Title: Terra Firma, Part 2
Author: Carolina
Rating: R
Category: D/R UST, DSF
Author's notes: Where am I going with this, you ask? Well, I've heard a lot of
people complaining that Doggett and Reyes didn't really have any personal
involvement with the X-Files. So this is my way of getting them personally
involved. This is my little idea of how season 9 would have ended, and gone into
season 10 (if we would have had one.) Hope that makes sense, and I hope you like
this part too. I also forgot to thank Alley for checking out my first part
(thanks Alley!) and there's a DMB line in here somewhere, find it and win the
magical prize.
-TERRA FIRMA 2-
"The victim's name is Monica Julietta Reyes, she is a special agent for the
X-Files division here at the bureau," Assistant Director Follmer announced as he
paced in front of a big amount of agents that sat in a small classroom.
From the moment he got that call and learned of Monica's case, he had tried his
best to remain nonchalant, treating this case as if he didn't know the victim.
But every minute that passed by, he felt more helpless, suffocated. The pressure
he felt on his shoulders only increased when his eyes diverted slightly to his
left.
John Doggett stood at the door, arms crossed, ignoring the constant
interruptions Dana Scully kept on throwing at him. For hours she had been trying
to bring him down to earth, repeating her little facts about kidnappers, their
victims, and the shining record the bureau had of solving these cases in the
blink of an eye. He hadn't been receptive to any of that. And at the same time,
she just kept trying.
"It was nice of the bureau to assign so many people on the case," Scully
whispered discreetly.
"Bunch of rookies," John spat.
"It's better than nothing," Scully replied, watching John give her his usual 'I
don't need your bullshit' look.
"…from here, the victim drove to a small convenient store where she proceeded
to buy a pack of cigarettes around 20:00 last night, she hasn't been seen
since."
Skinner rose from the chair he sat and joined Follmer. "In front of you, you
all have a package with all the essentials, name, height, weight, pictures,
blood type, etc. You will take that with you, everywhere you go. And I want you
to keep your eyes open, for anything. Questions?"
A young agent raised his arm and proceeded to stand up. "Any witnesses?"
"No, not yet," Follmer replied. He took a deep breath and continued. "We
received a call this morning from an anonymous man who found Agent Reyes' purse
next to her car. Other than that, we have no leads."
"Is this a rape case?" another agent asked.
"Could be," Follmer said, watching with the corner of his eye how John shifted
his weight significantly. "But, it seems too well planned for it to be a rape
case."
"There is a specific reason why Agent Reyes was kidnapped," Skinner added. "We
find the reason, we find the perpetrator."
One agent chuckled slightly, "How do we find the reason if we don't haven have
any leads."
"This is the FBI, agents. We're here to use our heads and do whatever we can to
solve these kinds of cases. Especially when it's one of our own," Follmer
replied.
One of our own.
"Well… how are we gonna do that?"
An acrid void increased inside John's stomach and the only way to subdue it was
to walk away from the scene.
Scully followed him with her eyes wearily, and once again, she walked after
him. She didn't know just how long she could play this game, him walking away,
and her following. Her patience, much like his, was starting to wear off.
"John," she called, but that didn't stop him.
"Agent Doggett!" she said sternly. That made him stop on his tracks, but he
didn't even turn around. "What are you doing?"
She took a couple of steps forward to get closer when he didn't even move.
"Look, I'm just as worried about Monica as you are. But you have to stop doing
this to yourself, to me, and to the bureau. They're doing the best they can to
find her."
He finally turned around. "The best they can? One of their best agents is
missing, my partner, and what are they doin' to find her?"
"They have a good amount of agents--"
"They have a good amount of kids!" he yelled. He looked around, placing his
hands on his hips, and lowered his voice to continue. "The closest those boys
have ever been to a case is dressin' up as cops for Halloween. And those are the
people in charge of finding Monica, Dana. Now maybe you think that's very
honorable of the bureau to assign so many people on the case. But do you really
think those high school kids are gonna help us?"
