The Spider and the FBI: Part 6 "More Skinner than Skinner"
Preface:
The town of Elmo, Wyoming I did
take some liberties with here, giving it more elements of another town further
north, named Sheridan, which is in the area of the Battle of Little Big Horn. Anyway,
I liked the name Elmo better, and the isolated area was just right, plus, at
the time this was written, my cat was named Elmo.
Now, something vaguely important; if you haven’t read ‘Conversation Mints,’ go back and do that. There’s a reference from that story that plays out here. A trope? Did I employ a trope? Of course, and what fun and quirky awesomeness it’s turned out to be. Ah, and there’s definitely a clue in this story’s header graphic (on Tumblr and my blog). And yes, I really wanted to do individual graphics for each part, but dang, I would have never gotten this posted if I had.
At the time this was written, a millennia ago in the 20th century, 1999 to be exact, the closet FBI field office to Wyoming was Denver.
"More Skinner than Skinner"
Part VI of "The Spider and the FBI"
by PR Chung
The rumble of a vehicle engine approaching woke Scully from a restless sleep. Alerted by the sound, still far off, she sat up in the dark, immediately regretting the move. Half a whimper escaped her before she bit her lip when she hit her head on something above her.
"Careful," Skinner’s voice, a mere murmur from the dark, startled her further.
"What time is it?" She wondered, as things were slowly coming back to her while she blindly felt around herself, finding the edges of the cramped bunk.
The night-glow feature of his watch cast an eerie indigo light below her, helping her find the edge of the upper bunk.
"Almost six," Skinner answered before releasing the button on his watch, leaving them in the dark again. “Need some help?” He asked hearing her shift around in the bunk to get out.
“Uh,” she hesitated, one leg over the side, and feeling for something to place her foot. This was proving annoying and embarrassing. “I need that light again, I can’t see…”
“Here, hold on,” he said without delay, and she felt him seize her around the waist, hauling her effortlessly down from the bunk.
In an instant she was firmly on the floor, his unexpected rescue leaving her very close to him, and reminding her they were both in dire need of a shower.
“Thanks,” she quietly said, taking a self-conscious step back.
They stood silently, listening to the sound of the vehicle that was closer now.
"What is it?" Bernstein muttered groggily from the front of the trailer where he had slept on the bench seat, cuffed to table leg. "Is that a car?"
"Sounds like a truck," Scully observed as she went to the window to look out.
The likelihood of soon having a meal, getting cleaned up and the joy of brushing her teeth all occurred to her at once when the headlights flashed across the trailer window, illuminating the inside. "It is a truck."
“Who is it?” The nervous sound of Bernstein’s voice mirrored Scully’s unease. An apprehension, Skinner acknowledged, “probably someone working this property, but we can’t count on that right now.”
“Who else could find us out here?” Bernstein whispered, sounding confused, and concerned.
Bernstein had just made the statement before they heard the truck doors open and shut, then voices, and from the sound of things it seemed apparent that whoever had just arrived had noticed the condition of the door in the glare of their headlights.
"What the hell?"
"Jesus..."
"Who the hell would do something like this...?"
Skinner unsnapped the strap on his gun holster, as the voices became progressively louder and agitated. He wasn't surprised, his single shot had left a noticeable hole where the door handle used to be.
"Shit, shut up." Someone outside called.
Everything went still.
"I don't think they're very happy..." Bernstein whispered and the door flew open. Blinding light spilled into the trailer from the headlights of the truck, and the distinctive sound of a pump action shotgun being primed sounded.
Skinner and Scully fell back a step from the doorway in anticipation of gunshots. Nothing happened and there was no one visible through the door.
"If you're still in there," a man shouted from outside, out of sight, "you better get your asses out here now."
"Federal agents," Skinner and Scully shouted.
There was a long beat, then, "I don't care who you are," the man called back.
"We're coming out with our identification," Skinner announced loud and clear, his voice booming through the narrow trailer.
"I lost my case," Scully told him in a hushed voice.
"I've got mine," he assured her and pulled the badge cast from his back pocket.
"Get out of here! Now!"
"We're coming out." Skinner called, starting for the open door, his ID case open and held out before him like a shield.
"What about me?" Bernstein demanded, yanking his cuffed wrist against the restraint of the table leg.
