Title: Texas Swing
Author: N. Y. Smith
E-Mail Address: minismith@aol.com
Home page: http://members.aol.com/minismith/write/
Date: July 18, 1998
Rating: PG-13: Some coarse language, mildly disturbing themes
Category: SRA Alternate universe
Spoilers: None, really
Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance, Mulder/Scully/Skinner Friendship, Alternate Universe
Summary: The disappearance of 2 DEA agents draws Mulder, Scully and AD Skinner into a deadly web of deception in the Texas Panhandle.
Disclaimer: Story copyright reserved by the author. (Who else would
want it?) Most of the characters contained herein (e.g., Mulder, Scully,
Skinner) are the property of Fox, Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, et al, who retain the rights to those
characters.
Archiving: Gossamer okay; all others please ask permission.
Author Notes: This is one of a series of sketches that will flesh out the events leading up to my story "Between Lies." Feedback is greatly appreciated. Those of you who know the Cap Rock country will probably take me to task on several things. You'll probably also recognize the hotel as the "Classic Inn" in Childress-I always enjoyed my stays there. Those of you who are not familiar with the Cap Rock country probably cannot imagine the vastness of the landscape and the beauty of the canyon itself. The drive from Silverton to Quitaque is beautiful and demanding-I nearly burned out the clutch in a rental car before finally coming down off "the Cap." The story stems from my wicked imagination and from a Wall Street Journal article several years ago about local farmers turning from traditional crops-cotton, beans, millet and the like- to drug running when the weather turned against them-as it often does. Growing dryland cotton in that area is a high-stakes gamble and those hardy folks who live there defy the odds and the mesquite more often than they fail. In my travels there, I found them to be good people-but you never know what good people will do when they're about to lose everything.
The following songs are used without permission:
"Callin' Baton Rouge" -- Garth Brooks
"Til I Loved You"-- Restless Heart
* * *
Texas Swing
* * *
Texas Panhandle
Summer, 1993
A fiddle tweedled and a steel guitar twanged into a perfectly lovely dream about New Orleans and a bed-and-breakfast in the Spanish section of the Quarter. A replay of last night's events roll through my mind-except a scene or two erased by sweet red wine- "Turn it off, Mulder," she commanded. "If this is your idea of a sick joke . . ." Dana Scully rolled over onto an empty pillow. I need a cup of coffee and a couple dollars change, Callin' Baton Rouge. "You and me both, cowboy," she batted at the clock-radio, failing to quell but finally quieting the din. That was Garth Brooks and Callin' Baton Rouge on KCAP, the voice of the Cap Rock country in Quitaque, Texas. It's 85 degrees at 7 am. Forecast for today is hot and dry. Winds from the west at 20 miles per hour. "Why are we here, Mulder?" she asked the empty pillow.
"You're up," a voice from the door answered-a voice bearing coffee, one cream no sugar.
She glowered at him while greedily slurping the contents of the tall styrofoam cup. How he managed to look so good in a golf shirt and khakis was beyond her-"Where have you been?"
He sat on the bed and leaned on an elbow. "Oh, I've just been over at the Country Kitchen talking with 'the boys.'"
"'The boys'?"
"Yeah," he grinned. "Wendell says he's gonna lose everything if the price of cotton doesn't come up. Earl says he won't have any cotton to sell if it doesn't rain. Jimmy says that if the drought doesn't get him, the whiteflies will and Joe Will says that between the drought and the whiteflies he'll be lucky to make a bale per 3 acres."
Scully looked at him in amazement. "And exactly what does all that mean?" she asked.
"I have absolutely no idea."
She shook her head and downed the last of the coffee. "Why are we here, Mulder?"
He feigned umbrage at her tone. "Why, Scully, you know we're here about the cattle mutilations."
She rolled her eyes. "If I'm gonna get in trouble for wasting the taxpayers' money could I at least do it for some place a little more exotic than Copperville-"
"Silverton," he corrected.
"Whatever, Texas?"
This time he really was hurt. "But Scully, we really are here about cattle mutilations."
She rummaged through her suitcase. "Mulder, we are not looking for little green-"
"Gray." He pulled out a pair of her khakis and dangled them in front of her.
"-men in this one-motel town." She snatched the slacks out of his hand.
"Of course we're not. Hell, no." He took a deep breath. "There's an old Comanche legend about a-"
"I'm not listening, Mulder." She stepped into the bathroom, only partially shutting the door. "You hear me? I'm not listening."
He fell backwards onto the bed listening to the shower. Her pillow smelled of her and the radio played softly. 'Til I loved you. I had never tasted tears of joy. When I take you in my arms, there's no doubt in my mind, this is where I belong, the loneliness is gone, I was livin' my life all wrong, 'til I loved you. That was Restless Heart and 'Til I Loved You. You're listening to KCAP, classic Cap Rock country. Weather today- Mulder found the off button and eavesdropped on her morning ritual--the soft sounds of her bathing, then dressing, praying this time would never end for them-the time when there was only them, a case, and open road before them.
* * *
Dana Scully, pathologist, stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked in annoyance. "I can't believe you dragged me to Silverville-"
"Silverton-"
"Texas to look at this?" She kicked up a puff of loess in the general direction of the half-eaten cattle carcass before her.
"This is the twelfth carcass to turn up like this--"
"Mulder, this area is in the middle of a drought. Predators who've hunted out the diminishing fauna would naturally turn to livestock."
"But don't you think the predation is excessive?" he protested weakly.
"Judging by the dentation it's obviously a coyote or mountain lion or some other medium-sized predator." Her hand left a print on top of the dust-covered car. "Give it up, Mulder."
He harumphed as he slid behind the wheel. The air conditioner waged a futile battle against the vicious heat. Steel guitars twanged from the radio and he punched the "seek" button. It "sought" right back to where it started and he silenced it with an angry poke.
"We'll catch hell from Skinner when we get back, Mulder," she chastised over the hum of the radial tires when they'd returned to the shimmering highway.
"Skinner's on vacation," he winked. "By the time he gets back this expense report will be buried underneath a mountain of bureaucratic bullshit."
"If we're lucky," Scully warned.
"I'd rather be lucky than good."
"I'd rather be both." She turned her back to the passenger door and laid her head on the headrest, pulling her knees onto the seat between them.
He settled into the driver's seat for the long drive back to Silverton. "You are." He used her knees as an armrest and marveled at the vastness of the South Plains as the drone of the tires lulled her to sleep.
* * *
"Hey, Scully, wake up. We're here."
"Where's here?" she asked fuzzily.
"Scenic Silverton, Texas. The flower of Briscoe county."
"Look at that, Mulder." The parking lot of City Hall was brimming with police cars, Suburbans and pickup trucks.
"Yeah, I see it. Did somebody call for a posse and forget to tell us?" He pulled into the parking lot behind a horse trailer that was hitched to a battered Blazer.
"What are you doing, Mulder?"
"Where's your curiosity, Scully? Don't you wanna know what's going on to draw most of the lawmen in this end of Texas?"
"No, Mulder, I don't." She turned her back to him. "Skinner will have us locked in the basement for a year if we get caught up in a local matter here."
But Mulder had already bounced out of the rental car and was approaching the back of the crowd. A tall florid redhead stood in the center on a milk crate. "Before we get started, let me introduce myself. My name is Dave Logan and I'm the DEA Agent in Charge for Lubbock district. First thing, I want to thank you all for coming. It's gratifying to know that we can count on this level of interagency cooperation in situations like this. Your skill and determination are the only things standing between my agents and disaster. As most of you already know, Drug Enforcement Agents Raul Garcia and Elpidia Quintanilla have been missing since last night. Now Garcia was a Ranger in the Army so the chances they've survived the night are still quite good." He checked his watch. "I've asked Briscoe County Sheriff Bingford to co-ordinate the location of the search teams. Shep-" He turned to a middle-aged man with wizened eyes.
