Fox Mulder loosened his tie - the high school bathroom wasn't air conditioned - and tried again. "You want to run that by me one more time?"
"Red beams, like, came out of his eyes, dude. Knocked a hole in the wall, like, all the way through to the girls' room."
And there was a hole - certainly. One large enough for Mulder to put his head through. A double-row of cement blocks reduced to rubble, both this wall and one beyond. You could see into the gym.
"Red beams out of his eyes, huh?" Mulder asked, running a hand over the edge of the rubble. No sign of burning. It looked as if someone had gone at it with a demolition ball.
"Yeah, dude," said the kid, one Stan Hensey. "I'm not making this up!" His voice was affronted. "You can, like, ask the other two guys who were in here, too. Or Selena Ki. She was in the girls' room with some friends when it happened. They'll, like, tell you the exact same thing. Really friggin' weird, dude."
Mulder turned from the wall and let his gaze cross with Scully's. She rolled her eyes. He gave her a faint smile. Neither asked the kid how much he'd smoked up in the bathroom the night of the prom. It sounded like something out of Star Trek. Or a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. High school senior runs off to the boys bathroom after fighting with his prom date, and subsequently blasts out two walls with some kind of red death-ray from his eyes. Normally, Mulder would have dismissed it all as an elaborate school-boy prank.
Except that everyone's story matched, including those of the adults who'd been in the gym when the wall had exploded outward.
More, the kid who'd supposedly done the damage was an A-student with no history of making trouble. He was described as cheerful and friendly - well liked. And he'd now been missing for over half a day, fled right after the event even before the cops had gotten there. Fled blind - eyes shut tightly, according to all reports.
It didn't add up.
Mulder checked the hole one last time, ran a hand over the dust, and then made a gesture for Scully to meet him out in the hallway. They walked a little ways off from the milling police and students, next to a wall covered by institutional tan and overloaded bulletin boards. Scully started in before they'd gone ten steps. "Don't tell me you're taking this seriously. It's too 'out there' even for you, Mulder."
"So what do you think it is?"
"A prank! We have a group of high school seniors pulling a prank at their senior prom."
"Elaborate prank."
"These are smart kids, or at least the gang leader is - the one now missing. Scott Summers. Don't tell me you never pulled a prank in school, Mulder."
He grinned, but didn't answer, held up the hand with the crumbled dust on it. "Notice anything unusual?"
"You have powdered cement on your hand?"
"Scully!"
"All right. No, I don't. I see white cement dust."
"Exactly. Now think about what that kid said: our missing Scott Summers shot red beams out of his eyes. If this was a prank, what would you think they're trying to imply that the beams were?"
"That's a serious question?"
"Scully - "
"All right. It sounds like laser beams."
"Which are hot, right?"
"Yes."
He held up his hand again. "You notice any black in the dust? Any indication of burning?"
She looked at his hand again. "No. But I wouldn't expect to. Mulder, they weren't using a real laser! They used a sledgehammer. Or something."
"Or something. To do that kind of damage, it would have required more than a sledgehammer. But if they were so concerned about an elaborate prank, don't you think they'd have made some attempt to have it look like a laser beam?"
She thought about it. "Maybe. But there's elaborate and then there's elaborate. I doubt they thought that far."
Absently, Mulder wiped his hand on his suit slacks; it left a white streak. "What I want to know is why a kid set to graduate with honors and a scholarship to Berkeley - a model foster child if you don't count a couple of misdemeanors - would risk it all to play a prank at his senior prom? I've heard of going out with a bang, but this seems overdone, don't you think, Scully?"
He nodded towards the stairwell where a pretty girl of Asian descent was standing at the base, giving her statement to the police. "Let's go talk to Scott Summer's date, Miss Selena Ki."
"I don't know!" she was saying as they approached. She was clearly on the edge of hysteria. "I told you already! I don't know why he'd do anything like this! I didn't have any part in it! We told you everything we know. All of us. Why would we all lie?"
"Because you were all involved?" the police officer - a woman - replied. She seemed bored and tired, straggling brown hair falling into her eyes.
Mulder flipped open his ID wallet. "Can we talk with Miss Ki?" he asked, smiling at the police-woman. She rolled her eyes and walked away without further comment. Mulder turned the smile on the girl. Beside him, he could feel Scully bristle. She disliked his 'charm the witness' act. But it served. "I understand that you dated Mr. Summers for about a month or two before the prom?"
"Yes." She was wary. This was a girl used to having men fall at her feet. She wasn't going to fall for Mulder's ploy quite so easily.
