Fight the Future (4 page)

Cassidy's cool gaze grew icy. "Agent Mulder, since you weren't able to be on time for this meeting, I'm going to ask you to step back out-side, so that we can get Agent Scully's version of the facts. So that she won't have to be paid the same disrespect that you're showing the rest of us."

Mulder stared her down unflinchingly. "We were told the building was clear."

"You'll get your turn, Agent Mulder." Cassidy's frigid tone held a warning as she ges-tured at the door. "Please step out."

Mulder swallowed, and for first time looked over at the other ADs at the table. The only sympathetic face he found was Skinner's, but Skinner's sympathy was tempered with a warn-ing. The assistant director had been here with Mulder on many occasions, and watched as the younger man inevitably ran up against the Bureau and its stiff conventions. There wasn't much that Skinner could do for Mulder, stuck as he was in the middle of it all; and right now it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to do any-thing at all.

But it was always worth a try. Mulder fought to keep his voice even, and motioned at the binder in front of Jana Cassidy.

"It does say there in your paperwork that Agent Scully and I were the ones who found the bomb…"

Cassidy sternly waved him off. "Thank you, Agent Mulder. We'll call you back in shortly."

Defeated, Mulder slid his chair back and left the room. Scully watched him go. A moment later, Walter Skinner quietly excused himself and followed Mulder into the hallway.

He found the younger agent standing in front of a display case, staring broodingly at the marksmanship trophies inside.

"Sit down," said Skinner, indicating a beige couch beside the case. "It'll be a few minutes. They're still talking to Agent Scully."

Mulder plopped onto the couch, and Skinner joined him. "About what?"

"They're asking her for a narrative. They want to know why she was in the wrong build' ing."

"She was with me."

Skinner studied Mulder, shaking his head. "You don't see what's going on, do you?" he said softly.

"There's forty million dollars in damage to the city of Dallas. Lives have been lost. No sus-pects have been named. So the story being shaped is that
this could have been prevented
. That the FBI didn't do its job."

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "And they want to blame us?"

"Agent Mulder, we both know that if you and Agent Scully hadn't taken the initiative to search the adjacent building, we could have multiplied those fatalities by a hundred—"

"But it's not the lives we saved." Mulder paused, savoring the irony. "It's the lives we didn't."

Skinner shot him a mirthless smile, and recited the dictum, "If it looks bad, it's bad for the FBI."

Mulder's hand clenched. "If they want someone to blame, they can blame me. Agent Scully doesn't deserve this."

"She's in there right now saying the same thing about you."

Mulder shook his head. "I breached proto-col. I broke contact with the SAC…"

He paused, remembering Michaud's drawn face as he stared at the explosive-rigged vending machine, and blinked painfully at the image. "1—I ignored a primary tactical rule and left him alone with the device…"

"Agent Scully says it was she who ordered you out of the building. That you wanted to go back—"

"Look, she was—"

Before he could on, the door opened. The two men looked up to see Scully exiting. The look she gave Mulder told him that, whatever had happened inside the Professional Review Office, it hadn't gone well. She took a deep breath, then stepped briskly to where the men sat.

"They've asked for you, sir," she said, indi-cating Skinner.

Skinner gave one last look at Mulder. Then he stood and, thanking Scully, returned to the review.

Scully watched the door close behind him, her expression pained. Mulder stared at her and after a moment said, "Whatever you told them in there, you don't have to protect me."

Scully shook her head. "All I told them was the truth." Her deep blue eyes looked wounded, but she avoided his gaze.

"They're trying to divide us on this, Scully." Mulder's voice rose defensively. "We can't let them."

For the first time Scully gazed directly at her partner. "They
have
divided us, Mulder. They're splitting us up."

On the couch Mulder stared back at her, uncomprehendingly. Finally he said, "What? What are you talking about?"

"I meet with OPR day after tomorrow for remediation and reassignment."

Mulder looked stricken. "Why?"

Sighing, Scully sank onto the couch. "I think you must have an idea. They cited a his-tory of problems relating back to 1993."

"But they were the ones who put us together—" Mulder protested heatedly.