"Thanks, Agent Logan. Going from last reports the missing agents filed we've identified a 100-mile-square area for the search." A blacked-out Suburban with Texas state government plates slid into a parking place behind the crowd. "That's 64,000 acres both above and below the Cap."
A whisper rolled across the crowd, "They're here; they're here," was repeated on every lip. Sheriff Bingford paused.
"Who's here?" Mulder asked the grizzled lawman next to him. Scully stood on tip-toe to see.
"Ranger T. R. Skinner's boys," rasped the surprisingly awestruck lawman. "Third generation Texas lawmen." The crowd parted like the Red Sea and 4 men strode down the newly-formed aisle. The sun had dipped below the brim of their straw Stetsons and yellow light bathed the stony faces. "That one there on the right with the beard is Will. He's the sheriff of Blanco county," he whispered almost reverently. "Walt-he's the one in the glasses-is some bigwig with the FBI. Tommy-he's the tallest--is a colonel in the Texas Rangers." Had they been wearing frock coats and carrying Colts instead of 9mm semi-automatics they couldn't have looked more like the Earps descending on Tombstone. A tumbleweed rolled down Main Street behind them, as if on cue.
"Who's that with them?" Scully nodded at a younger version of the tallest man.
"Tommy's boy, Trip. He's the Senior Resident Texas Ranger for the Panhandle area."
Each of the Skinners surveyed the faces in the crowd. When Walt Skinner spotted Mulder he paused long enough for his eyes to narrow slightly.
Shit, shit, shit, thought Mulder. Busted.
The brothers took a place to the left of the speaker and the Sheriff continued. "Because of the noise and maneuverability factor, I want the teams with All Terrain Vehicles to search the 16,000 designated acres above. I'll coordinate the ATV search teams from here. The teams on horseback will search the 48,000 acres below the Cap--which includes the State Park." He cocked his hat back. "I don't think I have to tell you that's 75 square miles of some of the roughest terrain in the Panhandle. Colonel Skinner, would you coordinate the riders below the Cap?"
The tallest brother's hat bobbed once. "Search teams will meet at the Park office at dawn--ready to ride."
"Good," the Sheriff approved. "Now the terrain presents several problems, not the least of which is communication. Ranger Sergeant Trip Skinner," the sheriff nodded at the younger Skinner, "will use a Huey from the Marine Corps Reserve to perform aerial recon in areas between the search parties. He will also relay messages between the teams above and below the Cap."
Mulder shifted his weight restlessly while the details droned on. We are strangers in a strange land, Scully, he thought as he surveyed the sea of care-worn Stetsons. Dark eyes bright with determination gazed through slits in the leathery faces that topped uniform shirts worn over jeans. The ever-present wind kicked up powdery dust on the boots that Mulder had heard called "ropers." And standing in the middle was Walter S. Skinner, Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose suits always fit impeccably, whose shoes-boots, actually-were always polished impeccably, whose ties-have I ever seen him without a tie? Mulder mused-were always knotted impeccably, whose entire demeanor bespoke Washington bureaucrat. But his dress, his stance, his bearing all identified him as a senior member of this clannish group of frontier lawmen. They all had, well, grit. Mulder reddened at the recollection of how often, too often, he'd been the beneficiary of it. The speeches ceased and the crowd stirred.
"Here it comes," Scully warned of the approaching Assistant Director.
Here it comes, thought Mulder realizing he was about to be the victim of Skinner's no-nonsense sensibilities.
"Agent Scully, Agent Mulder," he crossed his arms across his broad chest and planted his boots solidly in the brownish powder. "What a surprise to see you here. I thought you were in California--" He waited for an explanation.
"We were, sir," Scully began, "but we-"
"We stopped off here to investigate a complaint of," Mulder paused and reddened, "cattle mutilations."
Skinner only raised an eyebrow.
"We found them to be simple animal predation, probably caused by the drought," Scully explained.
"We're flying back to Washington tomorrow-" Mulder waited for an explosion. Instead he was chastised by a loud sigh. He would have preferred the explosion to the condescension.
"No," came the response in a parent's "I'll teach you a lesson" voice, "I think, for once, you're in the right place at the right time."
Mulder turned and grimaced at Scully as Skinner motioned for his nephew to join them.
"Yes, sir?" the younger man responded to the summons.
"Trip, you still need someone to ride shotgun in the helo?" In court, it would have declared a leading question. The younger man nodded, "Agents Scully and Mulder-" a shadow of recognition flashed across the Ranger's face at the mention of their names-"are at your disposal until further notice."
Mulder started to object, but Scully grabbed his arm and muttered sharply.
Skinner continued, "Since the agents in our Amarillo field office are all involved in the Travis investigation, we'll just have to count on Mulder and Scully to take up the slack for their fellow agents, won't we?" It wasn't really a question.
"Of course, sir," Scully answered first.
"Our time is yours," Mulder replied.
"I thought so." Sometimes, if you wait long enough, Skinner thought. "Besides," he twisted the knife further, uncharacteristically, "they're no good to us on the ground." Mulder studied his dusty shoes, searching for words to refute what he knew was the truth.
Skinner instantly regretted his cruelty. "After all Scully is a doctor and Mulder has a great talent for selecting and organizing obscure clues into a logical investigative path." The brothers joined them. "Their talents would be wasted on the ground."
Mulder's face brightened perceptibly. Skinner marveled, as he often did, at how Mulder responded to praise-like a drought-stricken flower responded to a gentle rain. What kind of family could have produced this often child-like man-brilliant yet so hungry for approval but almost phobic of it? He looked at his brothers and breathed a quick prayer of thanks. "Agents Scully and Mulder, these are my brothers, Tommy and Will. Mulder and Scully will be riding shotgun with Trip."
Both brothers shook hands with Mulder but tipped their hats to Scully. Had she not been so flattered by their courtliness she would have been offended at the unequal treatment. We are strangers in a strange land, Mulder, she thought.
"Hope you brought plenty of Dramamine," Will needled his nephew.
"Or a large trash bag," Tommy picked up the gauntlet.
"I thought that was why they put the big door on the side," Scully said pointedly then smiled demurely.
The brothers looked at her for a second, as if not knowing how to take her remark, then broke up laughing. "She'll be alright," Tommy's voice echoed respect and acceptance and Scully was surprised to find herself flattered again. "I don't know about you two, but I'd like to get below the Cap before it gets completely dark."
"Not to mention dawn will come only too soon," Will said.
"Don't remind me," Walter reached over and waved good-bye to his nephew and the agents. Will did the same and followed him but Tommy lingered a moment.
He grabbed his son in a bear hug and whispered, "You be careful, boy."
"I will, Daddy, I promise." He returned a manly wave as the black Suburban slid into the gathering gloom. "So, do you folks want steak or," he turned a full circle searching for another open eating establishment, "steak?"
Mulder looked down the dusty street and the one stop light changed from yellow to red. "How about steak?" he grinned.
Scully nodded. "I say steak," and she led them across the street to the only open restaurant in town.
* * *
Despite the lack of competition, the steak was surprisingly tasty which Mulder confirmed by practically inhaling his. They exchanged small talk in between bites-Trip was 29, married, father of 3, he'd served 4 years in the Marines, he'd been a Texas Ranger for 7 years and in the Panhandle for 2 years. He entertained them by recounting a few of his adventures since he'd been in the Panhandle. Scully and Mulder returned the courtesy by spinning tales of the more believable of their adventures. Mulder embellished them, though, to fantastic effect. He'd just finished recounting a morphing-alien enhanced version of their investigation into corpses that emitted toxic odors when the hostess coughed from behind the register. They realized they were the only ones in the restaurant. They paid quickly and slipped outside into the parking lot the restaurant shared with the motel. They chit-chatted a moment more while Mulder and Scully's minds searched for some way to hide, from their boss' nephew, the fact that they would be returning to their room. Singular. Trip seemed oblivious to their discomfort-or to their relief-when he finally said, "I hate to break this up, but it's after 2100 we're due to be on the flight line in Tulia at 0530. That means we'll have to leave here about 0500."