"We have a prisoner with us," Scully announced over Skinner's shoulder.
"Jezzus," the man outside declared and snatched Skinner's badge case as he started out. "What the hell is going on here?"
A sturdy built man with face withered by a life of outdoors labor was standing to the left of the trailer door, his companion, considerably younger man with wide open clean features stood to the right holding the shotgun they had heard primed. Two more men stood ready near the truck, silhouetted by headlights head lights.
The older man leaned against the trailer as he studied the identification and badge, looking back up as Skinner stepped down from the trailer. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he saw Scully emerge from the trailer, eyes turning round for a quick instant.
The man pried his eyes off Scully and looked at the badge and ID again. "Special Agent Walter S. Skinner..." the man read.
"We ran off the road yesterday," Skinner took the opportunity to try to explain their situation. "And were on foot, we needed a place to stay for the night when we came across the trailer."
"What road' you get off of?" The younger man with the shotgun questioned, sounding dubious.
"Route 34, near Chugwater."
"Chugwater! How the hell long you been walking?" The older man blurted frowning at the two of them. "Chugwater's over fifty miles from here."
"We..." Scully paused to let the embarrassment pass for what she was about to disclose. She knew they had traveled a good time and distance but had no idea it had been that far. "We were forced to pursue our prisoner... in the river. It must have carried us pretty far."
"I'd say. Shit," the man laughed, handing Skinner his badge case, and motioning for the younger man to lower the shotgun.
The man seemed to smile in spite of himself. "All right, now, tell me who’s paying for this damage? I think my boss will be holding me responsible for some answers when he finds out 'bout all this."
"You’ll be compensated," Skinner assured him all the while thinking how their efforts to clean the inside seemed more than enough payment for the lock and handle. "We need to get to a phone. Will you take us to one?"
"Well, hell, yeah," he said agreeably, "I'll take you into Elmo, plenty of phones there."
"I'll get Bernstein," Scully told Skinner turning back to climb the steps into the trailer again.
"Did you say Elmo?" Skinner questioned, glaring at the man as he looked Scully up and down before she disappeared back into the trailer.
"Uh, yeah, sure did," he turned back to face Skinner, "I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Donnie Combs, that's Robby Bowman, and that's Doug and Danny Purdy." He gestured toward the two men standing in front of the truck.
Skinner nodded briefly to all; his attention divided. "Isn't there a place closer, other than Elmo, we can use a phone at?" he asked, sounding impatient.
"Well, no, not really, to be honest."
"What about this land, the house the people who own it live in, isn't it any closer?"
"No." Donnie let out a weak laugh, looking at him curiously. "Elmo's the closet, and it's probably forty-five minutes or more from here. The King's house, that's who owns this property, well their house isn't even on this land. They live in Washakie."
Skinner bucked his head. "Fine. No, problem."
Great, he left unsaid.
**********************************
Elmo, Wyoming
July 4th
Like something staged for a Roger and Hammerstein musical the town of Elmo, Wyoming was profusely adorned in red, white, and blue banners and streamers. Old Glory flapped in the breeze and there was laughter in the air while it seemed that every man, woman, and child hustled through the streets in preparation for what was undoubtedly going to be one doozy of a Fourth of July celebration.
Well, I'll be a cockeyed optimist Scully thought as she peered out the truck windows at the bustle of activity.
"It's gonna be one hell of a party tonight," Donnie remarked cheerfully from behind the wheel.
"How quaint." Bernstein sneered as he looked around.
Scully gave him a sour glance.
"What's the population here?" Scully wondered.
"Five or six hundred, maybe." He leaned a bit forward to look around Bernstein at her. "But lots of folks have come in from all around for the fireworks tonight. Rumor is they'll be the best for a thousand miles."
Scully found that hard to believe considering Laramie was so close. But for those people, or folks if one chose to use the local vernacular, who didn't venture much further than their own town or the next, this small town's show could very well seem like the greatest thing close enough to home.
Scully leaned forward to get a better look at the town square. It was a large park with huge trees and lush green grass. Four whitewashed gazebos sat in each corner of the park, framing a small open bandstand at the center, and all were steeped in patriotic color.