He notched up the charm, and the smile. "Let's go get a coke, shall we?" At his side, he caught Scully hiking a brow, but they took Selena Ki to a local malt shop.
"Scott and I used to come here," the girl said as they slid into a booth, Ki on one side, Mulder and Scully on the other. "We could walk to it after school."
"You didn't have other transportation?"
Ki glanced at Scully, who'd asked the question. "Well, I have a car, but Scott doesn't. He lives with foster parents. Lived with them, I guess."
"So where is Mr. Summers now?" Mulder asked. Quick. Trying to catch her off guard.
She just glared at him. "I have no idea. He ran away."
"How was Scott's home life?" Scully asked. The classic approach.
"Fine," Ki said, dragging at the malt through her straw. "He was really grateful to the people he lived with. They were nice to him. They might not be willing to buy him a car, but they were nice to him. So if you're thinking he was abused, he wasn't."
Quick kid, Mulder thought. "Do other children live in the same foster home?"
"Yeah. Two others. Scott's the oldest. There's a girl named Carley. She's fourteen - a real slut; she tried to come on to Scott once or twice, he said. It kinda freaked him out. The boy, Jeff, started as trouble, too, but he calmed down. He looked up to Scott a lot."
Mulder glanced at Scully. "Do you think something might have happened with the girl?"
"Do you mean did Scott run because he was afraid Carley was going to accuse him of rape or something?" Ki asked.
The girl really was sharp. "Or something," Mulder agreed.
"I doubt it. That's not her style, besides, nobody'd believe her anyway. Well, some idiot social worker might, but no one who knows Scott."
"Did he ever make you feel afraid?" Scully asked in her best gentle voice. "You're a very popular young woman, yet you were dating - "
"You must be kidding." Ki's expression was pure contempt. "He was All-Star Volleyball and has almost straight As." She shrugged. "He's cute, and has dreamboat eyes. I didn't date him because I was afraid of him, Agent Scully. And I'm not defending him now. I'm just telling you what I know, because I want you to find him so I can kick his ass. He ruined my prom."
Mulder bit his tongue. Maybe they were asking the wrong 'who was afraid of whom' question here. In any case, it was clear that the girl had her priorities: athletic, good grades, and dreamboat eyes. Ki hadn't said much of anything about Summers' personality. "What was Scott like, Miss Ki?"
"I told you," she said. "He was smart and cute. He had a great smile. He was funny." She dragged on her straw again, added, "The girls liked him - a little too much, if you asked me."
Mulder glanced at Scully again. They'd heard that part of it from the other kid, Stan Hensey, an acquaintance of Summers'. Selena Ki's jealousy was infamous and the two of them had been quarreling right before the incident, because Ki had caught Summers talking to another girl and had flounced off in a snit to the girls' restroom. Summers had followed, but gone into the boys' room instead because his eyes had been hurting. And then all hell had broken loose.
"What do you remember from that night?" Mulder asked Ki.
She gave an abbreviated version of the fight - one that made her look right as rain - and then said, "Then I went into the girls' room. We were just talking, me and some friends. They were telling me I shouldn't take Scott so seriously. He flirts with everybody. The next thing I knew, the wall by the mirror just . . . exploded! You could see through into the boy's room. There were these red beams coming through the hole. They hit the opposite wall and it exploded, too, out into the gym. Then the beams stopped and we looked through. Scott was on the other side, leaning up against the sink. He had his hands over his face and Stan was shouting that Scott was shooting lasers out his eyes. Then Scott ran out of the bathroom. I haven't seen him since."
"You do realize how strange that sounds?" Mulder said.
"Yes! But I'm not making it up! Everybody saw it! The boys said he'd been complaining that his eyes were burning really badly. Then he opened them and they were red, all red, not just the whites. A minute later, those beams came out."
"Had he suffered any similar pain in the month you were dating?" Scully asked.
The girl shook her head, almost emphatic. She drank more malt and then frowned thoughtfully. "He did used to get a lot of headaches. But he never complained. Scott never complained about much. I guess because he was an orphan; he was afraid of pissing people off." She shrugged, then looked thoughtful and said the first semi-kind thing Mulder had heard from her. "I hope he's okay. He really is a nice guy. But I'm still going to kick his ass."
Mulder and Scully asked a few more questions, but Mulder had all the information he expected to get. Perhaps not all the information he needed, but all he expected. They took Selena Ki back to the school where her parents could collect her, then headed for their own car.
It was midday Sunday, the sun high overhead; the prom had been the night before. Within hours of the first news coverage, Mulder and Scully had been on a plane for San Diego and had arrived early Sunday morning. They'd gone straight out to examine the scene of the 'crime' - it was still being called vandalism - and to interview any students or teachers who'd been there.
