"Put him through." Anything but having to read these policy memos again.
Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.
The phone beeped. "Skinner," he said.
"Skin? It's me, Miller."
Just the voice brought a wave of adrenaline to his throat, and the taste of
jungle rot and fear. "Hey, Pitch," he answered. "Long time."
"Yeah. Still, they say you never really leave the Crotch."
"Nope." Skinner straightened his back and reached for his glasses. "So,
Pitch, what're you calling about?"
'Gee, Skinner-Boner, would you believe we're planning a High School reunion
and we wondered if you wanted to help with the flowers?"
"No," he growled.
There was a long and awkward pause.
He forced himself to remember that Miller was not one of his agents.
"Sorry. What's up?"
"Um, well. You haven't been feeling like... ending it... recently, have
you? You know, eating your gun or smiling the red smile?"
"What the fuck?" Irritation brought back his Assistant Director severity.
"No, Mr. Miller, I haven't been considering that particular activity. Have
you?"
"No. Hell no! No, Boner, I mean—look, something's been happening to the
guys."
"What guys? Jesus, Pitch, get to the point. I get this kind of waffling
from some of my agents and I'm sick of it."
"I'm trying, Boner. Look, have you heard from anyone in the old unit
recently?"
"No." God, now he was starting to grind his teeth. Blood pressure'd get him
within the year at this rate.
"Neither have I. I mean not directly. I mean—" Slowly it dawned on Skinner
that the hesitation in Miller's voice sounded like fear. "Look,
Skinner-Boner, about once a year I get together with Con-Man and Tiger,
okay? A little fishing, a little drinking, a few old songs. But when I
called Tiger last Thursday, I got a cop. Tiger... The cop said Tiger'd
bought it. Did himself."
"Shit."
"Yeah. So I called Con-Job to let him know, and we were gonna get together
for the service, but Con-Job didn't come."
"Drunk?" As usual.
"No. I mean, maybe he was, but when I went to check out his place, he was—
he'd done it too. The Big Grin. With his own goddamned K-Bar."
Skinner had seen Conner airlifted out, his shoulder torn open by a stray
round. It was too easy to imagine him dead by his own knife, his throat
laid open and the blood pooled dark as jungle night. "So that's why you
wondered if I was gonna do the same thing? Thanks for the vote of
confidence, Pitch."
"No—Boner, that's not all. I tried a couple of the other guys. Shotgun
and the Freak didn't answer, and Billy-Boy—his wife picked up the phone,
and she was crying. I couldn't ask her; I just said it was a wrong number
and hung up. But I've been checking the papers."
"Pitch?"
"I think they're all dead, Boner. All except you and me, and maybe Taylor;
I haven't known where he was for years. It just doesn't make sense. I mean,
I knew Tiger, and he was waiting for his first grandkid. Top of the world.
And Shotgun, you know what he was like. If he wanted to go, he'd have
picked a bar fight and taken a dozen guys with him."
"Pitch—"
"Boner, I think something's stalking us. Killing us. You know how it is,
when you're on that trail at night and you feel the eyes on your back."
"Yeah." He knew. You never forgot it.
"We're under the gun, Boner. I don't know how, and I don't know who. But
if, say, some old slant asks if you want a new gardener, blow him away. Or
maybe it's one of those alley girls—"
God, Skinner had spent half his life trying to forget those girls. Tiny,
dead-eyed and brazen, kneeling in alley filth for a few small coins or a
pack of smokes, with their young mouths as hot and wet on you as jungle
rot—
"Pitch—"
"Just be careful, okay, Boner?"
"Fuckin' A, Pitch." Jesus, how easy it was to slip back all those years.
You're FBI now, Skinner. Get hold of yourself. "Did you tell the police?"
"Yeah. I mean, I didn't tell them I was the one who found Con-Job, but when
I found out about the others, I couldn't get them to listen. I mean, they
just gave me 'You vets are all crazy. Why are you wasting our time?' They
said there was no sign of anything but suicide. But—look, Boner, we saw
guys do themselves before. In country, I mean. And the few who used the
knife—remember John-John and whatsisname, German, from the Twenty-First,
and that girl in Khe Sanh? No matter how much they wanted to do it, it
might take them a couple of cuts to get started, but that was all.
"But Boner, for Con-Job it was a lot worse. Shred city. I mean, I saw it. I
don't know how anyone could have kept using the knife like that after their
throat was cut, and God, all the blood—The cops wouldn't talk to me about
Tiger, but I think it was the same, 'cause they got angry when I asked
'em."
"So what are you saying?"
"I—look, Boner, I don't know anybody who'd be after all of us. I think
maybe it was a ghost or something. Don't laugh at me, damn it—"
"I'm not."
Miller's voice was shaking. "But it gives me the creeps. It doesn't feel
right. I don't know, maybe it's just my imagination, or remembering some of
those villages—"
Skinner tried not to remember those villages.
"—but Boner, I think it's something spooky."
Skinner was surprised into laughing. "Spooky, huh?"
"Fuck you, Boner!"
"No, I'm not laughing at you. Look, Pitch, I've got a couple of grunts—I
mean agents—" God, he kept getting himself dragged into the past. "I've
got a couple of agents who investigate spooky things."
"Don't bullshit me!"
"I'm not. There really are a couple of agents in my division who specialize
in unusual cases. And they won't laugh if you tell them it's a ghost.
They'll look into it. You still in that place in Baltimore?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, hold tight and watch your six. I'll send a couple of men over to
keep an eye on you."
"No! I mean... Look, I'm willing to talk to the FBI about this case, but I
don't want them hanging around my place. They might—misunderstand some
things."