“End of the line," Donnie announced slowing his truck in front of the sheriff's station, "The Sheriff should be able to help you folks out from—" Before he could finish Skinner rapped his knuckles on the back window from where he'd been riding in the bed of the truck.
Donnie and Scully glanced back seeing him motion toward the restaurant up a head where a pay phone stood in front.
"He wants to go over there?" Donnie questioned, clearly puzzled. "Not here?"
Scully frowned seeing her superior vehemently pointing toward the restaurant.
"Uh, yeah. Not here." She told Donnie, suspicion seeping into her thoughts.
He just hadn't seemed like himself since before they started into town. She had begun to suspect something was wrong; his mannerisms were tight, ridged more Skinner than Skinner. From inside the trailer she had heard him questioning Donnie, an urgent apprehension underscoring his tone and even then she had known something wasn't sitting right with him and whatever it was involved this town...
She gave the Sheriff's station a thoughtful glance as Donnie pulled the truck back away from the curb and steered it toward the restaurant. Again, the truck came to a gradual halt; the struts squeaking as it rolled up to the curb.
Scully was hardly out of the truck before she noticed the increasingly curious glances. She knew she looked like she had been dragged through a hole backward, she didn't think she looked bad enough to catch this much attention.
Skinner came out of the truck bed with a single swift move that planted him firmly beside her as she got Bernstein out of the truck cab and thanked Donnie for the ride. Scully found herself and Bernstein standing alone no sooner than the truck had pulled away from the curb; without a word Skinner had gone to the pay phone and all but buried his face inside the enclosure as he dialed.
"Oh, now, this is just so..." Bernstein said, giving the immediate area a sweeping glance. "Mayberry. I..." he widened his eyes mocking surprise, "I think I can hear whistling. Do you hear it?"
"I think that's the wind blowing between your ears." Scully muttered as she guided him toward the pay phone.
From what she could hear from his end of the conversation, Skinner was on the phone to the Denver field office. "Well, when can we expect them to be here?"
That didn’t sound too promising, she thought and caught sight of yet more curious glances. Only now these inquisitive stares were accompanied by whispers, as well as a few double takes, and much to her surprise, Scully realized the attention wasn't on her, nor was it on Bernstein, or even the three of them as an out of place group of strangers in a small town.
Attention seemed to be directed solely on a man who just happened to be making a passionate effort to hide his face inside a phone booth.
"What's he doing…"
"I don't think that's him..."
"But-"
"Shhh."
Scully turned quickly in the direction she'd heard this disjointed conversation only to see two women turn hurriedly away down the sidewalk.
"You would think we had antlers," Bernstein commented.
"Yeah, at least one of us..." Scully said, her voice drifting with distraction as she noticed a Sheriff's department vehicle coming down the main street, and according to the writing on the white and tan two tone Cherokee's door it was the Sheriff.
She strained to see the driver but couldn't make anything out past the tint and mid-morning sun glaring off the windshield.
"We needed backup two days ago," Scully heard Skinner growling into the phone behind her as she watched the Cherokee slowing on the far side of the street, almost as though the driver wasn't quite sure if they wanted to stop or not. "Who is the special agent in charge?" Skinner continued to question the person on the other end of the line.
"Hello," Bernstein said and gave a curious local a brittle smile, raising his hands up to wriggle his fingers in a wave, deliberately showing off his handcuffs.
The woman's jaw dropped shortly before she began shuffling away, looking back as she went.
"Bernstein, please." Scully jerked his hands down, a move that drew more attention.
The Sheriff's jeep stopped abruptly, the driver's side door swinging open, and a khaki leg dropped out. Hmm, the thought unconsciously struck Scully at the sight of the rather large leg attached to a generously sized hiking boot.
"Oh great, this should be fun, I'm sure." Bernstein sarcastically said.
"You just never know..." Scully murmured, preoccupied.
"Tomorrow?" Skinner barked into the phone and Scully was vaguely aware of his tone dipping yet another notch.
Scully’s mouth slowly went slack as she watched the man whose leg she had been admiring emerge from the Cherokee. From out of the cab, he straightened to what she gauged at six two, adjusted his ball cap that was casting a short shadow over a pug nose and solid jaw, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his mouth a grim slash with the slightest hint of an affable curl in the corners.
