The Spider and the FBI
"The
Spider and the FBI"
by PR Chung
Portland,
Oregon
Portland
International Airport
9:30 A.M., June 30th, Wednesday
"If I
can't get on a plane, I sure the hell won't get on any train. I just can't.
I'll go mad."
Agent Fox
Mulder stared at his prisoner vexed.
Gerald
"the Spider" Bernstein was proving to be a bigger hand full than the
FBI had ever anticipated.
"We can't
force him, Mulder," Agent Dana Scully needlessly reminded her partner,
exasperated.
"That's
right," Bernstein said, bucking his head and pointing his handcuffed hand
at the female agent, dragging Mulder's arm up with his. "You can't force
me to go. I have a medical condition."
Mulder jerked
his arm back. "I'll tell you what you can do with your medical cond--"
"Mulder,"
Scully warned glancing around the airport terminal.
Their
plan to transport Bernstein by plane back to Washington D.C. for trial wasn't
working out quite how they had thought it would. The man was insufferable,
quietly obnoxious, and torturously droning. It amazed both agents that the mob
bosses he had worked for hadn't bumped him off by virtue of his character. But
rather, it had taken his embezzling to generate interest in killing him,
especially now as he stood to testify against those he had worked for. All it
would take to remove countless crime bosses from circulation was Bernstein's
figures and information regarding money laundering operations, tax fraud and a
whole slew of other crimes against the federal government.
Needless to
say, there were a great many people interested in "the Spider" aside
from just the federal prosecutor. It had become common knowledge within the
bureau that several contracts had been put out on the man by his previous
employers, a fact in itself that if proven could put away these people, but a
fact Bernstein was also aware of and had made finding him a problem.
Knowing his
life was in grave danger Bernstein had been in hiding for over two years, yet a
strange quirk of fate had drawn him out and to the attention of the FBI. The
Internet had been to thank for his apprehension, an Internet romance to be
exact. Bernstein, in a self-imposed exile, had turned to the Internet for
companionship and thus met a lovely woman who, much to his dismay, after four
months of correspondence, turned out to be a federal employee. It was through
her water cooler chats with fellow employees about her newfound Romeo that
Bernstein's identity and location were discovered.
Already in the
area, having just finished an investigation involving a man believed to be the
last surviving member of an ancient Pacific Northwest Indian tribe, Mulder and
Scully were relegated the task of escorting Bernstein back to Washington D.C.
Mulder,
already in a foul state due to the native American man being a complete fraud,
was in no mood to deal with Bernstein. Scully knew that it was with supreme
effort that Mulder didn't pop the man in the face with each new obstacle he
threw in their path to Washington. Now, with his proclaimed claustrophobic
condition, that Scully could neither refute nor confirm, she knew Mulder was on
the brink.
She took a
step to Mulder's right, trying for some semblance of privacy as she spoke to
him.
"His
claim to fits of claustrophobia is more than likely false, but we can't prove
that. And we can't force him into a situation that could provoke an attack,
either genuine or… manufactured," Mulder narrowed his eyes on her,
disagreement blazing in them. She dipped her head in resignation, "We
can't refuse him his rights."
"Then
what’s the plan?” Berstein asked.
Scully turned
the man, who straightened immediately from his overt eavesdropping. “Well?”
"A car. A
full-sized rental car." She both answered and suggested, turning to Mulder
with a look of decidedness.
*******************************
"A
car?" Mulder winced at the thundering sound of Skinner's voice coming back
across the phone. He knew he should have had Scully tell their superior, she
seemed to have a certain way with him lately; an ability to smooth his ruffled
feathers and soothe the scowl that so often carved its way into his features.
"Bernstein
needs to be handed over to the federal prosecutor by Tuesday morning, and
you're going to transport him by car across the length of the contiguous United
States?" Skinner questioned.
Mulder glanced
at Scully for support as he answered, "Yes, sir."
"Mulder,"
Scully could hear Skinner's voice clearly over the phone despite the fact she
was standing several feet from Mulder at the rental car counter. "Get your
asses on a plane and bring this bogus son-of-a-"
"Sir?"
Scully interrupted, taking the phone from a pained Mulder.
There was
silence on the line for a long moment. Then, "Scully, what the hell is
going on out there?"
"Sir, we
cannot certify this man doesn't suffer from a condition that would prevent him
from traveling by either train or plane," she explained in her most
self-possessed voice. "It would be a violation of his federal rights to
force him..."
"You
don't have to remind me of his rights, Scully," Skinner interjected.
"But I have the prosecutor breathing down my neck on this one. Not to
mention the countless reports we've received about possible attempts on
Bernstein's life now that the word of his capture has circulated. You're
placing yourselves at risk by transporting him in a car."
"Yes, we
are aware of the hazards involved. Our route will be less trackable in a car…”
Skinner's
breath hissed across the line. "Yes, it will, Scully," he grumbled,
"for not only those pursuing Bernstein, but for the bureau to track and
assist you and Mulder as well."
