The soothing fragrance of a peppermint stick rose in a light mist from the warm mug cradled in his hand. He sat stiffly on the high-backed Victorian sofa in the parlor while Teena perched on the piano bench across the room. She'd lit two pine incense taper candles on the baby grand, their flicker skittering over the walls to cloak the room in animated shadows.
"What keeps you from sleep tonight?" he asked, silently wishing she would soon return to bed and leave his escape route empty. She hesitated, as if mulling over which explanation he was allowed to hear.
"Sometimes I have these dreams…and then I wake up and the visions from sleep remain as though the dream never ended. I almost wonder if—never mind," she sipped from her mug and gazed solemnly out the bay window.
"Nightmares?"
"Not always. Not tonight…Bill attributes it to my active imagination. It's probably nothing."
"Don't dismiss it so easily. You're unable to sleep; it concerns you enough to share it with me now. Trust me, in my experience…it's never nothing. Dreams are answers to questions we do not yet know how to ask. They're secrets from a place deep in our consciousness where we keep our fears and truths." He pushed the memories aside as they welled up from within. The post-traumatic stress he'd endured in earlier years had caused him night terrors and endless struggles with anxiety and guilt, but he always kept it to himself. Chris wasn't one to display the chinks in his armor.
"In these dreams, I just imagine things. This house…" She glanced over the room and absently waved one hand as if to somehow clarify her point.
"The house?" He moved his arm through the air to continue her gesture questioningly.
"You're going to think I'm crazy. I haven't told anyone." A hint of tears strained and tightened her voice. She frowned, pursing her lips uncertainly. "There is something in this house, especially at night—it's like some tangible curtain I can slip through when I enter in and out of sleep. Echoes from the past. Ghosts. I can hear them."
"What do they say?"
"Nothing to me. It's like I'm flipping through a picture book, observing frozen moments in time. I think there is a boy—or I imagine there is. Sometimes he is quite young…but I believe he died in this house when he was very old."
"Have you thought about searching in the hall of records to see who lived in the house before? I'm sure you could find him and learn what keeps him here."
"Wait—You believe me?"
"Of course I believe you. Why wouldn't the spirit stay close to life, as opposed to traveling to another realm or being reborn? It's more natural for one to cling to what seems familiar. I know I've felt things in my life that—Well, everyone believes in ghosts, don't they?"
"I would say most people don't believe. Not Bill, at least. But anyway, I'd rather not know who they are. I keep a journal and every day imagine what sort of people lived and died here—I write their stories."
"Maybe that's the reason they speak to you."
"Perhaps. It does frighten me sometimes, though. I have to invent countless excuses to explain to Bill what I'm doing or what's bothering me."
"What would happen if you told him the truth?"
"I don't know. He would just laugh, I suppose, but that's what I can't stand."
"Why do you let him control you so, Teena?"
She twisted her wedding band in circles on her finger in contemplation. "Because he means well. I know he loves me—he supports me, gives me a comfortable life. What more could I ask for?"
"How about respect?"
She laughed softly. "It seems odd to be having this discussion with someone who is a close friend of his."
Teena was right, of course. Chris fidgeted uncomfortably, wishing he had never paused at the damn door. "Bill and I—we've known one another for a long time, but to be honest, I don't have close friends."
"Ten years is a long time. Surely you know him better than I. What's he like?"
He had to stop himself from his natural response of "Why in the hell would you marry someone you don't know?" and instead replied simply, "He's a good man."
She sighed, pretending to busy herself with retying the loose bun at the nape of her neck. "Of course, I'd forgotten. You work together; I should have learned by now not to expect anything less cryptic."
"When we first spoke, you told me you were unhappy," he said quietly.
"I don't think I said that."
"You're sad because you can't fit in at parties, you're bored with your life, and you wish you really knew your husband and that he really knew you. Am I right?"
"It doesn't matter what I said then. I think I'm more afraid than sad, anyway."
