Date: Sun, 24 Aug 1997 16:29:04 -0400 (EDT) From: Duffsan@aol.com Subject: The Maltese Scully (1/2) S, Parody by Medina TITLE: The Maltese Scully (1/2) S, Parody AUTHOR: Medina, written August 1997 E-MAIL ADDRESS: duffsan@aol.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please forward to ATXC. Archive at Gossamer. Attach my name if archived elsewhere. SPOILERS: None RATING: G CONTENT WARNING: none CLASSIFICATION: S, Parody [pastiche] LENGTH: 20 kb SUMMARY: Agent Scully helps Skinner locate a missing bird. Pastiche/parody of the hard-boiled detective novels. DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. AUTHOR'S THANKS: To the Beta Reading Circle, an outstanding panel of editing experts. To the Deep Background research site that saves significant VCR time at 2:30 in the morning. To MP and MA who combed out all the fleas. FEEDBACK: please send to duffsan@aol.com ******************************************* The Maltese Scully (1/2) S, Parody by Medina Chapter 1 Vietnam Memorial Washington DC It was one of those grey days that made you think you were living in a cloud. DC gets like this - all weepy and melancholy. As I walked along rain-slicked cobble stones, the sound of my footfalls bounced off the Wall. I slowed at the center notch and lingered. The message said seven. I checked my watch. The Boss Man had five minutes to show. I jammed my hands in my pockets and stared at the drops of water pooling in the lower loops of the Js and Ys. "Agent Scully?" The Boss Man had showed. I never had a doubt. After all, it was his dime, his dance. "Sir?" He commanded respect and I gave it willingly. He stood with his stance firmly planted, feet apart. The navy overcoat had the collar turned up but the front wide open. It flattered the line of his body, suggesting things that nice girls never did. Few men had his kind of power. Even fewer harnessed it like he did. He wore it like an intoxicating musk that went straight to your cerebral cortex. He didn't know a thing about it and that only made it worse. Not that I'm complaining. I considered my access to it a perk of the job. "We have a situation." His words formed deep inside his chest and then came out like a seduction. Funny how his voice always seemed to get bass and gravely towards the end of the day. Words spoken after 6 pm were lethal. I confess; I'm not immune. It was all I could do to keep the conversation going. "Sir?" He lowered his voice to a rumble. "I've got the Bird." "You do?" It was a surprise and then again, it wasn't. The Boss Man had connections. Big connections. Connections you never asked about if you wanted to sleep at night. If he had the Bird, then he controlled the whole game. The world was at his feet. I wondered what he wanted with me. If he was at a loss, I could come up with a few suggestions - a few of which were even work- related. The Boss Man shifted his gaze to a point beyond my shoulder then put me back in the center of his view. Those hazel browns bore into me. He had eyes that could run all the red lights and drive right to the center of your soul. "I need you to take the message to Them." So that was it. Ma Bell wasn't good enough for him. He needed the news delivered in person. It felt good knowing he trusted me with the job. All that remained were the details and I knew he had come prepared. He always did. I nodded, encouraging him to continue. "Dawn tomorrow. Here." He fixed those hazels on me. The traffic lights failed me once again and I mutely agreed. "I'll see to it that you're well protected." He would, too. I knew I'd never see any evidence of it. The Boss Man had a talent for discretion. But the protection would be there shielding me like the embrace of a devoted lover. I often wondered if, having delegated the work, he put in an appearance just to make sure things proceeded according to plan. He'd never admit it and you'd never be able to catch him at it, but I always figured he was there in the shadows, watching. Next dawn, Vietnam Memorial Washington DC Once every year or two, I light up a cigarette just to prove to myself I am a rebel at heart. I don't smoke often but when I do, I make it count. I put the cigarette in my mouth and cupped the tip as I brought the lighter close. Puffing once, I snapped the lid shut on the flame. It was a cheap gold-plated lighter with an Apollo emblem given to me by a weasel with a bad conscience. I slipped it back in my pocket, feeling it weigh down the corner and thump against my thigh. Exhaling, I walked along at a leisurely pace. From behind, a voice stopped me. "You're early." "So are you." I countered, turning around slowly. He emerged from the mist and came into sharp focus. He too held a