This was true.
Scully didn't need to be told. "Yes, we're aware of that point also."
The line was quiet
for a moment, then Skinner spoke, somberly. "Scully, do what is necessary,
just get back here in one piece."
*******************************
"We have
to stop." Bernstein announced from the backseat of the rental car.
Mulder shook
his head. "If you're feeling caged in already, you'll just have to deal
with it." They had only just pulled out of the car rental agency parking
lot ten minutes before.
"No, we
have to stop there," Bernstein reached over the back of the seat, pointing
toward the drug store they were approaching.
"Whoa,"
Mulder declared, "just stay right back there."
"I have
needs," he insisted sitting back in his seat. "I wasn't allowed to
take anything with me and there are things that I won't be able to do without
on this little trip you're taking me on."
Mulder glanced
at Scully.
She shrugged,
from behind the wheel of the car. "Within reason, we should provide him
with general necessities."
********************************
"That,"
Bernstein said, pointing at the foot powder. Scully glanced at the multifarious
load of 'necessities' already filling the hand basket. "My feet sweat... a
lot." The man enlightened her, and it was really more information than she
needed or wanted.
"Okay,"
Scully sighed pulling the powder down off the shelf.
"Eye
drops," he then said, pointing down the other side of the aisle.
"Come on,
Bernstein," Mulder growled, frustration getting the best of him.
"You're dragging your feet here. We've just collected half the store into
this basket for you. Look, here's contact solution and saline solution, cotton
balls, dry skin lotion, foot powder, aspirin, toenail clippers and fingernail
clippers, cuticle cream, and what else is buried under there I don't know. And
now eye drops."
Bernstein
looked at the agent, his eyes pinching tight with half-baked indignity.
"My eyes," he said with a quiet indignation, "they get dry. My
feet sweat and I have bad eyesight. My eczema flares up in the summer and I get
headaches. I have excessive hangnails and my toenails need regular grooming or
they become in grown. All right? I'm sorry I'm not the picture of health and
stamina such as you, young man. I have troubles that with these meager
purchases I can for, yet another day hold off and receive some small scrap of
the life normalcy healthy, perfect people, such as yourself, lead."
Mulder rolled
his eyes, opening his mouth—
"Eye
drops," Scully announced, interrupting whatever it may have been that
Mulder was about to say, and dropped the box into the basket dramatically as
she came back down the aisle. "Let's go."
*******************************
"The
best," Bernstein read a roadside sign as they drove past. "The best
what, I wonder?" He said to himself, but loud enough for Scully and Mulder
to hear. "Open face sandwiches," he read the next sign. "Oh, the
best open face sandwiches, I see. But where, I wonder?"
Mulder leaned
his head back against the headrest, hands gripping the steering wheel harshly.
Five hours, he thought. Five of the longest hours he had ever spent in a car
with any one person. Bernstein never shut up that droll, monotone pattern of
speech.
"Ahhh,"
Bernstein sounded triumphant as he read the following sign, "ahead! The best
open face sandwiches ahead."
Scully
wriggled in her seat, kicking at the floorboard restlessly. She, too, had taken
just about as much as she could.
"I wonder
what's ahead," Bernstein said once again to himself scooting closer to the
passengers' side window.
Mulder
suddenly jerked the steering wheel to the left and Bernstein's head banged into
the glass. “Ouch!” He yelled.
"What's
the matter?" Scully asked sitting up.
"Sorry,"
Mulder apologized, shrugging with a motion of his hand back the way they’d
passed, "I thought I saw a deer."
Scully
watched him, dubious. "I think we all need a break," she told her
partner.
"Eddy's
home style Cooking," Bernstein read yet another sign on the roadside.
"Oh, that sounds nice and friendly,” he added with a purposely reflective
sigh.
Scully checked
the map. "Delco,” she read, “It’s small, but not far off the highway. We
could make a dinner stop there and then back on the highway."
Mulder glanced
at the tachometer he’d set to zero before leaving the rental agency. It was
just ticking over to five-hundred and ninety-three. He checked the time, doing
some rudimentary math that satisfied him. Nearly six-hundred miles in a little
over eight hours would certainly convince Skinner they were going to make it to
D.C. with time to spare.
“How much
farther to Salt Lake from there?” he asked Scully.
“Home style
cooking,” Berstein said as if to himself in the backseat. “Doesn’t that sound
wholesome?”
Ignoring
Bernstein, Scully traced their route on the map, answering, “Another two hours,
give or take.”
“I bet Eddy’s
has great pies.” Berstein continued, looking out the window with a wistful
smile. “I don’t know about you two agents, but I’m a pie man. Love pie. All
kinds of pie; apple pie, French apple pie—but that’s just regular apple pie
with raisins. And blueberry pie, cherry pie, and rhubarb pie—”
“Okay, we got
it, you like pie,” Mulder barked at the man. They may have been making good
time on the road, but regardless of their speedy progress, it felt like an
eternity while listening to Bernstein’s non-stop narrative from the backseat.