"Because they wanted me to invalidate your work," Scully interrupted, "your investigations into the paranormal. But I think this goes deeper than that…"

"This isn't about you, Scully." Mulder stared at her intensely, almost pleadingly. "They're doing this to me."

"
They're
not doing this, Mulder." Scully looked away, avoiding his gaze. "I left behind a career in medicine because I thought I might make a difference at the FBI. When they recruited me, they told me that women made up nine percent of the Bureau. I felt that was not an impediment, but an opportunity to distin-guish myself.

"But it hasn't turned out that way. And now, even if I were to be transferred to Omaha, or Wichita, or some other field office where I'm sure I could rise—it just doesn't hold the inter-est for me it once did.

Not after what I've seen and done."

She fell silent, and stared at her hands. Beside her Mulder sat in disbelief.

"You're… quitting?"

For a moment Scully said nothing. Finally she shrugged. "There's really no reason left for me to stay anymore…"

She turned" then, gazing at Mulder with frank blue eyes. "Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart's still in it, too."

Behind them the door to the hearing room creaked open. Mulder looked up, his expression still stunned as he saw Walter Skinner standing in the corridor, gesturing to him.

"Agent Mulder. You're up."

Scully looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Good luck."

He turned to her, waiting to see if there would be more, giving her the chance to change her mind, to offer a better explanation, any-thing. But Scully said nothing else. At last Mulder stood, his stunned expression giving way to something like despair, and followed Skinner into the office. Scully watched him go. Before he reached the door, she called his name. When Mulder turned, she picked up the jacket he'd forgotten on the chair. He walked over, and she handed it to him.

Only after the door shut behind him did she let her resolve fade, and gave voice to a sigh that was almost like a sob.

CHAPTER 4

CASEY'S BAR

SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.

Casey's never got much of a crowd on a week-night. A few regulars, government employ-ees who wandered over from the Mall to knock back a few before catching the last Metro back to Falls Church or Silver Spring or Bethesda. Mulder had been here since late afternoon, and the bartender was wondering if he was ever going to leave.

"I'd say this just about exceeds your mini-mum daily requirement," she said, pouring a jolt of tequila into a shot glass in front of him. She smiled, brushing back a strand of faded blonde hair, and replaced the bottle.

In front of her, Fox Mulder sat by himself on a stool. He stared at the sticky rings on the bar's dark wood surface, the dull light gilding the edges of four empty shot glasses. When the bartender placed the full glass in front of him he spun it thoughtfully, licking his finger where a drop of tequila had spilled, before tossing back the shot. When he put it back down, he drunkenly knocked over the other glasses.

"Gotta train for this kind of heavy lifting," she went on, eyeing him with some concern— this guy definitely did not seem like he'd been practicing much before tonight.

Mulder tilted his head as though consider-ing her advice, then motioned for another shot. She retrieved the empty glasses, intrigued by his brooding silence.

"Poopy day?" she ventured.

"Yup." Mulder's voice sounded thick and out of practice.

"A woman?" He shook his head. "Work?"

Mulder nodded and the barmaid looked sympathetic, but that changed when he pointed to the tequila bottle again.

"You sure?" she asked. He stared fixedly at the bottle, and she reluctantly poured another shot.

Mulder drank it, shuddering a little as the liquor scored his throat. Then he banged the glass on the bar, half-turned on his stool, and closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. When he opened them an instant later he saw another man staring at him from the end of the bar. An older man, early sixties perhaps, with a broad, weathered face and wearing an old Brooks Brothers summer suit, crumpled linen and the same color as the few gray hairs at the man's temples. Mulder stared at him blearily and incuriously, then turned back to the bar.

"Another."

She poured it, then began gathering the empty shots and placing them in a plastic basin. "What do you do?"

"What do I do?" Mulder looked up at her and nodded. "I'm a key figure in an ongoing government charade. An annoyance to my superiors. A joke among my peers. They call me 'Spooky.' Spooky Mulder…"

Whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was a kid. Who now chases little green men with a badge and a gun, shouting to the heav-ens and anyone else who'll listen that the fix is in…

The bartender's sympathetic expression was fading. What a freak, her restrained silence implied.

