Decoding the Enigma

By: Amy Jonas and MagsRose

Skip to: Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6, Ch. 7, Ch. 8, Ch. 9, Ch. 10,
Ch. 11, Ch. 12, Ch. 13, Ch. 14, Ch. 15, Ch. 16, Ch. 17, Ch. 18, Ch. 19, Ch. 20

Rating: FRT-13 (PG - 13)
Category: AU/Gen/Het
Disclaimer: Without Prejudice. The names of all characters contained here in are the property of Chris Carter, et. al. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. All original characters are the sole property of Mags or Amy and may not be used without the author's permission.
Summary: In 1940, Private Investigator, Melvin Frohike thought he was working on a simple missing person case but he soon found himself embroiled in something far more sinister.
Authors' notes: After seeing the Maltese Falcon, Amy presented Mags with an idea for The X-Files characters in an Alternate Universe. Intrigued by the possibilities, Mags suggested a co-authoring effort. The result is the story you see here.

Chapter 1

Monday, September 23, 1940

The hallway was dark. It was late in the evening but even during the day the dingy hall seemed to absorb the light that managed to make its way through the dirty film over the small window at the end of the hall. New bulbs wouldn't have made much of a difference even if the landlord hadn't been too cheap to replace them. The people who worked in the building liked it that way. It gave them the anonymity they wanted, something a brightly lit office building in a better part of town would not have afforded them.

Melvin Frohike's clients preferred the darkness and isolation since most didn’t want anyone, especially the police, to find out why they required the services of a private investigator. His clients came to him because of his reputation for discretion. They hired him as a last resort to locate unfaithful spouses, people who owed them money, missing property that may not have been legally acquired in the first place or for some other reason that brought him face to face with the dregs of humanity.

Frohike didn't particularly like this type of work but it paid the bills. Occasionally, when his conscience got the better of him, he retreated into the darkness of his office with a bottle of Jim Beam. He had come to depend on this old friend to drown the inner voice that accused him of taking the easy way out, of making the quick buck.

Then there were those who came to him in desperation; those who felt that the authorities were not doing enough to find their missing loved ones. Often, these clients couldn't afford the services of the big name detective agencies located on the right side of the tracks, but Frohike's prices were reasonable and his reputation was first-rate.

These cases, when they worked out, made him feel good about himself again, that he was truly helping people. It was a feeling he thought he had lost when he quit the police force. Not every story had a happy ending but helping these people gave him a sense that his life had meaning.

Frohike dug in the pocket of his coat for his keys. From months of practice, he located the correct key by feel alone and opened the door to his deserted office. His secretary, Maggie, was not there. She undoubtedly went home at her usual five o'clock.

Crossing through the small reception area, he opened the door to his inner office.

He hung up his coat and hat then sorted through his phone messages. One jumped out at him. He was going to need to do something about that one before he went home. Frohike sat down behind his desk and, opening the bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and a glass. He poured himself a stiff one.

He was bone tired and he hadn't done anything more than sit around for most of the day waiting to testify in court. Late in the afternoon, he'd finally gotten his chance on the witness stand.

The case involved a woman who'd been accused of killing her cheating husband. The woman's family had hired Frohike to search for the husband, insisting he had faked his own death. Frohike tracked the man, finding evidence that he was alive up to three weeks after the District Attorney said he'd been killed. The trail had grown cold after that and, with time running out before the court date, Frohike had to give up the search.

This was not the first time he had gone up against the overly zealous District Attorney, John Byers. The man had it in for him, treated him like last week's garbage. Every time he was required to testify on a case this guy was prosecuting, DA Byers did his best to discredit Frohike. He'd like to think the man was just doing his job but even on cases in which he was testifying FOR the prosecution, Byers made it sound like Frohike said nothing more than a necessary evil to be tolerated only as long as needed.

He poured himself another shot: drinking this one slower than the first.

He picked up the newspaper, which earlier in the day he had thrown unread on his desk. Scanning the front page, he scowled in disgust. It was full of the war in Europe between Hitler and the Allied powers. It was only a matter of time, he thought, before we're pulled into that mess.

He tossed the paper into the trash then looked at his appointment book. In Maggie's precise handwriting, he noted that he had an appointment with a new client the next day. The Jennings case was the only other case he was working on so he could use the income.

He glanced at the phone. He had to make that call and he'd better do it before the alcohol kicked in. Frohike lifted the receiver and dialed the number.

