Isolation, Chapter Eight
Early in the morning, Frank walked over to unlock the diner and
found Gibson sleeping in his car. He tapped on the window, startling
the young man.
"Did you sleep out here last night?" he asked as Gibson rolled down
the window.
"Yeah, I didn't want to be late," he said, rubbing his eyes.
"Come inside, I'll make you breakfast," Frank offered. "We don't
have to get on the road just yet."
Gibson sat at the counter while Frank started the coffee and warmed
up the flattop. They weren't officially open for the day but he
often came in early and never turned anyone away.
He checked the food in the walk-in freezer and coolers, and grabbed
the supply list from the bulletin board in the office. Almost as an
afterthought, he opened the safe and took a stack of twenties from
the deposit bag, leaving a dated and signed note with the amount he'd
taken in its place.
Before leaving the office he stopped and looked around. What was he
thinking? This was just his usual trip to Tucson. They'd check out
whatever the heck it was Gibson wanted him to see, and get his
supplies, and come home again.
But in case he didn't...Carla and Luis could hold down the fort for
a while; they were old hands.
Outside, he could see Carla and Teri pulling into the parking lot,
the rising sun catching their windshield so that it flashed in his
eyes for just a moment.
"Whoa," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. Spots danced before his
eyelids.
"Are you okay, Frank?" Gibson asked.
"Sure, I'm fine," he said, shaking his head. "Just a touch of
vertigo, I guess."
"Maybe I should drive us to Tucson," Gibson said.
"Yeah, maybe you should," Frank said. It crossed his mind that he'd
be harder to follow in someone else's car. Where did that come from?
He shook his head again.
"How do you like your eggs?" he asked Gibson.
Something about the way the light had reflected off the windshield
had spooked him. He wasn't sure what. Maybe he was just on edge
because of all the stuff Gibson had been telling him. Who knew that
the government could be so underhanded?
But as far-fetched as some of it seemed to be, Gibson wasn't lying.
Frank was sure of it.
x-x-x
It had been a long night. Scully had finally agreed to sleep for an
hour or so, only when Mulder promised that he'd wake her if there was
any change in Langly at all.
They'd had a long discussion about what to do when Frohike and Byers
were brought in. Scully maintained that the best place was the
hospital where she'd be able to get help immediately if anything went
wrong.
"But it's not going to be easy," she said. "I didn't expect that
Fletcher would show up with any of them needing medical attention
like this."
"I didn't either," Mulder admitted. "I didn't think beyond the fact
that he'd promised to produce the guys, and that we'd have to figure
out if it was them, or Memorex. He really threw me for a loop."
"Tell me about it. There's no question that when he brings Byers or
Frohike, I'll need to admit them, too. That brings up another
problem."
"What's that?"
"I can't endanger the careers or the lives of my staff over this.
Dr. Chandra is asking questions and I am not prepared to tell her the
truth yet."
"Do you think at some point you might?"
"I don't know, Mulder. It's a lot to ask. None of them signed up
for this."
"I'll give it some thought," Mulder promised. "Before the next
'delivery' I'll come up with something."
"It had better be sooner rather than later. I doubt that Morris
Fletcher will give us any more warning than he did with Langly."
"What if we fitted out the warehouse with a full infirmary?" Mulder
suggested. "One John Doe admitted to the hospital under your care is
one thing -- but three? If Fletcher is contravening some secret
program, I think that someone would be watching the hospitals for
admissions like this."
"That may be true, but do you want to risk their lives further? We
have no way of knowing what Fletcher did to Langly, or how the
antidote was administered, or anything else about it."
"How many times have bad things happened in hospitals? People have
disappeared, and worse." Mulder pointed out. "I'm just saying, the
more we have control of the situation, the better off we are."
"It would take much too long to outfit an infirmary with all the
equipment and drugs we'd need. Not to mention the lab we would need
to run even simple blood tests. I'd have to take blood samples and
get them to the lab here. Langly and the others will need a full
work-up. I wouldn't do any less for them than I would for you."