Still growing pot, eh, Miller? And what else have you been doing? No, I
don't think I want to know. "As long as you're sure, Pitch. I don't want
you at risk here."
"I'm sure. Now I know something's coming, it's not going to catch me
unarmed."
"Okay, Pitch. About the investigation, expect to hear from a Special Agent
Mulder by tomorrow."
"Okay, Boner. Hey, thanks, bud."
"Does this mean I don't still owe you twenty beers?" Skinner put a smile
into his voice, hoping to lighten Miller's fear.
"Fat chance, Boner."
Click.
Skinner stared at the wall a moment, straightened his already straight tie,
and took a deep breath, trying to replace the perfume of smoke and blood
with the clean, air-conditioned smell of his office. Pull yourself
together, Walter. You don't live there anymore.
Then he reached for the phone.
Two days later:
"Mulder here."
A lot of background noise; he must be using the cell phone. "How are you
progressing in your investigation, Agent Mulder?"
"Sir, I'll have the preliminary report on your desk tomorrow—"
"Agent Mulder..." Skinner dropped his voice to his most effective growl.
"I think Miller's got something here. Here, let me just put Scully on."
"Sir?" Her voice was cool and professional. "Miller was right about the
similarity of the deaths, and we're getting no matches on this MO except
for members of your unit. But of those, every one so far—we've checked
Conner, Wilkinson—"
Tiger.
"—Shanefeld, and Davidson, and every one of them has multiple deep
incisions severing the trachea, jugular, and carotid. Not just trial cuts,
which are common with self-inflicted knife wounds, but multiple wounds of a
lethal nature, from five to eleven cuts per victim. The wounds are
consistent with the military knives with which the bodies were found. From
the angle, I'd say that they were all killed by a right-handed man standing
behind them; the angle is wrong for self-inflicted wounds. The fact that
Shanefeld was left-handed only adds to this conclusion. And all of these
men were found in their tubs with the water running."
She took a deep breath and continued. "Sir, I'm finding signs of what might
be injection marks disguised by the placement of these cuts, but so far
we've found no chemical traces of a foreign substance in their bodies. The
deaths were definitely caused by hypovolemia—blood loss—probably from the
knife wounds, but it's possible a sedative was injected to calm these men
while their deaths were staged, since we've found no defense wounds on
their hands or arms, or other signs of struggle. I've turned up no trace of
the most common sedatives, sir, but I'm sending samples to Analysis for
further study."
"Good work, Agent Scully. And the other men Miller was concerned about?"
Scully's voice turned away from the phone. "Mulder—"
"Sir," Mulder cut in, "We're on our way to check out those other cases.
I've contacted the police departments in Charlotte, Silverton, and North
Platte, and from what they tell me, we're likely to turn up the same
results. No news of James Fricatti—"
Christ, he'd forgotten the Freak's real name. Wasn't that a bitch.
"But his mail hasn't been picked up for two weeks, and his neighbors said
he usually goes to Colorado for the elk season. We've alerted the sheriff's
department in the four most likely counties, but it may take a while to
trace him, so we don't know whether he's dead too..."
"Or responsible for these killings, you mean." Christ, the Freak was always
crazy, but he'd never have targeted his buddies. Would he?
"Or responsible for these killings, as you say, sir."
"Anything else to report?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Very good, Mulder. Keep in touch."
"Yeah. And sir? Be careful."
The following morning:
"Sir? Mulder here. I just got a call from Smithfield. They've found
Fricatti."
"In Colorado?"
"No, sir. Smithfield. They just dragged his jeep out of the river.
He—Scully's going to want to examine him further, but from what the police
say, his throat was probably cut too."
"Probably?"
"Yes. It—he's been in the water a couple of weeks."
"Well, Mulder—Hold on a minute, Kim's buzzing me. Must be urgent; I'll
call you back."
"Yes, Kim?"
"Sir, there's a Detective Jordan of the Baltimore PD on line three."
"Put him through." Something told him this was going to be bad. "This is
Assistant Directory Skinner. May I help you, Detective?"
"Ah—I hope so, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you. Do you know a Mr. Jonah
Miller?"
Oh, shit. Pitch, no. No! "Yes, I know him."
"Would you happen to know why your number is written on his phone pad, sir?
Has he contacted you recently?"
Damn it, Pitch, you were supposed to be careful. "Yes. He's dead, isn't
he."
"Uh—yes, sir. How did you know? Did he tell you he was thinking of—"
"Listen, Detective Jordan, he didn't kill himself. He called three days ago
to warn me that several men we served with in Vietnam had been murdered,
and their deaths disguised as suicide."
"Are you sure?"
"Let me guess: you found him in the shower or a nearby body of water with
multiple deep cuts to the throat, and some kind of military knife or
bayonet in his hand."
"I'll have to confirm that, sir." Behind the detective's voice, he heard a
new alertness, and knew the man was now considering Skinner a possible
suspect because of his knowledge of the case. Don't waste your time, he
wanted to say, but knew the detective was right to be thorough.
"Detective, I'll have the agents who are already investigating the other
cases contact you." No need to protest his innocence; the man had to do his
job. Besides, God knew that with this much overtime he probably had an
alibi.
"Certainly, sir."
The policeman's very suspicion confirmed that Pitch had been found like the
others. Dark flash of memory, bodies and pieces of bodies in the dark lake
as mortar rounds lit up the sky—
"Thank you, Detective. The agents should contact you shortly."
"Thank you, sir." Click.
His hand reached out for the phone, and he was ashamed to see it shaking.