"Ouch," Scully disapproved.
"Just enough time to pick up coffee and biscuits and the daily news," Mulder observed drily.
The Ranger grinned, "Yeah. 'Night."
They waited for the young man's door before to shut before opening the door to their own room. It was cool and quiet and, after a day in the blowing dust, the shower beckoned seductively. Scully, freshly scrubbed, was dozing in the soft, clean sheets when she felt his chest against her back. She raised her head and he slid his arm underneath it, pulling her so close she could feel his heart beat. His other arm slid around her and began "roaming."
"May I remind you that AD Skinner's nephew occupies the next room?" she chastised ruefully.
"Oops. Forgot. Damn," he breathed as he snuggled closer.
She pulled his arm around her. "How did you make up that bit about the morphing alien?" she asked dreamily.
He smoothed her hair. "I just told it the way it happened." His voice drowsed. "Don't you remember?"
"Sure I do, Mulder," she mumbled sarcastically. He snored lightly and she drifted off in his sheltering arms.
* * *
Fox Mulder peeked out the window. Dawn was lightening the eastern sky but had not yet overtaken the darkness.
The scent of her perfume preceded her gracefully. "See anything?"
"No. Not even the chickens are up yet."
She fiddled with her earring while she peeked out the window, too. "Is the restaurant open yet? I'd kill for some coffee."
"Just a minute ago. Do you want me to get you some?"
"No, I'm almost ready," she replied. "I'll walk over there with you." She clipped her holster on her belt, then covered it with a vest.
"Why, Miss Dale, you look prettier'n a yearling filly," he teased, opening the door and ushering her outside.
"You're not so bad yourself, Cowboy Roy," she retorted over her shoulder and walked straight into Trip Skinner who had just exited his room.
"Whoa, there," he said and stepped backwards. In an instant he took in the whole view-the two of them exiting the same room, Mulder's hand brushing the small of Scully's back in a familiar fashion. "I was, I thought I'd get some coffee and a couple of sausage biscuits for the road," he stammered and escaped across the parking lot.
"Shit," Mulder whispered and they followed him.
They had ridden in uneasy silence, the Blazer occasionally jostling on the weatherbeaten road. Mulder had selected the front seat and Scully sat in the rear. They occasionally passed glances between them that had some meaning that Trip Skinner could not fathom. "One of the things I like about the Panhandle," he began, "is that everybody minds his own business. As long as you're not breaking the law or hurting anybody, they pretty well leave you to your own conscience." He pulled into a parking place next to a battered hangar marked USMC and turned in his seat to face both of them. "Look, your private life is nobody's business but your own. It's not my place to say anything about it," he said firmly. It wasn't until they exhaled simultaneously that he realized they'd been holding their breath. "Unless you give me a really good reason to tell him, Uncle Walt's gonna have to figure this one out on his own," he grinned. "Now," he grabbed his flight bag, "let's get smokin'."
* * *
They had been in the saddle since dawn. Tommy had, characteristically, saved the toughest trail for them to explore and they had trailered the horses as far as possible into the rocky canyon. The first mile of the Upper Ranch Road trail was extremely treacherous and more than once Walter had been tempted to dismount and walk up the canyon. But something-confidence, pride or hubris, he could not say- kept him in the saddle. It had been well over a year since he had been astride a horse and, right now, he was regretting every day of it. Now it wasn't the horse's fault. Sandy was a surefooted jug-headed buckskin stallion with an agreeable disposition and a silky canter. And Tommy had remembered to bring his brother's personal saddle-the one with the oversized tree and the extra padding for long days just like this one. It's my own damn fault, he cursed himself over the neglect. So he shifted his weight in the saddle and struggled to maintain his mount while the animal nimbly picked a trail up the rocky 16 degree grade. His eyes skillfully scanned the landscape for any trace of recent human visitation. This wasn't the first time he'd ridden the back country searching for a missing lawman. The last time he'd done this he'd done so with a broken heart. Will's voice crackled in Walter's earpiece. "So, how does it feel to be back in the saddle again, big brother?" Will was 100 yards down the trail and Tommy was 100 yards up the trail.
Tommy goaded, "Is it better or worse than a day in that fancy Washington office?" Engine blast from the helicopter drowned out the more graphic portions of the retort.
Trip Skinner is a madman, Scully had decided just before she lost her breakfast. It had only taken a few sudden stops and turns as they screamed across the landscape for Scully to lose her "air legs." Mulder, on the other hand, sat in the co-pilot's seat-the idiotic grin on his face mirroring the one on Skinner's. They both looked like 16-year-olds joyriding in daddy's Porsche. Her empty stomach rolled again. And the music made it worse. Trip had dropped something heavy-metal into the tape deck and was blasting it through the intercom system. Her head pounded and her stomach rolled as the helicopter lurched left. She felt them circling counterclockwise and both "kids" were looking at something on the ground. Mercifully, Trip cut the music.
"Air recon to search team. How's it going?"
"Nowhere," Tommy replied.
"Any good news?" Will asked.
"Nada," Trip replied.
"How's your help?" AD Skinner asked pointedly.
Trip looked over his shoulder at Scully whose complexion was improving to pale green. "Just fine, sir." Mulder grinned at Trip. "Just fine." He autorotated west. "See ya on the flip!" The brothers waved through the cloud of dust kicked up by the rotor wash.
Mulder shot his partner the "Are you OK?" look and she replied with her patented "I'm fine" look.
"Thank you, Trip" Scully's voice sounded weak over the intercom.
"Aw, don't mention it," he drawled. "I get seasick in anything much bigger than Mom and Dad's pool." He consoled. "How long have you guys worked together?" He changed the subject.
"It's been just under a year since they sent Scully to spy on me," Mulder winked.
"Just over a year, Mulder," Scully corrected. Both of them flushed when they realized how much they sounded like a "couple."
Trip grinned at their discomfort. They continued their eastward swath, checking in with search teams as they spotted them. "That's it for beneath the Cap."
"Just what is the Cap?" Mulder's curiosity finally got the best of him.
"The Cap Rock," Trip said, as if that explained everything. The confused faces before him prompted further explanation. "It's the southern edge of the Great Plains. Our altitude here is 1,000 feet below Silverton." He autorotated 180 degrees and pitched forward, pitching Mulder and Scully backward. The bare sandstone formations sped below them until they faced a sandstone wall. Trip yanked on the controls and they rose straight up along the face of the escarpment.
"Wow," Mulder gulped when they reached the top and his stomach caught up with him.
"Oh-h-h," Scully moaned when her stomach caught up with her.
The pilot grinned and the helo screamed across the pancake-like landscape.
"What's that?" Mulder pointed at a rowed field of what looked like grass. Scully peered between them through the chin bubble.
"Millet," Trip answered. "Down here farmers plant it when the dryland cotton has failed. To make a little something out of the year."
"What's that?" Scully pointed past Trip to a field that was yellow- and brownish-green.
Trip hovered over the field. The plants waved stiffly in the rotor wash, their white and rose-colored blooms peeking out of the sickly green. "This is dryland cotton. The annual rainfall up here is about 20 inches. If it comes at the right time, it's just enough to make a crop. But if it comes at the wrong time-"
"Or doesn't come at all-" Mulder added.
"Or doesn't come at all," Skinner continued. "The fields just burn up."
"Total loss?" Scully asked.
"Worse; they're in the hole for seed, fuel and chemicals." He shifted in his seat. "They get desperate for money and that makes them vulnerable."
"Vulnerable to what?" Mulder asked, gazing across the parched field.
"Less-than-legal opportunities to make money. Mostly drug-running." Trip pointed to skid marks on the highway below. "See those?"