Looking at the man in the rearview mirror, Mulder threatened, “If you don’t
shut your pie hole, you’re going to end up with some unwholesome truck
stop food.”
Scully closed
her eyes. “Yep, we definitely need to take a break.”
*******************************
Delco,
Idaho
6:20
P.M.
Eddy's Home
Style Cooking restaurant was a small, single-story building in dire need of a
fresh coat of paint and more than a few nails to secure the boards hanging
loose. Neon signs flickered in the dingy windows, faltering in sections and
undoubtedly ready to completely go out any day. A single island of gas pumps
sat out front but had been out of order for a great deal of time judging by
their state of disrepair; rusted, leaning, and missing essential parts.
"Now you
just don't see places like this anymore." Bernstein remarked with a tone
of nostalgia.
"Because
they've been demolished." Mulder mumbled as he got out of the car.
Inside, Eddy's
was much larger than it appeared on the outside, and much better kept. The two
agents lead their prisoner to a secluded booth along the far wall, trying to be
as inconspicuous as possible, but their clothes made them unavoidably obvious
next to the simpler dress of the other patrons. Despite their obvious
appearance, the trio was greeted graciously by the staff and even a few of the
patrons they assumed to be regulars.
"Hey
there," the waitress called as she headed across the dining room with
menus in hand. She was dressed in jeans and a pink tee shirt emblazoned with a
photograph of President Richard Nixon shaking hands with Elvis Presley and the
words 'Elvis shot JFK.' "How you doing this evening?"
"Good,
thank you." Scully answered noticing the tee shirt. She glanced at Mulder,
who too was eyeing the oddity.
"What a
fascinating tee shirt you have there." Bernstein of course had to comment.
She glanced
down as if she'd forgotten what she put on that morning. "Oh, this,"
she said, "I ordered this over the Internet, isn't it interesting?"
Bernstein went
cold hearing mention of the Internet. "I suppose," he muttered,
adding, "out here."
The waitress
frowned briefly, confused about the sudden shift in the man's demeanor.
"Uh... what can I get you guys to drink?"
Scully ordered
a diet soda while Mulder took an iced tea, and Bernstein coolly ordered a
coffee and ice water with a saucer to be placed beneath both.
Nothing was
simple with this guy, Mulder observed. He had to be different, difficult, and
attended to without hesitation. Even his meal was a production. He rattled the
waitress with his endless questioning of the simplest of dishes the place
offered, then droned out instructions in epic proportion regarding the special
preparation of his final selection; meat loaf, but it had to be solid with
tomato sauce lightly glazed over the top and slightly crusted, with fresh mash
potatoes-- not flakes-- and sweet baby peas, and nothing touching the other on
the plate.
"All
right," the waitress returned with their meals, abruptly placing them
before each. "Bacon cheeseburger and fries," she announced to Scully,
"BLT and fries," she said to Mulder, then plopped Bernstein's plate
down. "Meat loaf, mash potatoes and peas."
Bernstein
looked at his plate, clearly appalled. Peas were mixed with potatoes; the meat
loaf was moist to the point of sogginess and covered with a runny red sauce
that looked like watered down catsup.
"This is
not what I ordered," he declared gesturing at the food before him. It was
then that the waitress noticed the handcuffs. She took a step back.
"Eat your
food, Bernstein," Mulder told him pulling his cuffed hand back down.
"Hey,
what...?" the waitress started to ask.
Scully pulled
her identification out, showing the woman her badge. "We're transporting a
prisoner." Despite this information, the young woman still looked
concerned. "It's all right, really." Scully assured her.
She went away
but was still uneasy and apparently informed the cook as well as a few patrons
of the situation judging by the stares Scully and Mulder began receiving. Their
meals, combined with Bernstein's complaining and the stares, did not go down
with the ease the two agents would have liked. Mulder didn't even finish his
sandwich.
Pushing his
plate away from himself, he motioned for Scully's attention.
"What?"
"The
keys," he said wriggling his fingers across the table.
"To
the car?"
"No,
the cuffs."
She frowned.
"I
have to use the facilities and he's not going with me." He told her.
Bernstein
looked first at Mulder then Scully. "I do use those, too, you know. Who's
going to allow me..."
"Later,
me first then you. Understood?"
The man said
nothing, just picked at his food.
Scully handed
the handcuff key over to her partner who disengaged himself from the man and
re-cuffed him to the table support.
"I
understand," Bernstein finally said to Mulder. "I really do. It's
hard sometimes." Mulder refused to listen, leaving the table heading for
the bathroom. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," Bernstein
called after him drawing attention from the patrons, "every man deals with
this problem at some point in his life."