The worried mother answered the phone before it completed its first ring. "Mrs. Jennings, this is Melvin Frohike." He paused, listening to the woman, thinking of how broken up she had been when she and her husband, Daniel, had come to him the day before. "Have you found anything new," the woman on the other end of the line asked, hope evident in every word.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jennings, I don't have anything to tell you yet but I've been checking around and I've got some leads I want to follow up on." He didn't want to tell her that he had wasted precious time sitting in the courthouse all day. He had asked a friend to do some snooping for him with the police but that would take a little time. He planned on meeting up with that friend the next day.

"It's been three days now," Mrs. Jennings said. Frohike could hear the tears in her voice. "Did you talk to Emma and her friends? Maybe there is something she would remember for you that she couldn't tell the police."

"I spoke with her mother. That's all I'm allowed to do. She said that Emma didn't remember any more than she told the police. The other girls all said the same thing."

"Someone must have seen something," she said, almost choking on the words. "She didn't just disappear!"

"We'll find her, Mrs. Jennings."

Alive or dead, he thought but didn't say it out loud. This bit of truth would have pushed the woman farther over the edge and what she really wanted from Frohike more than anything was hope.

"You'll call me the moment you know anything new?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you, Melvin. Good bye."

Frohike hung up the phone. He reached again for the bottle, the need for another drink almost over powering. His fingers caressed the label like a lover and he paused, startled by the sudden thought. Instead of pouring the much-wanted shot, he screwed the cap back on and shoved it back in the drawer.

It was time to go home and get some sleep. He prayed it would be dreamless.

* * * * *

"There’s no story here."

Jimmy Bond winced at Jeffery Spender's imperious tone. His self-important attitude grated on the nerves of almost everyone at the newspaper earning the man an unflattering nickname, which was whispered behind his back in the bullpen.

His father, C.B. Spender, was the newspaper's ruthless owner/publisher and, while Jeffery tried to emulate his father, he just came across as a shallow version. So, the man was tagged with the unfortunate nickname of 'Spender the Lesser'.

It was meant as a joke but after a while it stuck. Everyone from Spender’s fellow reporters to photographers to the late night cleaning guy used the name. Jimmy had often thought the name was unfair, but at times like this, it fit.

Jimmy glanced at Professor Langly. The lanky scientist was scribbling arcane mathematics on a chalkboard his blond ponytail swinging with each jerky movement. He muttered to himself as he worked attempting to explain his untested theory on how the Nazi codes could be deciphered.

Jimmy snapped a couple of pictures of the chalkboard and the professor as the man was working.

His assistant, Yves, stood off to the side at a desk sorting papers but Jimmy had the feeling she was more interested in his and Spender's conversation than the task at hand.

There was something about her that felt out of place in this lab with the preoccupied scientist. From the short conversation with her and the Professor, Jimmy knew she was smart, brilliant even but…

Yves lifted her gaze, looking straight at him. Embarrassed at being caught staring, he quickly turned his attention back to Spender.

"Professor Langly says he knows the secret to cracking the Nazis secret code," Jimmy protested. "That's a huge story. You…"

Spender just snorted. "You're a photographer, Bond, which means you take pictures. Leave the news to the professionals." Spender looked past Jimmy to Yves and grinned in a knowing manner. "Besides I know what you want to investigate."

Spender put his hat on. "A woman that beautiful…she's assisting the Professor all right and in more than just an academic way." Jimmy bristled at the crude remark but wisely kept his mouth shut. Despite the nickname, Spender was a reporter and the son of the owner. He could make life miserable if he decided to badmouth Jimmy to the other reporters.

"I’ll be in the car when you can finally tear yourself away. And, hey," he nudged Jimmy with an elbow. "Get a couple of good shots of the doll there. We could use some new pin-ups." Spender turned to leave, chuckling to himself.

"Where's he going?" Professor Langly asked after finally becoming aware of the conversation behind him. "I thought he wanted to report the truth. This needs to be told."

Yves abandoned the work she was attending and joined the professor at the board. "Perhaps," Yves said in a smooth voice, "there was a breaking story that demanded Mr. Spender's immediate attention." Yves slid a hand up Professor Langly’s arm in a gesture that was both reassuring and intimate.

She leveled a cool gaze on Jimmy. "Won’t he require your photographic expertise, Mr. Bond?"