"They're skid marks," Mulder answered matter-of-factly. "From a large truck, maybe."
The pilot shook his head. "Large trucks wouldn't put skid marks on the outside of both lanes, Agent Mulder."
"A plane?" Scully guessed.
"Yep," Trip circled the marks. "There's tracks beside the highway- something with dual wheels. Tractor-trailer or even a flat-bed bob-truck." He sighed, "Well, that was somebody's mortgage payment."
"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.
"The law doesn't mean much to a man who's about to lose his home or his family, Agent Mulder. He'll do anything, and I mean anything, to save them."
"But that makes them a criminal." Scully said.
The compass needle returned to 270. "I don't know what your experience is but the most dangerous people I've met are not what you might term 'criminals.' Their behavior is usually predictable. The ones who'll get you killed are the good people who've made desperate choices." He squinted at the hangar ahead of them. "That's 95% of the arrests out here. They're somebody's daddy or brother or cousin. And they'll do anything to protect their family." He radioed the air field for permission to land and set the helicopter down next to a fuel truck. The horizon waved in the heat radiating from the concrete runways. He started for the truck then turned and, walking backwards, called back, "Why don't you guys run across the highway and get us some lunch? Great burgers over there."
Lunch-Mulder's stomach smiled. "What do you want?"
"Just tell'em it's for me; they'll know." He turned and ran to the truck.
Scully had been agreeable to the concept of lunch; it had even sounded good-until she caught a whiff of the burgers cooking. She stopped cold.
"Scully?"
"I can't go in there."
"What do you mean, you can't go in there?" Mulder looked at her oddly.
"I mean I can't go in there." She pulled a chair to the edge of the patio and sat down. "I don't know if it's the helicopter ride or the jet exhaust or this damn heat, but if I go in there I'll get sick. Again."
He paused for several moments before hunger vanquished chivalry. "Well, can I get you anything?"
Scully turned positively green. "Ugh, no." Then she paused. "Well, maybe a soda-Sprite or 7-Up or something like that."
Mulder pulled the screen door open.
"Mulder-and maybe some fries." She said.
He pushed the interior door.
"Oh, and Mulder, a burger with-well you know how."
He paused with his hand on the door. And paused. And paused. His eyebrows finally arched in query.
She flushed. "That's all."
He shook his head in wonderment as the door closed behind him.
* * *
"This is really good," Mulder said appreciatively, the arctic blast from the ancient air conditioner ruffling his hair.
"You should know," Scully teased in between bites of burgers and fries. "In the last year I've eaten more hamburgers than I did in my entire lifetime. Including college."
Mulder feigned injury. "And all this time I thought you liked hamburgers."
She mock-scowled and took a large sip of her soda.
This is better than dinner theater, Trip thought as he munched his lunch. I wonder if Uncle Walt has any clue about these two? It ain't gonna be pretty when he finds out. "Well, on the per diem the Rangers allows you, you learn to love hamburgers."
"Sounds like the FBI," Scully agreed and Mulder mumbled assent.
Trip gathered up his wrappers and walked over to the trash can under the front window. "Wonder what Shep wants?"
A battered GMC Blazer had parked in front of the hangar and the weary form of Shep Bingford stepped into the oasis of comfort. "Trip," he nodded. He realized he didn't recognize them so he offered Mulder his hand and tipped his hat to Scully as Skinner performed the introductions. He sized them up. "So, you have to be pretty good to work for Walt Skinner." It was more of a question than a statement.
Mulder didn't know what to say. "Well, I, yes, sir."
"Do you know Assistant Director Skinner?" Scully asked, expecting some good-ole-boy tale.
"Just met him," the Sheriff's straw Stetson waggled. "It's just been my observation that you must be damn good if you can work for a Texas lawman named Skinner."
"Uncle Walt cared enough to bring the very best," Trip corroborated. "Now, what brings you all the way to Tulia?"
The furrows in the Sheriff's face deepened. "What do you know about these agents we're looking for, Garcia and Quintanilla?"
Trip shrugged his shoulders. "I only met Garcia once or twice when DEA had loaned him out to us for a particular case." Trip's face darkened. "Ellie-Agent Quintanilla-and I went to Quantico together 4 or 5 years ago. We've kept in touch ever since. Why?"
Bingford took a deep breath. "I overheard a telephone conversation he had this morning with some superior of his. He was telling this superior that he thought one of them might be dirty. And that the dirty one took the other out to the canyons to get rid of him. Or her."
Trip thought for a moment with a truly confused look on his face. "Garcia, I don't know. But Ellie," he paused. "Ellie took pride in being a good cop, Shep. I can't imagine the circumstance that would make her give that up."
"So, if your opinion is correct, Garcia lured Quintanilla into the canyons to kill her. Which means she's probably already dead," Mulder said.
Bingford leaned back in his chair and nodded.
Scully reasoned further, "And Garcia is either long since gone or is wandering around the canyon, waiting to ambush a search team and make his escape."
"The teams could be walking into traps, Skinner. This Garcia is no schoolteacher," Bingford snapped.
Trip Skinner stood up and stretched. "Then we better get in the air before some unsuspecting soul gets himself killed. You'll alert the ATV teams on the Plains?" Bingford nodded. "Then I guess we're off to alert the Mesquiteers," he looked longingly at the broken-down couch and made for the helo, Federal agents in tow.
* * *
Heat radiated from the rock walls that surrounded them undisturbed by the winds that blew constantly above them on the Plains. Before them was The Cap, the 1,000 foot escarpment that separated the South Plains from the rest of Texas. It was an impressive sight, both awesome and awful. On a pleasure ride the view would have been inspiring, but on this ride, for this reason, the dangerous landscape underscored the somber reason they rode. Walter Skinner took another sip from his canteen.
"We're making good time," Tommy said quietly as faced his younger brother, both of them surveying the landscape.
Walter nodded and stretched his back.
"You okay, 'Wyatt'?"
The middle brother's chiseled expression softened at the sound of his childhood nickname. Truth be known, he much preferred it over the more pedestrian-sounding 'Walter.' "Most of me," he grinned. "How 'bout you?"
"About the same," Tommy grinned back. "I spend too much time behind a desk these days."
"When was the last time you rode like this?"
"Not long enough," he replied wryly. "Probably not since Daddy died."
"Me, too."
They both whirled toward the sound of a skittering rock. Will followed the rock. "That was awfully nice of Logan to leave out the part about the victims possibly being armed and dangerous." He sounded disgusted.
"Interagency co-operation," Tommy sniffed. "Federal style."
Walter stiffened slightly. "DEA style."
"Logan style," Will contradicted. "I will never understand why he let Daddy ride into a trap like he did. Knowing that agent Daddy was supposed to meet was dirty and all."
"He didn't know, Will, he suspected," the oldest brother corrected. "There's a big difference."
"But if Daddy had known he'd probably be alive today." Will's face reddened. "Instead of shot down and left for the coyotes."
Walt swallowed hard. Acting on information from Dave Logan, who'd been DEA AIC in Austin at the time, they'd been searching all over the area around Blanco without success. The concentrated search was suspended after 2 weeks, but still the brothers rode. On the 20th day, Walt followed a hunch and searched an area east of Blanco known as the Devil's Backbone. He'd been riding alone when he found his father. Rather, his father's remains. There wasn't much left after the coyotes had their fill. "I don't know what I was more afraid of that day-that I'd find him, or that I wouldn't." His voice turned husky. "I don't ever want to do that again-search for someone I know."
Will's hand clasped his brother's arm. "None of us do, Wyatt. None of us do."
Tommy doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. "If we don't head back, someone will be looking for us."
They turned to walk down the trail toward the horses and the wind came up from the depths of the canyon sprinkled sand in their faces. It brought with it a buzzing sound. To city boys it might have been strange, but to men raised in the Hill Country on a working ranch it was sickeningly familiar. They followed the sound to a niche at the foot of the escarpment. Tommy peered inside and immediately jerked his head out, gasping for air. "It's them," he confirmed over the buzzing.