Scully leaned
forward. "Bernstein, I'm warning you to stop harassing my partner."
He looked at
her, cocking his head aside with a quirky half smile. "I do understand. I used
to have to sing if there was another man in the bathroom-"
"No,"
she lowered her voice, "I don't want to hear any more of your
pseudo-sympathy."
"Pseudo-sympathy?"
He repeated, taking his eye drops out of his pocket.
"I don't
know what you think you're achieving, but you're not going to make this any
easier on yourself this way, Mr. Bernstein."
"I'm just
stating my observations— my opinions, Agent Scully. This is still a free country,
isn't it? Oh, but—," he said pulling his cuffed hand up, fumbling the cap
off the eye drops bottle with the move.
The cap rolled
under the table, and he started to go for it, but Scully stopped him. "I'll
get it," she said bending down under the table, looking for it.
Bernstein
glanced around the diner, then looked at Mulder’s iced tea glass. “Do you see
it?” He asked Scully.
“Yeah,” she
answered from half under the table, her voice strained as she stretched for the
cap.
“Should I help
any?” He asked as he reached out and squeezed eye drops into Mulder glass. “I
could use my feet—”
“No,” she
exclaimed. “Don’t.”
Bernstein
flicked his brows upward and shrugged to himself with disinterest now that his
devious task was done.
"Here,"
Scully huffed pulling herself back up to hand the cap to Bernstein.
He smiled,
taking it. "You're so helpful."
"More
tea, sir?" the waitress asked Mulder as he returned from the restroom.
He sat down
looking at his glass. "No, thank you," he decided and drank what he
had left.
*******************************
Ogden,
Utah
7:43
P.M.
"Scully,"
Mulder moaned from the passenger's seat, "pull in at that gas station
ahead."
She
glanced at him. He was wriggling in the seat, his mouth held in a tight
grimace.
"We
shouldn't have eaten in that dive," Bernstein announced from the back
seat.
"Shut
up," Mulder half moaned, half yelled at the man.
"Mulder,
has it gotten worse?" Scully questioned, concerned. Not long after they
had left the restaurant his stomach had begun to bother him. They had already
made two stops for him at gas stations, and it seemed to only be getting worse.
She was concerned but also confused; food poisoning normally didn't manifest
itself for at least seven hours following ingestion.
He
nodded his head hard, beginning to perspire.
"You
can never tell what you're going to pick up in those types of places,"
Bernstein continued his commentary.
"Shut up!" Mulder shouted at him and clutched at his stomach.
"Bernstein, I swear," Scully didn't finish her threat, hurrying the
car off the interstate and into the gas station.
Mulder
was out of the car before she had it stopped, heading for the restroom full
speed.
"I
wouldn't want to be--"
"Bernstein," Scully snapped throwing her arm over the seat back and
twisting to glare at him, "shut the hell up."
Insolent, he pursed his lips, making a zipping gesture across his mouth.
*******************************
Frontier,
Wyoming
The
Pink Cloud Motel
11:06 p.m.
Bernstein
leaned back against the pillows, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched
Scully flip through the road atlas. "So, do you two share motel rooms
often?"
Scully raised
an eyebrow, her gaze flicking up to meet his with cool composure.
"No," she replied firmly, her tone leaving no room for further
inquiry.
Glancing over
at Mulder, who was sound asleep on the adjacent bed, Bernstein's smirk widened.
"That's hard to believe," he remarked, his tone laced with thinly
veiled amusement. "Two intelligent and exceptionally attractive people
like yourselves."
"We have
a professional relationship," Scully replied evenly, her eyes returning to
the map before her. "We value our work."
Bernstein
chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by her response. "Oh, I see,"
he said mockingly. "You two respect each other and value your work. Isn't
it really about protecting those government benefits? Maintaining that G4
rating you've worked so hard to achieve?"
Scully's
expression remained stoic, though a hint of irritation flickered in her eyes.
"Believe what you will," she said tersely, her attention back on the
map, dismissing Bernstein's insinuations with practiced ease.
"We
wouldn’t be sharing a room period if it weren’t for you refusing to fly."
Mulder said rolling onto his back. He sat up slowly, looking pale. “We’d be
home already.”
Scully
went to the nightstand checking the bottle of pink stuff. There was no more
than an once left. Mulder glanced at it, warily.
"You
shouldn't take any more of this." Scully cautioned.
"You're
certainly going to be surprised in the morning when-"
"Bernstein,"
Scully glared at him.
"I'm
not going to take any more," Mulder assured her getting up. "I just
need something to drink. I want a Sprite."
"You
should be drinking water..."
He
was shaking his head. "I want Sprite."
Bernstein
sat upright. "I'd take a Jolt cola."
Scully refused to dignify him with a response. Mulder, on the other hand, was
not as strong. "I'll give you a jolt..." the ailing agent murmured as
he passed.