"Um…sure," he said, confused by the sudden twinge of disappointment. Was Spender right, Jimmy thought as he turned to follow the reporter, were they more than co-workers? He paused, his hand on the door and glanced at the pair. Langly was once again intently focused on the chalkboard but Yves had returned to the desk and her paperwork, a frown on her lovely face.

Jimmy closed the door, heard the soft click of an automatic lock engaging. Despite Spender's assertion that there was no story, Jimmy felt there was something going on with the eccentric Professor and his enigmatic assistant. He just needed to figure what it was.

Tuesday, September 24, 1940

It was after ten before private investigator, Melvin Frohike, rolled into work. Maggie, her long, blond hair rolled up and held in place at the back of her head with a pencil, looked up from her typing to check what kind of mood he was in. He had on his usual trench coat and his hat was pulled down over his eyebrows.

"Good morning," she said softly, suspecting he had a hang over. "Would you like some coffee? I just made it."

Maggie took the grunt her employer gave her as a 'yes' and got up to pour him a cup while he unlocked the door to his inner office.

She gently set the coffee on his desk and watched as he rummaged around in his file cabinet. He had not removed his hat and coat so Maggie knew he would not be staying.

Finding the file, Frohike sat down at his desk with it and flipped through the papers it held. Maggie waited until he looked up at her before she said, "You have a three o'clock appointment today." She reminded him.

"Yeah, I saw that," he said indicating his appointment calendar. He made some notes on a piece of paper.

"Will you be here or should I call the client and reschedule?"

"No, I'll be here." Frohike folded the paper he'd written on and stuffed it in his coat pocket. He got up and exited the office leaving his coffee untouched.

Maggie closed the file on his desk, quirked an eyebrow as she read the front of the folder then replaced it in its drawer.

* * * * *

The waters of the Potomac stretched out in either direction, its surface rippled by a cool, northerly breeze. On the opposite bank, the Washington Monument rose from the earth, reaching toward the azure sky.

Yves Harlow sat on a bench in the West Potomac Park, ostensibly admiring the view but her relaxed, outward appearance was a façade. The events of the past few days had forced her to come to a decision she had considered only as a last resort.

She checked her watch then scanned the nearly empty park. Off to her left, by the river's edge, a couple stood beneath one of DC's ubiquitous cherry blossom trees. Their posture was very intimate. She heard the slap, slap, slap of feet on pavement, turned halfway to see a man with graying hair running along the sidewalk. He glanced briefly in her direction but didn’t stop.

The runner passed a tall, thin man wearing a suit tailored to fit his slim frame. One glance and Yves knew this was the man she was waiting for. There was no mistaking his look or the way he held himself.

The thin man stepped off the sidewalk and, crossing the short expanse of grass, joined her, taking a seat on the left side of the bench. He looked out toward the monument.

“Did you bring the package?” He asked in a tone one reserved for discussions of the weather.

“The package stays where it is,” Yves responded, “until I’m confident you won’t interfere with its delivery.”

“That’s rather arrogant since you approached us.” The man glanced at her, irritation flashing in his dark eyes. “We want to know what you're doing on American soil and why we weren’t notified of these activities.”

“As I explained when I called, I’m safeguarding a package that is of extreme importance to the Allied Forces,” Yves countered evenly.

“Vague answers will not compel us to assist you.”

“His safety has already been compromised,” Yves snapped. “I will not compromise it further by revealing classified information to a messenger.” Her codes had been green lighted, why was this man disregarding protocol and asking such direct questions in the open?

Surreptitiously, she took in her surroundings, searching for the thin man’s backup. Was it the lovers? They were still under the cherry tree; the woman’s back was against the tree as they kissed.

She continued to watch the couple but her thoughts returned to her contact. This man and their conversation made her uneasy. Had the reporter mentioned her and the professor to someone? Were the SS and the Nazis aware she was protecting the very thing they sought?

“Look, Miss Runtz –“

Thin Man’s words were cut of by a grunt of surprise. Yves snapped her attention back to him. His lips were a tight, thin line, his eyes wide with surprised pain. He looked down, clawing his chest. Blood was spreading out from the center of his shirt staining his hands.

Yves surged from the bench, her hand diving into the small handbag she carried to conceal her Browning .32 ACP pistol. Her heart pounding, she searched for the source of the bullet. She hadn't heard the report of a gun, which meant the shooter was using a silencer.