When she put it that way, Mulder had to agree.
It was now well after dawn. Scully stretched and yawned, glancing
over at Langly and then Mulder, sprawled in the chair beside Langly's
bed. She checked Langly; he appeared to be sleeping normally, and
his breathing was deep and even. The monitors showed all signs
normal. She tiptoed out to use the bathroom.
The sound of beeping woke him. He felt like he'd been asleep for
ages. He stretched but his arm was attached to something and he
stopped. Maybe Frohike had wound some computer cables around him.
He'd done that before, the little troll.
He heard snoring nearby. What weird slumber party was he in the
middle of? They'd pulled all-nighters plenty of times, and he'd been
known to fall asleep on his keyboard. Usually when that happened
Frohike or someone would poke him awake so that he could crawl off to
bed.
He groped around for his glasses, which were nowhere to be found.
He squinted at the figure snoring in the chair next to his bed. His
eyes widened in surprise as he saw who it was.
Incredible. What was Mulder doing here? Did Scully know? He tried
to sit up and was once again restricted by something.
"Mulder," Langly said. "Hey Mulder."
Mulder opened his eyes, a little disoriented himself.
"Hey man," Langly said. "Where'd you come from? I thought you'd
disappeared for good." He suddenly realized where he was. The
noise in the background wasn't the beeping of a computer alarm; it
was the machine next to his bed.
"What the hell?" he said, more loudly than he realized. "Where am
I? How did I get here?"
Mulder sat up and rubbed his eyes. He seemed to try to speak, then
put his face in his hands and began to sob.
"What's going on?" Langly yelled. "Why am I here? Somebody?
Anybody!"
Scully came running in. "Langly!"
"Agent Scully, you're here too? What's going on? What's wrong with
Mulder?"
"He's fine," Scully said. "He's just glad to see you. So am I."
She had the biggest smile on her face that he'd ever seen, and her
eyes seemed to be watering. "It's been a long time." She perched on
the edge of Mulder's chair and rubbed his back gently while Mulder
scrubbed his hands over his eyes and tried to compose himself.
"Huh? It hasn't been that long," Langly said, a little less freaked
out but still confused.
Scully stood up and came over to his bedside. She put her hand on
his forehead and checked the machines. "Don't yank your arm around,
it'll dislodge the needle," she said.
"What are you putting in there?" he asked suspiciously. "What
happened? The last thing I remember..." he stopped. "I don't
remember the last thing I remember."
"Take it easy," Scully said gently. "We have a lot to tell you."
x-x-x
Connie started to put together a story from the recordings on the
cameras. The guy who said he was from the IRS slapped Roger on the
back, and Roger wavered and fell forward, the other guy neatly
catching him. Next, he supported Roger out the door, and then he was
helping him into -- not the car, the ambulance. The ambulance drove
away, and the IRS guy followed in his car.
Why hadn't anyone called her to tell her that Roger had gotten sick
and was probably in the hospital right now, with no one to check on
him?
Oh yeah. No one knew that she lived here. It wasn't a secret; she
just didn't have anyone to tell. It appeared that Roger hadn't told
anyone, either.
She went back to the kitchen where she thought she'd seen a phone
book. She'd call every hospital, and she'd lie and say she was his
daughter so they'd have to tell her if he was there.
A few hours later, she began to seriously worry. No hospital in the
greater Chicago area would admit to having Roger Mintage as a
patient. What to do? Hope he just turned up again? Not doing
something seemed wrong.
The house phone rang, giving her a start, until she remembered that
it was also connected to the intercom at the front entrance.
"Mintage Sound," she answered.
"This is Special Agent John Doggett of the FBI. I'd like to speak
to Mr. Mintage."
"He's not in at the moment," Connie said, hating that her voice was
shaking as she said it. She was not at all sure she should trust
anyone who said they worked for the government.
"This is Monica Reyes," another voice broke in. "I'm Agent
Doggett's partner. Maybe we could talk to you about Mr. Mintage?"