Unfortunately, the star witness remained missing. No one knew what had become of Scott Summers, though how a blinded kid could evade a city-wide police sweep, Mulder had no idea. He just hoped Summers hadn't evaded it because someone had seen him as an easy target and cut his throat.
"Still think it's a prank, Scully?" Mulder asked, as they reached their beige rental Taurus.
"I can't see that it's anything else, Mulder. Human beings do not shoot energy rays out of their eyes. No matter how angry they are at their girlfriends."
Mulder chuckled, unlocked her door, and opened it for her. Scully permitted him these small courtesies since he took her competence seriously in other things - most of the time. She felt no need to prove it in symbols, so she let him open doors for her, and hold her coat. He walked around to get in himself, put the key in the ignition, turned over the engine, and continued, "But what if someone could shoot energy rays out of his eyes. What if . . . something in his body metabolized energy, transformed it, and it came back out of his eyes when he was sufficiently upset?"
"'If looks could kill,' Mulder? Be serious. Why not out his hands? Or his mouth? Or his nose?"
"Roll with me on this. We've seen stranger."
"Stranger, perhaps, but things which could marginally be explained by science - "
"And maybe this can, too. If we could just find the subject himself."
"So where are we going now?"
"To talk to Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, Scott Summers' foster parents."
"Mr. Franklin, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the FBI" - he already had his badge out and flipped open by force of habit - "and this Special Agent Dana Scully. We've come to ask you a few questions about Scott."
"Is he okay? Did you find him?" asked a woman's voice from behind. The door was pulled wider and Elizabeth Franklin looked out, her face stitched with lines of worry and circles shading her eyes. Her voice held an edge of barely concealed fear. "You have to understand, this isn't like Scott! I don't understand why he ran. He's a good boy. He always was. He just needed a chance in life."
"We're here to figure out what did happen, Mrs. Franklin," Scully said from Mulder's side. "We're not accusing Scott of anything."
'Yet,' Mulder could almost hear her add to herself. She still thought the Summers kid had pulled a spectacular stunt. But the more Mulder heard, the less sure he'd become of that.
The Franklins invited them in, brought them coffee with all the nervousness of innocent people who fear they're about to get into trouble for something, and aren't sure for what. A young boy sat on the top stairs and watched as they were ushered in, then scampered off when he saw that Mulder had spotted him. A pre-teen girl skulked at the edges, half in and half out of the arched kitchen doorway. She looked hard already: used, and ill-used. But Mulder picked up no current sense of fear from her, and he'd made his career in the FBI by reading people's body language almost instantly. These must be the other two foster kids.
The house itself was an older, middle-middle class two-story that showed a few attempts to modernize. Siding had been put on the exterior, and a deck added out back. Ceiling fans moved the torpid Southern California spring air. But the ceiling plaster still had those swirls and iridescent glitter so popular in the 1960s, and there was cheap dark-wood paneling in the dining room. The joints of the baseboards didn't match at the corners, and the rug was old, stained with the passage of time and feet. The furniture was old, too, but clean, and despite the family terrier, it didn't smell of animal. These people took care of things: houses, pets, and stray kids who needed a home. Good people. "So how long has Scott been living with you?" Mulder asked.
"We got him when he was thirteen," Gene Franklin said, "so I guess that's four years, almost five."
"We were in Omaha at the time," his wife chimed in. "We took Scott from Boy's Town there. Gene was at Offut Air Force Base."
"You're retired military?" asked Scully, ever the Naval brat. She'd perked up.
"Yeah," Gene Franklin replied. "I retired in '93, after SAC had shut down. We moved out here with Scott." He glanced behind himself, "That's when Carley came to live with us. And then Jeff, a year after."
The girl Carley had slunk back into the kitchen to avoid Mulder's gaze.
"How did Scott take the move?" Scully asked.
"He was fine. He looked forward to it," Elizabeth said, still puttering about from nerves.
"Honey, sit down." Her husband patted the couch beside him and her expression was caught for a moment, then she did as he asked, folding her hands between her knees. Gene Franklin said, "We talked to the police earlier. Scott's never been any trouble to us, Agent Mulder. He tried to run away from the orphanage once, and I understand he went to juvenile court - but he's never given us an ounce of grief. Not once. All he needed was a good home. He's been like our own son. If he hadn't been so old, we'd have adopted him."
"We checked into it a few years ago," Elizabeth added, "but by the time the process would have gone through, he would have been almost eighteen. And he knew his own parents, so he wanted to keep his father's name. We could understand that."