The thin man’s final breath was a desperate gurgle for air and then silence.

Her gaze landed on the couple still leaning against the tree kissing. The woman was nearly hidden by the man's body. Yves couldn’t dismiss the possibility that the romantic interlude was a pretense to hide the fact that the woman was the shooter and the man was shielding her.

She covered the half dozen yards in seconds. “Hands where I can see them,” she ordered in a low, menacing voice, training her little pistol on the woman. “Nice and easy.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered open then widened is alarm. “Mitch,” she said, “Mitch!” Mitch continued to kiss her neck. “Mitch, stop!”

“What?” Mitch asked, irritated. At the expression on the woman’s face, he turned and saw Yves. A second later he registered the gun. He stepped in front of the woman in a protective gesture.

“No,” Yves commanded, her voice harsh. She pressed the muzzle against the side of his neck. “Move away from her and show me your hands.” She took a step back, giving him room. “Slow and easy.”

The man did as he was ordered, showing his empty hands.

“Now you,” Yves indicated the woman. The blond desperately glanced from Yves to the man, her lips quivering as she tried to hold back the tears. The woman was either an accomplished actress or innocent. Yves suspected the latter. But she had to be sure. If she were wrong she would be as dead as the thin man.

“Hands,” Yves prompted, chambering a bullet. The ominous sound broke the woman’s paralysis. Weeping, she slowly raised her shaking hands.

They were empty.

The crack of the gun was unmistakable.

A bullet whizzed past Yves’ head, plowing into the tree inches from the couple. Shards of bark sprayed over them.

The woman screamed.

“Stay down,” Yves ordered. But the couple was already fleeing in the opposite direction.

Pushing them from her thoughts, Yves peered around the tree, scanning the park. Where was the shooter? She felt vulnerable. The cherry tree was too thin to provide much protection. She was an easy target.

A gunshot cracked again. A split second later the bullet gouged a hole in the trunk just inches from her head.

Adrenaline racing through her, Yves stepped from the tree and fired three successive shots then ducked behind her meager cover, trying to make her body as small a target as possible.

She had four bullets left, not enough for a lengthy firefight, let alone that her little Browning was meant to be a close range weapon.

How long before the police arrived to investigate the couple’s claims of a woman with a gun in the park? The sniper’s gun cracked again. Yves felt the shudder of the tree with the bullet’s impact. She would be dead long before the police arrived.

She had a sudden, clarifying thought. If the shooter wanted her dead, she would be dead already. He'd had ample opportunity. No, she decided, he needed her alive in order to get what she was protecting.

She had been captured once before. She had endured three days of interrogations before turning the tables on her captors and escaping without telling them anything. She did not intend to go through that again.

She took a steadying breath then stepped from behind the tree, her pulse pounding with adrenaline, muscles tense and ready. Purposefully, she strode toward the cluster of cherry trees.

When she was a dozen steps past the bench that held the dead man, she stopped.

She would make the shooter come to her.

Fifteen seconds.

Thirty seconds.

The squeal of tires ripped her attention to the parking lot where a black sedan sped toward her. Then another car roared in from the opposite direction. Fear snaked through her, clutching at her chest.

She was trapped.

Both cars screeched to a halt, boxing her in. Two men exited the first car, one from the second – all three training their weapons on her.

“Drop your gun!” A man with bushy eyebrows screamed.

“Do it now!” shouted a second man with wide, thick lips.

Yves dropped the Browning. Hearing it hit the ground, she raised her hands, palms facing out. Eyebrows and Thick Lips approached her cautiously. Eyebrows kicked her gun out of her reach then picked it up.

“Hands on your head,” Thick Lips ordered.

Yves complied and, while he patted her down for additional weapons, she flicked her gaze to the third man. He had immediately separated from the other two and was now trotting to the park bench.

She didn’t have much time. If she was going to do something, she needed to do it fast before the third man discovered that the thin man was dead and alerted his associates.

“She’s clean,” Thick Lips announced. He grabbed her wrist, wrenched it down.

It was now or never.

Planting her feet, she yanked her arm from his grip. When he turned toward her, she hit him in the face with the base of her palm. She felt cartilage give way as the force broke his nose. Blood spurted out, smearing his lips and chin.

He grunted in surprise and pain. Yves followed the move by swinging her left foot high in the air, connecting with his wrist, sending the gun flying.