"Dead?" Will asked.
"Oh, yeah." Tommy keyed his radio. "Air Recon, we have located the victims on the Old Ranch Road at the foot of the Cap. Do you copy?"
The earpieces crackled. "Say again, Upper Ranch Road Team. You have a location on the victims?"
"That's a roger, Air Recon." Walt mouthed the words "Scully and Mulder" at his brother. "Uh, Trip, is there any place near here you can drop off Scully and Mulder?"
"Do you need Med Evac?"
"Negative, Air Recon," Walter answered. "Just drop off Mulder and Scully so they can work the crime scene while we still have daylight."
"No can do, Ranch Road Team."
Will intruded, "You mean a hotshot pilot like you can't find an LZ around here?"
"LZ's I got, Uncle Will. It's passengers I'm short on."
"Where are they?" The AD asked disgustedly.
"Almost to Silverton, I guess. Agent Scully wasn't feeling too well."
Walter Skinner cursed under his breath. His voice was calm and measured. "You get on the horn to Silverton and tell them I said to get their butts out here ASAP."
Trip didn't ask for further explanation. He pitched back in the direction of Silverton. "Base, this is Air Recon, do you copy?"
Dave Logan's normally flushed was even redder than usual as he'd listened to Trip's half of the exchange. He depressed the microphone button. "Roger, Air Recon. You are squawking 5 by 5."
"Copy that. Base and all units be advised that the subjects have been located on the Upper Ranch Road Trail in the canyon."
"What's their condition, Recon?" He asked needlessly.
Trip answered by ignoring the question. "Team requested Agents Scully and Mulder to work the scene. Have they showed up yet?"
"Aren't they with you?"
"Negative, Base. They should be knocking on your door any second."
Damn, Logan thought. "Copy that, Recon. I'll send them your way when they get here." A door opened behind Logan.
"Copy that, Base. Recon out." Trip signed off.
Dave Logan buried his head in his hands until he heard feet shuffling behind him. He whirled around with his hand on his gun.
Mulder held out his left hand palm spread wide open. "Easy, sir. We didn't mean to startle you."
"And you are?"
"Fox Mulder and," Mulder held out his hand.
"Dana Scully," Scully was relieved when Logan finally offered his.
"So you're the ones they're looking for."
"Has something happened?" Mulder asked.
"Have they found them?" Scully asked, too.
Logan looked desperately sad as he nodded. "They were found here," he pointed, "on a steep section of the Lower Ranch Road Trail."
"What can we do to help?" Mulder asked with a sigh.
"Skinner-I don't know which one- wants you both out there to work the crime scene. We're a little short of experienced help out here in the boonies."
Scully looked at the map and thought a moment. "Trip can have us out there in a matter of minutes-"
"Negative. Trip's already put the bird in the barn," Logan answered. "I've got to go out there anyway; why don't you just ride with me?" Both agents nodded and followed him outside. He turned. "My car's been acting up. You mind if we use yours?"
"Lead on, MacDuff," Mulder replied as he slid behind the wheel.
* * *
The waning sun washed gold over the red sandstone as the rental car rode the crest of the Cap Rock then followed the road down to the floor of the canyon. Logan had ridden quietly-speaking only to offer directions. Mulder found it curious but eventually attributed it to the stress of losing both of his agents. Scully, too, was quiet-her head laid against the back of the rear seat. They turned into the entrance to the State Park at the Canyon and immediately turned onto a dirt road. The car kicked up a plume of dust as they drove deeper into the canyon. They waited in the car for the dust to settle before opening the doors.
"Where is everybody?" Mulder asked suspiciously.
Logan tossed his suit coat into the back seat. He checked his weapon, then holstered it. "There's another trail on up the road. It's a lot further to the site, but it's an easier walk. This way is much quicker."
Scully looked apprehensive and lightly grabbed Mulder's arm. He gently touched her hand then turned to Logan who'd already started up the trail. "How long to the site?"
"It's a good 30-minute walk, according to Skinner." Logan walked briskly and motioned for them to follow.
They exchanged doubtful looks before following. The wide rocky slope was steep, but not a difficult climb. After about 10 minutes, Logan stopped. "Damn," he cursed.
"What?" Scully asked.
"Forgot my flashlight. Left it in my coat pocket." He started back down the trail. "Why don't you go on to the site? I'll catch up with you."
"How do we find them?" Scully called after him.
"Just follow the trail. You can't miss it," he called back cheerily.
"How 'bout we just wait for you?" Mulder suggested.
Logan shrugged his shoulders. "Well, okay, but I don't think your boss will be too happy about you wasting daylight waiting on me." He disappeared as the trail wound below a sandstone formation.
"I don't like this, Mulder," Scully murmured.
"Me, either," he quickly scanned the rugged landscape.
"Go or stay?" Scully asked.
"St-" a ricocheting bullet cut off his reply. "Run, Scully!" He scrambled up the trail behind her.
"Run where? There's no cover, Mulder!" She scampered breathlessly as another ricochet zinged below Mulder's feet.
"Up," he shouted breathlessly. "There's a rock up the trail!" A bullet caromed where Mulder had just stepped.
"He's driving us deeper into the canyon, Mulder," Scully warned but continued clambering up the steep trail.
"Keep going, Scully!" He stayed between his partner and the source of the gunfire.
She stumbled on a loose rocks and flopped on her belly. Rolling on her side to get up, she spied an opening in the rock wall and ran to it. "This way!"
Mulder looked back before following her. Another shot echoed in the canyon. There was a clattering noise, "Shit," Mulder grunted and swatted at his left calf. Two more shots zinged right behind him and he stumbled just outside the notch in the rock wall.
Scully ran back and half-pushed, half-dragged him into the shelter. She pulled her weapon and aimed as far down the slope as she could see. "Are you okay?"
"Hell, no," he grimaced as he slumped against the gritty stone wall. He pulled his own weapon and tried to listen for footsteps over the pounding of his own heart. "You okay?" he whispered.
"Fine," she murmured. "What do you think he plans to do with us?"
A grinding noise interrupted Mulder's silent response in mid-head-shake. He sat up, "The car, Scully!"
She disappeared down the trail for a few anxious moments. "He's gone, Mulder, with the car."
"Well, that answers that question." He tried to pull up his left pant leg. "See, Scully, didn't I promise I'd take you camping?" He tried to smile.
"Mulder, my idea of roughing it is a hotel without room service." She didn't even ask. Of course he was hurt. "How does it feel?"
"Burns like hell."
The pant leg was too narrow so she forced the blade-sight of her weapon through the outside seam and ripped it open to the knee. There was a series of scratches culminating in a pair of puncture wounds over an inch apart. "Snakebite, Mulder," she said matter-of-factly and pulled the lace from his left boot.
"So that's what I heard," he tried to joke.
"Rattler?" she asked while tying one end of his boot lace above the bite, about mid-calf.
He shifted uncomfortably while she tied the other end of his bootlace just above the boot top. "Either that or an awfully mad baby."
She smiled at him reassuringly.
"How bad is it?" he asked hesitantly.
The area around the bite was already red and angry. She fished in her pockets and marked the perimeter of the redness with the ball point she'd found. Truth or lie, Dana? she asked herself. "Not too bad," her forced smile tattled on her subterfuge.
He slumped lower. "We need to get out of here."
She looked outside. The sun bathed the rocks in crimson as it slipped below the horizon. "You're hurt, Mulder."
"So, what else is new?"
"Mulder, the more you move around the faster the venom will spread."
"Then you save yourself. Tonight, while it's cool, you can walk out--"
She shook her head. "Where, Mulder? I have no idea where to walk to." She looked out into the gathering dusk. "Our best move is to stay here. We'll be missed and they'll send someone after us."