"He knew his parents?" Scully asked. "Are they still alive?"
"Oh, no. Scott's an orphan," Gene Franklin said. "His parents were killed in a plane crash when he was eight. Scott and his little brother were the only survivors, and the other boy was adopted only a few months later, but Scott never was. His father had been Air Force, too. A test pilot. And no, before you ask, I didn't know him. But we connected, Scott and I, almost from the start. I was teaching him to fly, and he was ready to go for his license. He's been like the son I couldn't have. But he did have memories of his own family and we never tried to displace those, Beth and I. We thought it important that he should remember his parents."
"Does he know where his little brother is now?" Mulder asked.
"Adoption agencies won't release that kind of information - confidentiality issues. Scott himself had suffered a head injury in the crash and had some minor brain damage. We've never noticed anything unusual, but that sort of thing does put off people. Plus, he was older, so he was bounced around to a few orphanages and ended up at Boys Town. My wife was a friend of one of the social workers there, and Tracy brought him out to one of the air shows that the base holds late each summer. That's how Beth and I met him. We took to him right away; he was so starved for some affection. We'd never considered becoming foster parents, but Scott was different. He needed a family, and we'd always wanted a son. He came to live with us Christmas of '91, and we've never regretted it for a moment since."
Mulder exchanged a look with Scully. It sounded like a match made in heaven, but - "One thing, Mr. Franklin . . . . You said that Scott ran away from the orphanage. Do you know why?"
"Nope. He never told us. We asked once or twice, but he wouldn't talk about it."
"If you push Scott, he clams up," Elizabeth Franklin said. "He rarely speaks about his time in the orphanage, or the accident." She looked down at her hands. "Gene and I always had some suspicions that he'd been ill-treated somewhere, but if so, it was before Tracy arrived. And Boy's Town has an excellent reputation. Still, maybe we should have pushed him harder. There just didn't seem to be a reason, and trust is hard for him. We were honored that he opened up to us as much as he did."
"Since he gave us no trouble," Gene added, "we were willing to let bygones be bygones. The only thing we know about his time on the street - it was about four months - is that he ran cons at pool, for money to eat, but no charges were ever pressed."
"There may . . . . Well, I - " Beth Franklin hesitated and glanced at her husband.
"Go on," Mulder said, sitting forward. Gene Franklin just sighed and nodded.
"He knew how to break into things, Agent Mulder. He's popped the car door for me when I've locked my keys inside, and he once picked a lock on an old truck that we'd bought at a yard sale. So he may have been a thief, too. But to our knowledge, he's never stolen anything since living with us. Whatever he did back then, to survive, we've never held it against him. We were, I confess, a little careful with money when Scott first came to live with us. Common sense. We didn't want to tempt him. But he's always been scrupulously honest."
"Scotty's too much the Golden Boy," said a new voice from the kitchen. The girl, Carley. "He didn't do nothing wrong never. Spent all his time telling me and Jeff how lucky we were to be here." She sneered. Definitely a hard one. Mulder wished he knew her story; he doubted her life had been pleasant.
"So you don't think he would have pulled a stunt like this?" Mulder asked her.
"Why would he?"
Mulder's question exactly.
"Perhaps he wanted a last chance to set up a scam?" Scully suggested. "Or he wanted to impress some classmate? Or his girlfriend?"
Carley just rolled her eyes and walked back into the kitchen. "Not Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes. I'm glad the son of a bitch is gone."
Both the Franklins looked embarrassed. "You'll have to excuse Carley - " Gene began.
"It's all right." Mulder smiled faintly. "Carley is a bigger help than she realizes. And, uh, I saw your other foster son on the stairs. Would you mind if I went up to talk to him? Scully probably has some other questions for you."
"Sure, go ahead," Elizabeth said. Scully was glaring at him. He knew he was ditching her again, but he wanted to talk to the boy alone.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, he peered into the three bedrooms, found the boy sitting on his bed in one of them. "Hi."
The kid looked up.
"What's your name?" Mulder asked, though he aready knew.
"Jeff."
"My name's Fox. Can I come in?"
"Sure, I guess. And what kind of a name is Fox?"
Entering, Mulder ignored that as the obligatory schoolboy attempt at bravado, took a seat on the other bed in the room - by all appearances, that of the missing foster brother. It was not a very big room for two boys; the Franklins had larger hearts than bank accounts. Scott's tastes had been simple, judging from his decor. He liked the color green, and he had elaborate models of planes on his dresser, and airplane posters over his bed. On the headboard bookshelf sat Frank Herbert's Dune series, Isaac Asimov's Foundation trilogy, and Greg Bear's Eon. Also a picture of Selena Ki. The other books were science-related or about planes. Scott Summers clearly had a thing for objects that went zoom through the air. "Your brother's into jets, isn't he?"