God, it always used to shake before night patrol. They all would, but they
all disguised it with beer or a smoke and hoped the other guys wouldn't
see. Was this fear or excitement, mixed with a jangle of rage and grief for
the men he'd known, the men who had been closer to him than his right hand,
the men with whom he'd traded drinks and women, rescues and raids—men who
would have been dead without him, as he would have been dead without them.
But he was still alive, and they were meat now. He'd failed them. After all
these years, he'd failed them, as if he'd ridden the chopper out and left
them screaming for pickup as the VC closed in.
"Jesus Christ."
Call Mulder, get it over with, and then tell Kim you're leaving. Bourbon
won't make you forget, but maybe it'll take the taste away. Salute them all
with a toast, and who knows, maybe you won't be far behind them. But not by
your own hand, Walter. Whoever this sonofabitch is who's killing them,
you're going to get him if you have to take him with you.
'Bye, guys. It's been—well, it's been. And now it's gone.
He reached for the phone.
That night, he pulled the dusty footlocker out from under the stack of
boxes in the back closet and set it on his kitchen table. The bourbon
hadn't helped; one swallow and he had lost breakfast and lunch in the
nearest bathroom. And while he hadn't wanted to be alone, the noisy bar was
even lonelier. So here he was.
With his usual precision, he cleaned the dust off the lid and dropped the
kleenex into his wastebasket. Christ, all the guys gone, and you're still
polishing your boots—
Gently, now, as if touching one of the bodies, he opened the lid. The
contents were jumbled, just as he'd left them. Decorations, letters from
home, photos from that crazy leave in Saigon. Christ, as if he didn't
already remember them, here they all were, young and high on the killing
thrill. God, he'd never been that young, had he? Look at him, at himself,
when there was still some innocence left and the enemy was a foreigner, an
outsider, and not yet the old men you thought were on your side. And the
guys so young too. Yeah, he knew they were all middle-aged farts like
himself now—or were, before whateverthefuck killed them. As dead now as
Johnson, who stepped on a mine a week after this picture was taken, and the
redhead—Pepsi?—who was flipping a bird at the camera with the hand that
went gangrenous after that raid, when they were pinned down in the swamp
for days and it never stopped raining.
Was there a heaven and a hell? And where would these boys have gone, with
their brutal sins upon them, those sins they took on from loyalty, from
courage and fear and love—Would there ever be a peace for them? Or did
they even want one? If they woke in a greater jungle, armed and uniformed,
would it be hell, or a return to the fullest life they'd known? One thing
he knew. If they were together, it wasn't hell.
God, he was tired. "Guys, we never did leave our own behind, did we? So why
am I still here?"
He was almost expecting the voice behind him. "Don't worry, you'll catch
up."
Who the hell? That was a voice he almost remembered, and it sure as hell
wasn't some North Vietnamese ghost. He turned.
The face was shaded in the doorway, half invisible in the darkness of the
hall. This was no young jungle fighter, or businessman with the war long
behind him. This was a skull, or nearly: tight skin over bone, all scars
and rags and stained long sticks of hands.
"Hi, Boner. It's me, Zippo."
Jesus, Sam Lightner—As he watched, Lightner stepped in from the doorway
and Skinner could see more of what had been done to him. "Lightner?! They
said you were dead!"
"Yeah, so I hear. But nobody told the Cong that. Pity you guys didn't stay
around to find out."
"Lightner?! You mean, when the captain—"
"Christ, Skin, what did you expect? Yeah, you motherfuckers left me down
with a leg shot out from under me, and Charlie's the only one who bothered
to come looking for me."
"Oh, Jesus. Zippo, we didn't know. We didn't know! So then—"
"Yeah, Boner. The whole POW thing. I'm sure you've heard it all. But not
MIA, not officially. Nobody looked for me, nobody came for me, nobody
cared. Just another piece of crap to leave behind."
"Fuck. Lightner, you know we'd have come back for you if we'd known."
"Do I? I told myself that for a while, but you know, I had a long time
alone to think about it. A long, long time."
For a moment, Skinner put his head down in his hands, and then remembered
he had to watch for an attack. "So you're the one who's been killing the
guys? And now it's my turn?"
"Something like that." Lightner didn't look vengeful, only old and tired
and broken all to hell.
"Lightner—" Maybe the old nickname would reach him. "Zippo, why? Even if
you thought we knew, it's been a long time. You think you're alone now;
think how alone you'll be when we're all gone. Nobody left to blame, or
share the old jokes with; nobody to back you up at the Pentagon and fight
for justice." Would that make him listen?
"Hell, Boner, what's the point?"
"Zippo—Even if you want us all dead, there's gotta be other guys like you
still over there. Help us find them." He was scrambling for a hold now,
some kind of argument that would reach him, watching those mad dark eyes
for some sign of contact. "You can't be the only one still alive."
The eyes narrowed, and he knew he'd lost him. "Nope. You're fucking right
I'm not the only one alive. I'm dead, Boner."
"Zippo—"
"All this time I've been alive, and nobody gave a damn. Too late now,
Skinner-Boner. Too damn late."
Skinner said nothing, watching those eyes and those hands for the first
sign of the knife.
"Oh, I'm not crazy, Boner. I'm just dead. One time too many in those damned
tiger pits, thirsty and hating—I'm gone, Skin. I don't know what the hell
happened, but it did. And I woke up in a heap of other dead meat and
decided to come home."
"Zippo, you're not dead—"
God, Lightner was starting to smile, first the hidden little smile of a man
who knew a secret, and then it widened into a crazy mirthless grin and
those teeth—those yellowed, rotting teeth, sharp as a pungi stick or the
poisoned fangs of the jungle snakes that hung from the branches over your
tent—
Skinner didn't even know he'd backed away until the wall stopped him, his
chair falling over to hit the lamp by his desk. The lamp broke, and then
there was darkness.
