The security guard yawns and rubs his face. 'I gotta get off night
shift,' he thinks to himself as he looks at his watch.
He's sitting at a console that would rival NASA's best. Monitors
display rotating views of the New York high rise his company is
chartered to guard.
Suddenly, a red light on the console starts blinking. He picks up a
walkie-talkie. "Johnson, Moreno, you guys on twenty-four?"
"No, we're on thirty-three. What's up?"
"Bogie in suite 2406, go check it out."
"Roger. Out."
A few minutes later, Johnson and Moreno enter suite 2406, weapons
drawn. Moreno turns on the lights. It's a small but well-appointed
suite. A reception area fronting three offices and a conference
room.
With a nod to each other, the guards begin their search. After
fifteen minutes, they return to the reception area.
Johnson holsters his weapon and looks at Moreno. "Anything?"
"Nope, nuthin'. Damned alarm must have a short."
They're exiting the suite when Moreno suddenly stops short. "Hey,
you smell that?"
"Smell what?"
Moreno sniffs and looks over his shoulder. "Esucar cemada, uhh,
burnt—" Suddenly, his eyes go wide. "Hey, did you see..."
In an eyeblink, Johnson sees Moreno's crumpled body, fifteen feet
from where it had just been. Johnson rushes over and sees Moreno's
head... twisted completely around.
"DESK! DESK! This is Johnson in suite 2406! Send—Oh holy mother of
God! Call an ambulance! Shit, it's Moreno... Oh shit Moreno!"
Tuesday, 10:00 A.M.
I'm summoned to Kersh's office. I rap twice on his door and let
myself in. He's at a small conference table, speaking with two other
men. My entrance stops their discussion and the three of them look
at me.
"Agent Mulder, as of this moment, you are on loan to the New York
field office." Kersh stands up and, without looking at me, walks to
his door. "Agent Kochanski will brief you on your assignment." He
exits his own office. What? No goodbye?
The taller of the two stands and holds out his hand. He has a
strong, sure grip. "Agent Mulder. I'm SAIC Chris Kochanski, this is
Nikolai Stanislofsky. Please sit."
I take a seat across from the pair. Kochanski, typical FBI suit.
Short hair and clean-shaven. He could have been a news anchor if it
weren't for the weak jaw and thin lips. Stanislofsky is a small man
with a regal presence. Well dressed, perfect hair and beard. I don't
know what's going on, but at least it'll be a break from wiretap
transcriptions and background checks. I look at Kochanski. "The
assignment?"
"Yes." He pushes a folder toward me, then continues, "There have
been several incidents affecting businesses owned by Russian
nationals. Mr. Stanislofsky represents these business owners."
"Umm, Moscow Chamber of Commerce?"
Stanislofsky looks at me, confused. Kochanski's lips form a grim
line. "Agent. I've heard of your penchant for... abuses to protocol.
Be assured that I'll brook none of that behavior."
I bury my face in the report so I don't give him my 'ooh, I'm
scared' look. Damn, where's Scully? She's always able to smooth
this shit over.
Quickly reading the report, I note seven businesses report heavy
vandalism. Broken equipment and ripped furniture, coffee poured into
computers and files destroyed. Enough damage to stop their
day-to-day operations. Blood was found at each site—lab tests show
it's not human, but it hasn't yet been identified. Each of the
businesses is in secured high-rise buildings. Only two share an
address. And they're all in a four-block radius.
My continued reading finds one commonality; building security
reports the same unusual occurrence—an alarm triggered with no
apparent cause. Followed by another alarm approximately an hour
later. It's the second alarm that uncovers the vandalism.
I look at Kochanski. "This is all very interesting, but why do you
want me—"
Stanislofsky begins speaking. "The most recent incident, one that
occurred early this morning, is not in that report." His English is
heavily accented, but precise.
He relates the events. One guard dead, the other, Steve Johnson, is
hospitalized under heavy sedation. No weapon found, no perpetrator
found, nothing. Only Johnson's crazed ramblings.
My interest is piqued now. "Did a second alarm sound?"
"No, only the first. And, as with the others, there initially
appeared to be no reason. But this time..."
I break the silence. "I'm still not sure why you want me—"
Kochanski starts in, "This case is a little out of the ordinary.
I've got great agents but, uhh... Well, hmmm... I've been asked by
Mr. Stanislofsky here to, uh..."
Grinning at his discomfort, I decide to play along. "You mean, this
is an X-File? I'm not in that unit anymore. You need to call Jeffrey
Spender."
"Uhh, well, no. I mean..."
Stanislofsky interrupts. "My... superiors are aware of your
skills. We believe your, how shall we say... experience will be most
useful in this investigation. You were specifically requested to
work with our man on this."
"Your man?" I ask, glancing at Kochanski, who looks surprised.
"Yes, our man." He looks at Kochanski and continues, "This is
arranged at the highest level. He and Agent Mulder will oversee the
investigation. You, Mr. Kochanski, will provide whatever they
need."
Kochanski's already thin lips tighten to a line, and he begins to
sputter.
Stanislofsky stands and leans over Kochanski. "As I said, this was
arranged at the highest level." He straightens up. "Gentlemen, we
should be on our way. Agent Mulder, I suggest you pack for a one
week trip."
Tuesday, 2:00 P.M.
I make my way to a briefing room, ignoring the stares and whispers
of the other agents. "... Spooky—", "... aliens and UFO's—"
Kochanski and another agent are sitting in the briefing room. As I
enter, the unnamed agent's eyes narrow and he looks me over.
I match his stare. Easy to profile, ex-jock, ex-military... kicks
his dog... little dick.
"Mulder." Kochanski's voice causes the other agent to blink. Ha! I
win.
Without smirking, I turn to Kochanski.
"Mulder, this is Agent Barlow. This was his assignment. He'll
brief you while we wait for Stanislofsky."
Barlow stands, all five foot eight of him. Running his hand over his
blond crew cut, he puffs out his going-to-flab chest and glares at
me. I half expect him to start pissing on the table... marking his
territory.
"Get this straight," he begins. "I caught the call. I don't like
it when I lose an assignment. Especially to someone like you. But
I respect the Bureau and my superiors. I do my job the right
way."
I smile at Barlow. "Thanks for sharing. Let's get on with this so I
can do the right job... the wrong way."
His eyes widen and he starts toward me. Kochanski stops him with a
curt, "Agent."
The tension is broken by Stanislofsky's entrance. "Gentlemen, have
we interrupted you?" He pauses, then steps into the room. "Permit me
to introduce our... operative, Aleksandr Krycek."
My eyes widen, I feel the blood rush to my head and, in the next
moment, I've got Krycek pinned to the wall, my fist drawing back.
I'm pulled away instantly. Barlow's arm around my neck, his other
hand pulling mine up between my shoulder blades. He's using more
force than needed... payback. He wheels me around and pushes me
away.
Kochanski starts yelling, "Mulder! What in the blazes do you think
you're doing? You're going on re—"
"No." Krycek's voice is low and calm, but still heard. We all look
at him as he smoothes his shirt and jacket. "Mulder is vital to this
case. Once the assignment is over, you can deal with him. But for
now, forget this... incident."
Krycek moves to the table and takes a seat. He looks at me, "Agent?"
his hand motioning to the chair in front of him.
As if on cue, the rest of us sit around the conference table. I
glare at Krycek, knowing I can't touch him here... but there's
always later.
Copies of the file are passed around as Barlow begins briefing us on
what little he has. He drones on in the typical bone-dry, FBI
reporting way. I must have missed that class at the academy.
Suppressing a yawn, I interrupt him. "Where's the interview with the
other guard... Steve Johnson?"
With a patronizing look, Barlow says, "We're not going to get
anything from him. He's in shock, or something. Just babbles about a
burning car or some other loony-toon thing."
"Is he a suspect? He was the only witness, I'm sure I—"
"Mulder, drop it. He's just an under-educated rent-a-cop. He knows
squat." Barlow's tone indicates his disdain for security guards. His
father must have been one.
Tuning him out, I focus on the report in front of me. Almost
identical to the one I read in D.C., with two additional sheets on
the latest incident. No blood on the walls this time... just a dead
body.
The silence in the room pulls me out of my thoughts. Lifting my
head, I find four sets of eyes looking at me. Turning to Barlow, I
smile. "Thank you. You may go now."
He stands and starts sputtering at me, but before he can make an
intelligible statement, Stanislofsky nods and exits the room. After
a moment Kochanski and Barlow follow.