He lay down further. "Are you sure?"
She held up two fingers. "Girl Scouts' honor."
"You were never a Girl Scout."
"Okay, Pathologists' Honor."
He smiled at her silliness and wrapped his hand around hers. "I'm sorry, Scully."
"For what?" she asked crossly.
He swallowed then blinked slowly. "For this- for getting you lost somewhere the hell outside Nowhere, Texas. For-"
"Forget it, Mulder." She brushed her fingertips across his cheek. "Besides, it was worth it just to see Skinner in a cowboy hat."
He snortled. "That was a sight, wasn't it? Like something out of a western- the Earp brothers riding in to clean up Tombstone." His voice became husky. "We sure could use them now."
"They'll get here, Mulder." She pulled his head into her lap. "Now rest," she ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. He closed his eyes and she laid her head against the rock wall. Hurry, she prayed.
* * *
Walter Skinner stood outside the steak house in Silverton shaking off a days' worth of dust. He was tired, he was thirsty, and he was angry. An Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not accustomed to having his orders ignored by his minions. He squinted in the bright fluorescent lights scanning the sea of sunburned faces for them. He looked again. It wasn't like Mulder to miss a free meal. He joined his brothers and nephew at a back table beneath a ceiling fan and drained his water glass.
Dave Logan stood and banged a spoon against his tea glass. His face was drawn and his voice sounded tired. "First of all, I want to express my appreciation, both official and personal, to all of you in the search for Agents Garcia and Quintanilla. I know we all wish the search had had a happier ending." His voice wavered and he took a swallow of his tea. "In any case, I thank you. I knew I could count on Texas lawmen to bring them home." On a happier occasion, that latter remark might have brought shouts and whistles and a standing ovation. But tonight, this sad night, the weary bodies and heavy hearts could only respond with polite applause. But Logan, shoulders slumped and eyes bleary, set out to shake every hand in the room. "I know this must have brought back unpleasant memories for you boys." He shook each of their hands then flopped wearily in the extra chair. "I really appreciate what it must have taken for you to be here."
"A lot of good men gave up a lot of time looking for our Daddy, Logan. It was the least we could do," Tommy answered quietly. "The quicker we get this thing wrapped up, the better it is for the families."
Logan shrugged. "Nothing's gonna bring good news to Garcia's family."
"Why is that?" Will said between bites.
Logan played with a stray iced tea spoon. "We just got copies of Garcia's bank records. Looks like he sold out."
"And you think he killed Quintanilla to keep his secret?" Trip queried.
"That's what it looks like," Logan nodded.
"That's why I wanted Scully and Mulder here. Scully could expedite the forensics and Mulder could work the investigation." Walt picked at his salad. "Scully better be near death for them not to have come out to the scene."
"But they're gone," Logan said. When Skinner raised his eyebrows Logan continued. "They came in right after I got your message. Said a case had come up and they were catching a flight to DC tonight."
"What time was that?" Walt asked gruffly.
"I don't know, about 4:30 maybe. They were trying to catch the 5:30 flight from Amarillo to Dallas."
"And Scully seemed okay?" Trip's face darkened.
"She seemed fine to me." Logan stood. "Anyway, thanks." He stopped by the register and signed a ticket before disappearing into the night.
Walter Skinner was livid. "Damn, them!" He chucked his fork onto the table. "Trip, did they say anything about a case to you?"
Trip shook his head.
"Maybe there was a message waiting at the motel," Will suggested.
"That message better be from God or the Director," Walt threatened and started to push himself from his chair. "And I'm gonna find out."
"No, uh, I'll find out," Trip said a bit too eagerly. "I've gotta go back there anyway to get my stuff," he explained lamely.
All of the brothers eyed him suspiciously. "What's going on, Trip?" Walter asked finally. "What are you covering up?"
"Nothing, Uncle Walt," the young man stared at his salad.
"I'll find out for myself," said Walt, the disappointment scratching his throat.
"I've never known you to be a liar, son." Tommy said to his son.
"Uncle Walt," Trip called, chasing his uncle out the door. Dust danced in the older man's weary step. "Stop a minute, please. Something's wrong."
"You bet something's wrong. And it's gonna be worse when I find them."
"You're angry and you're tired," Trip reasoned. "If you go in there and try to bully the clerk you won't get squat. Let me do it."
Walt couldn't refute the logic. So he followed his nephew into the motel office.
* * *
The light of the full moon bathed the landscape outside their refuge an almost-flourescent blue. Shadows crisscrossed the slope, occasionally peering into the niche with their yellow eyes. Coyotes, she shuddered. She reached again to the spot where her weapon lay beside her, just in case. Not yet, you scavengers. You can't have him yet. She glanced at her watch; time to check on Mulder again. She felt for the edge of the inflammation around the bite and marked its progress and the time with her pen. He stirred.
"Mulder, how do you feel?"
He grimaced when he tried to move his injured leg. "What's below 'bad'?"
"'Lousy.'"
He nodded toward his leg. "How lousy is it?"
"Not too bad," she lied but it was written all over her face.
He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. "So, do you like the little place I've selected for our camping trip?"
"Not nearly as well as I liked New Orleans."
He smiled. "What was your favorite thing about New Orleans?"
"Other than the obvious?"
"Other than the obvious."
"Waking up to . . . biegnet and chicory from Café du Monde," she teased.
"Um-m-m. And blackened alligator from Ralph and Kacoo's."
"Etoufee from The Commander's Palace." She continued watching the shadows outside their haven.
"Steak at Arnaud's then a walk down Bourbon Street."
"And a peacock feather from Marie Laveau's." She mock-chided, "A voodoo love spell, Mulder?"
"Insurance," he confessed. "Did I need it?" He searched her moonlit face.
"No," she whispered and lightly kissed his forehead. It was too warm, feverish. "You need to rest," she said gently.
"But it's my turn to stand watch," he protested wanly.
"I'm not at all sleepy, Mulder," she lied. "There's no use in both of us being awake." He looked at her sorrowfully. "Why don't I wake you when I need relief?"
"Promise?" he sounded weaker.
"Promise."
He returned his head to her lap and stroked her hand slowly, more slowly, until sleep overcame him.
* * *
Trip opened the motel room door then stepped aside. He didn't want to be in the enclosed space of the room when his uncle's temper exploded. But instead of anger, he heard muffled laughter. "It's safe, Trip."
By the time he was inside his uncle had peeked into the bathroom and was striding back to the little table by the window, scooping up a laptop computer bag on the way. He'd barely glanced at the suitcases sitting together on the low credenza, the clothes-his and hers-intermingled on the small closet rod. His eye was caught by a peacock plume that lay on the table beside the lone king-sized bed. "You knew," he realized.
His uncle stopped tapping on the computer keyboard and peered over his glasses. "They aren't the first agents to make the transition from partners to lovers, Trip."
"What gave them away?"
"$20 hotel rooms on their expense reports," the AD grinned then resumed typing. "They've been splitting the cost of a single room between them for at least a month." He squinted at the computer screen. "There's nothing here; their personal calendars are clear for at least a week."
"They wouldn't leave their things, would they?" Trip asked uneasily.
"No, they wouldn't." His eyes cast around the room. "So, where are they?"
"Well, Logan said they were catching a flight to DALLAS . . ."
"Yeah, Logan said." Walt dialed his cell phone. "Let's find out." He spoke intensely to the poor soul who'd had the misfortune to answer the call at the other end.
Will's voice echoed in the door of the room. "Come on, Tommy, you and I both know that when the crime scene and forensics don't match the eyewitness accounts, you start double-checking the eyewitness accounts."
"I know, Will, but," Tommy dropped his voice to a whisper when he noticed his brother on the phone, "I just want to make sure the forensics tells us what we think it does."
"What do you think it tells you?" Trip asked quietly.