"I saw a vending machine at the end of the building, I'll get us
drinks," Scully said, checking Bernstein's cuffs before going. “What if
they don’t have Sprite?”
“7-Up,
or anything clear. Except that grapefruit drink.” Mulder instructed.
“Squirt.”
Berstein offered. They turned to look at him. He smiled, “that’s what it’s
called, the grapefruit drink.”
*******************************
“Lots
of generic selections in the machine,” Scully announced coming back to the
room, sodas cradled in her arm. “Lemon-Up. Strawberry Fizz, and a normal
sounding Root Beer.”
No
sooner than she had given him a soda, Bernstein began complaining about his
drink; not only was it not the selection he'd asked for, but it was also not
cold enough.
"It
felt cold enough when I was carrying it," Scully differed with him.
"I can't drink this," the insufferable man complained, his expression
turning sour. "I'll get sick to my stomach."
Mulder
glared at him across the room.
Scully looked at him, vexed. "Deal with it, Bernstein."
"I
have to have ice," he insisted, then cocked his head adding, "is that
really so much to ask for?"
Scully
glanced back at Mulder. He rolled his eyes and nodded toward the door as he
picked up the ice bucket. "I could use some ice water later."
What
he really needed was time away from Bernstein, Scully knew. She had relished
the relative quiet during her brief trip to the vending machine.
Oddly
though, with Mulder off to the churning, spewing ice machine, silence fell on
the room. Scully began gathering things from her bag, preparing for some type
of rest, exactly what quantity, or quality she didn't know. She had to sleep if
she would be doing a majority of the driving as she had today.
"Where
will you be sleeping this evening, Agent Scully?"
"That
shouldn't concern you, Bernstein," she announced turning to look at him
squarely. "What you should be concerned about is where you'll be
sleeping."
Bernstein
was left to think about that as she walked off into the bathroom, or so she
thought. As the bathroom door shut, Bernstein pulled his eye drops out,
glancing at Mulder's open can of Lemon-Up setting on the night stand next to
his own Strawberry Fizz.
**********************************
Washington
D.C.
Thursday, July 1st
8:21 a.m.
If he wished,
he could force himself to consider the requests. If he wanted, he would direct
critical examination at the reports. But the words were meaningless, running
the width of a sheet of paper laying on the desk before Skinner. His heart
wasn't in it this morning; he couldn't keep his attention focused on the files
his assistant had delivered to him over an hour ago. Instead, his attention was
captured by the phone sitting silently on his desk and his concern was ensnared
by the inconceivable reasons there had been no word from agents Mulder or
Scully.
Recently, he
had discovered himself saving the worst imagined scenario of calamity when it
came to their work. Or more actually when it came to Scully. This sudden
insight disturbed him as much on a personal level as it did on a professional
one, because he believed generally, as morbid as it seemed, a person saved
these imagined scenes of misfortune for those they greatly cared about.
Of course he
cared about his agent’s wellbeing, understandably on a professional level, but
as time had passed and the three of them had gone through more personal strife
together, obligation and concern had extended into a sphere of individuality
that transcended standard professionalism. Yet, this unsanctioned sense of
familiarization had transformed even deeper over the course of the last eight
months and was directed more fully at Scully alone.
When did this
happen? He questioned himself, incensed by the questions' necessity.
Understanding
exactly when ordinary concern and care turned to true affection and longing was
a fruitless investment of one's time, but recognizing the fact that it had
occurred was a moment of clarity, filled with anxiety and anger at oneself for
letting it happen.
He was angry
with himself because he was supposed to separate himself from certain people so
this wouldn't happen. This was why there were rules and regulations regarding
fraternization, to avoid the loss of authority and equanimity, the ability to
assign cases without hesitation or the hindrance of unessential caution. These
were the obstacles he was now facing with this assignment.
What was once
rumored, unsubstantiated suspicion was now concentrated in an official document
that came to his attention; a report noting that contracts, two for certain,
had been issued against Gerald Bernstein's life. During what had become a
perpetual monitoring of known and suspected criminal channels, enough
information had been gathered from both the west and east coast to justify the
FBI stepping up its level of protection for Bernstein.
He reached for
the phone, and it rang in his hand. It was Kimberly ringing into his office.
Was this word from Mulder and Scully? It rang twice before he picked it up. "Yes,
Ms. Cook?"
"Sir, I
have Agent Scully on line one for you."
Skinner opened
the line immediately. "Agent Scully, I was expecting a status update last
night,” he snapped into the phone abruptly.
"Yes,
sir," her voice came back, horse. "There's been... we've had..."
she drifted off and Skinner heard her take and audible breath. "Mulder has
contracted an incapacitating stomach virus and I don't see him being able to
continue on with me."
She sounded
haggard, exhausted. "Have you slept, Scully?"
There
was a pause. "Yes," she lied.