Connie didn't know what else to do. If these two were Feds, maybe
they could tell her about this IRS guy and where he might have taken
Roger.
x-x-x
When they got to Tucson, Gibson suggested that they check the
library first. They got there just as the doors were opening and
were able to get one of the public computer terminals quickly.
"I'm just going to type in the name, 'Melvin Frohike' in the search
box, and see what comes up," Gibson whispered, although libraries no
longer seemed to be the temples of silence they once were.
Almost as soon as he hit enter, a list of hyperlinks appeared.
Gibson picked one at random and a picture of a guy who could be
Frank's twin appeared on the website for the Mutual UFO Network.
"RIP, Melvin Frohike," the caption under the picture said. There
was a short article about his untimely death, dated six years before.
The article attributed his death to unnamed government operatives who
had decided that Frohike and his two colleagues had gotten just a
little too close to Something So Big that it couldn't be named.
Gibson hit the back button and showed Frank a few more sites. One
had a picture of him with two other men. One man looked like a
bureaucrat -- he could be one of the "government operatives" who
were supposedly the enemy, if it weren't for his beard. The other
looked like a hippie. His stare was full of attitude. He had long
blonde hair and wore a Ramones tee shirt. Frank's twin looked mostly
like him -- same hair, practically the same glasses, and a wild-
looking vest.
"You were the Lone Gunmen," Gibson said. "You published a newspaper
called 'The Magic Bullet' which uncovered the government's cover-ups.
I don't know exactly how you 'died'. Everyone says you were heroes."
"Dead," Frank said. "That's an incredible story."
"You must believe me now," Gibson said. "Don't you?"
"Even if I do, what does it matter? I don't remember any of it, and
I wouldn't have the foggiest idea how to go about remembering. Maybe
I don't remember for a good reason. Let me just take care of
business here and we can go home. Whatever I was before, I'm not
that guy now."
Gibson looked crestfallen, but he didn't argue.
They left the library and visited the restaurant supply warehouse
where Frank arranged for delivery of the supplies needed. He
suggested they grab a bite before heading back home. "I'll just call
the diner and let them know we'll be back later."
It took some doing to find a pay phone. Frank plunked coin after
coin into the phone, muttering about highway robbery all the while.
Once connected, it took forever before someone at the diner picked
up. "Must be busy," Frank commented to Gibson. "That's good."
Finally, a harried Carla answered. "Frank's Eats," she said.
"Carla, it's me," Frank said. "I just wanted to let you know we'll
be heading back soon, and to see if you thought of anything else we
needed."
"Frank," Carla whispered into the phone, "I'm so glad you called.
There's a man who says he's from the IRS here to see you: an Agent
Morris."
He felt a thrill of fear at the news, though he couldn't say exactly
why. "That's odd. Did you tell him I'd be gone most of the day?"
"I did. He said he'd wait."
"Well, he can suit himself. Don't give him anything on the house.
He might call it a bribe."
"Okay," Carla said. She paused for a few moments. Frank could hear
muted clattering in the background. "It's been a weird day here."
"Are you in the office?" Frank asked, and Carla confirmed that she
was. He hesitated. Should he tell her what he'd found out? That
maybe he wasn't who he thought he was? He could trust her, but it
would put her in a bad place if she knew something and the IRS guy
wanted to know it. If he really was IRS, that is. Some of Gibson's
paranoia was rubbing off on him.
Instead, he simply said, "It's been a weird day here, too. Listen --
I know you're busy, so I'll let you go. Take care of yourself, and
tell the others the same, okay? I'll talk to you when I get back."
"Thanks, Frank," Carla said. "See you in a while."
A long while, Frank decided as he hung up the phone. "Gibson, how
far do you think we can get before dark?"
"We should be back well before dark."
"I'm not talking about 'back'," Frank said. "I'm talking about
heading in the opposite direction. I want to get to the bottom of
this."
~*~