cigarette pinched between his lips. He inhaled, making the tip glow. Removing the cigarette, he exhaled as he spoke. "What's the message?" I didn't waste time being coy. "He has the Bird." He smiled with a slow blinking grunt, as if struck by irony. "Have you seen it?" I hadn't. Of course I hadn't. Even if I had, how would I know it wasn't a fake? But here I was willing to stake my life on a bad bet that The Boss Man was playing it straight. With him, you never quite knew if you were player or pawn. "Of course." I pulled my chin up a bit and took a quick puff of the cigarette. I tapped the end nervously, sending ash to the ground. There was that ironic grin again. "Have you really?" He was amused. It worried me. Smoke streamed from his nostrils on the exhale. He viewed me narrowly, evaluating the veracity of my claim. "Tell me, then. What does it look like?" I had to hand it to him. It was a good question. It was a *really* good question. I hadn't a clue. The Bird was a myth bigger than Santa Claus. But I knew the Bird existed all right because I believed in something greater - The Boss Man. If he said the Bird was real, then it existed. If he said he had it, then he did. There was only one card I had and now was the time to play it. Very deliberately, I lifted my lovely curved eyebrow and mirrored his expression of jaded amusement. "This a quiz?" "Of a kind." The grin faded. "You haven't see it, then." "You don't know that. I can play games, too." "So you can." He finished the cigarette and dropped it. The butt hit a patch of moisture and hissed before he ground out the light with his toe. "Tell him we concede the point. We are willing to deal." Next Day Steps of the Lincoln Memorial "They're willing to deal." I stood on a step above him and he was still taller than me. He looked out towards the Monument. Who knew what he was thinking? Was he even listening? I let the silence linger. Then he came back with a "Good work." He said it without smiling but he never did much of that. I knew he meant it. He didn't toss around compliments lightly. Like his respect, his praise was hard won and sparingly given. "Anything else you need?" I prompted him. The Boss Man placed one foot on a lower step. We were at eye level now. "I'll be in touch." I watched him proceed down the steps, each one taken with deliberate movements, like a military man on a slow timed precision march. His hands were deep in his pockets and I could see his breath in the cold early morning air. I felt a strange longing, an ache knowing that for now, my part in the case had ended. The message I delivered put him directly into the line of fire. He would not see another moment of safety until it was over. He was in a danger beyond my ability to comprehend. I've seen him in jams before and I've witnessed what he can pull off. He has more lives than the sacks of cats coming from Saint Ives. As for me, all I could do was wait and pray. Chapter 2 For the next two weeks, I thought about him on and off. The thoughts were mostly questions. I didn't have the sources The Boss Man did. I scanned the papers and cornered my usual two-bit informants but turned up squat. My sometimes partner was as useful as a ouiji board - fun at parties but you never took the answers seriously. The Boss Man had gone down deep. Maybe he had just gone down. I didn't want to think about it too much so I just waited by the edge of the pool for him to come up for air. When he finally did, he made quite a splash. Blood mostly. All over my apartment. "Sir?" I opened the door wider. He fell forward and I took the brunt of his weight. Staggering backwards, I kicked the door shut. The Boss Man sank to a knee, doubling over. "What happened?" "I've been shot." He said it gritting his teeth. The fact made him angry. The sheer inconvenience outweighed any physical distress. Pain appeared far down the list of his complaints. I helped him to my sofa and held my questions until later. I had him on the couch and began peeling away layers to find the source of all the blood. The shirt stuck to his skin. I untucked the ends and unbuttoned from neck to hem. The cotton was heavy with scarlet. I could have wrung the thing out and produced a pint of blood. I started pressing into his flesh. His bare chest heaved, muscles tightening and straining against my probing touch. I found the entry wound and, once rolling him to his side, the exit. There was only thing for him - a chauffeured ride in a well- equipped ambulance. I reached for the phone. Before I could dial a nine, he batted the thing out of my grasp with a cat-like swipe of his hand. The phone clattered on the wood floor. The back opened and the batteries flew out, skittering under a far chair. "Tell no one. Just stitch me up." In no particular order, I had the Hippocratic oath, laws about reporting gunshot wounds, and the Boss Man's personal safety to consider. Each wanted the upper hand in my ultimate decision. Despite the saying, all rules are not made to be broken but he had those eyes working on me again and I couldn't refuse. I should have. But I didn't. It's amazing what becomes a convincing argument in the heat of the moment. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I stitched him up as best I could and shot him full of antibiotics. He scorned the pain killers because he wanted to stay sharp. With the kind of pain he had to be in, I would have taken at least a few of the edges off. He wouldn't be told so I did the best I could with some local freezing. He pulled his shirt on and began testing his physical range, first twisting this way then that. I felt like one of those trainers who tends to the star quarterback in the big game. You know the guy just ruined his knees, but you pump him full of freezing and give him a whiff of ammonia. He's back on the field in no time making the big plays, but in your heart, you know he's going to pay for it later. This will be the last season the poor bugger ever plays so you try to let him make the best of it. Let him go out to the roar of the crowd. I felt guilty as hell. That wasn't all. I felt responsible as hell. He had come to me for care and I'd given him *his* version of it, not mine. I couldn't let him go back out alone. He wasn't in any shape for it. When he reached the door, he thanked me and reminded me to tell no one. With a nod I agreed. I let him leave thinking he was alone. Once he left, I prepared to follow. Chapter 3 Chesterton said if you wanted to know where a man had been, get behind him. If you wanted to know where he was going, get in front of him. This, of course, is nonsense. Chesterton also forgot the caveat of needing to know where the man is in the first instance before you can make your choice to lead or follow. I consider myself well trained. I'm observant and luck is a friend more than foe. The Boss Man had four minutes on me at the outside. It took me half a day to catch up with him. He must have made a quick swing by his place during the interim because he wore a coat without holes and no blood stains. Nice touch if you wanted to blend in. He did and did it well. I, on the other hand, was cursed with flaming red hair and a pert nose. With the Boss Man, you had to go through about a half dozen details to really nail down a positive ID whereas all you had to do with me is say "Red hair" and you immediately got a "Pert nose? Yep. Saw her this morning around ten". Intensely annoying when you want to be invisible. Burdened with such an obvious liability, I was wary about following him. Because it took me so long to find him, I was determined not to lose him so once I had tagged him, I stuck pretty close. On the other hand, a mere flash of the carrot top and he'd make me in a New York second. We were on foot, having abandoned cars for the freedom of Metro travel and quick walks. I rattled along on the Metro, one car behind him. His pattern didn't make any sense. That is to say, he had no pattern. For all I could tell, we were wandering aimlessly around DC happily logging frequent traveler points. Physically, he was deteriorating. The crowds were hard on him. Once, I saw him get caught in a crush. He was tough enough not to cry out in pain but it was there in his face, like an intense white heat. The car slowed, then stopped. The doors opened. I saw him leave and make a quick move for the door. I had to push my way through the boarding passengers and lost sight of him. I kept moving in the general direction of the exit, scanning for him. The realization I had lost him came in stages, slowing my gait until I stood by a pillar and looked all around me at the deserted station. Unladylike language has always been one of my hidden but finely honed skills. Being a Navy brat means you're never at a loss for the right expletive. You can always care enough to swear the very best. I chose that moment to once again to outdo myself. The hackles on my neck rose before I hear the snap of the slide. Whoever was behind me was decidedly not happy to see me. Or maybe just overly cautious. I was giving myself even money on who it would be and hoped that it would be the Boss Man. Better the temper you know than the devil you don't. "Turn around. Slowly." Either the Boss Man was pulling an act or his voice had become falsetto with pain. I turned, my hands upwards in the international sign for 'don't shoot'. She might have been pretty if you liked