"That our government's hip to the truth and a part of the conspiracy. That the sky is falling, and when it hits it's gonna be the shit storm of all time."

He finished and flashed her a bitter smile. She stared back at him, then quickly pulled back the shot she'd just poured.

"I think that just about does it, Spooky." She dumped the tequila in the sink and began writing up a check.

"Does what?"

"Looks like eighty-six is your lucky num-ber."

Mulder looked at her sadly. Nobody believed him. "One is the loneliest number."

She shook her head and decisively placed the check in front of him. "Too bad. Closing time for you."

Mulder shrugged impassively and slid off the stool. He tottered a little, and instinctively glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. But the bartender had already turned away, and the older man at the other end of the rail was gone. Mulder took a step toward the front door, remembered the check, and turned. He dropped a small wad of bills on the bar counter and walked unsteadily toward the back of the room, where a dim, narrow hallway led to the bathrooms. A piece of paper was thumbtacked to the men's room door.

OUT OF ORDER.

"Shit," muttered Mulder.

He rattled the door to the adjoining women's room—an irritated voice responded.

"Sorry," Mulder said hastily. Gathering what was left of his wits, he turned and stum-bled back down the corridor, to where a fire door opened out onto the alley, and went out-side.

A row of Dumpsters reared up against a crumbling brick wall. Mulder found a space between two of them and unzipped his fly. Moments later he started as a voice came from behind him.

"That official FBI business?"

"What?"

"Bet the Bureau's accusing you of doing the same thing in Dallas."

Mulder stiffened drunkenly as a figure emerged from the shadows: the same older man in the rumpled linen suit who'd been observing him inside the bar. The stranger gave him a crooked smile and eased himself unthreateningly into a space a few yards from where Mulder stood.

"How's that?" asked Mulder cautiously.

"Standing around holding your yank while bombs are exploding."

The stranger laughed as Mulder turned and eyed him. "Do I know you?"

"No. But I've been watching your career for a good while. Back when you were just a promising young agent. Before that…"

"You follow me out here for a reason?"

"Yeah. I did." The man turned so that his back was to Mulder and unzipped his own pants. "My name's Kurtzweil. Dr. Alvin Kurtzweil."

Mulder frowned, trying to ignore the intru-sion. He zipped himself up and turned around, ready to leave.

"Old friend of your father's." Kurtzweil looked over his shoulder and smiled at Mulder's bewil-dered expression. "Back at the Department of State. We were what you might call fellow travel-ers, but his disenchantment outlasted mine." Kurtzweil waited, as though giving Mulder the chance to let this all sink in.

Mulder's expression grew stony. Quickly he took the last few steps to the door and jerked it open.

Kurtzweil finished heeding nature's call, zipped up, and followed Mulder inside. He caught up with him at the coat rack by the door, where the younger man was fumbling with his jacket.

"How'd you find me?" Mulder asked. He sounded more weary than angry.

Kurtzweil shrugged. "Heard you come here now and again. Figured you'd be needing a lit-tle drinky tonight…"

"You a reporter?"

Kurtzweil shook his head and took his own raincoat from the rack. "I'm a doctor, but I think I mentioned that. OB-GYN."

"Who sent you?"

"I came on my own. After reading about the bombing in Dallas."

Mulder stared at him measuringly, taking in Kurtzweil's rheumy, intelligent eyes and wry mouth. "Well, if you've got something to tell me, you've got as long as it takes for me to hail a cab," he said, and started out the door.

Before he could hit the sidewalk, Kurtzweil grabbed his arm. "They're going to pin Dallas on you, Agent Mulder." His tone was not accusatory. If anything, he sounded apologetic, even sorrowful—the trusted family retainer bringing news of a death. "But there was nothing you could've done. Nothing any-one could've done to prevent that bomb from going off—

"Because the truth is something you'd never have guessed. Never even have pre-dicted."

Mulder stared at him, his face twisting into rage. He pulled away and stormed down the sidewalk as Kurtzweil followed him doggedly. "And what's that?" Mulder snapped.