"He's not my brother."
Mulder glanced around at him. "You two don't get along?"
"We get along fine." Stubborn jut of chin on the other boy. "He still isn't my brother."
"Do you know why he ran away, Jeff?"
"No." Very sullen.
"Do you think he did run away?"
The kid just glared, then abruptly he exploded to his feet. "Why can't you just leave Scott alone? He didn't do anything, okay? I don't care what they say, he didn't do anything wrong!"
Mulder kept deliberately calm. "And I'm not accusing him of anything. I just want to know what happened and where he went, so maybe we can find him before he gets hurt."
"Yeah, right. You're going to take him away and lock him up again. And you'll never find him if he doesn't want to get found." It was said with a mixture of resentment and pride. "He won't get hurt. Scott's tough."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Jeff. He may be tough, but there are a lot of mean people on the street - people meaner and older than he is. He's not in trouble right now, but he could be if he stays out there for long. He could get killed. We've been told that he ran away blind; it's hard to defend yourself if you can't see. Are you sure you don't have any idea where he might have gone?"
The kid chewed that over, then shook his head, sadly. "No." This time, Mulder was fairly sure the answer was honest, not merely rebellious. "If it were Omaha, I might know. But not here."
"Where might he have gone, in Omaha?"
"Downtown. There's some pool halls there and all. Down in the Hispanic area. He knows some Spanish."
Mulder doubted Scott could play pool with his eyes shut - assuming whatever was wrong with his eyes had lasted - but even if the boy couldn't hustle pool, he still might return to Omaha if he knew the town better, or at least knew how to disappear there better than in San Diego.
Whatever the case, the boy Jeff was acting entirely too skittish. He sat with his head lowered, his hands working nervously against each other and one leg jiggling up and down. Just waiting for Mulder to leave. He knew something he wasn't telling and Mulder had a suspicion of what it might be. "Did Scott return home last night, Jeff?"
The boy must have jumped six inches off the bed. "No!"
"Jeff, you need to tell me the truth. I'm not here to arrest Scott. Like I said, I'm trying to find him before he gets hurt. But you have to help me. If you know where he went, or saw him after the prom . . . . " He trailed off and waited. The atmosphere in the room grew heavier and heavier. Finally the kid caved. He was just a kid, after all.
"Okay, yeah, he came back last night. There's a tree outside our window. Last night, he climbed up it to knock on the glass. I let him in and helped him pack his things 'cause he couldn't see. He had his eyes all squeezed shut and said he couldn't open them or he'd hurt me. I didn't understand what he was talking about but he was scared and really nervous. He said he had to get out of here and asked me to put some of his clothes in his backpack, and get his money. He had some saved. He made me order the bills, too, so he knew how much he had - fold the corners and stuff, in different ways for ones and fives and tens and twenties. Then he had me get him some scissors, duct tape and his sunglasses. But honest to God, he didn't tell me where he was going. I asked, but he wouldn't tell."
"What time was this?"
"I don't know. Not long after the accident, I think. We hadn't heard it on the news yet, and the police hadn't come. Nine o'clock? Ten o'clock, maybe?"
Mulder nodded. The high school wasn't that far from the Franklins' house. If the Summers kid had come home as fast as he could get here, he might have managed to make it before anyone had figured out what was up and come after him. "And he didn't open his eyes while he was here? Not once? Even by accident?"
"No, sir. He said he'd hurt me bad if he did. He was all white, like a sheet. I've never seen him that scared."
"What else did he say?"
"Nothing, really. He said something awful had happened at school, and he was in trouble again so he was leaving before he hurt me or Gene or Beth - um, Mr. and Mrs. Franklin. We call them - "
"That's fine, Jeff. Please go on."
"That's about it. Most of the rest of what he said was 'get this' or 'get that.' He was in a big hurry. The scissors and duct tape was the weirdest, until I heard what happened at the school. I guess he put it over his eyes, didn't he?"
"Probably so."
And at that moment, Fox Mulder decided that he liked Scott Summers. Panicked as the boy had been, he'd been thinking of how to keep himself from hurting anyone else by accident.
"What kind of clothing did he take?"
"Huh?"
"What kind of clothing? Did he take warm clothes, or summer clothes? Did he take a jacket?"