"Is it just me," Bernstein quietly said to Scully, "or does he remind you of someone?"
"Uh," she faltered, reaching for Skinner without looking back, without taking her eyes off the barrel-chested doppelganger walking their way. "Uh, sir... Sir…"
"I need support in no less than six hours..." Skinner was demanding of the poor soul on the other end of his phone conversation.
"Sir," Scully continued, contacting his arm. Not quite sure she believed what she was seeing she tugged twice never looking, even when he jerked his arm from her grasp and continued to bark orders into the phone.
The Sheriff stepped up onto the curb and into the shade of the restaurant awning. He was only a foot or two from them, standing quite solidly in place, his expression a mask of sober caution and curiosity.
"Hello," Bernstein said in the same false tone that he'd used to greet the passerby.
The Sheriff nodded and gave a long sweeping scan of first Bernstein, then Scully and finally Skinner, whose back was turned to him. His attention lingered on the Assistant Director a moment before he turned to Scully.
"Morning," he said finally and smiled broadly as he took the sunglasses off.
Brown eyes. It was the only thought that occurred to Scully for a long moment before she realized she was staring with her mouth agape. "Uh,” she started lamely.
Bernstein glanced at her, puzzled, and then smirked. “Your words, use them,” he whispered.
“Good morning," she finally spat out, realizing she was ogling a uniform shirt perfectly filled by great shoulders and tapered torso— "Uh, Sheriff..?"
"Durokoff," he introduced himself with a nod, his eyes drifting toward Skinner again. "Larry Durokoff."
Scully hesitated, the name rolling around her mind. Genetically engineered alien clone? Well, Mulder would have been proud that she even marginally considered it, but she didn't believe that was the case here either. They definitely looked alike, with the same eyes and chiseled features, the same build, built like... well, built like- Holy shit. It didn't matter, they looked alike, but they weren't exactly twins.
"Special Agent Dana Scully." She finally introduced herself.
"FBI?"
"Yes."
"I'm a prisoner," Bernstein mocked pride in the fact.
"I can see that," Durokoff said, and pulled a pair of cuffs off the back of his belt. "You don't mind do you?" he asked Scully as he moved to replace the cuffs Bernstein was wearing with his own.
"I'm sure Federal handcuffs are just as strong as yours."
Scully almost jumped at the sound of Skinner's voice. She hadn't even noticed him end his call let alone seen him step up beside her.
Durokoff looked up, his eyes dancing with something close to what Scully wanted to call mischief. He snapped his cuffs closed on Bernstein and straightened, grinning at Skinner.
"I can only assume this isn't a personal visit, Walter." He said handing Skinner the cuffs he'd just removed from Bernstein.
"No, it's not."
Scully watched in awe as the man nodded and perfectly executed an atypical thoughtful Skinner as he glanced around the immediate area. "What's it been, ten, fifteen...?"
"Eighteen." Skinner answered.
Durokoff laughed. "Not long enough, huh?" he said and repositioned his cap, lifting it just enough to expose a hint of scalp as bare as Skinners.
"Uh," Scully started, then stopped and had to start over, looking between the two of them and feeling as though she was in the middle of an uncomfortable reunion. " I can't help but..."
"Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted her, motioning toward Durokoff, "my cousin, Sheriff Lawrence Durokoff." Somehow, Skinner managed to make eye contact with no one as he made introductions.
An excruciatingly long beat followed the introductions. People passed and people stared, and the four of them shifted their weight from foot to foot and looked around at one another until Bernstein began to whistle the Andy Griffith show theme.
Scully captured his arm tightly, pinching his skin through his shirt. Like someone flipped a switch the whistling stopped and was replaced by a small whimpering noise.
So, this is why he didn't want to go to the Sheriff's station, or even this town. Scully mused taking a stealthy glance at first Skinner then his cousin.
"It doesn't look like you're operating on full resources here," Durokoff’s tone purposely professional. "There was word that federal agents were missing in the area, but I never thought you would be involved. I had heard from Aunt Anne you had ended up on the eraser end of a desk a few years ago, Walter."
Skinner gnashed his teeth, giving Scully a quick nervous glance before he addressed his cousin. "I made assistant director eight years ago."
Durokoff arched his brows and smiled. "Well, congratulations."