It's just him and me. Alex Krycek, betrayer, assassin. The man
responsible for my father's death, for Scully's abduction, looks
back at me placidly.
He leans forward. "You did well at Wiekamp. The Resistance thanks
you." His voice, low and gravelly.
I feel my hand on my cheek, touching where he kissed me. His smile
stops me from what's become an unconscious habit.
"Krycek. I need a scorecard to figure out who's paying you these
days. So who is it? The Russians? The Resistance? Or are you back in
the loving arms of the Consortium?"
He leans back, a brief smile playing on his lips. "In a word, yes.
To all three." He looks out the window. "You do what you must to
survive. But enough of that. Let me tell you what's not in the FBI
report.
"The scientists in Tunguska were able to develop a vaccine. The
Russian analysts here in the US are working on computer models,
distribution vectors. The what-ifs of colonization, of vaccine
distribution. Through me, the Russians are collaborating with the
Consortium on the use and distribution of the vaccine through their
ranks. What the Consortium doesn't know is that the Resistance is
also backing the Russians, for the vaccine to be used world wide."
I look at him. The Consortium and the Resistance, with Krycek and
the Russians in the middle.
He continues, "Oh, don't believe for a moment that the Resistance
cares about the human race. They see the vaccine as a way to thwart
the Colonists. But both sides are counting on these analysis
centers. The ones that have been vandalized."
I nod, beginning to understand. "We need to find out who's doing
this. It can't be the Resistance, and if it's not the Consortium,
then it's some other entity. One we don't know about."
I watch Mulder, not really listening to him. Give him something
about the Consortium, about the colonization, just a little of the
truth, and he becomes enraptured. He doesn't even notice he's
touching his cheek again. Right where I kissed him.
This case was made for him, full of extreme possibilities.
Tuesday, 4:00 P.M.
Krycek stands behind me as I start speaking with Steve Johnson, the
surviving security guard.
In a sedated, slurry voice, Johnson relates what happened. "Me and
Ricky was—"
"Ricky?" I ask.
"Yeah, Ricky. En-Ree-Kay Mo-Ray-No. He tol' me I could call him
'Ricky' if he could call me 'Esteban.' Ess-Tay-Bon. He was a great
guy, man. One in a million. Yeah, we usta grab a beer after work.
Nuthin' better 'en beer and cornflakes for breakfast. A lot of the
Cuban guys, they stick together, but not Ricky. He was regular, you
know, like a white guy."
I stop Johnson's ruminations. "Tell me what happened."
He looks at me bleary-eyed. "Man, he's dead, ain't he?" Tears form
and slowly roll down his cheeks. "Shit, it wasn't like anything I
ever... We checked out an alarm, but it musta been a short or
somthin' 'cause we dint find anything."
Johnson reaches for water and misses. I lift the cup and put the
straw in his mouth. Loud slurp, then a gulping swallow.
"Where was I? Oh, so we're leavin' when Ricky says somethin' 'bout
smellin' a Camaro. He musta meant leather or rubber. I had a Camaro
when I was a kid, leather bucket seats, four on th' floor... in
Buffalo. You ever been to Buffalo? Pretty piss-ant."
Gently, I guide Johnson back to his story.
"Yeah, sorry. Then he says 'Burnt,' and the next thing is he's
across the room. I dint see him move, but his head... Oh shit." He
covers his face with his hands, his body quaking with heavy sobs.
A nurse enters the room and sees Johnson in distress. "Gentlemen,
you have to leave... now."
Tuesday, 8:30 P.M.
I drop a carton of Pad Thai in front of Mulder. He reaches for it,
absently opening the carton and eating.
We spent the last four hours reviewing reports, crime scene
photographs and the collected physical evidence. We went to suite
2406, the scene of the last crime, but there was nothing there. The
crime-lab drones released it to the tenants. Whatever else may have
happened, the perpetrators didn't get the chance to trash the
offices. Or leave any evidence.
"What do you think the Camaro business was about?" I ask, eating out
of my own carton.
"Not a car. He was saying 'burnt.' Spanish for burnt is cemada,
Johnson didn't know that. Moreno was born in Cuba, his family came
over when he was seven, so it stands to reason that he's fluent in
Spanish. Probably thought in Spanish." Mulder taps his lips with his
chopsticks. "So Moreno smells something burnt... Johnson didn't. Or
doesn't remember."
Suddenly, his eyes open wide and he grabs the crime scene photos.
"Here, here and here." Each word punctuated with a stab of his
finger.
"Mulder, what are you—"
He picks up an evidence vial. "The smears on the wall. The blood." A
slow smile breaks over his face as he grabs his cell phone. "Scully,
it's me. Yeah, I'm sending a sample to you. I need to know if it's
chicken blood."
I can only imagine Scully's reply.
"Yeah, I know it's late, but I got... 'Kay. You'll get me the
results tomorrow. Huh? No. I'll call the Gunmen later. I'm sure it
can wait." He folds his cell and flips it in the air.
Making sure I look adequately awestruck, I catch his attention.
"Mulder." He looks at me, eyes dancing. "You know what's going on."
"Yeah, I think I do." He leans back. "But I need to know about the
blood first."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a hunch, but there's evidence. Better evidence if it is
chicken blood."
I widen my eyes in understanding and see Mulder smile.
Clearing my throat and nodding, I begin to speak. "Blood, animal
blood. The burning smell. A hex? Witchcraft?"
His smile widens. "A trabajo. A Santeria spell. And a doozy at
that."
Got him. Hook, line and sinker.
Krycek sits back, thinking for a moment. "Santeria... isn't that
voodoo?"
"Sort of, but not really. It's a religion, originated by slaves
brought to Cuba and Brazil. It combines the worship of traditional
Yoruban deities with the worship of Roman Catholic saints. That's
what Santeria means, 'the way of the saints.'"
I'm about to educate Krycek on the genesis of Santeria when he
starts speaking. "The Yoruba... eight hundred years of civilization,
brought down by the slave trade. They worshipped gods, Orishas I
think they were called."
My eyebrows rise. I'm surprised he knows this. "Yeah, the tribes of
the Yoruba were decimated—"
"That means one in ten, you know."
"Don't be a smart ass, Krycek, you know what I mean. They were a
majority of the slave trade. As slaves, they were punished for their
heathen worship. The Catholics felt some level of guilt, so slaves
were baptized en masse." I shake my head. "We'll destroy your life,
but make sure you get into heaven.
"The slaves began to worship the Catholic saints as a guise. They
worshipped Shango as Saint Barbara, Jesus was Olodumare. The
Santeria priests, the santeros, were allowed to keep their basic
rituals, as long as the gods worshipped were the known saints of
Catholicism."
Krycek nods. "So after three or four hundred years, the religion
still exists. With rituals, spells, charms and... what was that word
you used?"
"Trabajo. It means a 'work.' The santeros use the power of saints
and ancestors to cast trabajos. Usually they're small things, luck
charms, trabajitos—a little work. But this... this is a big work.
This santero has to be really powerful."
"What did this santero do exactly?"
"I think he stopped time."
Krycek's jaw drops.
Wednesday, 2:00 A.M.
I'm still wired. I keep going to the door adjoining my room to
Krycek's, but stop short each time.
We spoke long into the night. Santeria. Moreno was Cuban, maybe
sensitive to the workings of a santero. Krycek asked question after
question, accepted my answers, not once mentioning improbability. He
believes me... almost unconditionally.
I think back to our last exchange, in the hallway in front of our
rooms. "I'm not sure I understand it," he said, "but it fits. Good
work." He held his hand out, and I surprised myself when I shook it.
Forcing myself to remember who he is, what he's done, is the only
way I have to keep my enthusiasm about him at bay. Memories tumble
through my brain. I remember the night he killed Augustus Cole, the
night he thought he was saving my life. Flashes of the young, green
agent I began to trust... only to be betrayed.
These thoughts are replaced by other violent memories. My fist
connecting with his body. Leaning over him, my gun to his head.
Throwing him against a bank of phones in Hong Kong. Each time, my
body pressed against his, the heat of the fight raging through me...
almost as hot as the heat from my—
A knock on the door brings me out of my reverie. I'm startled to
find I've got a partial erection.
"Mulder, you awake?"
"Yeah, gimme a minute." I stand at the adjoining door, waiting for
my hard-on to subside.
He's in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair is mussed. One arm missing. I
was so caught up in the case, I didn't realize he had been wearing a
prosthetic arm. I try not to stare at something that isn't there
anymore.
"I couldn't sleep," he says with a sheepish grin.
