(Good Vibrations -- Chapter Eight)

FBI Go Home

11:26 A.M.

YELLOW BARN, PENNSYLVANIA

Guilt does odd things to people. For example, when the second earthquake hit, a number of people believed themselves responsible for Mulder and Scully's heading into its epicenter, and acted bizarrely as a result.

Billy Ackroyd, for example, started having second thoughts about blaming them for the loss of his motel. If they really were affiliated with the military, he thought, they wouldn't really have questioned him and his granddaughter about those strangers' activities in the woods. Right? So . . . maybe he shouldn't have stuck them with the bill. No, surely that belonged to the person who was ultimately in charge of the military. At this point along his line of thought, Ackroyd became confused as to whether this would mean he'd have to mail an invoice to the President, to Congress, or to both, and he got a headache.

As soon as the second earthquake sent the remaining evacuees running for the hills, Charlotte Ackroyd realized that there was a decent chance that the FBI agents -- including Agent Intense . . . well, especially Agent Intense, actually -- were in serious trouble as a result. Hadn't they been heading into the wilderness in search of shady military personnel at her behest? Believing herself guilty of manslaughter, Charlotte promptly burst into tears, further complicating her grandfather's headache.

As for Special Agent Joe Lowell . . . well, he seriously regretted not stepping forward when the agents had first started asking around about his whereabouts. After all, if they'd known where he was -- right in front of them, hiding behind a fake face -- they might never have gotten sidetracked and wandered into the woods. So he ripped off the makeup he'd appropriated from the FBI, stood on a rock, and shouted out the story of his true identity and culpability to all and sundry who would listen.

Needless to say, this really did not help Mr. Ackroyd's developing migraine. And it really surprised Mulder and Scully, who in the meantime had dragged themselves back into the clearing without anybody really noticing.

"Thank you," said Mulder politely as Lowell's shouted confession wound down to a close.

"What!" Lowell spun around, nearly toppling off the rock he was perched upon, staring at his disheveled fellow agents in shock.

Scully was reminded of a certain scene in "Macbeth" -- the one in which the ghost of a man the title character's murdered shows up for dinner. "I don't suppose you'd care to come with us?" she suggested.

Lowell stared. Charlotte's sobs cut off abruptly, and she clutched her grandfather's arm for support. The elder Ackroyd looked up and gave a violent start of surprise.

The New Agers looked up to see what all the fuss was about. Upon discovering that the federal agents were not quite as dead as was previously believed, they went back to mildly resenting them.

"I -- you're alive!" Lowell flung his arms around the bedraggled Mulder and Scully. He couldn't really reach, but that was okay because it's the thought that counts. The partners carefully but firmly pushed Lowell back away again, though not without some degree of gentleness.

"We noticed," said Mulder flatly. "Care to explain what you're doing here?"

Lowell's shoulders sagged. "I'm . . . sorry," he said, sounding defeated.

"Save it for the review board," advised Scully with an air of finality.

"No! -- no, I can't go back -- " Lowell turned away, then faced the other agents again. He then proceeded to spill the rest of his backstory.

It was an interesting one, though, as backstories go. Lowell had recently gone through a profound disillusionment with his life. He and his wife had been separated for a number of years, though they'd never bothered to finalize the divorce papers. But suddenly Lowell was feeling as though the mistakes he'd made should be corrected, and he decided to strike out on a new life with his old love. So he ditched the FBI one day, accidentally dropping a hint to one colleague that he was going to visit his old honeymoon location -- Yellow Barn, Pennsylvania.

After a few miles down the road in her estranged husband's company, Mrs. Lowell found herself strongly reminded of why she'd left him to begin with. At which point she proceeded to leave him again.

Lowell had doggedly continued to Yellow Barn on his own, convinced that there was still an answer there for him. So determined was he to abandon his old life that he went through some trouble to avoid Mulder and Scully when they appeared. Although he'd actually run into Scully on the agents' first night there, he passed himself off as a drunk mystic who did not understand the English language, and she had avoided him after that. (Upon hearing this, Scully's face noticeably shifted into an even more ominous expression than before.)

"So, you're not coming back?" asked Mulder, sort of hoping that that would be the case. I don't want to bump into this guy at the water cooler next week and have to pretend he didn't almost get us killed twice out here.

The moody Lowell stared off into the woods. "I . . . can't go back."

You got that right, thought Scully, feeling vaguely murderous.

"I . . . know that this isn't the way to live, either," continued the runaway, looking miserable. "This is no real life . . . hiding out like a felon. . . ."

Mulder clapped him on the shoulder a little more roughly than could have been comfortable. "Well, how about you send in a letter of resignation sometime," he said in a tone that did not leave much room for argument.

"Yes . . . yes, I should do that. . . ." Lowell wandered away, shaking his head and murmuring dejectedly to himself.

The agents stared after their former co-worker for a moment. Then Scully let out a long breath of air, and the partners started back towards their tent.

At some point as they packed their things (including the sleeping bags . . . there was no use in leaving them behind) into the sedan, the Ackroyds appeared behind the agents, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats.

Scully slammed one of the sedan's back doors and turned around to face them. "Yes?"

Charlotte looked at the ground. "I -- I'm sorry you had such a bad time here," she said in a small voice, and Scully's heart softened towards the girl. A little bit.

"Yeah, and you left this behind," said Billy Ackroyd, handing Mulder a shoebox that bulged with familiar-looking papers: All the motel evacuees' receipts from the 24-hour store, including one for a wireless radio. And one that Billy had drawn up himself. For a motel.

Mulder looked down blankly at this offering for a moment before taking it in his hands. "And you're giving me this because . . .?"

Ackroyd shrugged. "Government had something to do with my motel disappearing, I know. Government's gonna pay for it, one way or another."

Mulder treated him to a stare à la liquid nitrogen.

The man coughed into one hand. "Well. If it ain't your fault, I'm sure you can find out whose it was, and . . . well. Yeah. C'mon, Charlotte, honey. Let's go." He took his granddaughter by the shoulder and propelled her back towards the field. The younger, prettier, Ackroyd turned back once to cast a last longing glance at Mulder, but then returned her resigned gaze to the field full of unwanted guests.

Mulder and Scully stared after them. Then they looked at the shoebox. Ever the gentleman, Mulder offered it to Scully.

"No, thanks." Instead of accepting the gift, Scully reopened the sedan's back door for him. Sighing, Mulder gently deposited the shoebox in the backseat. Closing the back door again, the partners brushed as much dirt and debris off themselves as they could, then climbed into the car.

At some point down the road to D.C., Scully's hand moved towards the car radio tuner and turned the knob. And froze as some familiar chords rang out of the car speakers. The artist? The Beach Boys. The song? . . .

" 'Good Vibrations,' " said the horrified Special Agents in unison, and both moved to switch off the radio.

Seven miles later, one of them ventured to tentatively switch it back on. This time, the unmistakable sound of the Ramones blared out. "Something to Believe In." The radio stayed on that frequency for a while longer, lasting all the way through "Rocket to Russia" and even "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend." At which point the signal faded out of range, and static hissed out of the speakers. The radio was summarily turned off again.

A few minutes later, another voice broke the silence in the sedan. It was not a professional voice, and was far from perfect in the classical sense. Which did nothing to stop it from segueing into a spirited Judy Garland impersonation, and actually made it more endearing somehow, in its own way.

As the car flew along the unrolling road, outbreaks of falsetto and laughter trailed behind it, along with the occasional duet. All the way back home.

AUTHOR'S ENDNOTES

This is not quite the end -- there's an epilogue, too. Go on to Chapter 9.