Scully stared up at his eyes, let out a sigh, and looked around.
An answer in the form of silence.
"Didn't think so."
This time, she didn't even try to pour some sense into him, and for once, he
was glad for that. He walked out on her once again.
And once again, he found himself at Monica's apartment. The place had been
combed so many times, that it seemed as if a hurricane had gone through it.
Every little corner had been investigated to death and as suspected- they found
nothing.
He really didn't know why he stood there, but at the moment, it seemed to bring
some sort of comfort. Being amongst Monica's things felt as if she was still
around. And it was not just her things, but the fact that as he stood there,
life seemed to be on pause. The ingredients of what would have been her dinner
that night still sat on the kitchen counter. A couple of rented movies we thrown
over the couch and even her bathroom was ready for what he knew was her usual
Friday night bath. If a stranger were to walk through the door, he would never
guess the tumult John found himself in, increasing when he found a note pinned
to the refrigerator reading, "Bread, eggs, tea, and milk." Proof of a life that
would have continued if it not were for this simple twist of fate.
He himself had walked around the apartment so many times that he could close
his eyes and locate every item even among the mess. Standing there earlier that
same day, watching as strange men went through her things, her private
documents, even her underwear- made his blood rush through his head in anger.
The truth was that as irritated as he was about this lack of good agents
working on the case, or any leads for that matter, he himself didn't know what
to do. If it wasn't for Scully constantly bringing him out of his thoughts, he
would still be standing at the scene of the crime. He knew he had been a good
cop. And he knew he was a good agent. Then how come his mind refused to help him
find her? How come his body was constantly at the verge of falling on its knees?
He had only felt this kind of frustration when he had those kinds of
nightmares. It was always the same one. Maybe it wasn't really a nightmare but
more of a bad dream. He found himself in a classroom, back in college, holding a
pencil in his hand. The professor suddenly began to pass out tests, but he
hadn't been to class all semester. He was sure he'd fail. He knew he was going
to fail. But the test sat in front of him, and there was nothing he could do but
stare at it, chew on the pencil, feel as the desperation inside of him grew so
much that he woke up sweating.
That was the same way he felt at the moment. Monica was gone. He was a special
agent who had worked on missing person's cases hundreds of times. He had lived
through one himself, the disappearance of his own son. Back then, he couldn't
get to him on time. This time, he could feel the wheels turning towards the same
direction. He had been a good cop, was a good agent. But he had failed his own
son, and now he was failing Monica.
He couldn't allow this to happen again. He had barely survived back then, but
he was sure a second time would annihilate him.
Completely.
And when he walked out of her building, the feeling was so powerful that his
breathing became ragged, and his head began to pound. He crossed the street to
his car and looked around one more time in case there was something they had
missed the first time.
Nothing. But then, his eyes stumbled upon the small park in front of Monica's
building.
A black trench coat.
Tumbling in the wind.
Lose something?
The same trench coat sat not too far from his car, with a small table in front
of him, a couple of people laughing at some tricks he did with his cards.
John threw the door shut and walked over. As he did, the crowd walked away. He
stood in front of the man, only the man wouldn't even look at him, but kept
shuffling his cards.
Suddenly he threw a glance up at John and smiled. "Agent Doggett," he said as a
greeting.
"Do I know you?" John asked but the man didn't reply. "How'd'you know my name?"
The man chuckled. "You're wearing a name tag."
John looked at the small FBI tag on his trench coat and removed it. "I saw you
this morning at the scene of the crime."
"I live around, that's all," the man said.
"What do you know about Monica?"
"Who?" he asked.
"If you know something-"
"I don't know anything, Agent Doggett. This morning, you just looked like you
lost something, that's all," the man said and then extended his arm. "Michael
Bonsall."