Of all the expressions I've seen on his face—anger, arrogance,
fear, awe—I've never seen sheepish.
Mulder steps back to let me into his room. I sit at the edge of the
bed.
"Make yourself at home," he says, somewhat sarcastically.
I shake my head, acting embarrassed, but feeling excited. I love it
when my plans fall into place. "I need to talk to you about
something. Something I couldn't bring up at the field office."
Mulder takes a chair from the table, moves it so we're face to face,
then sits. Looking at me expectantly, he says, "Well?"
"It's about Tunguska, and maybe this case."
He glances at the stump of my left arm.
I catch him at it and pretend to be disturbed. "If it bothers you,
I'll put the arm on."
"No, sorry. Tunguska?"
I nod slowly, looking as earnest as possible. "About Tunguska. You
were infected with the black oil and tested with the same vaccine
the Russians are modeling. The Consortium and the Resistance know
this. You've been targeted by the Consortium to be captured and
tested further. You're the proof of concept. They want to see if you
can be infected again."
Moments pass as I give him time to digest this. "The Resistance
wants you, too. For what exactly, I don't know, but I have some
ideas."
"Why are you telling me this? Don't you work for them?"
"Mulder, it doesn't matter who I work for. I've been hearing bits
and pieces, and it all adds up to the same thing. I don't know if
it'll be the Consortium or the Resistance, but one of them will take
you."
"You didn't answer me. Why are you telling me this?"
Bringing my hand up, I rub my chin, as if in contemplation. I lower
my voice to a harsh whisper to tell him, "Because I'm your best
chance of staying free. Of being safe." I pause dramatically,
mimicking a man torn. "And keeping you alive is my best chance at
staying alive. Me and the rest of the human race. The Consortium,
for that matter the Resistance, doesn't give a rat's ass about me...
or you. You're just a means to their end."
Mulder's eyes narrow, and I can see him processing this information.
"And how are you planning on keeping me safe? What does this have to
do with the case?"
"It's a wild card. The Consortium doesn't like wild cards, but
they're leveraging this one. They're the ones who got you assigned.
I know they have an inside man in the New York field office, and I
know his assignment. My orders are to 'conveniently' lose track of
you. I suspect that's when they'll snatch you."
With a bewildered expression he asks, "Why this case? Why now?"
"There's too much visibility in D.C., and they need to protect their
man, Kersh. They know this is the type of case you'd jump on.
Especially now that you're off the X-Files. They also know you're
apt to go off on your own, with an occasional call to Scully.
They're counting on it." I pause to let this sink in. "They'll find
you, then manufacture some cover-up, some accident. You'll end up a
two-line squib, 'Remains of FBI agent found.'"
Making sure venom drips from my voice, I continue, "This is the kind
of scheming the Consortium lives for."
I watch his eyes, wary, wondering... Now for the clincher. "You need
me, Mulder. I'll know who's going to snatch you and how. I know what
to look out for. I'm the one who's supposed to give the go-ahead."
Feeling Krycek's eyes burning into me, I sit back, stunned. My mind
goes to Tunguska. Viscous black liquid on my face, the feeling of...
No, no more.
I stand and start pacing the room. I can't—won't—let them use
me. I stop pacing and close my eyes with the dawning realization
that I may need Krycek... as much as he needs me.
His hand on my shoulder startles me. I turn to face him. Not for the
first time, I notice how expressive his face is. He looks genuinely
concerned.
Stepping away from him, still feeling the heat from his hand, I stop
myself from reaching up to touch my cheek. "What about the
Resistance? Why do they want me?"
"Like I said, I don't know exactly. I haven't gotten anything
direct, but I know part of their plan is to expose the Consortium.
If I had to bet, it would be that."
"It's in their best interest to keep me alive then. So I can expose
th—"
His derisive snort stops me in mid sentence. "They don't need you
alive," he says, shaking his head. "Finding you dead under
mysterious circumstances is exposure enough. You think Scully's
going to let that go? She'll find something, some remnant of what's
been done to you. She'll bulldog it 'til she gets to the answer."
Rubbing my eyes, I ask, "Now what?"
"I know this sounds paranoid, but—" Krycek stops and laughs at his
own statement. "Sorry, I suppose nothing sounds paranoid to you."
I don't understand the humor, so I motion for him to continue.
"We have to make sure I don't lose track of you, Mulder. I'll have
to be with you every minute. Tomorrow, I'll stow your stuff in my
room while you check out. We'll go pick up Scully's lab results,
then we hide you in plain sight. While the Consortium hunts for you,
I'll continue to act as if I'm working the case. Those are my
orders, but it'll be more than an act. We will be working the
case."
I nod at Krycek... my one-armed bodyguard, thinking about what he
just said. "And once it's over? What's to stop them from taking me
then?"
"You'll be delivered, safely, back to D.C. This window of
opportunity, closed. Beyond that, I don't know."
I digest what he said. It was an honest answer, something I didn't
think he was capable of. "How can I trust you? How do I know this
isn't some kind of set up?"
His eyes narrow. "This isn't about trust. It's about survival.
You've taken bigger chances than this." He pauses for a moment. "The
choice is yours."
The thought of re-infection chills me, but so does relying on him.
He's right though, I have taken bigger chances... with others
sharing my risk. This time it's just me and him. I can live
with that.
I watch him as he stands and heads to the adjoining room.
"I'm in, Krycek, but I'm watching you. If I don't like where it's
going, I'm out."
He nods, then closes the door between us.
Wednesday, 1:00 P.M.
Krycek lifts his fork but stops halfway to say, "Santeria is still
pretty underground. That's why we're having trouble getting
information."
"Yeah," I say around a mouthful of plantains and rice.
After picking up the lab report, we spent the morning visiting
botanicas and the few advertised santeros. It was pretty much a
waste. The santeros seemed like religiously oriented palm readers,
and the standard response from the botanica owners was, "No hablo
Ingles."
My cell phone chirps. I pull it out of my jacket but, before I can
answer, Krycek puts his hand on mine, stopping me.
"What?" I ask, confused.
"No cell phone. You're supposed to be missing. Remember?" Krycek
answers in a harsh whisper.
"But what if it's—"
"Mulder, you cannot answer your calls. What if it's Kochanski?"
Indignant, I reply, "I'll look before—"
"Bullshit, you never check. Let the calls go into voicemail. If it's
important, you can call back on a land line. Now, hand it over."
We stare at each other. Where does he get off, taking my cell? I'm
not giving it up without a fight.
"Mulder," he says, not blinking, not wavering. "We can't afford a
scene here. If you want to play into the Consortium's hands, then
keep the damned phone. Answer every call." He breaks the stare and
starts eating again.
"Ahh, shit." I slide the phone toward him.
He takes it, turns it off and drops it into his coat pocket.
We continue our lunch in silence. I miss my phone.
"Mulder," Krycek suddenly speaks, "when are we going to interview
Moreno's widow?"
"I don't know. I didn't really think about it."
Krycek's brows knit. "Moreno may have known of Santeria." He's
speaking slowly, as if giving voice to an idea that's just forming.
"Wouldn't it stand to reason that his wife would know, too?"
I feel a smile break over my face, and I complete his thought, "And
she would help us. If she knows we're trying to bring his killer to
justice, she will help us."
Wednesday, 2:30 P.M.
"Mulder, pull a fast left," I tell him, looking at the rear-view
mirror.
"Wha—"
"Just do it. We're being followed." The urgency in my voice spurs
him on.
He speeds around the corner, horns blaring in our wake.
Turning right, then left again, he drives on until I let him know we
shook the tail.
Pulling over to the curb, he stops and closes his eyes.
"Consortium?"
"No. We lost them too easily. I don't know."
After a moment, he pulls back on the road and heads to the Bronx.
Krycek and I walk up three flights of stairs to the apartment of
Enrique and Consuelo Moreno.
My knock is answered by a woman in her mid-thirties. Short dark
hair, light complexion, slender build.
"Mrs. Moreno?"
She nods her assent.
"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Can we speak with you?"
She steps back and lets us in. I wonder if she noticed that Krycek
wasn't introduced.
The living room is small but comfortable, tidy. She sits in an
overstuffed chair and motions to the sofa. I sit nearest to her;
Krycek positions himself at the far end.
"Mrs. Moreno—"
"Is this about Enrique?"
"Yes. I'm sorry for your loss, but we have reason to suspect that
Enrique may have had some clue, some inkling that—"
Her eyes widen in fear. "No, the doctors. They said he didn't feel
any pain..."