Skinner
leaned forward, planting his elbows firmly on his desk blotter. "Where are
you?" he asked, lowering his voice. Softening his tone.
"A motel
in Frontier, Wyoming. It's off of Interstate 84." She paused for a second,
then, "the Pink Cloud motel."
"Scully, a
report came across my desk first thing this morning prompting an immediate increase
in Bernstein's security. Word is that two contracts have been placed against
the man."
"As the
Bureau has suspected for some time," she commented.
"Scully,
I want you to continue to the nearest field office. I'll make the arrangements
for another agent to join you for the rest of this trip."
"Sir,
the nearest office is Denver."
He
rubbed forehead roughly. She couldn't continue on with Bernstein by herself.
Not that she wasn't capable of handling the man, but it was against bureau
policy for a single agent to escort prisoners, especially when contracts
existed on their lives.
Skinner took
only a second to think. "Do you have any idea what the closet municipal airfield
is?"
"Uh,"
she hesitated, and he could hear papers rustling. "It looks like Rock
Springs, according to this map."
"How far
is it?"
"Seventy
miles at the most," she replied.
"I
want you to head there, I'll make arrangements for an agent to meet you."
************************************
Rock Springs, Wyoming
Municipal Airport Terminal
3:45 p.m.
"My
back is killing me," Bernstein complained, "I'm going to need
therapy, I know it."
Scully
ignored him, watching the incoming prop shuttle carrying her new partner.
The
flight had been due in at three per the information from Kimberly Cook, and
Scully was sure they would be late getting to the airport, what with Bernstein
insisting on lunch and then several imperative pitstops along the short
distance to this municipal field. But as it turned out, the flight was late
coming in from Cheyenne.
"You
realize I will be making an official complaint to the proper channels regarding
my sleeping conditions last night." Bernstein told Scully.
"Yes,"
she answered him, "so you've told me several times."
"Don't
take this lightly, agent Scully."
"I'm
not." She replied brusquely.
She
had enough to be concerned with other than this joker's "formal" and
"official" complaints. She had left her agonizing partner alone in a
ratty motel to fend for himself over seventy miles away and spent the better
part of two and a half hours on a drive that should have taken an hour, dealing
with one of most insufferable men she had ever come in contact with. And now,
she was about to join up with an agent unknown for the rest of what she already
knew was going to be the worst road trip of her life. It had already been one
for the records and she wasn't looking forward to the rest of it.
God
help her, let this agent be someone she could gain some type of basic
connection with, she thought. The last thing she needed was to be hemmed in on one
side by Bernstein and then the other by some mid-western dullard of an agent.
She
didn’t deserve this assignment, she thought watching the plane touch down
through the picture windows. She had only been on the West Coast thanks to
Mulder's interest in the "ancient Indian" story. And a story was all
it had turned out to be. No more than a drunken local who could spin a good
yarn and an even better one with the help of local profiteers.
But
here she was in the middle of nowhere; in charge of "the Spider"
Bernstein just because she and Mulder had been the closet agents who just
happened to be on their way back to Washington.
The
plane was taxiing now, moving toward the terminal.
It
was quite a picture, oddly enough. Rather mundane if only considered a moment;
the plane, small against its multi-passenger wide body brothers, was strikingly
majestic against the backdrop of billowing white clouds filling a stark blue
sky.
That
was great, a startling picture of simplicity against the amazing contrast of nature’s
complexity, but what was this agent's name again? Kim Cook had called after
Skinner with only the time of the flight to expect an agent on but neither she nor
Skinner called with the information about just who it was she was supposed to
be meeting.
She
didn't like this, especially with Bernstein the focus of several possible mob
hits; this wasn't the time to not know whom one was supposed to be meeting.
Scully
pulled her cell phone out and began to call Skinner's office for the third time
since talking to Ms. Cook this morning.
Pointing
toward a nearby sign, Bernstein offered his two cents worth as usual,
"you're not allowed to use those in here."
Scully
glanced at the sign proclaiming, 'THE USE OF CELLULAR EQUIPMENT IS PROHIBITED.'
"Why
don't you add this infraction to your official complaint." She told him
and took a few steps away from the man she'd hand cuffed to the rail running
the length of the picture windows.
Again,
she received voice mail for both Skinner and Ms. Cook. Where had they gone?
What, was there a little something going on there? An inner office... Scully
grunted at her own foolishness and tried Skinner's cell phone again. Again, she
received the standard message that this cellular customer was unavailable.
There
was only one thing left to do, she decided and dialed for information to get
the Denver field office number.
"This
is agent Dana Scully; I need to speak to the office director. I'm at the Rock
Springs airport in Wyoming to meet an agent coming out of your location and I
have no idea who they are though."
She
waited, watching the plane come to a stop on the tarmac, then the ground crew,
consisting of two wiry looking young men, scurry out to it. They furiously
worked to move the stairway up to the hatch then began the various tasks of
unloading luggage and packages while the on-board crew popped the hatch and
people began to slowly disembark.