"Oh, yes, Boner." The voice was nearer. "I'm dead. And so are you." Was
that a cold breath on his cheek?
He drew his gun and fired automatically, even though a half-known fear told
him it would do no good.
Lightner was laughing, a dry snake's hiss in the darkness.
Skinner rallied his wits, reached for the desk where the phone must be. And
a cold hand closed around his wrist like a skeleton of wet iron. "Don't
waste your time, Boner. You're running out of it."
"Christ, Zippo, wait! Don't—" There had to be some way out of this, some
way that would delay him until Skinner could get help. Some way to prevent
the inevitable course of this death—
Lightner's grip was stronger than handcuffs, and less human. And then the
other hand closed on his shoulder and he was pinned against the wall. Old
training stood by him, and he lashed out with a knee, a head blow, a hard
stomp down that long legbone to the foot—
And Lightner was still laughing.
"Give it up, Skin. Don't complain; at least I gave you a chance to fight
back."
"Zippo, why? Goddamn it, Lightner, once I'm dead, what are you going to do
next?"
"What?" The voice was so close under his ear it made his skin tighten, and
he could feel the hair rising all along his spine.
"Zippo, what are you going to do tomorrow? I'm the last, right? You kill
me, and what are you going to do tomorrow night? You'll be so fucking
alone—"
Lightner wasn't laughing any more. "Boner—"
"Damn it, Zippo, you NEED me. Buddies or enemies, you need someone who was
there too. Once I'm gone, it'll all be over."
The cold steel hand released his wrist as if he were no threat—and God, he
wasn't, he didn't know what to do—and slid up to cup his throat and tilt
his chin back with one inexorable thumb. A wave of nausea at the touch of
it; another struggle, another failure, and Skinner's shoulder nearly
dislocated from his own force. "Shut up, Boner."
"You'll be alone, Zippo. All alone, no buddies ever coming to get you, no
way out. Forever."
Was that a laugh? "You know, Skin, you've got a point there." Did the hand
loosen its grip a little?
Thank God thank God thank—
"So I guess I've got to bring you with me, Boner."
No! Jesus don't—
And it was too late, the cold breath was on his throat, and then the touch
of the mouth moving, and then the pain—
Oh God stop it God no—
The pain, and the horrible blur of weakness, and the cold in him like ice,
like fire. Jesus, that was his own voice screaming in the dark, so far
away—The pain breaking him against the wall to slide convulsing to the
floor, and that mouth still on him, tearing—"No!"
Please God let it be over soon, let it end. Yes, this rising darkness, this
peace, and the taste of ending in his mouth—
Part 2: Gone the Sun
It was so peaceful now, when the guides and tourists had finally gone and
you could hear the leaves rustling in the late-night breeze. Passing
lights, reflected, traced brief fingers across the polished granite as if
waking the names one by one. The wall was lit from below, but he knew he
could have read it without that illumination.
No glasses now. Were their broken lenses scattered across his rug, or
slagged in the heat of a burning shed? It didn't matter. He could see.
He could see every name, know them all at once as if they were his bones,
his heart. All of them, the thousands of them, he held them in his empty
hands.
And one of them didn't belong there. SAMUEL C LIGHTNER, the stone said, but
Lightner hadn't died in the war. Not then. But his name was on the stone
with those who died the day he was left behind, while the men he had killed
would never come here again.
He reached out a hand to trace the letters, then pulled it back. He should
tear that name from the stone with his own fingers, scratch through the
engraved letters with one strike like a knife to the throat. But it was so
peaceful now, and he didn't want to break the silence, bring violence back
into that memorial to the quiet dead.
A breath. A scuff. Someone else was coming. He heard the footsteps on the
flagstone walk, and knew him, the sound, the smell—
"Sir?!" The voice cracked.
"Mulder." Go away, Mulder.
"Sir. I thought you might come here. Or at least, well, one of you..."
He could smell the gun oil on him, the sweat, even the echo of coffee and
soap. Good, at least the damned fool had come armed, though much good it
would have done him if it had been Lightner.
"Mulder, go home."
"Sir? I think we figured out the evidence. Did he—Are you—"
"Agent Mulder, did you hear me? I said, go home."
Go away, Mulder. Go fast. Go before the smell of you gets stronger and I
want the taste—
Taste.
He'd woken with his mouth burning with it, like a fire being fed with
napalm. He was drinking—he was holding—
Lightner pulled his tattered wrist away, laughing. "Hey, that should get
you started, Skinner-Boner."
Where were they? Wooden walls, broken door, dusty cans and boards. Some old
toolshed, maybe, or a side room in a barn. And there was no light, but he
could see better than even the old night gear would have shown him. Fuck.
Lightner peered down at him narrowly. "Hey, Boner, you with me?"
Crap, all that and it wasn't over yet. Keep him calm. "Yeah, Zippo, I'm
cool. I'm with you. Tell me what we're doing."
His acquiescence seemed to soothe Zippo, who relaxed and slid down the wall
to sit beside him. "Just resting right now, Skin. It's the next night, you
know. To-fucking-morrow from when you were awake. It's too fast in the city
now, too loud. I guess things have changed, huh?"
Jesus, Lightner'd be nearly thirty years behind the times, and it had to be
eating at him. Keep him calm. "Yeah, Zippo, some shit's changed, but you
know people. It's still the same under the fancy lights."
"Still the same. Yeah, I hear you."
Be quiet a while, let him settle. Christ, he could feel his teeth with his
tongue. Shit.