Skinner nodded. "This really isn't the time for playing catch up," he changed the subject and took control of Bernstein from Scully. "This man needs to be out of sight and under what protection you can provide until a team of agents arrive here."
"When will they be here?" Scully wondered.
Skinner ground his teeth, looking decidedly irritated. "Possibly tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Resources were already spread thin between the holiday and the activities in Casper, then Mulder got involved in the search for us, demanding agents to assist in the search. The Denver office is trying to contact them right now and re-direct them here."
"Mulder?"
"Mulder?" Durokoff's curiosity seemed piqued by the shear agitation produced in his cousin's voice when he mentioned this name.
"FBI Poster boy." Bernstein helpfully informed the Sheriff.
Durokoff gave him a glare of singular intent. "No one was talking to you."
The power of his voice startled Scully. He could also sound just like Skinner.
Durokoff reached out and took Bernstein by the other arm, hauling him out of Skinner's grasp. Skinner resisted, pulling Bernstein back, “We’re in charge of this prisoner.”
“My town, my rules,” Durokoff insisted, pulling on Bernstein.
"All right, already..." Bernstein protested yet another rough changing of the guards. “Make up your minds, I’m not a chew toy.”
"Come on, smart guy," Durokoff said, and started for the jeep with Bernstein in tow. "I've got a real nice little room waiting for you right down the street."
Bernstein looked back at Scully, quickly telling her, “Take notes, you’re next in this tug of war—"
Durokoff gave Bernstein a brisk tug nearly causing the man to stumble as he led him toward the SUV. Scully was transfixed for a time, watching the man walk away, his narrow hips giving the slightest sway with his powerful stride, shoulders bristling and separating the yoke pleats of his shirt, his arms flexing and tensing with every swing.
Scully realized she was chewing on her lip about the same moment she noticed Skinner's eyes boring into her. She looked at him fully, her mouth fully open to speak but nothing came out.
"You coming?" Durokoff called to them over the top of the four-wheeler.
"He's the Arthur Murray cousin?" Scully finally succeeded in asking Skinner, throwing him off guard enough to forget her unabashed ogling of his cousin.
She had remembered, finally, the small anecdote from his childhood that he had shared with her months ago. "...my cousin and I were enrolled at Arthur Murray, tuition paid, and the day before our first lesson... The day before our first lesson my cousin, Lawrence, fell out of a tree and broke both his legs."
"Yeah... that’s the one," Skinner replied with a decidedly defeated tone.
***********************************
Kim Cook checked her watch again, blowing her breath out. She yanked the curtains back and glared at the bare street in front of her condo. "What's happened?" She asked herself. There couldn't have been a mistake, could there?
She knew she'd sounded awful last night when he'd called her at the office. Six-thirty and she was still there, struggling to juggle calls between the Director and Attorney General, then there were the non-stop calls from Agent Mulder. What was it with that guy? She couldn't believe sometimes that he hadn't been tossed out of the bureau on his ear for some of the crap she'd seen him do. What did he have over Skinner? He had to have something on him, although she couldn't imagine what. AD Skinner was one of most professional and scrupulous men she had ever worked for.
She shook her head. It didn't matter, she thought and checked her watch again, then the street- still no sign of Jess. What was it with the men in her life disappearing? First her boss and now Jess.
He was supposed to have been there over a half hour ago. He'd never been this late without calling. He would have surely called today if he were going to be late, all the careful planning for the most perfect day together. It would be their first real holiday to share together. The first holiday together with someone was just... just so fantastic and exciting. All those new things created out of the old and ordinary...
She had waited long enough, she believed and turned to the phone.
"The number you have dialed is not in service or has been disconnected," Kim frowned when the message began to play. "Please check your number and-"
She dialed Jess' number again, carefully pressing each number.
"The number you have dialed is not in service..."
She dialed again, deliberately, and precisely pressing the buttons on the keypad. Again, the message burned over the line. One more time, she thought, her hand beginning to tremble a little as she started to dial his number again.
"The number you have..."
Kim lowered the phone from her ear, her chin trembling.
*************************************
Yellow.