tawdry blue-eyed blondes. She was taller than I was, heels not withstanding. There was no question; I could take her in a fair fight and I was pretty sure I could outrun her. It was that niggling detail of the gun she held on me that swayed things in her favour. I let her play out the scene to her taste. "Who are you?" "I'm a doctor." "No. You're not." I hate it when people judge me by my haunting good looks. She was antsy and tried to act tough. "Show me some ID." I made an easy move to my pocket and withdrew a small leather wallet. I passed it over to her. She unfolded it and studied the picture and me with quick switches up and down. She frowned, doing nasty things to the crow's feet around her eyes and pinched her lips into wrinkles. I knew she didn't buy it but there were no apparent flaws in the ID or my story. I made a mental note to send the Gunmen something special. "Where is he? Where's the Bird?" "I don't understand. I'm a doctor. I'm afraid I'm lost." A train came into the station and she forced me backwards and to her side. The muzzle of her gun hit the small of my back. The crowds were bigger now and we were jostled. Just as the train was ready to go, she lunged forward and boarded. I didn't try to follow. She wasn't worth it and besides, I needed some time to look over the wallet I had just picked. Sitting on a bench, I examined my ill-gotten gains. Marita Covarrubias, UN. Right. At least the Gunmen come up with something believable when they fake an ID. Some people have so little imagination. Marita Covarrubias, UN. I shook my head. What kind of an idiot would buy that story? Knowing my assailant's assumed name didn't do me much good in the grand scheme of things except now I knew how to introduce her when I told the Boss Man he was being followed by more than just me. First, though, I had to find The Boss Man. Again. Chapter 4 The expletive work-out notwithstanding, the day had been a complete loss. Try as I might, I could not pick up The Boss Man's trail again. I returned to my apartment around ten pm tired, dejected, disappointed and worried sick about him. Once inside my apartment, the worry multiplied tenfold. Sitting in a chair was the Cigarette Smoking Man. At his right hand sat the Blonde Marita. She had a smug grin on her face, as if my appearance here had proven to her that she had been right all along about me not really being a doctor. "Good evening." The Cigarette Smoking Man puffed and bid me forward. "I understand you have the Bird." This was news to me. I wondered where he got that idea. Was it a bluff? Blondie? The Boss Man on a ruse? I used the silence well, hoping he'd throw me a line to go on. "Yes?" He prompted. "No." The counterpoint started off simply enough. "He has been here, hasn't he? He's been shot. I was there when it happened." He inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. His eyes closed and you could see the euphoria on his face as the toxins did their work. As the effect wore off, he opened his eyes and said quite calmly, "It may interest you to know he does not have the Bird." Considering the source, I didn't know what to make of it. Like a parrot, I stuck to my one little word but gave the tone a different twist. "No?" "You doubt my veracity? I assure you, Agent Scully. We have been over it with him thoroughly." He gave the cigarette another long kiss. "You seem concerned. I will alleviate you of suspense. He is still alive. Regrettably not as robust as we usually find him. Show her the Polaroid." The Blonde handed over a square photo. My gut twisted in a knot. I kept my face poker straight and as blank as I could make it. He sat in a chair, face and torso cut, bloodied and bruised. Disembodied hands positioned his head for the camera. Propped up against his chest like a criminal arrest number was a copy of the day's Post headlines. It was The Boss Man all right and he looked like hell. "Why are you telling me this?" I was proud. My first full sentence in the confrontation. "I believe you know where the Bird is." "I don't. I've never seen it." He smiled in that vulturish way he had. He puffed and exhaled, enjoying another drag with the amusement. "You really must make up your mind. Either you've seen it or you haven't. In any event, Mr Skinner is counting on your resourcefulness. The Bird means everything to him. And what is it, really? Just a few technical drawings by a military madman. Hardly worth all this effort. Yet I can assure you that without the Bird, Mr Skinner will die." That I didn't doubt. And he didn't have long either, by the looks of things. The pair rose and headed for the door. He paused and passed me a plain business card. "Here is the number to call when