"We've changed too, Boner. You know that." Zippo looked at him sidelong,
and Skinner knew what he meant.
"Yeah, Zip. I guess we have. So, you want to tell me about it? How I've
changed, I mean?"
"Heh," Lightner almost coughed, "Well, you know, it's gonna be different
now."
"Yeah."
"You're gonna be stronger now, you know? Guns, knives, they can't hurt you.
Well, I guess you know that. And you don't need to eat, except, you know,
the blood. It's a fucking high, man. You'll get a high off blood like pot
and action and a woman all at once. We'll go hunting soon, and I'll show
you."
Didn't take any imagination to guess what they'd be hunting. Put it off for
a while, keep this crazy fuck off the streets a little while longer. "Yeah,
hunting together sounds real good. In a minute, okay? A couple of minutes.
Never was in any fucking hurry to pull night patrol."
Lightner laughed his wet hiss and didn't move. "Night patrol. Shit, yeah."
"So what else, Zippo?"
"Night patrol's about it, I'm afraid. Fucking sun hurts like Willie Pete.
White phosphorus, Boner. Don't fuck around with it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Fire'll fuck you up pretty bad too. I don't know about the rest of
that movie crap: silver, stakes, you know. But don't believe the bullshit
about crosses and religious stuff and Italian food. And no frigging bats.
Christ, I hated the bats in-country."
"Gotcha, Zip. No bats, no crosses."
"And well, let's see. I guess the stories say we can't get it up, you know?
No sex? But that's bullshit. I mean, we can't jerk off or shit like that,
but we kinda pick up on what people are feeling, if you know what I mean.
If the cunt wants it, you can stick it up her."
Try not to imagine how he found that out, this last few weeks. Change the
subject while your stomach's still right side in. "Hey, Zippo, I guess that
means my inflatable sheep is out of the question?"
"Heh. Yeah, you got it." He laughed too much for such a stupid joke,
hitting his near-fleshless head back against the dusty wall.
Damn it, Skinner, you picking up Mulder's sick sense of humor now?
Mulder—
The wall. He was at the wall, and that damned fool Mulder was still there.
"Sir, we thought you were dead. I mean—"
"Agent Mulder, you have your orders. Go home."
"Sir, are you coming back? I mean, Scully doesn't even believe the
evidence, and she's been—Sir, she's been crying. Can I tell her—"
"Tell her anything you want, Agent Mulder. Or—Yes, but just her. Let the
rest of them think I'm still dead." Shit, that was stupid phrasing. Did
Mulder hear it?
"Sir—"
"For the last time, Agent Mulder, go home. I don't have time for this."
Damn it, Walter, he's not moving. You're going to have to hit him below the
belt. "Agent Mulder, I would like some privacy to mourn my dead. Is that
acceptable to you?"
Shit, he could even hear him swallow. Don't think about swallowing. The
voice cracked again. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."
Go away, Mulder.
"Sir, could you contact me—"
Shit. Okay. "Come back here tomorrow. 2:00 AM. I'll be here if I can."
If I don't just give up and wait for the sun. If I don't kill you tonight
because you just won't leave, you dumb fuck, and you'd better get the hell
out of here before I think about how much I need——
need—
"The blood," Lightner said again. "The blood's all of it, you know. Only
fucking thing that matters any more."
"Got it." Okay, deep breath. Sit up and look around you. You're still in
yesterday's suit, though you'll never want to wear this one again. A pile
of faded fatigues over there. Salvation Army or one of the guys? Well,
looks like he wants us both back in uniform. Guess he's more comfortable
that way.
I'm still wearing my holster. My gun. Hell, he even gave that back. No
reason not to, I guess, since he knows it can't hurt him.
You can smell the oil, the steel, your own dried blood on the shirt that
hangs torn from your shoulders. And even the smell, even the old blood—
Shit. You're shaking, Walter. Get a grip. What the hell are you going to do
when he's ready to go out killing again? Some poor family, some farmer or
trailer trash and the kids, and it'll be just like those villages you want
to forget. Keep your wits, Walter, because you know Zippo's lost his.
Keep him calm.
Control yourself, Skinner—
"Mulder, if you don't leave right now, I'm going to shoot you for
disobeying orders. You got that, Agent Mulder?"
Thank God, he was backing away. "Yes, sir. Tomorrow, 2:00 AM."
And finally the sound of those feet leaving, and the smell fading as
Mulder walks away. Breathe deep, Walter. Forget how he smells; clean out
your lungs with the smell of the grass and car exhaust and the floral
tributes somebody had left at the base of the wall and who the hell is
that?
A different smell. You know him too. You know this one, leather and smoke
and vodka, and that insufferable tang of cockiness that you thought you'd
knocked out of him in Crystal City, back before he dragged Mulder off to
Russia and nearly got him killed.
And what the fuck is he doing shadowing Mulder now?
You hardly have to think about moving and you've got him pinned against a
tree with one forearm across his throat. "Krycek." Shit, you're growling,
Walter. Get a grip.
"Krycek, you son of a bitch. Why the fuck are you shadowing Mulder?"
Hah, he wasn't expecting you. Look at him fight for breath, and those eyes
wide, flinching.
"Gonna shoot him, Krycek? Like you did his father? Is that your latest
orders from that black-lunged motherfucker you kiss ass to?" Watch it,
Walter, if you slam him any harder, you're going to break his neck. You
really don't know your own strength.
Let him breathe. Let him talk. "Why, Skinner, I didn't know you cared."
Shit. That was probably his rib you just broke. It's too public here;
somebody's going to see you and call the cops, and wouldn't that be a waste
of your time.