It was yellow and streaking past his nose and out of his sight into frantic oblivion. Too close, his mind screamed at him to pull back before his skin was thrashed and ripped away. Surrounded by black, the yellow rectangle zipped past his eyes. The wind was in his eyes, his hair, whipping at the lapels of his studded white jacket and matching bell-bottoms. He could not pull back, his head was already pressed against the metal, the skeleton of the monster machine his arms and legs were lashed to.
The engine roared, gears chewing each other up with manic delight above his head.
There was music and singing in the monster engine roar, pistons and rods harmoniously chanting his name over and over again...
"Agent Mulder?"
The voice seemed far away, separate from the deep shadows and harsh light and noise that filled his dreams. Knowledge of his whereabouts came to him slowly as Mulder opened his eyes that were still heavy with sleep. It was daylight, he slowly noted as he straightened in the passenger seat of the cruiser and looked around. He was drenched in sweat and not surprised, the temperature inside the car had to be over ninety degrees despite the open windows.
"Agent Mulder?"
Mulder blinked hard, turning in the direction of the voice. "Any news?" He asked Sheriff Boyd who was leaning in the open driver's side window.
"I just got word from your FBI office in Denver that Assistant Director Skinner checked in a bit ago."
Mulder straightened in the seat. "What about Scully- my partner? Are they all right?"
"They're in a little place called Elmo and I suppose they're just fine; I didn't hear no different."
"Elmo? How far from here is..."
"It's a ways east of here," he said handing his cell phone through the window to Mulder. "You should be able to reach your partner at the Sheriff's department there. Got the number programmed in for you."
"How long a drive is it?" Mulder questioned as he took the phone, blinking against the effects of the dream still lingering around the edges of his mind.
"Don't worry 'bout driving, Agent Mulder," the Sheriff smiled. "I've arranged an all-expenses paid ride with Albany County airlines."
"Huh?" Mulder didn't catch on at first, but when he did his heart seized up with genuine fear. "You mean ride in that helicopter again?"
*************************************
"Damn, that's good." Lawrence Martin Gryzwac declared and tilted his head back to wipe a buttermilk mustache from his lip with the back of his hand.
There was nothing like cold buttermilk on a hot day, he thought feeling undeniably content despite the lack of news. His head hurt a little from listening to the hayseeds prattling over the scanner for the last twenty-four hours, but there was nothing much that could be done about that.
He found some shade, parked the caddy and was enjoying a most refreshing beverage. He wasn't going worry just cause he didn't know where these feds had taken the Spider... Hell, nobody knew where the hell they were from the sound of it.
All damn night the local yokels were chattering back and forth, all excited when they found the car. Then they yakked some more when they thought they'd found him.
Gryzwac laughed out loud.
"That was good." He said to himself, pleased with the delight of knowing some poor, dumb bastard halfway across the state had been mistaken for him and hassled most of the night. Shit, that gave him time to get some rest.
He stretched his legs out along the length of the caddy front seat and took another long draw on the carton of buttermilk.
"Stewart, are you there?" A voice burst over the scanner.
"Ouu, Sheryl, baby, talk to me," Gryzwac sighed hearing the Albany County dispatcher's voice. He'd become familiar with the dispatcher’s voices, even knew some by name after the last couple of days. This one, Sheryl, had become a personal favorite. A little breathy, not shrill like most of the other. No, not at all. She had the soap opera voice... That "H" sound coming across the speaker sent shivers down his spine and had started giving him a world-class hard-on.
"Damn it, Stewart, turn down the music..."
"I'm here," the hayseed pilot returned. "You just don't sound real happy, Sheryl, honey."
"Why should I be, working on the Fourth 'cause of all this crap?"
"I'm working, too."
"That's a good thing cause Sheriff Boyd needs you to fly that fed over to Elmo. Where are you anyway?"
Gryzwac swept his legs off the seat, sitting up to take careful note of the relay of information as he grabbed a tattered map from the dashboard.
"Alger," the pilot replied. "I've been waiting on a fuel hose. Had a little leak."
"How long you think you're gonna be?" the dispatcher questioned as Gryzwac ran his thick index finger across the map, silently searching.
"I can't say. I was lucky I got someone to agree to bring me one."
"Aren't you supposed to keep spare hoses around, Stewart?"
Gryzwac poked the map hard, the tip of his finger smacking a tiny dot called Elmo. "Got’cha."
*************************
Continue in part 7