"Just t-shirts and jeans and stuff. But yeah, he took a jacket. And his red hooded sweatshirt. He likes that stupid thing even though it has holes under the arms, calls it his lucky shirt."
Mulder stood up, fished a business card out of his wallet, wrote his cell number on the back and gave it to the boy. "If Scott comes back home, even briefly, I want you to call me. See if he'll talk to me, but if he won't, you call me just the same. I think you realize that I don't want to hurt him." Mulder caught the boy's eyes and tried to put all his conviction in that look. "Tell Scott that I know he didn't destroy that wall on purpose. I want to help him. Will you tell him that for me?"
The kid accepted Mulder's card and studied the front. "Yes, sir. And I know he didn't, either."
Mulder left the room, gathered Scully with a glance and they made their farewells to the Franklins. "So?" he asked her as soon as they were in the car. "What did you find out?"
"Lots of stories about what a good boy he was. Not much else of use, but I took copious notes. You can review them later. I'd still like to know why he ran away from the orphanage the first time. And you?"
"I found out that he went home right after the dance, had the younger kid pack him clothing, his money, some duct tape, scissors, sunglasses, and then took off for parts unknown."
Scully smiled. "And you're always telling me that you don't have a way with kids, Mulder. But - duct tape and scissors?"
"For his eyes, Scully. To tape his eyes shut. You still think this is a hoax?"
She didn't reply. After a moment, Mulder added, "I think he's protecting them. That's why he ran. Did you get a picture of young Mr. Summers?"
"About twenty of them."
Mulder smiled. "Any of him in sunglasses?"
Scully didn't reply, just studied Mulder's profile. "So if he's not going home again, where is he going?"
"Back to Omaha. It's the one place where he knows how to live by his wits."
Scully didn't question that. Before taking over the X-Files, Mulder had worked as a profiler in the Bureau, had built a reputation on his instinct for second-guessing the criminal mind. Trouble was, Mulder didn't believe this boy's mind was criminal, just confused and frightened, and he hoped that his instinct was still leading him in the right direction. He wanted to find Scott Summers before anyone else did, anyone inclined to see him as a potential weapon.
Still, the kid was not going to be easy to find. Mulder would bet his next paycheck that however Summers might have spent the last four years with the Franklins, he was inherently distrustful of authority, and now was desperately frightened, too. If he contacted anyone, he'd contact the boy Jeff. Mulder didn't think he'd take Jeff's word and call Mulder directly, but Mulder had covered that contingency anyway. What Mulder did hope was that Scott would listen to Jeff long enough so that when Mulder did finally catch up with him, he wouldn't bolt before Mulder could get past introductions.
That Mulder would catch up with him, Mulder never doubted.
"Any luck, Mulder?" Scully asked, as he slid back into the passenger side.
"Not yet."
"And how many places does this make?"
"Eleven. But we've still got a few to go, plus the downtown." Mulder checked the map. "Head to Farnam Street and then east to 13th . We'll ask around the Old Market. Probably too high class a neighborhood, but you never know."
The Old Market was a revitalized area of downtown Omaha, off the Leahy Mall Park, not far from the old railroad yards by the Missouri River. Interesting area. High class, despite the age of the brick buildings, some of which dated almost back to the city's founding. Omaha, dead in the middle of the Heartland, had been the new gateway to the West after St. Louis had become too settled. Corn and cattle country, and surprisingly hilly here on the very edge of the Great Plains. For several days now, Mulder and Scully had canvassed the bus and train stations and the low-rent districts, with no luck. Now, they walked around the Old Market with a picture of Scott Summers, asking a lot of questions. Some, they asked each other.
"Are you sure he came here, Mulder?"
"I'm sure of nothing but death and taxes, Scully."
"And little grey men." She grinned, almost against her will - one of her trademark Scully-smiles that so delighted him.
"I'd say the probability's high that this is where he'll turn up," Mulder told her. "Nonetheless, we may have beaten him here. We had the advantage of plane tickets, and he's traveling blind."
"You seem awfully convinced of that."
"Why else take duct tape?"
"What if this is just an elaborate ploy to get away from his foster family?"
"Like the girl Carley said, Scully - why? It doesn't add up. He was about to graduate from high school with honors. He had a college scholarship waiting for him. If someone can give me a good reason why he'd pull a prank like they're crediting him with and then run, I'll entertain the idea. Until that time, I'm going to assume he ran because he's scared and doesn't think anyone's on his side, even his foster parents. They're foster parents, after all. No matter how sincerely they care, he'll doubt them. He spent a long time on his own; he's going to revert to that. We need to find him before someone else does. I doubt we're the only ones looking for him. Can you imagine what Cancer Man could do with a kid able to pulverize a wall just by looking at it?"