"I'll show you how much I care, boy. You're coming with me. I'm damned if
I'll leave you fouling this memorial with your bullshit." Where the hell
had that come from? It's true, though, it really pisses you off to know how
much your buddies gave for their country and this son-of-a-bitch betrays it
like a bad date.
Move. One hand, easy, bend his right arm behind his back at an angle that
would hurt even without your new strength. Careful, don't break him. Yet.
Where? A couple of blocks, an alley, somewhere with some privacy where you
can ask him questions and he's damned well going to answer them this time—
"Any questions, Skin?"
"Nope, Zippo. You're the boss." Keep him happy.
"Okay, Boner. Guess it's time to go hunting, hey?"
Shit. Okay. "Sure, Zip. Let's clean up in here first though, okay?"
"Clean up?"
"Yeah, we don't want to leave too much evidence in case they're tracking
us, Zip." That sounds reasonable. "Let's see, we're gonna want the fatigues
and maybe some of those tools, and maybe... Hold this a minute."
Yes, you could hear it sloshing.
Do it, Walter. "Shit, Zippo, was that somebody outside? Lemme do a quick
recon."
Okay, here's the door, and here's your gun as fast as you can draw it and
there's the safety and FIRE! Two shots, three, and Lightner's still
laughing at you when the gas can finally takes the spark.
Get out. Fast.
Hold that fucking door shut, don't let him out. Shit, he's strong enough to
break through the wood, but it's catching now, and he's screaming.
Shit, Zippo, I'm sorry. Burn, you murdering son-of-a-bitch, stay in there
and burn and I'm sorry we didn't know—This is for Pitch and the guys,
motherfucker, and I can't be crying, I don't think I CAN cry anymore, and
you can burn for killing me too, because I'm dead and still walking and
you're going to burn—
There. He's not fighting the door anymore. I hope he stops that fucking
screaming before I go crazy. What the fuck did you think I was gonna do,
Zippo? Follow you into a war zone? I've spent half my life protecting this
country, and I'm not going to treat it as enemy territory now. Did you
really think you're the one I'd be loyal to, Zip? You kill my buddies and
threaten the people they died for, and you think I'm going to follow you or
cry for you? I'm not crying. I can't cry.
Who the hell did you think I'd be loyal to?
Part 3: You wouldn't like him when he's angry
"Just who the hell are you loyal to, Krycek?" There, that dumpster makes a
good sound when you shove him up against it. "Talk to me, boy. You're going
to tell me everything I want to know."
Damn it, Walter, get a grip. Deep breath. No matter how much you want to
slam him back until you feel his bones break, he won't be any use to you if
you kill him. You need him alive to talk, not—
(—not swung against a wall and broken like some slant-eyed kid who picked
the wrong hut to run into, screaming—)
Come on, Walter. This is Washington, not a jungle clearing, knife-sharp
with smoke and the smell of death. You're in control here. In control. You
are, you were, an Assistant Director with the FBI, and this little
motherfucker isn't worth losing it for.
"Anything you want to tell me voluntarily, Krycek?"
"Y—" Krycek coughed and tried again. Don't let yourself smell the blood on
him, Walter. "You and Mulder must have the same dance teacher. Why don't
you beat up on each other if you like it so much?"
Loosen your hands before you hit bone, Walter. Let go of his shoulders—his
shoulder—
Christ, this is disgusting. "What the hell is this, boy?" And that stupid
leather jacket is halfway off him, and you see where the plastic meets his
real arm.
(Don't let yourself remember that man you saw begging on the street once,
with his empty sleeves pinned up by his medals—)
"How'd you lose this, you doubletiming little fuck?" And those straps tear
in your hands like masking tape, and that piece of plastic crap sags in his
sleeve. "You do something stupid in Russia that even Mulder had the smarts
to get out of? Or you just wear it to a nub playing jerkwad?"
That got him. See those pupils shift. Watch the mouth, though. You know
he's just got to say something stupid. Asshole.
And that cocky voice. "Always figured you for the type who like to hit
cripples." He must have hoped that one would distract you, because he
brings his knee up sharply into your groin—which barely feels it. And the
simultaneous head-butt seems to have hurt him a lot more than it hurts you.
That must be his shirt that tore in your fist. "Listen to me, _Krycek_. You
don't want to know what crippled is. I've seen—I fought beside men who
didn't come back in one piece. And you know what? They went there and lost
everything because they believed in this country." God, Walter, are you
still a patriot after all you've seen? I didn't know that ran so deep.
"This country, Krycek. The one you've betrayed so often I'm surprised you
bother to speak the language. What the hell are you, boy, KGB? Rent-a-hit?
Or just one of these conspiracy fuckups?"
Control, Walter. Don't let him get you so mad that you waste this chance to
get some real information.
(—like Freakout blowing away that village elder for spitting at him, just
when the guys had him ready to talk—) That's over, Walter. Don't go back
there.
Okay. If you hit him again, you'll probably kill him. Zippo didn't say
whether we could control minds, but hell, that's probably how he got the
guys to sit still while he drained them so there wouldn't be signs of a
struggle. Deep breath, Walter. Give it a try.
Hold his eyes. Yes, you can still see both of them despite the swelling
bruise where his skin's broken over one eyebrow ridge. Try not to notice
the trickle of blood down his cheek, dark and slow like jungle slime, like
the ooze of some VC's blown-out brain...
Christ, look at those stupid eyelashes. I bet he whores as often as he
kills. And blood sliding down the darkening eyelid—don't get distracted by
the blood, Walter. You've got work to do.
"Talk to me, Krycek. Who do you really work for?"