you've located the Bird." While we were exchanging gifts, I dug into my pocket. "Here's your ID back." I flipped her the wallet. Her face went pasty. The way the Cigarette Smoking Man gave her a whammy stare, I knew I'd exposed her. It did two things for me; it paid her back for pointing a gun at me and demonstrated that I should not be underestimated. As for her, it wouldn't go well for her later, I was sure of it. They left in a trail of smoke and blond hair. I sat down heavily in a chair and reviewed. There was no question now. He was in trouble and I had to find him *and* a Bird I'd never seen. END OF PART ONE The Maltese Scully (2/2) S, Parody by Medina Chapter 5 It started off badly. Like a joke told to someone who'd heard it before, every brilliant idea I had, They'd had first. My initial thought was to visit the Boss Man's apartment. I had been to his place twice before and each time the cleanliness stopped me in my tracks. Ship shape, my dad used to say. The Boss Man used it as a life lesson, but now his place looked like a post- iceberg Titanic. The Boss Man would not be pleased. Undeterred, I moved on to his office - it was likewise trashed. Files had been ripped from cabinets and strewn about the floor. His daytimer was pillaged. Business cards were strewn across his desk. I picked up one at random that caught my eye. An arty design for a DC architect. Then another and another. On the backs were figures, quotations for the remodeling he and Sharon had done before things petered out. The design of one in particular caught my eye. It was the Mona Lisa but instead of Ms Giaconda, the artist had airbrushed in one of those pale bug-eyed aliens. I didn't think it would matter so I slipped the card in my pocket and continued my search. His car was in its usual parking space. The glove compartment was emptied, the trunk ransacked. If they'd found anything, you'd never be able to tell. By the time I held a few discrete conversations with his closest associates, I was getting used to the big goose egg. I wasn't happy about it, but I was adjusting. His cronies turned up nothing. Not even furtive denials. Just flat out blank stares and blunt 'I haven't a clue what you're talking about.' After the last interview, I stood in the lobby of the Hoover Building as frustrated as a pimpled teenager on a Saturday night. How the hell was I supposed to find the Bird? I literally hadn't a clue. I did the only thing possible and sought out some amber solace. There was a little joint close by called The Cafe. I knew the bartender there and he greeted me as I hitched a hip onto the bar stool. "Early for you. The usual?" "Sure Sam." When he brought me the drink, he leaned on the bar pretending to clean the surface. "You look down. Can I help?" "I'm looking for a Bird." "Try the zoo." "Not that kind of Bird." "What kind, then." "A helicopter." "Kind of hard to lose a helicopter, isn't it?" "Not really. It's the plans I'm looking for." "Ah." Sam could see my point and gave me silent support as I toyed with the drink, making wet circles link up on the bar in a decorative Olympic rings arrangement. "Wish I could help. You know what they say, if you want to hide a tree, find a forest." I stared, suppressing a frown and wondered if he was related to Chesterton. Peeling off a bill, I set it on the bar, drained my drink and went once more out into the unforgiving world. Chapter 6 Don't you hate it when people who haven't a clue what they're talking about say things that turn out to be true? It's one of Sam's most unflattering qualities. The forest comment got me thinking and it followed me around for the rest of the day. After one more round of playing step-behind with Them, I decided to give the idea some serious thought. I started to pose some ifs. Let's say the Boss Man had the blue prints. Let's say he wanted to hide them in a bunch of other blue prints. Where would he go? If the prints were for a military machine, and they were, my first guess would be the Pentagon. On the trip to the architectural polygon, I thought of my dad who had respect for this place. When I was a kid, my dad was not home much. Because of him, we had a gypsy existence roaming from base to base and being wrenched from friends just as soon as we made them. He was a tyrant at home because he treated us like his crew, but he provided for us - for me. Even now, he was still providing for me - a free ticket in to see one of the senior muckety- mucks. "Admiral Stackhouse? I'm Dana Scully, William Scully's daughter." Of course he remembered me, the red hair thing again. He brought up a series of incidents that he found amusing and I found embarrassing. He was genuinely glad to see me, however