Will's reply was interrupted by the snick of Walt's cell phone. "They were booked on the 5:37 Amarillo to DALLAS where they should have picked up a connecting flight to DC."
"Should have?" Tommy asked.
Walt shook his head. "They never showed for either flight." He took a deep breath and gave a disheartened sigh.
"Who told you they'd gone back to DC?" Will asked.
"Logan," Trip replied and Will shot Tommy an "I-told-you-so" look.
"What?" Walter demanded an explanation from his brothers.
"Will has this idea that Logan hasn't exactly been straight up with us," Tommy answered condescendingly.
"Come on, Tommy," Will sputtered. "Don't tell me you still believe Logan's story after what we saw at the crime scene."
"What?" Walt asked impatiently.
Tommy hesitated and Will answered. "The story Logan fed us was that Garcia probably killed Quintanilla, right?"
"Yeah . . ."
"Under those circumstances you'd expect to find the bodies some distance apart with guns drawn, right?" Will received only nods in response. "We found the bodies in close proximity."
"Extremely close, like they were holding each other," Trip recollected. "And Ellie's-Agent Quintanilla's-gun was holstered-safety on."
"Not at all like you'd expect from adversaries," Will observed.
"Maybe they both were dirty," Tommy said.
"Maybe neither of them were," Trip snapped and bolted for the door, nearly bowling over Shep Bingford. "Where's Logan?" he asked the local lawman.
"I came over here looking for him," the grizzled lawman replied. "His Regional Director is looking for him."
"He's not the only one," Trip said warily.
* * *
She awoke with a start, Mulder's head twitching in her lap--occasionally his lips moved soundlessly. A nightmare. Little wonder, Scully thought. I'm having one and I'm wide awake. Growls and pebble skitters on the rocky slope punctuated the silence. He moaned softly and became more restless. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. It was warmer and his skin looked slightly flushed. She glanced at the time while counting his pulse--it was only midnight and his pulse was already rapid. She stroked his cheek and it seemed to calm him. "Hold on, Mulder. They'll come soon," she murmured reassuringly, but only the coyotes listened.
* * *
The cotton fields on either side of the highway glowed dully in the light of the new moon. It was after one and Walter Skinner would have killed for some sleep. The drowsy drone of the tires on the highway only made it worse. From the front passenger seat, he gazed across the fields on the north side of the highway, hoping to see Mulder and Scully's rental car and praying he wouldn't. Hell, he'd settle for finding Logan at this point. He knew searching along the highway to Amarillo was a waste of time but it was the only lead they had to the agents' whereabouts and it had to be followed out.
Will pointed out a single yellow light flashing ahead of them.
"Rock Creek," Tommy explained.
Shep Bingford's beaten-up Blazer didn't even slow down for the small town and Tommy Skinner kept the Suburban right behind the Briscoe County Sheriff.
"You, okay, T?" Will asked when the Suburban strayed over the center line.
Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but stomped the brakes instead to avoid rear-ending the Blazer. "What the hell?" he muttered.
Suddenly the lights on the Blazer went dark and Skinner followed suit. Walt reached for his Sig as the hair on the back of his neck bristled. He grabbed for the radio mic but Tommy blocked his hand when Trip scurried back and slid into the back seat.
"You guys feel like busting up a drug shipment tonight?"
"Where?" Walt asked but Tommy was already pointing to lights in the road ahead.
"Looks like an 18-wheeler," the oldest brother observed.
Trip craned his neck to see around the Blazer, "And you can bet there's a cargo plane in front of it."
"Off-loading the latest in recreational chemicals?" Will asked wryly.
"Just like Wal-Mart. If they ain't got it, you don't need it," Trip said sardonically.
Bingford sidled up to driver's window. "I trust you gentleman came dressed for the party?"
Tommy nodded, "I've got M-16's and Kevlar in the gun locker. What about you?"
Bingford nodded toward the long gun under his arm, "Thirty aught six loaded with hollow points." He leaned in the window. "What about you, boy?"
"Browning 12-gauge loaded with double-aught." He rapped his knuckles on his chest. "And Kevlar, just to keep my mama happy."
Walt tapped his spare clip on his hand and returned it to his belt. "When can we expect backup?"
"Whom do you suggest we call?" Tommy sneered. "We can't call DEA because they'll notify Logan--who may or may not be involved. Plainview PD doesn't have any officers to spare and Lubbock and Amarillo are both over an hour away. We're it, Cochise."
"Welcome to the front line of law enforcement," Bingford said resignedly.
* * *
The hot night breeze rattled ominously through the parched cotton field. Dave Logan looked around again but saw nothing. The pilot and the truck driver continued transferring "the goods" from the plane to the trailer with no more concern than if they'd been offloading baby formula. Logan shuddered as he mentally tallied the "street value" of the merchandise before him. "When do I get my daughter back?" he asked restlessly.
He received no response.
"When do I get my daughter back?" his voice was louder, more demanding--and desperate.
The pilot leered at him, then at the cockpit of the airplane. "We'll return the juanita when the business is concluded, Senor. Not before."
Logan shivered at his tone. "How do I know she's still alive?"
"Believe me, Senor, I can attest to the fact that she is very much alive." He tossed a brown bale into the trailer. "For now."
Logan closed his eyes and tried to ignore the faces that danced before him in the darkness--Garcia and Quintanilla, Scully and Mulder. Nausea rose as he told himself--again--that the life of his daughter was the only concern. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else. The nausea won and the spasm revealed that his stomach was as empty as his soul.
Walter Skinner froze in mid-crawl. Not six feet from him Dave Logan was in the thrall of the dry heaves. Every fiber in him wanted to grab the SOB and choke the truth about Mulder and Scully from him.
Suddenly Logan's eyes found his. Relief flashed through the look of desperation. Logan nodded slightly before returning to his original position.
"When will you give me my daughter back?" he demanded, his voice much stronger than before.
Tommy Skinner, father of 10, and Trip Skinner, father of 3, and Will Skinner, father of 8, swallowed back the same fear that Logan was tasting. And Walter Skinner, the father of none, felt his icy anger melt into pity for Logan the father but disgust for Logan the officer.
"I told you, Senor, not until the business is done," the pilot turned and faced Logan's Berretta.
"Our business is done," Logan snarled.
"Senor," the pilot placated, "there's no reason to become unreasonable."
Logan never lived to see the muzzle flash behind his head from the pistol the truck driver pulled from his belt. And the truck driver only felt the first of several 30-06 rounds that shredded his heart.
The pilot, on the other hand, felt the jab of the rifle butt collapsing his leg. He felt a knee in the middle of his back, forcing him to the ground, and he felt the hot breath that demanded, "Where is the girl?" He remained silent.
Trip Skinner jabbed the muzzle of his shotgun into the point of the pilot's shoulder. "Where is she?" he menaced.
Walt deftly slung his rifle over his back as he rolled Logan onto his back. "Where are they, Logan?" He desperately checked for a pulse, carefully avoiding the blood that trickled from the agent's ears. "What did you do with them, you son-of-a--" He lifted Logan's eyelids and saw what the ME's called an 8-ball hemorrhage. "Damn you!" he cursed the dead man. Rage overcame reason and he jerked on the bolt of his M16, aiming directly at the Logan's stilled heart. His finger hesitated on the trigger, reason finally taking the upper hand.
"We'll find them, Wyatt," Tommy's eyes met his and stared, unafraid and unashamed, into his brother's soul and the icy emptiness that had been interred there for nearly 30 years.
Walter met his brother's gaze and drew strength from it- strength to once again inhumate that choleric void. The taste of gall rose into his throat. "Like we found Garcia and Quintanilla?" He cleared the chamber of his weapon and safetied it. "And Daddy?" A tear gleamed on his cheek as he turned away and strode into the solace of night.
"Walt?" Will stepped after him but Tommy held him back.