A
heavyset woman was first to depart the plane, her floral dress furrowing in the
wind, her hat threatening to fly away. She hesitated in the hatchway, holding
down her skirt with one hand, and her at with the other, all of which was
holding up off-boarding. Soon enough, with her clothing under control, she
continued down the stairs, followed by two men in jeans and cowboy hats. A
small boy holding a multi-colored pool float was followed by a small girl who
Scully assumed was her mother. It was a very diverse crowd to say the least,
she thought.
"Agent
Scully?" A woman's voice suddenly came back on the line.
"Yes, who is this?"
"This is agent Kate Atkins, how can I help you, because I'm just a little
confused by what the receptionist just told me?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, as I understand you're waiting to meet an agent from this
office?"
"Yes, what's the problem?" Scully's brow began to furrow, her eyes
focusing on the departing plane passengers.
"Well, agent Scully, I do not see that any agent from the Denver office
has been sent to meet with you." Agent Atkins explained.
"Are
you certain?" Scully questioned urgently.
"Now
that guy's got government written all over him," Bernstein said catching
Scully's attention.
She
turned back, looking out the window again as agent Atkins continued to explain,
"we did receive a call this morning, requesting assistance for an agent in
Wyoming, which I will assume now was you, but unfortunately we weren't able to
comply with the request because of a major...."
"Agent
Atkins," Scully broke in as she watched Assistant Director Walter Skinner
making his way down the stairway from the plane to the tarmac, "I was
mistaken. Thank you."
Prepossessed,
she terminated the call watching him descend the stairway, bag in hand, the
wind flapping at his navy suit jacket and multi-print tie.
"What
is he doing here?" She questioned under her breath. The man was impossible
to ignore. She found herself watching him descend the stairs a bastion in this
dreadful situation she’d become mired in.
The terminal doors to the outside came open at the foot of a small stairway not
far from where Scully was standing. She waited, impatient, wondering, and
curious as the woman in the hat appeared then the cowboys, the boy and his
sister, mother in tow and then, set apart from the rest by unquestionable
contrast Skinner stepped through the door. He looked directly up the short
stairway and at Scully, as though he knew exactly where she would be standing.
"Agent
Scully," he greeted her with a dip of his chin.
"Sir,"
she mirrored his gesture. "I didn't expect you would be the agent meeting
me," she immediately began to question his peculiar arrival, "what
are you doing here?"
"The
Denver office wasn't able to free up agents to join you," he explained,
annoyance saturating his tone. "Apparently, there's a white supremacy
gathering for the Fourth of July weekend outside Casper, so the bureau has
concentrated a majority of their agents from Denver and Salt Lake there."
"I
just spoke to an agent Atkins who mentioned their inability to offer support. But
I'm surprised to see you, sir."
"I
didn't have time to call, didn't my assistant call?"
"No, the last time I spoke to her was this morning. I've only gotten her
voice mail since."
Skinner
shook his head, frowning. This wasn't like Ms. Cook at all; but then again, she
hadn't seemed quite herself for the past week, perhaps two now. He would
address this when he returned, but now there were more pressing matters to
contend with.
"A
breakdown in communication seems only par for the course on this
assignment," Skinner remarked then nodded toward the man that was
obviously the prisoner. "He's looking pretty good for a man who's afraid
to fly."
Bernstein
appeared very content, serene almost, as he stood watching the runway activity,
and every so often glancing Skinner's way curiously.
"He
insists it's a fear of small places rather than the actual mode of
transportation." Scully explained.
"Then
how's he been able to sit in a car for extended periods of time?"
"Unfortunately,
time spent in the car hasn't been very extensive," she answered, sounding
tired. "Between Mulder becoming ill yesterday and then Bernstein's need to
get out and walk around, we haven't been making very good time."
"That's
going to change," Skinner declared in his not-going-to-take-any-crap
tone.
"I've
had the federal prosecutor's office breathing down my neck for constant
progress reports since they discovered this little cross-country venture."
That
was one motive, she thought, the need to escape the constant demands he'd been
put under since this assignment arose. But at the back of her mind other
suspicions tugged at her, wanting her to believe he didn't come fifteen hundred
miles just to escort a priority prisoner back to D.C.
"How
was Mulder when you left him?"
"Last night was rough, but he seemed better before I left, but not one
hundred percent. He said he would visit an area doctor before leaving for
Washington."
Skinner
nodded. "Let's get going."
************************************
Frontier,
Wyoming
The Pink Cloud Motel
4:18 p.m.
At
least he wasn't dying, as far as the rent-a-doc could tell in his cursory
examination, Mulder mused as he pulled back up in front of the motel room. He
was feeling better; the nausea had passed, as well as the constant crippling
cramps. Perhaps, as the doctor had suggested, whatever had gripped him was passing,
just a twenty-four-hour bug.