He caught her shudder out of the corner of his eyes.
It was later that same afternoon when they finally ran across someone who'd seen Scott Summers.
"Yeah, I remember the kid. Blind kid, right?" The speaker was a caricature artist who'd been working the Market sidewalk for several years. "He showed up two nights ago - first time, sat around playing guitar for spare change. We get us a lot of musicians here; they all kinda blur after a while. But I remember this one. People stopped to listen to him. He in some kind of trouble?"
"No. We just want to talk to him," Scully assured the man. "Do you know if he'll show up again tonight?"
"No idea, ma'am. You sure he's not in some kind of trouble?"
"No, why do you ask?"
"Well, there was another guy here earlier, asking if anyone had seen a blind kid. He didn't have a picture, though."
Mulder and Scully traded a glance. "This man asking about him," Mulder said, "did he smoke? Was he thin, with graying hair and a long, kind of craggy face?"
"What? No, not at all. Guy was in a wheelchair. Bald as home plate, too. Real well-dressed sort, y'know? Old money. Biritish accent."
Mulder blinked. He'd never met, seen, nor heard of anyone in the Consortium who matched that description, but he was under no illusions that he knew everyone. "Thank you for your time." And he and Scully walked away.
"So, we wait for tonight."
"Who do you think the guy in the wheelchair is, Mulder?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. As long as Krycek doesn't show up with him, I'll be happy."
They went back to their hotel, and Mulder left Scully at the door to her room. "Dress casual. If we're not the only ones seeking Summers, I don't want to draw attention to ourselves. But let's get there early. I'll pick you up at five."
She nodded and they parted. At five, they met again in the hotel lobby, in jeans and khakis and long-sleeved shirts. Their guns were holstered out of sight. Mulder prayed they wouldn't need them. "Ready to find our mystery kid?" She made a wordless gesture towards the door and they went out together.
Even so early, the Market was crawling with people by the time they arrived. It was a lovely June evening, the Midwestern sky a clear blue quartz overhead, though a few clouds shaded the western horizon, and the wind had picked up. "Might rain," Mulder said. Scully just looked at the sky, and raised an eyebrow. "This is Nebraska, Scully. Want different weather? Wait fifteen minutes."
"And what would you know about the Midwest, Mulder? You grew up on Martha's Vineyard." She paused and looked around. They stood outside a restaurant with an old train trolley parked beside it. 'The Spaghetti Works,' announced the sign. The man at the hotel desk had said it was a fixture, then confided privately that the food wasn't all that good. "Go to the Upstream," he'd said. "They brew their own beer." Across the street, three horse-drawn carriages had parked, ready to take young lovers, or families with kids, on a nostalgic road trip through the brick-laid streets. "Do you want to split up?" she asked.
"We'd probably cover more ground that way. You go north and west; I'll go south and east. Keep an eye out for that guy in the wheelchair. Or Krycek, for that matter. If you find Summers, call me before you approach him."
"Why?"
"Just trust me on this one."
They parted and went their separate ways. Mulder had been moseying around the sidewalks for about half an hour while the sky overhead had gotten dark, when he thought he caught sight of a wheelchair half-in the doorway of a wine shop. But by the time he got through the crowd and over to the shop to see, he found no one. He was about to phone Scully, to let her know, when the cell rang in his hand. He flipped it open, "Mulder."
"It's me. I've found him. He's got his guitar and is wearing a red sweatshirt. I'm at the corner of . . ." - she paused to look - "Howard and 12th Streets."
"I'm on my way."
"Hey, Mulder."
"Yeah?"
"He really can sing."
"Be on the look-out, Scully. I think I saw a guy in a wheelchair."
"Noted."
Mulder had already been moving in the direction of Scully; now he closed the phone and slipped it back into his belt holster, picked up the pace, jogging a little. It had begun to sprinkle and overhead, lightning split the dark sky. A deep excitement thrummed in him. He felt on the edge of learning something remarkable. It was the same sort of feeling that often gripped him near the end of a chase, but on the X-Files, there was the added element of wondering just what they'd find. This was what he lived for.
Mulder arrived at the corner of Howard and 12th just as the skies opened up with a heavy rain.
But there was no blind boy in red with a guitar.
And there was no Scully.
There was not even a man in a wheelchair.
"What the hell?" He turned round and round in his tracks. "Scully!" he called out. "Scott Summers!" It probably wasn't smart to alert the kid that there was someone here who knew him by name, but maybe it would scare him into bolting.