Krycek moves to her, soothes her by saying, "That's right, it
happened so quickly he wouldn't have felt anything. But Steve
Johnson said Enrique smelled something just before... the accident."
She scoffs. "That Steve, that basura. He used to get my Enrique
drunk. But Enrique, he likes... liked him."
I take a deep breath and look at Krycek. By unspoken accord, Krycek
takes the lead. "Mrs. Moreno—"
"Connie, call me Connie." She tells him with a smile.
How did he do that? Get her to smile like that?
He returns her smile and continues, "Connie, did Enrique practice or
know someone who practiced Santeria?"
We're met with silence. Her quizzical look prompts Krycek to add,
"There were other, similar crimes. At these crime scenes we found
rooster blood. We suspect—"
She holds up her hand to stop him. "Enrique's family. His
tio—uncle, is a great santero in Cuba. Enrique was to be his, how
you say... apprentice. That all stopped when he came to the States.
His family, they still practice, they still go to ceremonies. But
Enrique doesn't... didn't. He said that there was no place for
Santeria in America." She pauses for a moment. "But I think he still
believed," she adds sadly.
Krycek looks at me, eyes wide.
I start speaking to Connie. "Is there anyone who can help us? We
need to find a santero. A great santero. Someone who can do trabajo
grande."
Smiling at my abominable accent, she asks, "Will this help you find
my Enrique's killer?"
"We hope so."
She sits back for a moment—her eyes glittering with hatred and
revenge. "I will take you to his family."
Wednesday, 4:00 P.M.
New York City, New York.
Krycek's at the wheel and we're stuck in rush hour traffic. The
visit with Moreno's parents gave us the names of three santeros.
Moreno's father phoned each, and they've all agreed to see us.
"Krycek?"
"Hmm?" He turns to look at me.
"How did you get Connie Moreno to warm up to you like that?"
I watch a slow smile come over his face. "It was my poise and charm.
Not to mention my boyish good looks."
Glaring at him. "No, seriously. How did you know what to do?"
He shrugs and replies, "I don't know, really. I was nice to her."
"And I wasn't?"
He presses his lips together for a moment. "You're driven, Mulder.
Sometimes you're so intent on getting to the truth... to the point,
you forget you're dealing with a person. She was hurting and I
responded to that."
I stare out into traffic. His words cut into me. I know he's right,
but still, to be told by... him.
Feeling his hand on my arm, I turn to look at him.
"Mulder, it's all right. Really." Alex Krycek, the empathetic
assassin.
Wednesday, 5:30 P.M.
We're led to a back room in the botanica. Krycek enters first, looks
around, then motions for me to follow.
There are rows of folding chairs facing an altar. Against one wall
are drums, bowls and colored bolts of fabric.
"Sit. At the front." The voice of the botanica owner behind us, who
can suddenly habla Ingles.
We move up to the first row of chairs and sit. Moments later, three
men enter the... church.
They're all dressed casually. The oldest is short, five feet tall
with a full head of white hair and light eyes... blue or gray. The
next man is tall and heavyset with thick, wavy black hair. The last,
a muscular black man in his early-twenties.
The heavyset man picks up a chair and places it facing us.
Surprisingly, the young black man sits down and is flanked by the
other two. Moments pass in silence, then he finally speaks. "I am
Roberto Villalobos, I will speak for us." His voice is soothing, a
slight accent making it lyrical.
I nod, licking my lips. "Thank you for allowing us to speak with
you. We hope you can help us identify the maker of a—"
Villalobos stops me. "Yes, Jesus Moreno told us you seek a santero
who can work a big magic. Tell us how you know it is Santeria."
I explain the evidence we found, the rooster blood and the burning
smell. How Enrique Moreno was Santeria sensitive. The santeros nod
as I tell them of the case, the alarms sounding, how nothing is
found.
"And what magic, what trabajo do you think was used?"
"I think he can stop time."
Villalobos' eyes grow wide. I see the white-haired man clutch his
shoulder. The three of them bring their heads together, speaking in
rapid Spanish.
I look at Krycek. He returns a slight nod. We're on to something
now.
The three men continue their urgent whispering, stopping when
Villalobos raises his hand. He looks at us and begins to speak. "We
have promised to help you. But what you speak of..." Villalobos
looks to either side of him, gaining strength from the men with him.
"There are rumors, of a man... He began his initiation in Cuba and
came here to finish with a babalawo in New Jersey."
Villalobos takes a deep breath and continues. "I do not know how
much of our way you understand, but in order to be a santero, you
become consecrated to an orisha... a saint. The saint guides and
protects the santero during our rituals. This man, he had not
finished his initiation, was not yet consecrated. And he violated
our practice by performing a bembe, a drumming ritual, and the
spirit that entered him is not one worshipped by us.
"It is said that he practices macumba...evil craft. He left his
home, his family. And we have not heard of him since."
Krycek clears his throat. "Do you know this man? Would he still be
alive?"
Villalobos looks at Krycek. "I will contact you."
Krycek hands him a slip of paper with his cell phone number. "Mr.
Villalobos, would this man still be alive?"
Looking down, Villalobos replies, "It's possible. He would be forty
now. His name is Octavio Villalobos. He was my father."
Wednesday, 11:00 P.M.
We step into Krycek's room; it's a mirror image of the one I checked
out of. "Krycek, there's only one damned bed."
"Mulder," his voice, weary, "if I check out now and into a room with
double beds, I may as well get a flashing neon sign with the words
'Mulder's Here!'"
I know he's right, but crap. I don't want to sleep with him. You
sure?
Sitting on the bed, I look around the close quarters I'll be sharing
with... him. How do I make myself comfortable under these
conditions? Less than thirty-six hours ago, I was ready to beat him
to a pulp. Now, I'm relying on him to keep me safe.
Mulder sulks about the room, all the while touching his cheek.
Should I bring that little unconscious act to his attention? No...
at least not yet.
Thursday, 2:45 A.M.
Night... I hate it. I'm left alone, with my brain on overdrive.
Thoughts spin and shift. Visions, images, fragments... that all lead
back to Alex Krycek.
What forces keep bringing him into my life? I remember my initial
disdain of him, disdain that changed into... into what? I began to
trust him, and with that trust came attraction.
Then his betrayal and my anger at him... and myself. I let him in.
I... you can say it... 'wanted' I wanted him.
And every encounter after that, sublimating my lust by beating him.
Except once. I reach up and touch my cheek, recalling the feel of
his lips. That kiss, almost as electric as my fists connecting with
his body.
More images, violent, rough... sexual. Fantasies of him helpless as
I beat him... not fantasies. Krycek never fought back. My dick grows
harder as I think of him taking it. Taking me... up his ass. Hard
slams against him that will leave more than bruises.
I get out of bed and go to the bathroom, the need for release
overpowering me.
Mulder's tuned tighter than a drum head. I feel him almost vibrating
next to me.
I open my eyes when he gets up, and watch as he heads to the
bathroom. The light clicks on, and he's visible long enough for me
to take in his face... and the erection pushing against his sweats.
His face... anguished, but predatory. A warrior saint in a
seventeenth century painting. The war between good and evil playing
out on his countenance.
The erection... well, that's interesting.
I step out of the bathroom. Shit. When was the last time I had to
jack off in a bathroom?
Careful not to wake him, I ease back into bed. I'm relieved and
shamed... but maybe now I can get some sleep.
Thursday, 7:00 A.M.
The phone rings, and I hear Krycek's groggy voice answer. "Hello?
Yeah, thanks." Hanging up, he shakes his head and looks at me. "Wake
up call." In the next instant, he's alert and ready.
He throws off the blankets, exposing the typical morning erection
pushing against his boxers. "Did you sleep well?" he asks on his way
to the bathroom.
"Took a while, but yeah." I say, speaking to his hard-on.
"I know. You were tossing and turning."
Feeling suddenly embarrassed, I look up into his face. "Were you
awake?"
With a casual grin, he replies, "On the edge, it doesn't pay to
sleep deeply in my line of work." The door closes behind him.
Ten minutes later, a naked Krycek emerges from the bathroom, steam
billowing behind him and a towel around his neck. He stands in front
of the mirror and starts shaving.
I can't help but stare at him. His broad shoulders, the muscular
back that tapers to his ass. His ass is a work of art, curved,
powerful. This does nothing to stem the flow of blood pounding
through my now awake erection.
If I move fast, I can get into the bathroom without him noticing I'm
playing pup-tent under my sweats.