The instant her foot touched the ground, Yves followed it with a round house kick to his chest that knocked him backwards. With Thick Lips momentarily off balance she turned on the second man, snapping off a series of quick kicks to the face and chest. The last blow sent him crashing against the sedan, his head connected with the door and he slipped to the ground unconscious.

Yves spared a glance toward the park bench. The third man had made the grisly discovery and was now running to assist his associates.

She heard Thick Lips growl of anger. Instinctively, she sidestepped and aimed a kick at his solar plexus. He dropped to all fours, gasping for breath, spat out blood and started to rise. A drop kick to the back of his head put him down. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Without warning, a locomotive crashed into her, pinning her against the car. Her heart pounding in her ears, Yves found herself staring up into the furious face of the third man. He was bigger than she estimated, easily over six feet and from his iron grip, solid muscle.

“You’re not killing anyone else,” he growled.

“I didn’t kill him.” Yves said calmly even as her mind raced trying to think of a way out. She would never win a grappling contest with him. Her only chance was to get him to drop his guard. She decided to tell him the truth. “There was a sniper in that copse of cherry trees.” She indicated with her eyes but his gaze didn’t leave her face. He obviously thought it was a ploy.

“It’s true,” she insisted. “Check for yourself. There should be shell casings most likely from a sniper’s rifle.”

“Yeah? And why should I believe you after you attacked two Federal Agents?”

“Federal Agents?” Yves stared up at the man, hiding her relief. “You’re with the FBI?”

"Don't be coy," the man snapped. "It won't work"

Yves glanced at the two unconscious men. “They never identified themselves as such.” She lifted her gaze, studying the alleged agent. She noticed that his ears stuck out prominently from his head. “And so far I haven’t seen anything to prove your claim.”

Ears frowned, glanced down at the men as if deciding something. “Don’t move,” he told her. He backed away from her but not enough to give her room to do anything. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a leather case. He flipped it open. “My badge.”

She took it from him and studied the identification. It appeared genuine. “Looks like we’re on the same side, Agent Doggett,” she said, handing it back.

He returned his ID to his pocket then gazed at her. “Are we?” he asked. At Yves quizzical expression he elaborated. “We ran a check after you called. There is no one by the name of Lois Runtz. Who are you, really?”

“Lois Runtz is code to tell my superiors I’ve been compromised. My real name is Yves Harlow.” Yves smirked. “Tell me Agent Doggett, what did MI6 say when the Bureau contacted them?”

Doggett looked surprised at the question. “How..." He interrupted himself by answering her. “They claimed they don’t have an agent named Lois Runtz.”

Doggett saw a shadow pass over Lois Runtz’s - or whatever her name was – face and then just as quickly disappear.

“What else did they say,” she asked.

"Just that they asked us to send their regrets but they hope to see you at William’s birthday party.” Doggett studied her face. “What does that mean?”

“They are instructions to continue to do what I was sent here to do,” Yves said. There was more to the message but she kept it to herself.

“Which leads us to the reason for this meeting,” Doggett said. “What is this package and why is it so important?”

Yves’ mind whirled with unanswered questions. Why hadn’t the agents identified themselves at first contact? How did the sniper know about the meeting? Why didn’t the sniper take her when he had the chance? There had been close to a full minute before she ‘surrendered’ and the FBI showed up, it was plenty of time to take her.

“Miss Harlow,” Doggett prompted her.

Yves stared up at him, mentally kicking herself. How could she be so blind? It was an old trick: lulling the target into a false sense of security and let her reveal her secrets on her own. And she had nearly fallen for it. Was he with the SS or had Agent Doggett sold his loyalties? How deep into the FBI did the SS influence go?

“The package,” Yves said finally, keeping her expression carefully neutral, “is safe for the moment. Before I can reveal anything about it, I must be assured it will remain with me at all times.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Doggett said. “That’s up to my superiors.”

Yves stepped away from Doggett. “I understand.” She stopped and took a deep breath, glanced at Bushy Eyebrows. He had tucked her Browning in his pants while Thick Lips was frisking her.