John shook his hand hesitantly and reached inside his coat pocket to take out a
picture of Monica. "I lost my partner, she was taken away from," he cleared his
throat to allow his voice to continue. "She was taken away."
Bonsall stopped playing with his cards too look briefly at the picture. Then he
stood up and folded the small table under his arms. "Hope you find her."
John narrowed his eyes as he watched the man walked away. He didn't go into
Monica's building, but the one next to it.
Before his thoughts could go any further, his cell phone began to ring. As if
it was a gun and he was in danger, he quickly reached for it, hoping to hear
Monica on the other side, telling him it had all been a joke. Ha ha, gotcha! Now
you go hide and I find you.
"John."
Scully.
"Yeah?" he replied as he began to walk towards his car.
"Where are you?"
John let out a sigh, not wanting to let her know of his whereabouts. When he
didn't reply, she continued.
"Look, we could really use your help down here."
"Why, did they find something?"
"No," Scully replied. "But you knew-" she stopped to think of her choice of
words and continued. "You know Monica the best-"
"I thought Follmer wanted me out of this investigation," John replied as he got
in his car.
"We still need you help, John."
He let out a sigh of annoyance. Hanging up his phone and heading towards the
bureau. When he got there, he found himself being interrogated on.
Had Monica been investigating a case on her own?
"We're partners."
Yes or no, Agent Doggett.
"Not that I know 'bout."
Does she have any enemies?
"For Christ's sake, this is Monica we're talkin' 'bout."
Yes or no.
"No!"
Scully sat next to him, trying to answer the same questions John had been
asked. This whole time Monica had been with them, she had barely had time to get
to know her better. That only made her feel more guilty. She had been so wrapped
up in her emotional rollercoaster that she had failed to notice people around
her.
She wished Mulder was here. She wished he could solve this case just as he had
solved the many he had before. She wished that as much as this was John's
personal journey, it could be her own as well.
She wished she could just go out there and bring Monica back to John. Or maybe
she just wished they could all wake up.
By the time the questions had finished, she found himself with maybe a bigger
headache than John's. And then all of a sudden Skinner walked in with a file on
his hands, and everybody went quiet, staring at him, waiting for him to say
something good, something positive.
"We may have something."
And then the world stopped.
And it only continued to spin again when John stood up. "What?"
"One of Agent Reyes' neighbors claimed she had seen a strange man walking
around the building a couple of days before Monica disappeared," Skinner
announced.
"Who is he?" Scully asked.
Skinner gave the file to Doggett, who immediately opened it and stared at the
picture of a large man. He scanned through the papers, but then frowned at
Skinner.
"He doesn't have a record."
"No, but it's the closest thing we have," Skinner replied.
"So let's go get him," John added.
Hours later, a group of agents, armed with guns and bullet proof jackets,
arrived at a dirty old building in Virginia. As much as Skinner had reminded
Doggett to let him be in charge, the warning seemed to have thrown at the window
as John led the crowd and kicked the door a couple of times.
"Simon Brewer, this is the FBI, open the door!"
Nothing.
More warnings were followed by more silence, until John gave two agents a nod
and they broke the door open.
John walked in first; looking around, gun in hand, ready to fire. The main room
was empty, except for the excess garbage that lay around the floor and
furniture. There was a stale smell that could only be explained by the cartoon
of sour milk resting on the kitchen counter.
And then they all just stood there when everyone had checked every single room
and they had found nothing. No signs of life. Not even evidence that Monica had
been there.
A couple of agents began to interrogate the neighbors and Skinner's patience
began to wear thin. The neighbors claimed they hadn't heard anything coming from
the apartment in weeks. The landlord was only mad that the man's rent was
overdue. Some claimed the man was a loner, mysterious, and rarely talked to
anyone. Some of the women said they felt sorry for him. In the end, no one could
figure why the man was under investigation.
John stood on the hallway of the building as he watched the sun slowly go down.