Mulder moves quickly into the bathroom in an unsuccessful attempt to
hide his hard-on. In his haste, he doesn't lock the door behind him.
I wait until I hear the shower start, then a single knock, and a
"Mulder, I gotta piss," as I enter.
My brain registers the knock a second too late. I turn my back to
the glass shower doors in the hopes that Krycek didn't catch the
silhouette of me jacking off.
I look over my shoulder and see him, or rather, the blurred,
distorted outline of him. He's standing still, looking down in that
familiar posture.
He leans forward, flushes, then leaves.
I look down at my fist, still clutching my cock; it never softened
during that interruption.
Thursday, 1:50 P.M.
Krycek and I arrive early and wait for Roberto Villalobos.
"What to you think Mulder? Could our guy be Villalobos' father?"
"I don't know. All you found on him were immigration papers and a
missing persons report. No DMV, never applied for public assistance.
The only thing we're sure of is he's been missing for eight years."
There's a gentle cough behind us, and the maitre d' seats Roberto at
our table. A festive array of pastries is laid out, as is a samovar.
Roberto looks around the room, then down at the delicate cup and
saucer before him. "My father spoke of places like this. He visited
Moscow and Saint Petersburg."
Krycek begins, "Mr. Villalobos, your father disappeared eight years
ago, how old were you at the time?"
"I was fourteen. We left Cuba when I was thirteen." His voice is
musical, soft yet strong, tinged with an accent... 'Cooba' not
'Cue-ba.'
I take in information we already knew, then ask, "Your father was
31... isn't that kind of old to be an apprentice?"
Villalobos smiles wistfully. "No...maybe. One is chosen to be a
santero, age doesn't matter." He sips his tea and continues, "I
was chosen. My training started when I was young, eight or nine. My
father would take me to my..." He pauses, searching for the word,
"classes. He would sit with me, listening to the stories, the
history.
"The santero sensed my father's spirit... said the orishas chose him
to initiate. My father progressed much faster than I did. He became
medio asiento in less than... " He stops, looking at us as if
suddenly realizing we're there. He shakes his head and smiles
ruefully. "I'm sorry, you are aleyo—outsiders. It's too much to
explain our ways to you. Tell me why you called me here."
I clear my throat. "May I call you Roberto?" He nods, and I
continue, "Roberto, you said you believe your father may be capable
of performing a spell powerful enough to stop time. Is that
correct?"
"If the rumors are true, it's possible. Macumba is powerful; we
don't even speak of it. Only the babalawo are strong enough..."
Roberto's words trail off as he looks away, lost in thought.
Minutes pass in stillness. Each time I try to break the silence,
Krycek stops me with a hand on my arm or a subtle shake of his head.
Still staring vacantly, Roberto starts speaking again. "I have tried
to forget my father. To live as though he was dead. Now you come,
looking for him." He looks at us, face weary, looking older than he
did moments ago. He sighs heavily. "I will speak to my babalawo. If
he agrees, I will bring you to him."
Roberto stands to leave. I'm not finished with him but Krycek stops
me again. What is it with him?
Thursday, 5:30 P.M.
Krycek holds the phone away from his ear.
I hear Kochanski's tinny voice, screaming, "...not with you? He
hasn't shown up here since yesterday, missed the daily stat—"
Bringing his lips to the mouthpiece Krycek says, in the coolest of
voices, "He is your agent. I'm calling in as a courtesy. He's
checked out of his room and is nowhere to be found. I'm going to
call Mr. Stanislofsky now to apprise him of the situation." Not
waiting for a reply, Krycek hangs up.
He dials another number and I hear a one-sided conversation in
Russian. No clue to what he's saying.
When he's finished, he turns to me. "Okay, Mulder, you're officially
M.I.A. The field office operative will get the message back to the
Consortium. I'm still working the case... the vandalism has to stop.
And I'll be around to watch your back, as long as you let me know
what's going on."
"Whadda you mean?"
"You ditch me, you're dead." He delivers this with a calm voice, but
his face shows how seriously he's taking this... how concerned he
is. He licks his lips and puts a hand on my shoulder. "As much as
you may want to rush out on your own, don't. Your kidnapping's in
motion now. They know how to pick up your trail. They will find
you."
"I won't ditch you, I can't afford to." I instinctively reach up and
place my hand on his. His eyes widen at the touch. Shit, what am I
doing?
Mulder covers his look of surprise by hastily getting up and pacing.
He doesn't realize he's touching his cheek again. This is playing
out faster than I expected... good.
He starts speaking. "We need to talk to that babalawo. Yeah, we need
to find out from the botanicas who's bought roosters and sugar
lately." His rambling continues at breakneck speed, words tumble
over each other. His head is down and his pacing becomes frenetic.
I let him go on for a bit, then physically put myself in his way. He
bumps into me and looks up startled.
"Mulder, calm down." I put my hand on his chest. "I can't follow
half of what you're saying."
I feel the heat of Krycek's hand on my chest. Can he feel my
heart pounding?
His look of concern is almost too much. It takes the hard edges
away, showing how truly handsome he is. He blinks and licks his lips
nervously... or am I just seeing nervous because I am nervous?
Not realizing I'm doing it, I lean forward and kiss him. He stiffens
and pulls back from me. Shit! What the hell am I doing?
"Uh, Mulder..." His fingers touch his lips. "I, uh... I've never..."
Crap! Fuck! I turn away as fast as I can. Shit! There's nowhere to
go in this damned room.
"Mulder..." His hand on my shoulder gently turns me to him. His
eyes, scared, conflicted. As conflicted as I am?
He swallows then continues. "I don't know how to say this... I'm not
gay. But I've thought about... this. About you..." He shakes his
head. "There's too much history, too much at stake."
Stepping back, he breaks our tenuous contact and says, "I don't know
if I can brush this aside... if I want to brush it aside. I—"
His cell phone chirps and he looks simultaneously relieved and
annoyed. He answers the cell with a terse, "Hello." A long pause,
then, "At nine o'clock? We'll be there."
He looks up at me. "That was Roberto. We've got a meeting with his
babalawo at that store... church." He still looks uncomfortable.
"Let's get out of here. Walk around, maybe get dinner. Chinatown
sound good?"
"Yeah, 'kay." At least the chopsticks will keep me occupied.
Thursday, 7:45 P.M.
"... different from Hong Kong Chinese food, but I guess you knew
tha—" Suddenly, Krycek pulls me into an alley. "What th—"
He pushes me against the wall, hand covering my mouth. "Shhh." His
harsh whisper lets me know he's serious... dead serious.
I nod to let him know I've got it, and he pulls his hand away. He
motions with his head, and I follow him down the alley.
We stand between two dumpsters. Krycek looks back to where we had
been. "Shit," he says under his breath. He looks at me and whispers,
"Goons on the way. Do what I tell you."
Before I can respond, he spins me so I'm facing the wall. "Undo your
pants. Now!" I'm fumbling with my belt and zipper when I hear his,
"Push your pants down. Fast."
He leans against me, his arm braced by my head. "Don't say a word,
don't look around."
I feel his hips rock against me in mock sex. I hear footsteps coming
closer. He starts pumping faster, a low moan coming from deep in his
throat. Is it real? My cock seems to think so, I push my ass back
matching his movements.
"Goddamn faggots." The sound of footsteps and voices grow distant. A
faint "not him" the last thing I hear.
He stops his pumping. "They're gone. Let's get out of here."
I stay facing the wall, waiting for my hard-on to subside. It's
going nowhere fast. "I, uh, can't."
"Christ, Mulder. Zip up. No one'll notice." His voice, a combination
of nervousness and exasperation.
Thursday, 8:35 P.M.
Krycek and I sit in a coffeehouse next to the botanica, passing time
until our appointment. I keep up an inane conversation. He responds
with single words and grunts... as if he's not paying attention.
Krycek's been pensive since the incident in the Chinatown alley. I
don't know if it was because of the close call, or his form of
subterfuge.
I've wanted to bring it up. Where did he get the idea to disguise us
as two guys fucking? I admit it worked better than you can
imagine but why that?
He stares at his coffee, stirring it, the spoon tinkling against the
rim.
"Krycek, you're gonna have butter if you keep churning that."
He smiles wanly. "Mulder, I think you should meet the babalawo
alone."
"But—"
"No. I need to keep watch. I don't think we were followed, but I
can't be sure."
"Krycek, that little ruse in the alley shook them off. I'm
positive."
He looks away for a moment, shamefaced. Rubbing his face he mutters,
"I didn't stay alive this long by assuming my ruses work."