Unfortunately, nothing moved beyond the slow rolling pace of the crowds. People eyed him sideways, opened their umbrellas, and continued their peripatetic evening despite the weather. Mulder stood in the street while rain filled his leather loafers, and cursed.
He finally found Scully a block south, wandering aimlessly. Grabbing her arm, he hauled her to a stop. She looked . . . drunk. "Scully?"
"Mulder?" Abruptly, she came back to herself, shook her head. "Where are we? What's going on?" She shook her head again.
Mulder was frankly alarmed; what had happened to Scully? "Scott Summers, remember? We're in Omaha, looking for Scott Summers. Mr. Laser-Eyes from San Deigo."
She shook her head again and rubbed at the bridge of her small Roman nose. "I . . . feel like I've had two pitchers of beer on St. Patrick's Day, Mulder. Scott Summers - I don't - Oh yes, I remember now. We were . . . . My god, where is he?" She started swinging her head around. "He was right there, dammit! But this isn't even the same street!"
"No. We're about a block away. What happened?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you see a man in a wheelchair?"
"What? No. Nobody in a wheelchair. Scott was sitting on a little folding chair against a wall, playing, the case open in front of him. It was easy to get near him under pretense of listening. He appeared to be okay, but you're right - he had on dark glasses and acted as if he were blind. I called you immediately, and the next thing I knew, here I am. What is going on?" she asked, peeved. Scully hated to be played for a fool.
Now, Mulder looked up and down the street, though he didn't really expect
to see anything. "I don't know. But I'm sure as hell going to find out."
Famous last words. For two more days, they searched Omaha with no luck, and Mulder became increasingly convinced that Scott Summers had been abducted - but not by aliens. The man in the wheelchair had managed, somehow, to drug or mentally confuse Scully, and then get to Summers before Mulder could show up. A mere matter of minutes. The more Mulder thought about that, the more anxious he became. Who was this guy? And more importantly, for whom was he working?
Exactly two days after they lost Summers in Omaha, Assistant Director Skinner phoned, recalling them to Washington. "The case is closed, Mulder."
"What! On whose authority?"
"Mine."
"Mr. Skinner - "
"No arguments, Mulder. I want you and Scully back in Washington by tomorrow, and your reports on my desk the day after that. This case is closed."
"And unresolved. Sir."
"And unresolved. But I see no further use in having two of my agents chasing shadows in Omaha."
"We saw him, sir; that's not a shadow. Why is this case being closed?"
"I said no arguments. Get back to Washington, Mulder," and Skinner hung up.
"Damn," Mulder said, snapping his phone closed.
"What'd Skinner have say?" Scully asked from where she'd been working at the table in his hotel room, typing notes into her computer. She often worked in his room, so they could share the file.
"He's closed the case and wants us back in Washington by tomorrow."
Startled, Scully glanced up. "But we haven't found the boy."
"And we're clearly not supposed to, Scully." Mulder collapsed on the side of his bed and bitterly related his full conversation with Skinner.
"What do you think he's covering up?" Scully asked, when Mulder was done.
"I've no idea. And I doubt he's going to tell us, either." He got up and paced around, his way of releasing his frustration.
"Do you think they have Scott - ?"
'They' didn't need to be defined. 'They' were the faceless men in the shadow conspiracy whom Mulder and Scully had been fighting since the beginning of their time together on the X-Files.
"I don't know," Mulder said now. "Maybe." But in truth, he doubted it.
Even the Consortium couldn't muddle Scully's memory in a matter of moments
and whisk away a street musician without causing a public scene. Whoever
the man in the wheelchair had been, he had resources and abilities even
more alarming than those of Cancer Man. Mulder could only hope that the
boy, Summers, didn't wind up his pawn in some elaborate, concealed power
game.
It was a few days later, once back in his office in Washington, that Fox Mulder called the Franklin residence to inform Scott's foster parents that he hadn't been located, and that the Bureau had closed the file. "But why?" Elizabeth Franklin asked, sounding lost.
"I'm not sure, Mrs. Franklin. Those orders came from over my head. But if you should hear from Scott again, please call me immediately." It might be the leverage he needed to get past Skinner's block on the case.
"I will," she said. "And Agent Mulder?"
"Yes?"
"If I sent you a letter, for Scott, would you keep it? Just in case you find him? We want him to know that we're not angry at him, that he can come home. We'd like to know if he's okay."
"Sure, Mrs. Franklin. Send me the letter and, if I find him, I'll be sure that he gets it."
"Thank you, Agent Mulder."
The story continues in Part II