and asked me what he could do for me. Now that he mentioned it, I had just the thing - a tour of the blueprints archives. To condense the results of a four hour search, the prints weren't there. By the time I left I was convinced that had *I* done the searching instead of that molasses-inspired clerk, we would have had the answer in half the time. That's bureaucracy for you. We the People get so little value for our tax dollar. Take it from an eye witness. I was back on the street. It was getting late and a cold wind had picked up. The clouds had gone all black and the effect suited me to a T. Dejected, I rammed my hands into my pockets. My right hand played around with the business card I had put there. Slowly, ever so slowly, an idea coiled its way around my brain until all at once, it burst in a flash of insight. Instantly, I knew where he had hidden the blue prints. I knew. I knew. I knew and hoped to all the gods it didn't show on my face or in my suddenly springy gait. I was so excited I wanted to run. I couldn't see Them but I was certain They were there watching me. I was certain they'd tracked my progress diligently, exchanging knowing glances when I checked the places they had just ransacked. They were watching me. I was certain. But I knew! The certainty filled me with unparalleled confidence. The next job was to get to the prints without the architects or Them knowing. It was simply a matter of execution. Chapter 7 A little song. A little dance. A little seltzer in your pants. Where do these thoughts come from? Why do they appear when concentration is of paramount importance? Frohike cupped his hands for me to use as a stirrup. On three I stepped and he lifted. A little song. I coughed to smother a giggle. A little dance. I went from the flesh stirrup and placed foot on each of Frohike's shoulders, then held a hand out to Byers. A little seltzer in your pants. We grasped each other fireman style and he drew me into the window. I was giddy with tension and the idea of seltzer reappeared brought me to near hysteria. I clamped down on my tongue and suppressed the urge to laugh. "You ok?" "Sure. Let's go." I urged, breathing heavily to release some of my energy. On the whole, I'd give the job we did a solid eight out of ten. We lost a mark for the seltzer business and one for a rather untidy exit. We also got a scare from headlights that seemed to match our every turn but once the vehicle turned into an all-night convenience store, we convinced ourselves that it was a coincidence. A couple hours later, I dialed the number the Cigarette Smoking Man had given me. It rang a few times and I began to wonder how Hell's Switchboard answered the phone. She answered. You could hear the pinched expression even over the phone. I told her to put him on. She was none too pleased being played for second fiddle but I wasn't going to deal with self- important lackeys. "Do you have the Bird?" "Yes." "An exchange? The Bird for Mr Skinner?" "When and where?" We hashed out the details and when I hung up, Frohike gave me a thumbs up and stopped the tape. Langly re-appeared with the blue prints and we had a little pow wow about how to proceed. We tossed it around for quite a while. At the center of it all was trying to determine just how much they knew about the Bird. The prints we were going to pass off were fakes. The key details were now missing or misrepresented. The plans were brilliantly reproduced and aged. You couldn't tell the difference. No. That wasn't entirely true. You could tell the difference if you were an engineer. Or if you knew where to look for the inevitable flaws that emerged when a job is done with so little time. In the end, we sealed up the prints in an eighteen inch poster tube, headed out and hoped for the best. Chapter 8 Waiting is an art. You feel your body flush with adrenaline and then you have to deal with it, feeling your knees twitch and your gut tighten. You let it all flow. You let it bathe your joints and quicken your heart. Hearing sharpens. Flicks of light and colour seize your attention. Movement becomes repetitive. You check your watch. You sigh. You look around for any sign of the bad guys. You shift from foot to foot and start all over with the watch. I was parked under a bridge in a bad part of town. The air was dead still and cement grey coloured the world. For the moment, I stood in front of the car. Hidden in the scenery like high tech Waldos were the Gunmen. They had me covered and wired for sound. It wouldn't keep me or The Boss Man alive but it would keep them up to speed and give them evidence if things went sour. They might be able to get off a shot or two if it came to that. I checked my watch