I don't know why, but I want to reassure him, appease him. "'Kay.
I'll go it alone. But how do we connect when I'm done?"
My assent surprises him into looking at me... finally.
"I'll be close enough. We'll meet when you leave the botanica." Then
he goes back to staring at his coffee cup.
Enough of this. "Krycek, what's going on with you? I can't handle
you being like this."
It's about damned time, Mulder. I was wondering how long it would
take.
I look at him, making my eyes glitter in anger. "Being like what?"
"I don't know... You're just—"
"What the fuck do you expect, Mulder? The mission I signed up for
didn't include discussing your homoerotic fantasies, or how I fit
into them."
He sits back, stunned, the look on his face telling me I'm right. He
wasn't expecting that... wrong, he just didn't think I figured it
out.
I start in again. "Nor am I equipped to handle how you're making me
feel. You... you're sending signals brighter than the lights on
Broadway. This shit is a little outside my realm." I close my eyes
and take a deep breath.
"Krycek?" His voice soft, almost comforting.
"Yeah," I reply, opening my eyes to look at him, making sure there's
the barest hint of anguish there.
"I don't... I'm..." He looks at his watch. "We'd better go, it's
almost time." A look of concern crosses his face as he rises and
waits for me to join him.
I'm surprised at Mulder's sudden solicitousness. I knew playing him
this way would get results, I just didn't think it would happen this
quickly.
Good bit of luck, those guys in the alley. Couldn't have worked out
better if I had planned it in advance.
Thursday, 9:00 P.M.
The botanica owner gives us a 'not-you-again' look when we enter. He
sidles up and says, sotto voce, "Go through the curtain. At the
door, knock four times."
Krycek gives me a nod, and heads to the front door.
I walk through the curtain, to the single door and knock.
Roberto Villalobos opens the door and motions me in. A quizzical
look crosses his face and he asks, "Where is your partner?"
"He's checking out... another lead. Did you need us both?"
"No, I suppose not. Follow me."
He leads me to a smaller room behind the altar. There's an old man
sitting in a bean-bag chair, the only furniture in the room.
Roberto sits cross-legged on the floor and motions for me to join
him. The three of us face each other, like points of a triangle.
In the silence I look at the old man. He's rail thin and wrinkled.
His hands gnarled, hard labor and arthritis having taken its toll.
His rheumy eyes look back at me.
"Babalawo, this is the man I spoke of." Respect, no, awe fills
Roberto's voice. "He is trying to find Enrique's killer."
I clear my throat. "Yes sir. I think I kn—"
"Roberto has told me who you are. Who you seek." The old man says in
a quiet voice, a tired voice. "Octavio Villalobos... I have
performed a divination and know that he lives. That he is evil, a
macumba."
Silence... I hate silence. "If you can..."
The babalawo raises his hand. "I have no sway over the spirits that
use him. They are closed to me and I am grateful. I cannot know if
he is the man who did the trabajo, but I know where you can find
him."
Roberto's eyes widen and he leans forward. "He's alive, my—"
"He is not your father, Beto," the old man says sharply. "Your
father died. This man is not of our world, or any world we are part
of."
Roberto drops his head. He shudders with an inward breath. Regaining
his composure, he looks up at the babalawo, his eyes dead. "I will
leave you to speak freely." He gets up in a fluid motion and
departs.
The babalawo watches him leave, a deep sigh sharing Roberto's pain.
"Beto is a good man, a good santero. I did not want to hurt him."
Part of my mind is screaming 'Screw that... where's his father?' but
then I remember Krycek's words... I'm so driven, I forget the
person. I will wait patiently.
Finally, the babalawo looks at me. "You, too, have pain from loss of
a loved one."
How the hell can he know that? "I... I lost my sister. A long time
ago."
"Yes, and you have let that pain rule you. You search but feel
empty." He nods at me. "Continue your search. It is what keeps you
alive."
Shit, this is getting freaky even for me. "I will, I do."
"But there is something else, someone close... he will help your
pain, fill your emptiness."
What is he talking about? "I don't under—"
"It is not something you can understand." He closes his eyes.
Leaving me to my thoughts.
Moments pass in silence. I drum my fingers on my knees and notice my
feet are starting to tingle.
"I have seen his altar." The babalawo's voice startles me.
"You've been there?" I look at him, his eyes are still closed, but
his face is calmer, smoother.
"No, a divination. I saw the abomination he worships, he sacrifices
to." He starts rocking. "It is in a warehouse. Empty, except for the
altar. I can hear the sounds of horns—boats. I can smell salt
air... and blood."
"Do you know where this—"
"That was not revealed. But it must be close to the site of his
trabajos." His eyes open, they're clearer now. "That is all I have."
"If I need to contact y—"
"We are finished. We will do no more." He says with finality, then
closes his eyes.
"Mr. Mulder." Roberto's sudden appearance startles me.
I begin to stand but find my feet have fallen asleep. He holds his
hand out to help me up.
When I'm standing I turn to thank the babalawo... but he's no longer
there.
"Mr. Mulder. You must leave now."
"Roberto, where—"
"It is the word of babalawo. We are done." He turns and walks away.
Krycek greets me as I exit the botanica. "Well?"
I'm still trying to process what happened... all of it. "Yeah, got
something." But what?
Thursday, 10:45 P.M.
I'm sitting on the bed, Krycek in a chair in front of me.
He didn't blink when I told him what the babalawo had to say. "Is
that it? You were in there for a long time, Mulder."
I didn't share the information about Samantha or about someone close
who will fill the... No, doesn't have anything to do with this case.
"He spent a lot of time in silence. Like he was meditating."
Krycek eyes dance with humor, "Oh, and you let him? Doesn't sound
like the Mulder I know. Ten seconds of silence is about your limit."
I try to look offended, but I can't. Shaking my head. "Actually, I
remembered something you told me. And for some reason it worked."
He starts laughing out loud. "Yeah, right. Next time you're in a
mess you can ask yourself 'What would Alex Krycek do?'"
The picture painted in my head is so ludicrous, I start laughing,
too.
It must be the tension of the day, but we can't stop laughing. Every
time one of us starts to gain composure, the laughter starts again,
harder.
"Oh, god. Stop." Krycek's voice is shaky and he's wiping tears from
his eyes. He exhales and shakes his head. "Okay, enough. Whew."
"Uh, yeah... back to the warehouse." I struggle not to snicker. I
put my head in my hands. If I don't look at him, I might have a
chance. "It's his altar, not his home."
"We're looking for an abandoned warehouse, by the docks and close to
Manhattan. Okay, at least it's a start." Krycek's voice is calm
again.
Lifting my head, I find him looking at me. His eyes, soft and moist
from our near-hysterics, capture me. He's waiting for me to go on,
for me to decide what to do next. No questions, no pushback. It's
strange... but nice.
I swallow before starting. "I, uhh, we need to canvas likely areas.
It'll get done faster if we separ—"
"No."
"Krycek, I know you thi—"
"Mulder. No." He leans forward in his chair, his head inches away
from mine. "They're after you. Without me, they'll get you, plain
and simple." He's leaving no room for discussion.
I turn away from him. He's right, but I don't want any delays. I'm
startled from these thoughts by his hand under my chin. He turns my
head back to him.
"We'll find the warehouse." He looks deep into my eyes, and I find
myself lost in their liquid green.
I hear my own breathing... my own heart beating. In the next moment,
I'm kissing him. This time, he doesn't resist, but instead, kisses
back.
His kiss moves from soft and gentle, entreating, to harder,
demanding. I open my mouth to him, his tongue circles mine. He leans
into me, his hand at the back of my head.
Reaching for him, I begin to unbutton his shirt.
He breaks the kiss and pulls away, startled. "I, uhh, I don't know
what's going on here, Mulder." His voice is breathy, like he's been
running. He runs his finger along his lips, drawing my eyes to his
mouth. Lips still moist from our kiss, full, deep red...
Mulder's staring at my mouth, his own hanging open. His eyes have
that glaze I associate with lust and confusion.
He's almost there, just a little more struggle...
Krycek sits back and runs his hand over his face.
Shit, I moved too fast. "Krycek?"
Looking at me, so damned confused. "Mulder. This is so far from what
I expected. I'm a little shell-shocked."
He didn't say 'No' or 'Stop.' My dick tingles as I watch the
emotions wash over him. I'll take it slow, invite him, not pursue.
I stand up and take off my shirt. He looks at me and licks his lips,
his eyes moving down my body. He focuses on my erection, an awkward
bulge in dress pants. "Tell me to stop, if you can't handle it."