You've got him scared now. Smell of sweat and adrenaline, and that
heartbeat pounding like mortar fire. Christ, the stupid asshole's going to
try another stupid remark. "Why do you care? On that salary, you can't
afford me."
Slam him against the dumpster again, body to body and knock the breath out
of him. You can feel the flinch of pain from him, the fear-tight muscles,
the—
What the fuck? Jesus, boy, just how twisted are you, you sick little shit?
Are you really that hard because I'm beating the crap out of you?
And am I—
(Zippo's voice: "We kinda pick up on what people are feeling. If the cunt
wants it...")
"Christ! You little cocksucker, you actually get off on this? Is that why
you sell everybody out, just so they'll hit you? God, you make me want to
throw up. I should've just pitched you over that railing two years ago when
I had the chance."
So angry, so much rage that you can hardly see and your lips pulled back,
snarling—
Oh no you don't Krycek. Not one more fucking wisecrack or I'm going to tear
your lungs out. "You like it rough, boy?" You traitor, you lying fuck, I'll
show you rough.
Slam him down to his knees so hard you can hear something break, and take
it out and give it to him. Give it to him hard right in that lying mouth
and feel his broken teeth scrape on you like this itch to crush his throat
in your hand—
"You like this, you son of a bitch? You like my cock in your mouth? Take
it, boy, take it until you choke and then thank me for it."
He's trying to scream now—You can feel it on you, that sound he can't
make, and it just makes you harder and madder and by God he's going to get
it all—
"Don't like this after all, hey, boy? Not so hard now? Too late,
motherfucker, I'm not gonna stop just because you don't have the guts when
it comes to the real thing."
Feel him try to scream; feel him fight and try to bite you his mouth all
bloody I'll show you what biting is boy don't you know that just makes it
better and I'm going to slam it into you until I'm DONE!
Swallow it, cocksucker. Swallow it and choke all you want, I'm not pulling
out until I'm finished and you've got it all. Yeah, like that. Like that.
Okay, you can breathe, boy, I'm done with your fucking mouth.
"Not so cocky now, are you, boy." Slam him back upright and watch that
broken mouth bleed.
Shit, Walter, you're losing it. It's too much. The smell, the taste of it—
I'm not done with you, boy, you're not going to hold out on me. All that
salt sweat on you, and that pulse just under the jaw, and by God you're
going to give me all of it, take my teeth in you like you took my cock—
Oh, fuck, this is better than coming, his life in your mouth, the taste of
it, the blood
Part 4: Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Home stretch now, Walter. That's the building. Good thing it's still an
hour before dawn and the joggers aren't mostly out yet. They might not like
what you're carrying.
His window is lit, but that doesn't mean he has to be awake. Probably fell
asleep on the couch watching TV again, poor bastard. Probably sleeps as
badly as you always did.
Okay, don't leave bloodstains on the outer door. Oops, ma'am, sorry about
this; my friend and I had a little trouble in the bar. Just a drunken
brawl, you know. No, you don't have to worry about him, you can still hear
him breathing. Mostly. That's what that little bubbling rasp is.
The elevator. Don't die on me, Krycek, we're not through with you yet.
We're here, and there are too many doors in this hall.
Number 42. There we are. Knock carefully; you don't want to break his door
in. Here he comes. Sounds like he really was asleep.
"Mulder? Federal Express. I've got a package for you."
Good old Mulder. "What?" he says, like an idiot, before he lets you in.
Sorry, Mulder, I'm going to get blood on that couch of yours. Set the
little ratfuck down gently, Walter, he's still needed. That stupid plastic
arm is still caught in his sleeve, as if you'd dismembered him. Deserve it,
too.
"Here you are, Mulder. This little cocksucker was following you. I'm afraid
I lost my temper, so I'm not sure how much longer he'll last. I figured you
had a right to hear the little shit when he starts talking."
Why is Mulder staring at me like that? Come on, idiot, I'm speaking English
here. "Mulder, I thought you'd fucking want to hear Krycek talk."
"Sir?!" God, that tired voice cracks again. Jesus, look at his face.
"Sir—" And he actually moves between you and the couch, as if he wants to
protect that little bag of shit, as if you were the monster here.
As if—
Christ.
Fuck, Walter, look where you are. This isn't a war zone; this is 1998, and
you're in a civilized messy room that nobody's going to torch, no mortar
fire incoming, just books and innocent furniture and the TV whispering
peacefully about last night's game. Those dirty dishes were probably made
by some nice old lady in a factory in Kansas who's never seen a corpse in
her life.
And this man's your subordinate, your agent, and for five years you've
tried to keep him alive and untouched by all this crap. You've been his
example of professional conduct and decent behavior. You've tried to hold
him steady. And now look at you.
Shit. Just let go, slide down this door until the floor stops you and you
can sit there with your eyes closed, so you don't have to see his face.
Head in your hands, but your fingers are sticky with drying blood. Oh,
shit.
Can't stop shaking.
Just let it go.
"Sir?" Mulder's actually coming closer to you, as if you were a friend and
not just a disease that shouldn't ever have come back from that war. Go
away, Mulder.
No, he deserves better than this. You owe it to him to meet his eyes. Say
something. Give him back at least a little of the world he knows.
"Agent Mulder, I apologize for my total breach in professional conduct."
Breathe, Walter. Wish you still had those glasses to fidget with. "There is
no excuse for my behavior."
You look down at your sticky hands and see that sometime in these last few
hours you've bent your ring out of shape, that wedding band you still wear
even after Sharon died. It's cracked and half flattened, and the word
"Forever" is clotted with blood.
Your hand clenches around it, but it's been a fist too long. Make yourself
relax the fingers so you don't bend that poor battered gold any further.
