my politeness, and I felt myself blushing.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him tighten his mouth in
a half-smile. "My mother taught me to dress nice on airplanes."
I giggled softly. That was undoubtedly what he wanted me
to do. I wondered about the weapon, a dark smudge on my intuition.
_Is that part of dressing up?_ Still I didn't feel any malice. It
had to be something I just didn't need to know. We came to a stop
at a red light, and I turned my head a little to look him in the
face.
"You can't see much, with how dark it is," I said. "In
the morning, if it isn't storming, you'll be able to look around."
"You're right, it sure does look like a storm." He turned
his head at a very strange angle to view the sky through the closed
window on the passenger's side. "Does it storm hard?"
"Pretty hard. It's worst in the mountains."
My heart stepped it up again. We were getting close to the
Dream Inn. It was now or never. I pulled to a stop at an empty
spot at the curb, turned the engine off, and turned in my seat to
look him straight in the eye. He'd already opened the door on his
side, but he didn't get out.
"Agent Mulder," I began, dry-mouthed, "I've got something
important to ask you. I guess I need advice of some kind. My
brother hasn't contacted anyone in the family in over two months."
I paused, momentarily tongue-tied, and imagined what Mulder's
answer would be. He'd probably tell me there was no need to worry;
that Will could take care of himself; that I was overreacting.
Determined to make myself clear, I bit my lower lip and went on.
"I called back East and they put me on hold and passed me around
to all these people who didn't know anything. And in his last letter
he was telling me how excited he was making all these high-placed
contacts that were connected with black projects." I took a deep
breath. "What are black projects exactly? Is my brother in
trouble?"
There was a short silence. My shield felt a deep and
profound change in atmosphere. Agent Mulder closed the passenger
door.
"Where do you live?" he asked quietly.
"Felton," I said.
"I need to impose on you just for a little while and call
my partner about this. If I check in here, there'll be a paper
trail."
"Okay." I started the engine. "Now?"
"Yes, now."
*
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Polly Moller * ni...@netcom.com *...yadda yadda yadda...*
Flutist, Conductor, Teacher / Producer, Women's Alternative
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