He nods slowly, then reaches out and strokes me through my pants. A
light touch that causes my sudden inward breath. He looks into my
face, fingers still gently touching me. A smile—he likes what he
sees. Likes what he's doing to me.
I unbuckle my belt and start to open my pants. Looking at him, my
question left unspoken.
"Take them off." His voice catches, and he looks surprised.
Stripping as fast as I can, I end up with my hard dick at the level
of his face. He pulls his head back. Damn, slow down, Mulder. He's
not used to this.
"Mulder, I... I can't do that. I'm no—"
"No, you don't have to. You don't have to do anything." Fuck
that.
He reaches out tentatively, and runs the tip of his finger on the
head of my dick, rubbing pre-cum around the head. I bite off a moan
and clench my fists. He looks up at me, watching my face as he
starts to stroke me. I force my eyes to stay open, to look at him,
to gauge what he's feeling. He gives me a sudden squeeze and I gasp,
throwing my head back. I can tell he's aroused by the sound of his
breathing. He's getting hot knowing what he's doing to me.
Suddenly, he stops and I hear the scrape of the chair as he pushes
back to stand up.
He starts undressing, then, almost shyly, turns away from me to
remove his arm. I watch his practiced moves, unhurried, smooth, as
he unbuckles straps.
Seeing the way his muscles bunch, looking at his ass... round, firm.
Damn, he's never done this before. I wonder if there's a way I can
get him to let me fuck him. Probably not, I didn't let anyone fuck
me for a long time... and I like guys.
When he's finished, he turns to face me. He looks scared, but
aroused. I look at him, allowing my eyes to travel down his body.
His cock, hard... and big.
"Mulder, I... uhh, now what?"
Instead of answering, I drop to my knees. He won't say 'no' to this.
I circle the head of his cock with my tongue and feel him jerk at
the sensation. Slowly, I work his cock. Licking down the underside,
sucking the head.
He starts breathing harder, shuddering when I try to take him down
my throat. I gag and pull back. I've never blown anyone as large as
Krycek.
His fingers stroke my hair, and I try to take him again. Suddenly,
he fists my hair, and pulls my head away. "Stop," he gasps. "I can't
keep standing."
Releasing my hair, he drops his head, breathing deeply. After a
moment, he sits on the chair. My mouth is on his cock in a
heartbeat, and I hear a gratifying moan. Was that him or me?
Feeling his thighs quiver, his little jerks, his sudden gasps, makes
me rock hard. I circle my own dick and start pumping myself.
"Mulder, stop."
What the fuck now?! I pull away and look at him, hopefully not
looking as pissed as I feel.
"Mulder, god, this feels so good, but... but I want to see you."
My dick twitches at his words, at the thought. I nod and sit back on
my heels. Wrapping my hand around myself, I start pumping again,
watching Krycek. His cock, glistening with my spit, his hand, slowly
moving to encircle it. He begins to stroke himself and I match his
rhythm.
The sight of him—jacking off, chest heaving, nipples hard—makes me
want more. I sit up and lean into him, my hands move to his nipples,
pinching, twisting, stroking. His mouth falls open, and I kiss him,
then drift down to his neck to nuzzle and bite. His hand, back in my
hair, pulls my head back. God, the look on his face... sexual,
primal.
"Krycek, fuck me." The words are out of my mouth before I realize
it's what I want. His eyes narrow... lust personified. He pulls my
head in for a punishing kiss. Lips locked on mine, his tongue deep
in my mouth, he starts to stand, pulling me with him.
Upright, he breaks the kiss, then pulls my head back to expose my
throat. His hot breath, teeth nipping, biting. I grind my hips into
him, feeling our cocks rub together. "God Krycek, fuck me. Now." I
hear the pleading in my own voice.
He pushes me back suddenly. Fuck! What is this?
"My wallet. Get the condom." He points to his pants.
Condom... damn. I'm stunned, realizing the risk I was willing to
take. I pull his pants over and extricate the condom from his
wallet. The typical male accessory, I chuckle at both the stereotype
and my own relief.
Krycek sits back in the chair, waiting for me. I tear open the
packet, and roll the condom just over the head, then use my mouth to
roll it down the length. I let the heat from my mouth warm the
latex. Sucking and nipping my way up, he throws his head back at my
ministrations.
Knowing what I'm doing to him makes my dick throb. I spit into my
hand and start pumping his cock.
His low moans or are they mine? and the slick sound of my hand
on him are the only things I can hear.
Hand in my hair again, pulling me up. I stand over him, straddling
his thighs. He spits in his hand and adds it to the moisture on his
cock. Damn! No lube—I'm too far gone to care. Fuck it, spit will
have to do.
As I slowly lower myself, he rubs his cockhead against my anus...
slick, wet. I lower myself further, feeling the pressure... until
just the head breaches me. I stop, gasping... the pain, deliciously
sharp... cruel. Exactly what I want.
He moves his hand to my dick and starts pumping me. My legs, already
trembling, barely able to hold me up, begin shaking. I put my hands
on his shoulders for support.
With a sudden thrust, he slams into me. My own yell reverberates in
my ears. The onslaught makes me collapse on him, driving him deeper
in me. Pleasure and intense pain fill me. His hand, urgently pumping
me, brings me back, and my hips match his cadence.
I ride him, feeling his cock filling me, gliding over my prostate.
His hand, stroking me... taking me to the brink.
My movements become jerky and he pumps me harder. His hips buck
against me, his hand squeezing my dick hard as I begin to orgasm.
His guttural moan throws me headlong into red-hazed ecstasy.
I fall forward, my head resting on his shoulder as I ride out my
orgasm. His grunts deepen as he slams one final time, letting out a
roar.
Moments pass, my head rising with his ragged breaths as I try to
catch my own. Finally able to move, I pull back and look at him.
His head is tilted back, eyes closed and mouth slack. I squeeze my
ass, feeling him slip out of me and watch as a slow smile crosses
his face. He tugs at my now soft cock. "Mulder, that was... I don't
have words."
I lean forward and kiss his throat, his neck.
His lips nuzzle my ear, his breath hot. "Stand up, you're getting
heavy."
Friday, 7:30 A.M.
"Mulder." A not so gentle shake on my shoulder. "Mulder, come on.
Wake up. It's getting late."
"Whaaa..." I open my eyes and see Krycek looming over me, dressed
already. I grab him and pull him down into a kiss.
He backs off, startled, then grins at me. "Mulder, not now, we're
running late. Brush your teeth... please."
I jump out of bed and head to the shower, my morning hard-on bobbing
ludicrously.
Hot water cascading down my back, hot images flashing in my mind. A
little voice in my head, telling me to be careful... fuck that.
I pick up the soap and work up a lather.
A pounding on the door, then Krycek's voice. "Mulder, hurry it up.
We need to get moving."
Knowing he's just outside the door, remembering what happened last
night, drives me to wrap my hand around my dick. I'm so ready, I
come in a matter of minutes.
I finish up quickly, all the while remembering... both of us
tumbling, exhausted into bed. Throwing my arm over his chest as he
drifts off. The gentle good night kiss I placed on his cheek long
after he fell asleep.
Friday, 10:15 A.M.
The reek of decay hits us as we break into the warehouse. Alex
squeezes his eyes shut in disgust. When did he become 'Alex?' He
reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief to cover his
face.
Crisp, white handkerchief... not a common accessory for an assassin
I think, as I grudgingly realize I have nothing to protect me from
the stench.
Minutes pass as we make our way through the warehouse, assailed by
the smell, but following it until, finally, we reach the source.
The altar is built on a platform a few inches off the ground. One
side buttressed against the wall. On it, drums, bowls and candles.
Alex steps up to the altar and kneels down to touch a dark spot on
the concrete floor. He holds his hand up to me. Blood, still fresh,
glistening on his fingertips, juxtaposed with the clean handkerchief
still grasped in his palm. He closes his eyes for a moment and wipes
his fingers on the clean white cloth.
I see a blur out of the corner of my eye, but turn to see...
nothing. Jitters? Light playing through the dirt covered windows? My
sudden movement brings Alex to his feet, weapon drawn.
We stand stock-still, waiting. I hear the strike of a match, the
acrid smell of sulfur quickly covered by a sickly sweet smell. I
rush to the altar, only to be thrown back against the wall.
The back of my head connects hard with the concrete, and everything
starts to flicker. Hearing a shout, I scramble up. Sharp pain shoots
behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut and lean back against the wall,
grasping my head.