Chris tensed, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Bill wouldn't hurt her. He knew him well enough to know that much. When his only response was to stare at her intently, she stuttered to find an answer to his unspoken question.
"I'm afraid of losing who I was before. Before Bill, I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to live on the stage in New York. Isn't that silly?"
"No. It isn't silly at all. Don't lose that part of you. You're young; you can still pursue it…I think you would be a sensational actress. You have a gift, Teena. You can see people, tap into human emotion." He felt a lump hardening in his throat, wishing he could find the right words.
"But you hardly know me."
"Maybe I do," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
She surprised him then. Lemon silk billowed and flowed around her ethereally as her soft figure glided across the room to join him on the sofa. Leaning close to him, she intently studied the emotion behind his eyes, searching for some answer he didn't want her to find. His glance fell to her lips, swollen and pink and soft. Desperately he longed to know what it would feel like to touch her there.
"What do you see?" she whispered.
"I see a poet, an old soul, beauty beyond reach."
Her dark eyes softened, and she knitted her brows as she seemed to memorize the details of his features. "I see softness and gentleness. I see someone who wishes to change but is afraid. I see a seeker of truth," she replied softly.
She held a power over him, and it was unnerving. He turned away from her, summoning the courage to ask the question he needed to know.
"Do you love him?" his voice was barely audible.
"I don't know." She seemed to realize how close they were, and at the mention of Bill, instinctively pulled away.
"I know he's controlling…he doesn't hurt you, does he?"
"What? Of course not! How could you think such a thing?" She stiffened and stood tocross the length of the room.
Chris felt the heat of embarrassment flushing his cheeks, knowing that he had crossed that magic line a long time ago. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture.
"I'm sorry. Please forgive my rudeness. I wasn't thinking. It's past time that I take my leave. Thank you again for inviting me into your home, ma'am—and thanks for the tea. Have a pleasant holiday."
As the front door fell shut behind him, he thought he heard a stifled sob but couldn't be sure. Chris didn't look back.
--
He stands before the antique mirror in the hallway, wondering if he looks the part of the classic, brave soldier like his namesake, the Swamp Fox. The woolen navy blue uniform itches uncomfortably, the bayonet hangs awkwardly at his side, and the shiny black boots are too tight. He brushes his palm over his full beard—the first he has ever grown. In the quiet of a pink-orange dawn outside the window, his cinnamon brown gelding waits patiently. Wistfully, he gazes past the line of trees to the grassy clearing where his mother rests. She would never recognize him.
Teena immediately stilled her pen when Bill came bustling into the parlor. He dropped the duffle bag and two suitcases in a heap at the entrance to the foyer and paused to catch his breath and swipe a trickle of sweat from his brow.
"Well, that's everything," he said, hands on his hips.
"You're leaving?" she asked, closing the journal and placing it on the floor beside the piano.
"What are you writing about now?" he inquired, curiously noting the pen in her hand.
"Oh nothing, just my own ramblings," she replied lightly.
"I hope you aren't writing about how happy you are that I am going away for six weeks."
"Of course not, I will miss you. I just wish you were finished with your service to the army. It has already taken so many years of your life."
"Well, I am finished for the most part. They just want me back for a bit to train other officers. This is the last time I'll be away from you for so long, I promise."
He held out his hand for her, and she stood to embrace him firmly. His palm smoothed her hair back from her face, and he lightly fluttered kisses over her temples and forehead.
"I wish you would let me drive you to the airport," she murmured into the nape of his neck.
"That's sweet of you, but the DC flight tends to be delayed, especially during this time of year. There's no sense in you having to wait."
"All right. I suppose this is goodbye then."
"I'll call or write as often as I can, honey."
He gave her a last peck on the lips before gathering his luggage and hurrying out the door. Teena waited until the Cadillac's taillights disappeared at the bend of the gravel drive before running for her shoes and coat.