again. The rumbling of a car tipped me off and moments later, a black sedan rolled into view. It parked a good distance off and added a dark tone to my black and white study. Two goons emerged. From where I stood, I could see their weapons. The Smoking Man was next out. He put out his cigarette with his toe and then came towards me at his careful unhurried pace. I met him a third of the way. We exchanged polite greetings. "You have the Bird?" "Where is he?" "In the car. Do you wish to see him?" I nodded and with a subtle motion of his hand, he initiated a cascade of action. One of the goons returned to the car. From the back seat, he reached in. The Boss Man rose from behind the smoked glass. He was blindfolded and his hands were tied behind his back. The restraints didn't matter much. He was fading fast. The Boss Man wouldn't have gotten far if he was free. The goon propelled him forward and provided virtually all the vertical stance the Boss Man had. The goon yanked him to a stop a few feet to the right of the Smoking Man. He reached in and withdrew a gun, hit the slide and held the gun to the Boss Man's temple. The Boss Man didn't flinch. "Where is the Bird?" "In the car." The Boss Man heard my voice and his demeanor suddenly changed. He stiffened noticeably and turned his head in the direction of my voice. For all the world, I wished he had not been blindfolded. What could have been communicated in a single moment of eye contact was now impossible. "Will you do the honours, Agent Scully?" I retreated and withdrew the plans. I had them in my hands, ready to turn over. I must have tapped the tube and made a hollow sound. The Boss Man shook his head. "Don't do it, Agent Scully." I wished I had some secret code to let him know things were under control. That is to say, to let him know things were not completely out of control. "Hand me the plans." "Agent Scully." He found power somewhere deep inside and sounded suddenly strong, in command. "Don't do it. That's an order." "They have a gun to your head, sir." "Hand me the plans." "Let them blow it off. Don't give them the plans." He started to walk towards me. "Hand me the plans. He dies if you don't." "I'm sorry, sir. I can't let them do this to you." The Boss Man bristled. All at once, he ducked and stamped down on the instep of the goon. On the upswing, he brought his shoulder smartly under the sap's chin. The gun went off. The Smoking Man lunged forward and yanked the plans from my hand. I drew my gun on the goon. "Freeze!" The goon was thick but not stupid enough to overlook that the Smoking Man controlled events and he was on his way out. The goon pushed the Boss Man aside, and fled for the car. The Boss Man collapsed on top of me. Together, we sank to the pavement. He was unconscious and a dead weight in my arms. The sedan sped off. I looked up and knew that we'd have things covered by the time they figured out the things were fakes. Epilogue Before stopping in to see the patient, I made a nuisance of myself at the nurses' station, and made it clear I wasn't leaving until I was satisfied. It took some effort but they finally came around to seeing things my way and assured me that he would indeed make a full recovery. They even deigned to show me the proof I asked for in the first place. Thusly put at ease, I went along to his room. He didn't strike me as a flower man so I brought along some illegal contraband in the form of seedless grapes. Not everyone had the same take as me on the flower issue. The room was filled with a half dozen expensive arrangements. The Boss Man was hooked up to an IV. I approached his bedside and stared at the lean muscled hands and the flat powerful wrists. I wanted to slip my hand into his but didn't, drawing deep satisfaction simply watching him sleep. He seemed relaxed and free of pain. After a while, he stirred and noticed me. I greeted him warmly and showed him the grapes. I set them aside, hiding them from nursing-staff view - a secret hiding place that an elderly gentleman showed me while I was still an intern. "We gave them a good show." "Yes, sir. You knew I was handing over fakes?" "I was almost certain. We needed to make sure they left without checking the prints." "Your ruse worked, Sir." "The plans are where they should be." He said, quietly, not at all displeased. His eyes were growing heavy and I took it as my cue to leave him. "Take care, Sir." I said. Before I reached the door, he roused himself and called out my name. I turned, my hand on the door. He fixed the hazel eyes on me that were bright and clear. Once again, he went clean into my soul. "Good work," he said. Then he gave me one of his smiles and the whole world lit up. FINIS