Alex's voice, harsh, commanding, speaking in a language I don't
recognize. Forcing my eyes open, I see a man—he looks like an older
Roberto Villalobos. Damn, it's him! Octavio. He looks at Alex, his
eyes wide... in terror? No, awe. My vision blurs and I shake my
head... bad move.
I feel myself sliding down the wall. Trying to keep conscious, I
focus on the scene in front of me. Octavio falls to his knees,
clutching Alex's handkerchief, looking up rapturously. Alex stands
before him, speaking... no, chanting. His voice soft and lilting,
sing-song. Villalobos sways to the rhythm. Slowly, Alex brings up
his weapon. Villalobos leans forward, and kisses the muzzle.
A single shot, then everything goes black.
Friday, 3:30 P.M.
A hand on my shoulder, nudging me. "Mr. Mulder. Wake up, sir. Mr.
Mulder?"
I open my eyes and see a plump woman looming over me. I blink a few
times, then spot her badge. Claire Howell, R.N.
"Oh, good. You need to stay awake, sir."
"Wha—"
"You've got a concussion. I've been waking you every half-hour.
Don't you remember?"
I start to shake my head, but the shooting pain stops me.
She bustles around me. "That's all right, dear. Don't worry."
"Where—"
"You're at Mercy Hospital. I can't say much more, but I'll call the
doctor. She can answer your questions."
"Thanks." I feel myself start to drift off again only to feel that
nagging tug on my shoulder.
"Now, now, Mr. Mulder. You need to stay awake."
Friday, 6:10 P.M.
Voices outside my room, arguing. "... must see him, it's Federal
business." Kochanski's nasal drone.
The door opens and a woman enters, Kochanski close behind her. She
stops, causing Kochanski to run into her. I catch her smile. She did
that on purpose.
She turns to Kochanski and points to a chair. "Sit there until I'm
done. Then we'll discuss your ability to speak to Agent Mulder."
Score one for the Doc.
Coming to the side of my bed, she holds her index finger upright
before me.
"Agent Mulder, I'm Doctor Morgan. I'd like you to follow my finger
while we talk. Do you know why you're here?" I track her finger as
it moves slowly left to right.
"Nurse said concussion," I reply, following her roving finger as it
now moves up and down.
"Very good. You can stop now." She plucks a pen from her lab coat to
jot something on my chart. "I'm sure you have questions, but let me
start with your diagnosis. You were brought in by ambulance,
unconscious. You've taken a severe blow to the head, and we'll need
to keep you here for observation. You also have a bruise on your
chest, but other than some soreness, there's no damage. Do you
remember how you got hurt?"
Yeah, I got thrown against a wall by an invisible warlock, then I
saw Krycek... I close my eyes and search my memory. Nothing, blank.
"I don't, no. I... I don't remember..."
"Loss of preceding events is pretty common, I wouldn't worry about
it," she says reassuringly. "Your, uh..." She motions her head
toward Kochanski, "manager wants to speak with you. Do you feel up
for that?"
Do I? No, but I need to find out how I got here, what happened.
"Yes."
She turns to leave and catches Kochanski's arm as he crosses to me.
"I'll be back in half an hour. If you haven't concluded your...
business by then, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," he says in a meek voice.
He waits until the door closes behind her. "Where the hell have you
been?"
Before I can answer he starts in, "If Stanislofsky's man hadn't
found your notes and put two and two together, you would be roast
beef by now."
What the? "What notes? I don't understand."
"You scribbled all over the damned case file. Where do you get off?
You know all notes are supposed to be on a form 86-2. Goddamned
cowboy. Taking off like that, not reporting in, ditching your
assigned partner. I don't know why the Bureau puts up with your
shit."
He mutters about margin notes for a while longer, then starts to
dress me down again. I let Kochanski ramble, picking up salient
bits. According to him, Krycek finds my 'trail' and tracks me down.
He sees me enter a warehouse and calls the Bureau for backup.
Seconds later, there's an explosion. Krycek, heroically, rushes in
to save me, while dialing 911, of course.
Kochanski winds down. "He saw the perp in the warehouse, but
couldn't get to him. The fire department found the body."
I blink at him, trying to take this all in. Kochanski sees my
confusion and that sends him on another tear. "And here you are,
sitting pretty. That Krycek fellow even had the time to file an
official report before he left."
Left? "He left?"
"Yeah, his work was done. He filed his report. Yours too."
"But that was just a few hours a—"
The door opens. "Mr. Kochanski, time's up." The imperious voice of
Dr. Morgan.
Sunday, 2:30 P.M.
I open the case file and start reading. Everything's there,
efficient and tidy. From the standpoint of law enforcement, the case
is closed.
Octavio Villalobos was found, head crushed by a falling beam. The
fire put out before it got to him. His prints matched up to prints
found on elevator buttons in all the vandalized buildings. Very
clean, very neat.
Observations from Aleksandr Krycek point out that Villalobos was a
staunch communist who visited the Soviet Union. The theory that he
felt betrayed by Russia and chose to take vengeance out on the 'new
democracy' by sabotaging Russian-owned businesses, has the Bureau's
stamp of approval.
How Villalobos gained entry and egress is unknown, but janitorial
supplies and uniforms in the warehouse point to 'normal' access.
Slamming the file shut, I rest my head in my hands. Nothing about
Santeria, about what really happened. What did happen? It's still a
blank, just like Wiekamp.
Krycek, gone again. Without wanting to, I remember... his touch, the
feel of him against me... in me.
I shake the thoughts. What was I thinking? Why did I...
Krycek... How much of what he said was true? Was this a set-up? Was
any of this real?
What was this all about?
Sunday, 2:30 P.M.
"Mr. Krycek?"
I look up from my desk to see Nikolai Stanislofsky waiting patiently
at the door.
"Yes, Niko."
"A Mr... Smith is here, and wishes to speak with you."
"Ah, yes. Show him in. We're to be left undisturbed."
Stanislofsky's eyebrows rise in question. "Yes, sir," he replies,
with a slight bow.
A moment later, a heavy-set man comes into my office. I sit back and
motion to a chair. He shifts his considerable girth to a comfortable
position.
His beady eyes, raisins in rice pudding, take in our surroundings.
"You've come a long way, Krycek," he says in a familiar raspy voice.
A slow blink is my only response. Moments pass in silence before he
reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a fat envelope.
"Your payment for... the Villalobos matter." He tosses the envelope
on my desk. "We were impressed with your... thoroughness."
I make no move save for a brief nod.
"I have an additional payment, if you divulge any... information...
on Fox Mulder. Unlike my smoking partner, I see him as a threat."
He pauses. "Any weakness that can be leveraged against him would
be... most useful." He looks at me expectantly.
I let a brief smile play on my lips. Mulder's weaknesses? No, that
knowledge is for me alone. I stand up. "Let me see you out."
Standing at the driveway, I watch Smith's car drive off. Turning
back to the house I see Nikolai waiting patiently.
"Niko."
"Sir?"
"Did you put the blood and sugar in Smith's car?"
"Of course, sir," he replies, with a knowing grin.
I return his smile. "Very good. I'll be unavailable for the next
hour."
Sunday, 4:00 P.M.
I pause at the storefront. It feels odd, being here without Krycek.
Opening the door, I step in and look around, finally spotting the
proprietor.
"I need to speak to Roberto Villalobos. It's important."
He looks at me blankly, then shrugs his shoulders. "No hablo
Ingles."
28 April 2001
This is a shameless plea for feedback. If I don't get feedback, I
assume no one's reading, and I lose all desire to write. Just let me
know you're reading.
Syncretistic
by Loren Q
Tuesday, 4:00 A.M.
High Rise Building
New York City, New York
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
FBI Field Office
New York City, New York
Mercy Hospital, Psychiatric
Ward New York City,
New York
FBI Field Office
New York City, New York
Marriot Hotel, Room 1542
New York City, New York.
Little Havana Restaurant
New York City, New York
New York City, New York.
Botanica Mistica
New York City, New York.
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York.
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York
Russian Tea Room
The Bronx
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York
Mott Street
New York City, New York
La Tasita
New York City, New York.
Botanica Mistica
New York City, New York.
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York
Marriot Hotel, Room 1544
New York City, New York
A Warehouse by the Docks
New York City, New York
Mercy Hospital
New York City, New York
Mercy Hospital
New York City, New York
FBI Field Office
New York City, New York
A Private Home
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
Botanica Mistica
New York City, New York.
