Chapter 4

"Bathrooms are right back there, Miss," the bar owner pointed.

"Thank you." Scully bit her lip and walked toward the far end of the dark space.

She could feel Lenaghan's eyes trace her movement. How did Mulder expect her to strike up any kind of small-talk? The silence was thick around them. She slipped into the bathroom, thinking. Her reflection looked back at her; her eyes were a bit sunken in, faint shadows coloring the lower lids—an unfortunate side-effect of her recent sleep-deprivation.

She reached over, flushed the toilet, and washed her hands, lathering soap between her fingers as it ran through the gush of the stream. When she was done, she splashed cool water to her face. It was pleasant, though it was laced with that scent unique to the Virginias. Scully patted her forehead and cheeks with a paper towel, and stepped back out into the dim bar hall.

The men looked up. The bar's owner glanced at her briefly, busy with the chore of wiping down the surfaces his patrons would soon stain with spilled whiskey and cigarette ash. Lenaghan, on the other hand, fixed Scully with a direct, unabashed stare. She walked past him and hesitated, turning. His eyes never wavered from her face—crisp, gray eyes, pinched slightly in the corners by small wrinkles. Just like in his mug shot, he seemed to be pulling back a small smile.

Scully cleared her throat. "This seems like an odd venue for a grand piano," she said, just to start something with Lenaghan.

"We do piano shows now," the bar owner called in a gruff way, without turning around. It slipped out of him like a practiced statement; he must have had to explain the bar's redirection over and over to his customers when Arnold's stopped being a strip joint. He almost said 'god damn it,' but caught himself, and the curse slipped out in a low mutter. Business had probably suffered some when the strippers were let go and the poles removed.

Lenaghan didn't even turn to the sound of the man's voice. "I play the piano," he said, his eyes never moving from Scully. His own voice was quiet, soft, like the shirk of a velvet hem along carpet—a sound she would miss in a crowded room. It unnerved Scully; the sound prickled her spine, though she couldn't gage why.

She urged the feeling down, thinking of something else to say to keep him engaged. "Oh, really? I'm in town for the evening. Are you playing tonight?"

Lenaghan nodded, still with that small smile. "You should stop by. Do you like classical music, or more the popular culture varieties?"

She shifted. Was there a correct answer here? Lenaghan was Julliard alumni who'd refused Carnegie Hall. "Both, I suppose."

"Ticket's fifteen dollars," the man hollered from behind the bar, clinking glasses.

"Free for my guest, Jim," Lenaghan said. Even when he spoke across a room, his voice slithered soft, low-pitched.

It was good enough—she had done enough recon. She nodded, trying to keep a friendly smile and not show him how his voice unsettled her. "I'll stop by. When does it start?"

"Seven," Jim answered for Lenaghan again. "Come a bit earlier, sweetheart. We've got a two-for-one happy hour running four-to-seven."

Scully nodded, glanced at Lenaghan, and walked out of the bar.

Mulder perked up when he saw her near the car through the sun-beaten lot. He was camouflaged by the shadow of the tree behind the curb.

"Well?" he asked when she slipped into the passenger's seat.

"I talked to him," she said. "He asked me to come listen to his show at seven."

"And? What kind of read did you get on the guy?"

She glanced at him sideways. "I'm not sure… Mulder, do you know how sometimes people smile—a small smile—like something's funny that you're not in on?"

He nodded. "Like they think they're smarter than you. That's how men with above average IQ smile when they've gotten away with murder."

She frowned. "Mulder, don't you think that you're bending a speculation to fit your theory?"

"Was that not how you felt about Maurice Lenaghan?"

She bit her lip. "Let's just swing back around at seven."

He revved the engine and pulled out of the lot of Arnold's. The long windowless building flashed in their rearview.

They grabbed lunch at a road-stop diner—a nostalgic, private-owned business that reminded of the fifties' era malt shops, though it smudged that memory with thick, greasy air, chipped linoleum, and the sound of Merengue blaring from the narrow kitchen window. The bell on the door tinged when the agents stepped in, and a young girl with a frizz of bleached curls looked up from the paper, blowing a pink bubble-gum bubble.

"Y'all want a booth or a table?" she asked when the bubble popped.

"Booth," they answered in unison.

The leather crackled under them as they slid in across from each other. Scully glanced down at a sputter of yellow foam bursting out of a short split at one end of her cushion.

"What are y'all having to drink?" The girl slapped the menus down, chewing.

"Coffee," they said in unison again.

"Aw," she grinned, pinching the gum between her teeth. "That's cute how y'all say the same thing every time."

Scully glanced at Mulder, feeling a blush. He only chuckled and flapped the menu open.

"'Heart-Attack Special,'" he read as the waitress walked off. "That sounds like good meal."

She cleared her throat and zeroed in on her choices, but couldn't focus.

"Mulder, what exactly do you want me to do here?"

"Hm?" He looked up over the fold. "Is the food—we can look for another place."

"I meant with Lenaghan." She folded the menu away. "What is it that you want me to get out of him? A confession?" Her voice dipped, catching her frustration: the man wasn't the guy by all logical means; she agreed with FBI's reported dismissal—he had an alibi, a strong alibi.

Mulder shook his head. "Just a better read, Scully. I'm banking on that feminine intuition of yours—and you have an in now. He invited you to his show; he will want to talk to you after."

She brushed back a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mulder, he just…" She bit her lip. "I don't think he's the guy, but he… gave me the creeps—I'm sorry. It was just the way he kept looking at me—his stare."

Mulder glanced up, shocked it seemed. "Scully… I thought that, with your medical background especially, you'd be sympathetic."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"His blindness."

"What?"

"His blindness…"

"What?" She shot up. "He's not blind."

Mulder faltered. "Maurice Lenaghan is blind. I told you that."

"What?" The memory of the man's eyes washed over her. They were crisp, direct—attentive. "No, you most certainly never said that he was blind."

Mulder frowned. "Skinner mentioned it, in between his fair speech as to why we can't directly be brought on the case. I told you about that."

"No," Scully shook her head. "You never told me he was blind."

The waitress circled back and dropped off their coffee.

"Y'all ready to order?"

Mulder handed her back the menu. "Cobb salad. Dressing on the side. And could I please get a creamer for the coffee?"

"Miss?" she turned to Scully.

"The—the same."

The girl chuckled. "So cute."

Scully narrowed her eyes at Mulder when the waitress left. "You picked that salad because you knew that's what I would have chosen."

He flicked a sugar packet over his coffee. "I know you."

Scully found her gaze running down his cheek as he turned away toward the window. She could feel her body giving into the strain of not sleeping well for days.

"Just get a read on the guy, Scully," Mulder said. "If you tell me he's innocent, I'll drop it right here, and won't bring it up ever again."

"He can't be blind," she said. "He looked at me—I mean he looked at me."

Mulder set the paper of the sugar packet against his mug.

"Scully, Maurice Lenaghan is blind—has been for a while."