Monica had been gone now for almost 24 hours and all they had was the name of a
man who seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
"Let's run a background on this guy, I don't want anyone to rest until we find
him," John heard Skinner say as everyone began to leave the building. Scully
approached him with half a smile and patted his upper arm.
"Go get some sleep, okay?"
John nodded, watching as she walked away. A couple of minutes later, he found
himself driving home, only home didn't seem like a sensible place to go, and so
he spent hours driving around, hoping to erase those terrible images that kept
sneaking into in his mind.
An innocent part of his mind fooled him into believing that he could find
Monica that night, if he just kept looking around, driving, and asking
strangers. He stopped by every police station he came across to spread more
pictures of Monica, hoping at least someone else could find her, or at least
know something.
When his mind couldn't tell him what else to do, he found himself in an old bar
somewhere in Maryland. The bartender poured him a shot of Vodka and John gulped
it down without a thought. That was probably what he most needed at the moment.
One drink to remember, another to forget.
The bartender immediately tried to make conversation, serve as a listening ear,
but quickly found John wasn't in the mood to share. And so he kept pouring
drinks, one right after the other.
John could only run the tip of his finger along the rim of the small glasses.
The movement was slowly hypnotizing him, helping him forget. By the time the
bartender turned around to pour another drink, he found John passed out, head
pressed against the counter.
And then it came back to him again. The dream. The same classroom. The same
professor. The same pencil and the same desperation. A big clock in front of him
counted the seconds he had left before the tests would be taken again. Seconds
before he'd fail.
4
3
2
"Hey buddy."
A moan, and someone pocking the sensitive flesh on his shoulder.
"Hey man."
John opened his eyes slightly and immediately felt the nagging headache that
came after every night of heavy drinking.
He groaned as he tried to raise his head and looked around. The bartender from
the night before stood next to him, a small towel thrown across his shoulder and
holding a broom.
"We have to close the bar, buddy. I'm sorry."
John straightened up despite the headache and the dizzy feeling fighting
against his consciousness. "What time is it?"
"Almost 6 am," the bartender said. "You've been sleeping there for an hour."
John tried to stand up, but his knees were a little weak and he had to hold on
to the stool for balance.
"Whoa, you okay there?" the bartender asked as he held John's arm tight.
"Yeah," John replied.
"You can't drive in this condition, buddy. You have someone I can call?"
John ran his hands through his hair, wishing this guy would stop calling him
'buddy'. Usually the person who came to fish him out of bars was Monica. And at
that moment he remembered the reason why he had tried to flood his body with
alcohol.
"I'm okay," John said.
"Yeah, I let you go out there like that and I get in trouble. Let me call you a
cab, it's no trouble," the bartender said.
"No, no," John interjected with a motion of his hand.
The bartender shook his head and began to walk towards the other side of the
bar. "Don't go anywhere."
John stroked the side of his face and sat back on the stool. The headache
increased heavily when there was a sudden ring. It continued over and over, and
he was about to yell the bartender to pick it up until he realized it was his
own cell phone.
He had to reach inside a couple of pockets until he finally found it inside his
coat. He cleared his throat a couple of times and then answered.
"John Doggett."
"John, it's AD Skinner."
John immediately straightened up, as if the man could see his current state.
"Yes sir."
"Where are you?" Skinner asked.
"Uh, I'm on my way to the bureau."
"Good. We found something on this guy Brewer that might help us on the case."
"What is it?" John asked.
"Get in here first; I want you and Scully to hear this together."
And then he hung up.
John frowned in confusion as he put the cell phone inside his coat pocket. The
bartender suddenly came back and handed him a foam cup.
"Take it, it's some strong coffee. If you're gonna drive out of here you should
at least be a little coherent," the bartender said.
John took a sip and flinched. It was strong alright. He nodded gratefully at
the bartender and tried to smile.
"Now you be careful out there."
"Thank you."