Christ, Sharon, I'm sorry.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. You shouldn't have had to see this."
He's still looking at you like you're worth his concern. "Sir. You
shouldn't have had to do this. God, sir, I'm so sorry we didn't sort this
case out in time."
It's not your fault, Mulder. Zippo gave me the gun, but the ammo was my
own, from back when you were still a little kid. I'm something that should
never have come back. "Mulder, you aren't responsible for this. Drop it."
God, Walter, can't you ever talk to him without that professional distance,
that severe edge that you always put between you? No, that's a bad idea.
You need to control yourself, not him. Look what happened when you lost it.
"Sir, Krycek—"
"He's all yours, Mulder." God, I'm tired. "I won't touch him. Shoot him,
marry him, call an ambulance; I don't care."
And Mulder turns to check the bloody heap on the couch, feeling for a pulse
and running one hand lightly over the traitor's broken jaw, as if he's so
horrified by Krycek's injuries that he can almost sympathize with him.
Still alive? Yeah, Krycek's still alive, and you can even see his eyes
opening. One eye; the other's swollen shut now.
And you see that jungle-green spark widen in fear, and he starts to shake.
Mulder's voice is calmer now, reassuringly professional: "Easy, Krycek,
he's not going to hurt you again."
And the raw mouth tries to shape a word. Easy, boy. I'm sorry.
Nobody deserves it more, but I'm sorry.
Well, Walter, nothing more you can do here but make things worse. Time to
get out of here and figure out what kind of hole you want to crawl in.
"Sir, wait—"
Make yourself turn. He deserves your courtesy. "Agent Mulder?"
"Sir, what are you going to do? I mean—"
"I don't know, Mulder. I just don't know."
Another quiet night, even the trees quiet in the unmoving air. The lights
reflect off the stone like a still pool, and the names seem at peace.
Rest easy, Zippo, I won't deface your name. You died over there, and it's
my fault, all our faults. If there's a God, surely he'll forgive you for
what you did when we left you in so much pain. I hope you find peace.
You too, guys. Your names aren't here, though I trace them with a fingertip
on this blank stone, but it's your memorial too. All of you, the kids you
were, you died over there. And the death that struck you down was born in
that jungle, and in the darkness in our souls.
I wish I hadn't seen that darkness, but I'm on night patrol now. I'm the
only one who can do the job, and a real Marine doesn't walk away just
because he's tired.
I can hear Mulder's car door, and the sounds of his footsteps. This time I
can face him. This last time.
"Sir, are you all right?" A silly question, Mulder, but just like you. How
did you ever keep that ability to care?
"Yeah, Mulder, I'm all right."
He looks tired too, and worried, but he's not afraid any more. Thank you,
Mulder, I wish I'd ever deserved your trust.
I clear my throat. "So, how's Krycek?"
"Alive." Thank God. "I got him to a private clinic; Scully has serious
contacts there. He won't go into hospital records, so I don't think his
enemies will kill him before we can ask him some hard questions."
"Good. Good."
"Are you coming back, sir? To the job?"
"No, Agent Mulder, I am not. Even without my unacceptable breach in
professional conduct, I can hardly attend those morning budget meetings."
God, was that a laugh? Mulder, you're too easy.
"But sir, we need you."
"No you don't, Agent Mulder. You don't need anyone but yourself and Agent
Scully. I have faith in you."
"Sir—"
"Mulder, you know I can't come back. Who's replacing me? Stupid question;
the process takes at least six months. Odds are that it'll be Holdenaur,
though. He's a good man; you can trust him."
Mulder reaches out his hand, then lets it drop. "Sir—"
"Let it rest, Mulder."
Mulder drops his eyes for a moment, then looks back up. "Meanwhile, we may
actually get something out of Krycek this time, sir. Looks like he actually
wants to talk, even if he has to do it on paper until his jaw heals.
Nothing but scrawls while he's still this anaesthetized, but we'll see."
"Oh, good. I wonder if he's afraid of his bosses finding him down for
repairs, or if he wants your help again. Just be careful."
"Of course. And you, sir? Will we see you again?"
"No, Agent Mulder, I don't think that's likely."
"Sir, where are you going? You're not—"
Breathe in, Walter, let it go. Feel the decision steady you down like
shouldering your gear and moving out. "I'm going home."
"Home?"
"I'm going back. Zippo can't have been the only one. I should have believed
you when you told me about that guy Teager; remember him shooting the
general responsible for that cover-up? He said some of our men are still
there."
You don't need to say anything, Mulder. Stand easy.
"I'm going back for them. We left them behind when we pulled out, and
they're still waiting for evac. Don't worry, Mulder. I thought for a while
I had another home, but that hellhole jungle is where I was really born,
the part of me that survived. And it's where we died. All of us, even the
ones who came home heroes, we left something there that we'll never find
again."
"So you won't be seeing me again. Maybe, if I do this right, you'll hear
about some guys coming back. Don't let the government cover it up again,
all right? But I won't be back."
"Sir—" He pulls something small out of one pocket and holds it out, a
brief gleam of gold like the ring you bent carefully back into shape and
will wear forever.
"Sir, Scully gave me this for you. She said—she said you might need it."
A tiny golden cross, half lost in your large hand, fragile and precious as
a life. You've seen her wear it, and you know it's part of her heart.
"Sir, I'm not much of a believer, but—go with God."
"You too, Agent Mulder. Go with God."
end
Fidelis
by Nonie Rider
Part 1: Green Machine
"Sir?" Kim's voice. "There's a Mr. Miller on the phone for you. He says you
knew each other during your tour overseas?"