--
Frozen rain splattered across the windshield of the old Ford pick-up. Teena shivered and pulled the collar of her suede coat up around her neck, wishing she could switch on the ignition for the heat. This wasn't her car—it would've been too obvious had he seen the red Chevy in his mirror. The pick-up had belonged to William Mulder Sr., and after his vision had failed to the point that he was no longer able to drive, the car was left abandoned in the field beside Bill's tool shed.
He continued to loiter in the parked car. Teena felt her pulse thudding in her ears, wondering if he'd seen her. How would she ever explain this? And what did she expect to find? He would probably board the red-eye to Dulles and continue to North Carolina tomorrow, just as he'd told her. But she no longer trusted his word. His shadow moved behind the fogged glass of the Cadillac, and the door quickly opened and slammed shut after he pulled his bags from the passenger side. Without a sound, Teena slipped out of the truck and remained twenty feet behind as she followed him across wet pavement toward the main terminal at MVA.
The crowd of travelers inside was thick enough that she easily blended into a sea of nondescript faces. He waited in line to check his bags, moved through security, and weaved through the other passengers to the gate for a red-eye bound for New York's LaGuardia International; and all the while, she watched him from the shadows.
--
Chris turned the small, silver weapon over in his palm. He brandished it, testing its weight, before pushing the button to reveal a pencil-thin blade that protracted with a sudden swish. The man that had given it to him nodded curtly, signifying that Chris had the right idea. His large physical stature and severe facial features were enough to intimidate anyone, but Chris found the ice blue eyes more disturbing and fearsome than any other aspect of him; they were blank, lifeless, and something else clearly watched from the other side. "We entrust this weapon to you, Mr. Spender. You are the one that will not fail the project," Frank had said earlier, before the mysterious stranger had entered the room with a "gift" for the allies.
During secret parlays such as these, the Syndicate would consort with Them—the Others, as they were often simply and unoriginally referred to. It was part of the master plan: work with Them to work against Them. Sleep with the enemy. The game was dangerous, and Chris dreaded the familiar tingling down his spine that surfaced during their presence. If They ever discovered the truth, mankind's existence would be over—quite a lot of pressure for the shoulders of twelve men who just happened to be a little quicker, a little quieter, a little smarter, and a little more willing to lie or kill than the rest of human life currently wandering the planet. For good or ill, this duty had found Chris. He retracted the blade, dropped it in his coat pocket, and decided to feel privileged at the "honor".
After the consortium, the men began to move out and mull across the street for cocktails. Chris followed the crowd until he heard someone calling his name, asking him to hold back. Bill Mulder nodded, hurrying to meet Chris before he'd finished descending the stairs, and the two men stepped off into a darkened side hallway near the landing.
"What is it, Bill?" Chris responded with temerity, prepared to defend himself for the late night conversation with Teena.
"I told my wife I was heading straight for the base tonight and that she needn't accompany me to the airport. She followed me all the way to MVA in my father's truck with the lights off, and then trailed after me through the terminal. She knows I boarded a plane for New York."
"Why would she follow you?"
"I don't know. Fuck!" Bill rubbed a hand over his mouth, looking away, and shifted his weight between feet. "She's been acting strangely for awhile like she suspects something. I don't think the project would ever be endangered because of her, but I'm afraid she knows more than she needs. I don't know exactly how long this has been going on—her conducting her own investigation into my life. And now that I'll be gone for several weeks, there's no telling what she'll try. Chris, you are the only one I trust. Can I ask you to do something for me?"
"Of course," Chris replied hesitantly.
"I know you'll be in the New York area before your mission. Would you—could you check in on her for me? Maybe drop by the house for a visit, but don't call first. Make sure she's there, see what she's up to, ease her concerns about me and our work, watch over her closely, and make sure she doesn't try anything. She trusts you, I think. Well, I suppose you're the only one of my colleagues she knows. It could work, help get her off my back."
"I'm always happy to help, Mulder."