John handed the man a couple of bills and made his way out of the bar. The sun
was beginning to rise and as he sat on the driver's seat of his car, he rested
his head against the steering wheel for a couple of minutes. Without moving the
rest of his body, he turned on the engine and set the heater up. He had asked
himself many times why he kept running to bars when he needed an escape. Sure,
the alcohol would numb him up and help him forget everything. But the next day,
he not only had the same worry, but a hangover to worry about as well.
"John, one of these days you're gonna get alcohol poisoning."
He remembered her words and voice clearly that Father's Day four years before
when he was so drunk, she had to practically bathe him, change his clothes, and
put him to sleep.
It was a tradition he could call only theirs. And it was too bad it would only
work one way. Monica never resorted to these kinds of measures when she found
herself in an emotional uproar. She had her own ways, healthy ways, rarely any
of them involving him, while any of his had her out of the picture.
As he sat there, he made a promise that he would never do this to himself if he
could just have her back.
A couple of minutes later, when he was sure he could drive a couple of feet
without ending at the bottom of a river, he was on his way to the bureau.
A part of him was eager to hear what Skinner had to say. Another part of him
wanted to run off. The odds were even, either bad news or good news. But he had
never been one for good luck.
When he got there, that look he knew he'd get from Scully was waiting for him
at the main entrance.
"You don't look so well," was the greeting he received. Not that she had
expected him to go home and get a good night sleep. She wasn't really surprised
to find him in that condition. In fact, she was expecting.
"What's this all about?" he said to try and change the subject.
"I don't know, Skinner wants us downstairs."
Together, they walked down to the basement and found Skinner leaning against
John's desk, alone, reading and rereading a file.
"What's going on, sir?" Scully asked.
"Did you find her?" John asked.
"No, but I found something on this guy Brewer," Skinner said.
"I thought he didn't have a record," Scully said.
"He doesn't, but he has an interesting history," Skinner added. Scully walked
over and leaned against Monica's desk; John stood where he was.
"Simon Brewer is an alias; his real name is Boyd Chase. Only child, mother died
when he was 3, father was an abusive alcoholic. He went from foster home to
foster home until he was 18. And then for ten years he went from job to job
until 1997."
Scully gave John and look, and then gave the same questioning look to Skinner.
"What happened in 1997?"
"Nothing much, he quit his job and moved out of his apartment but there's no
listed place of residence after that, until he moved into that place in Maryland
four months ago. I thought he might have just been homeless during those years,
but then I thought it was unusual for a man to quit his job and leave his home
to go live on the streets."
"How does that help us find Monica?" John asked impatiently.
"Monica's neighbor said she saw this guy walking around their building. Now,
what was he doing in Monica's building when he has that apartment in Maryland?"
Skinner asked.
"Maybe he works around, maybe he's the cable guy," John added.
"Maybe, but I couldn't find anything about him after 1997, it's as if he just
disappeared only to come back to life as Simon Brewer. And that's when I
thought, maybe we just weren't looking in the right place," Skinner continued.
John looked down and toed the floor hard in frustration. He was about to say
something harsh, but then Skinner handed him a file.
"What's this?" John asked. Scully moved closer so she could read the file as
well, and then Skinner continued.
"Simon, or Boyd, whatever he's called now, wasn't homeless during that time.
His name is on that file. He seems to have joined a cult."
"A cult?" John frowned. This was already going in the wrong direction. "What
the hell does that have to do with the case?"
Skinner looked at Scully. "Do you remember Mulder ever investigating this
case?"
Scully took the file from John and began to scan the only two pages on it.
"Yeah, but there was never any evidence to even acknowledge the existence of the
group. It was just a rumor, nothing substantial."
"I want you two to find something substantial."
"Us two?" Scully asked.
"AD Follmer wanted us out of this investigation," John said.
"Well, I want you in," Skinner said.
John let out a sigh. "Why?"
"Because this just became an X-File."
To be continued…