Getting
out of the rental car Scully had the rental agency deliver he glanced at one of
the packets of pills he'd been given at the medical facility, shaking his head.
Bismuth salicylate, he'd been told when handed the pills, pink stuff without
the pink. What had he expected, a full battery of tests and a complete physical
from a facility located in the same strip mall as Neil's TV's and a submarine
sandwich shop?
He
stuffed them back in his pocket in exchange for the room key, hoping his flight
back to D.C. would be as uneventful as the last forty-five minutes he'd just
spent not racing to the bathroom.
"Excuse
me," a man's voice sounded from behind him.
Mulder turned seeing two men approaching him, dressed sharply but not flashy,
their eyes hidden by expensive sunglasses. These two didn't fit in around these
parts; where he and Scully looked like salesmen, these two looked like they
just came off a casting call for a Scorsese film.
Mulder's
guard went up instantly.
"Is this your room?" One asked.
"Not for long, I'm sure you can get it if you ask the desk clerk nice
enough."
They glanced at each other, and then at Mulder.
"That's cute, chief" the other said, his mouth a grim, tight slash.
"I bet you got a million of them." The first said reaching into the
fold of his jacket.
Mulder instinctively drew his weapon on them, "hold it there!"
They froze, their faces granite.
"Hands where I can see them," Mulder ordered them, focusing on the
man who had reached into his jacket.
"Hey, chief, we don't mean no trouble--"
"Now! Hands up!"
From
the corner of his eye Mulder saw the quick flash of a head poking out a nearby
door. "Stay inside your room!" He yelled glancing down the breezeway
for a split second.
That
moment was the opportunity the two men before him needed. Both of them bolted
in opposite directions, yanking guns from beneath their jackets as they ducked
between cars.
One
shot rang out, the bullet zinging past Mulder's cheek hitting the motel room
window. Glass exploded and a scream sounded from nearby. Hearing doors slamming
shut, Mulder ducked for shelter in front of the rental car.
"We
don't want any trouble. We just want Bernstein, where is he?" Mulder
recognized the first man's voice.
The
agent wasn't about to give up his location despite the fact they probably knew
exactly where he had ducked for cover. He checked between the parked cars; it
was clear, and he moved for the cover of the next car.
Another
shot rang out and the rear-view mirror shattered on the rental car.
Perhaps
it hadn't been as clear as he thought.
A groggy looking man in the motel room directly in front of the agent pulled
the shades wide open to peer out. Mulder furiously motioned for him to get down,
but the man only frowned at him.
"Get
down!" Mulder finally shouted at him and a third and fourth shot sounded.
The
man ducked out of sight as Mulder heard a window bust somewhere in the parking
lot.
He
leaned down, peering under the cars. He could see only one set of shoes to his
right, heading between the cars toward the building where he was fully exposed.
"Come
on, where's Bernstein?" the first man kept yelling from Mulder's left. The
agent glanced back under the cars but couldn't see where he was. He turned back
quickly, knowing the other would be in the open any moment now.
The
agent took a breath and came up off the ground into a squat leading his aim to
the right, his eyes searching through car windows for the second man. It seemed
like an eternity before anything happened, but when it did it happened in a
flash. Four cars down, the man emerged quickly from between the vehicles.
"Hold
it!" Mulder shouted at him, but it was useless. The man was heedless,
firing off two rounds in Mulder's direction.
Mulder
stumbled, firing as he went, feeling as though a sledgehammer had slammed into
his chest. Despite having been shot his aim was true, clipping the man in the
right shoulder, sending him to the ground with a single shot.
Without
thought to his condition, without hesitation, heart racing and adrenaline
coursing through his body, Mulder rushed the downed man, kicking his gun clear
of his reach. "Stay down! Don't move!" He shouted, pressing his foot
into the man's side, forcing him on to his stomach.
Reaching
for his hand cuffs Mulder scanned the parking lot for the second man, then
quickly checked himself for damage; he wasn't bleeding but he felt like he'd
been kicked in the chest by a horse.
"Shit,"
he hissed realizing he'd given Scully his cuffs as a spare for Bernstein. Then
a car door slammed shut somewhere in the parking lot.
He
craned his head in the direction of the sound, hearing an engine race to life.
He rushed out from between the cars to see a black sedan lunging from a far
parking space, headed for the exit. Without thought Mulder started across the
lot in a full sprint, once clear of the cars he fired on the sedan only to miss
and finally lose sight of it beyond the buildings.
He
threw his arms out in frustration, feeling his chest muscles and ligaments
object. Again, he checked himself, torn between instinctively wanting to go
after the car and containing the man he had captured.
Looking
at himself he saw that he had been hit, but not shot.
He
reached into his coat pocket pulling out his cell phone, feeling bits of it
falling away into the pocket.