It was a shame to have to lose the Browning but she didn’t have a choice. “Thank you Agent Doggett,” she said, inflecting appreciation in her voice, “for your assistance.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve been brought in and –“

Yves whirled, hitting him with a roundhouse kick then swept his legs out from under him. She followed him down, snatching his gun from his pocket and jamming it against his neck. “Agent Doggett,” Yves hissed, “If you want to live, stay down until I’m gone. If you get up before then I will not hesitate to kill you and the two sleeping beauties. Understand?”

When he grunted his assent, she stood up, keeping his gun trained on him. She backed up until she felt hard metal against her back. A quick glance into the car told her that its keys were still in the ignition. She scrabbled with the latch, opening the door. She paused only to shoot out two tires of the second car before leaping into the driver's seat, starting the car and flooring the gas pedal sending a shower of gravel over Agent Doggett as he scrambled to get out of the way of his own car.

Chapter 2

Melvin Frohike drove around the streets of Washington, DC searching for someone. He knew the man was working that day and it should be a simple matter to locate him but after circling the neighborhood for the fifth time, Frohike was ready to give up.

Finally spotting the beat cop talking to one of the local prostitutes on a corner near his favorite coffee shop, Frohike pulled up to the curb. The prostitute stepped hopefully up to the car, saw who it was and, making a sour face, turned to the cop and said, "It's for you, Mulder."

"Don't be so sure, Crystal," the cop replied. "Some day he may want your services."

"That gnome?" Crystal laughed making fun of Frohike's short stature. "He says he's never paid for it in his life."

Frohike was in no mood for the usual banter. He reached over and opened the passenger door. "Get in, Mulder. We need to talk."

The cop obliged, pulling the door of the old Ford shut. "What's the scoop, Shamus?" Mulder asked amiably.

Frohike was often amazed at how cheerful Mulder always seemed to be. He'd been on the police force for years but never managed to get promoted beyond beat cop although Frohike knew that what the man truly desired was to be a detective.

Pulling out into traffic, Frohike said, "You know, Mulder, if you arrested the prostitutes instead of making friends with them, you might actually get that promotion you think you deserve."

"In a town full of politicians, these ladies have an important role to play," Mulder said in good-natured defense of his actions. "I'm helping them provide a vital service by making sure no one hassles them."

"Yeah," Frohike snorted, "and you don't seem to mind the free services they toss your way."

Mulder nodded. "I feel it's my duty to ensure the quality of their product."

Frohike smiled in spite of himself. Mulder always had that effect on him: made him forget his problems, at least for a short time. The man was such an incorrigible smart ass. He couldn't help but laugh at him.

"So what did you need to see me for, Frohike?"

"Molly Jennings…were you able to get any information on her for me? Do the police have any leads?"

"I tried but the chief found out I was asking around and told me to back off. He said I should mind my own business and that when and if I ever make detective, I can work on open cases."

"Damn him," Frohike swore. "Did you tell him I'd been hired to look into it?"

"Yeah, but he wasn't impressed."

Frohike shook his head. "I'll have to go talk to him myself. I don't know why he has to be so hard headed."

Mulder shrugged. "I guess he thinks it's his job."

Frohike pulled the car back up to the curb not far from where he'd picked up Mulder. "Thanks anyway, Bub," he said to the cop as he climbed out of the car.

"Good luck with the chief," Mulder said closing the door. "You're going to need it." He shouted as the car pulled away from the curb.

* * * * *

"It's an open case and I don't have to give you any information!" Police Chief Skinner was nearly shouting.

"Now, Walt…" Frohike began.

"And don't call me Walt!"

This angered Frohike. “You didn’t mind me calling you that when we walked a beat together,” he snapped. The correction of the name stung. Ever since Skinner made the rank of Chief, he had stopped passing Frohike information citing rules and regulations and procedure. It served to only make Frohike feel shut out from a life he had once loved and cherished.

"That was years ago," Skinner slung back. "The only time I see you now is when you want my help with something."

Frohike bit back the retort that sprung to his lips, remembering the reason he was here.

"This isn't for me! It's for the kid's parents. The police weren't making any progress so they asked me to look into it."

"There are sensitive politics involved in this job, Mel. I can't just give you police information whenever you ask."

"My God, Walt, the kid is only twelve years old."

When the Police Chief seemed unmoved, Frohike added, "She and Emma walked home from school together everyday. What if it had been Emma and not Molly?"

Skinner sat down behind his desk. Frohike knew the man well enough to understand that he was backing down from his hard-nosed stance.