* * *
The sun-baked cotton leaves rattled in the hot breeze. Walt didn't even reach for his gun when he heard a boot step-a familiar one- behind him.
"You okay, Wyatt?"
He nodded and wiped the tears and the grime on his shirt sleeve before facing his older brother. "What about the girl?"
Tommy shook his head. "Found her body in the cargo bay. Just," he cleared his throat, "just tossed away like garbage."
Walt sighed and looked at the moon suspended near the brightening horizon. "Everything under control back there?"
Tom nodded. "Bingford's already counting the number of votes he'll be re-elected by."
Walt grinned then his face turned somber. "You think they're already dead, don't you?"
Tommy shrugged.
Will's boots crunched behind them. "I think that we should have listened to you sooner when you said you thought you knew where Daddy was."
Walt sunk down on his haunches, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. "But I don't know where they are." He looked across the field. "I don't have a clue."
Trip joined them. "We will find them, Uncle Walt," he said with determination.
Walter Skinner looked up at the faces that encircled him and considered how many times, like now, they'd depended on each other. There was no request, it was just done. He looked across the field again and considered Mulder and Scully, so often with only each other to rely on. Not this time, he vowed. This time they can rely on me, he looked at his family, on us. Tommy offered him a hand up and he stretched his weary legs. The rising sun revealed renewed determination in his eyes.
"I'll get Bingford to call the search teams back in, Uncle Walt-" Trip said but Skinner was staring at some thing glinting about 100 yards into the field. Tommy had already waded into the brownish-green field after him. Trip looked at his Uncle Will and they followed the others.
They had gone about 50 yards before Will recognized the target as a car-non-descript, common, unmistakably a rental car. Ever the forensic-conscious Fed, the middle brother yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and draped it over the hand he used to jerk the door open. By the time Will and Trip reached them he was standing behind the car, fingering the key he had placed in the trunk lid.
He closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer as he sprung the deck lid. They all peered inside. Empty. Thank God, it was empty.
"So, where are they?" Tommy gave voice to their question.
Walt had already started a circular search pattern from the car.
"We could be standing 4 feet from them and never see them if they're between rows," Will observed and Tommy stifled further such comments with a "look."
Trip completed his round first and was rifling through the car when they returned. He held up a red hair he'd pulled from the back seat. "No blood, no signs of struggle."
"So what was she doing in the back seat?" Will asked. "She'd only do that if-"
"If there were a third person in the car," Tommy said. "A su-"
"A superior," Walt completed the statement. "Like Logan."
"So, where are they?" Will asked again.
Trip pointed at the odometer. "We could call the rental company and figure their mileage for the last few days, backtrack their daily logs."
"Daily logs? Mulder?" Walt scoffed. "Now Scully . . ." He dug through the glove box and carefully pulled out a sheaf of stapled papers. He flipped through the papers until he made a little triumphant, "Yes!"
"What?" the others asked in almost-comic unison.
"Fuel log." He grinned. Leave it to Scully, he thought as he recognized the compact script. He pointed to the columns. "Date, time, gallons, and odometer reading." He looked down the list. "They filled up night before last. How far is it from Silverton to the air field at Tulia, Trip?"
Trip's mental wheels spun a moment as he caught on. "Doesn't matter. I drove them to Tulia."
Walt let the information sink in for a moment but Tommy was ahead of him. "It's what, 8 miles to Silverton from here?"
Trip nodded.
Will peered at the odometer, "And the car's gone . . ."
"66," Walt supplied.
"66 miles since night before last," Will continued.
"That's roughly a 30-mile radius from Silverton," Tommy reasoned.
"Or from here," Trip corrected.
"Or anywhere between here and there," Will said dejectedly. "That's a lot of miles to cover."
The breeze warmed up with the rising sun and Tommy doffed his hat and rubbed his thinning pate. They exchanged weary glances over the possibility of more days in the saddle. "What do you think, Walt? Where do we start?"
The papers fluttered in Walter Skinner's hands. His mind whirled with possibilities, most of which ended in autopsies for the young-too young-agents. Where, Logan? Where did you put them? He looked across the brown fields brightened in the sunrise. Choose, damn it. It's the only chance they have. He closed his eyes, trying to still his thoughts. Desperation knotted his stomach and he fought the fear. He went there before, a thought sprouted in the bitter soil of fear. They always go back-the criminal to relish it and a guilt-ridden to punish himself. And Logan is no different. He went back. He swallowed then licked his parched lips. "The canyon," he said quietly, unsteadily. "They're in the canyon." God, help them, he prayed. And God, help me, if I'm wrong.
* * *
The rising sun washed gold over the red sandstone outside their rocky haven. In the night Mulder's complexion had become colored like a boiled lobster. He looked at her fearfully through fever-reddened eyes.
"How are you feeling, Mulder?"
"How am I doing?" trust Mulder to answer a question with a question.
"What's below 'lousy'?" she asked.
"'Awful', I think," he said raggedly. "I ache all over, Scully," he whispered.
She felt his forehead. "You have a fever," she explained.
"That's not good, is it?"
She pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head.
"I'm gonna die here, aren't I?" he asked fearfully.
She smiled half-heartedly. "They'll find us, Mulder." She brushed her fingertips against his cheek and he grasped them weakly.
"I love you," he whispered with the last of his strength.
She smiled and pressed her lips against his. His eyes fluttered, then closed, the ragged breaths becoming shallower and more rapid. Hurry, she prayed, not knowing if she were asking for rescue or for Rest.
* * *
"Whoa, Sandy," Walter Skinner reined in his mount. It was nearly noon, and fatigue and the heat made the landscape dance before him. The lower Ranch Road trail was steep and rocky even at the bottom of the canyon. He took a quick swallow from his canteen and the helicopter careened overhead. He poured water on the handkerchief and rubbed it over his face and neck, trying to wipe away the pall of weariness. Sandy became restless, his head bobbing toward something moving on the slope above. Coyote, Skinner guessed while he wiped the dust from his glasses. He put them back on and blinked twice before spurring his horse up the incline.
"He's hurt," the short, red-headed "coyote" announced.
He followed her into the rock niche. Mulder's complexion was reddish-gray. He sent Scully outside to watch for the helicopter. The fluttering lids revealed glassy eyes. "So, how're you feeling, Mulder?" he asked, pressing his hand against the agent's burning cheek.
"What's below awful?" Mulder asked weakly.
"Shitty," Skinner answered with the voice of experience.
"Good," Mulder rasped. "I was afraid it was 'dead.'"
"Not a chance, Agent Mulder. Not a chance."
* * *
Walter Skinner sank wearily into the hard hospital chair, breathing a sigh of relief that Mulder was finally out of intensive care. The last 4 days had been rough, as Mulder's body was ravaged first by pain, then by infection. But the medicines ultimately gained the upper hand.
Scully stirred in the chair where she had finally collapsed. She had focused all of her energies on her partner since his injury and now she was curled up in the chair, her left hand on her partner's left hand.
Her hand. It was so tiny. She was so tiny; but her intellect and her courage were gigantic. A nurse slipped quietly into the room and fumbled with the IVs before slipping out again. Walter felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Hell of a vacation, huh, Wyatt?" Tommy grinned and Walter responded with a weary nod. He peered at the bed's occupant. "He gonna be alright?"
"Yeah."
Tommy studied lines in the tile floor. "You gonna do anything about, you know, them?"
Walter rubbed his hand from his chin to his forehead and snorted. "Nothing," he said finally.
Tommy arched his eyebrows. "You're not gonna say anything?"
"You've seen the two of them. Do you think I could say or do anything that would keep them apart?" He stood and stretched.
"I doubt it," the oldest Skinner confessed. He pulled the door open. "Come on, Wyatt. I think they can take care of each other now."
Walter stepped into the doorway then looked back at them-the link, the union between them was almost visible. "Yes," he looked at his brother and smiled wearily. "Yes, they can."