"I'm sorry, Mel." Skinner shook his head. "It just makes us look bad when I have to tell you…" he paused, "that we have nothing. No leads…nothing." Skinner took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked worn out. He glanced up at Frohike standing on the other side of his desk. He pointed to a chair. "Have a seat."

"How much information did you get from her parents?" Skinner asked as he watched Frohike take off his coat to sit down.

"She never came home from school. Her parents talked to Emma and the other girls they walked with. They all said nothing out of the ordinary happened."

The Chief nodded. "We interviewed all the girls and got the same story and canvassing the neighborhood did no good either." Skinner sighed again. "It's like she just disappeared."

He continued, "Her parents were very unhappy when we had to ask them if they had considered the possibility that Molly had simply run away." He studied Frohike. "I'm willing to bet that's when they enlisted your help."

The private investigator nodded.

"It's been four days," Skinner went on. "The chances of finding her alive at this point are not very good." Skinner noted the pain in his friend's face at that comment. He knew how this type of case could get to Frohike.

"I need to go talk to everyone again," Frohike decided. "They may have remembered something new since your boys were out there." He stood up, shrugging into his coat and adjusting his fedora. "And, who knows. They may be more willing to talk to me seeing as I'm not a cop."

"It's worth a shot," Skinner agreed. "Do you have a photograph of her?"

Frohike pulled the picture of a smiling girl with light, curly brown hair out of his breast pocket and showed it to his friend. Skinner held up a similar one from the file open on his desk.

"Good luck then," he said. "Let me know what you find out or if you need any help."

"I will. Thanks."

Melvin Frohike missed the look of concern on his friend's face as he exited the office.

* * * * *

Jimmy adjusted his camera until the blurry image of Carla Mason came into focus. The reporter, a study of concentration amidst the commotion of the newsroom around her, tapped a pencil against her desk while staring intently at the copy she had just written. A stickler, she was never satisfied until she was confident her article was letter perfect. When he was positive his picture would capture this aspect of her, he clicked the shutter.

Startled by the flash, Carla's head jerked up to see Jimmy heading toward her. "Not enough happening outside," she growled, "that you have to go around blinding reporters?"

Jimmy chuckled. He liked Carla. She played the hard-boiled reporter when in reality she was one of the nicest people around. She was also the best reporter the Gazette had. "They say this is where the news is at," he replied, "and since I go where the news is…"

Carla pointed her ever-present pencil toward the window. "The news begins out there," she said. "It just takes an overworked, underpaid reporter to bring it to the newsroom."

Grinning at her light teasing, Jimmy leaned against the edge of her desk. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

Carla gazed up at him. Something was bothering the normally jovial photographer. Her pencil tapped rhythmically. "Sure."

Jimmy set his camera down next to him. "I think I found a story the other day." He paused but, when Carla waited patiently for him to continue, he did. "You see, I was passing Ted Crabbitz's desk when his phone rang."

"You answered Ted's phone?" Carla's lips lifted in a bemused smile. No one touched anything on Ted Crabbitz AKA The Crab's desk without risking the prickly reporter's wrath.

"He's on vacation," Jimmy pointed out. "And I thought it might be important. So anyway it turns out to be this guy claiming he's a scientist. Said he was close to a big breakthrough. Something about codes and how he wanted people to know." Jimmy paused to glance at Carla. "I thought it sounded like a lead and told Jeffery Spender…"

"Spender the Lesser," Carla muttered in disgust.

It was no secret she disliked the man and thought he wouldn't know a story if Walter Winchell himself took Spender by the hand and led him to it. It was rumored Carla, after an explosive argument, was the one who started the nickname. It wasn't just Spender's distinct lack of a nose for news that bothered her but the smug, self-important way he flaunted his position as the publisher's son to bully the photographers and other reporters.

"He was real annoyed I answered Ted's phone," Jimmy said, "but he agreed to check it out with me."

"And?" Carla prompted.

"He said there was no story. That the guy was just a long-haired lunatic."

"What do you think?" Carla considered Jimmy a pretty good judge of character. He seemed to be empathic. His pictures always managed to find the soul of the subject he was photographing.

"He's…" Jimmy's brow furrowed, trying to think of a way to soften what he wanted to say.

"Don't be diplomatic," Carla urged. "Gut instinct. What do you think?"

"At first sight, he reminds you of one of those mad scientists who've been cooped up in a lab too long: skinny, long haired and rambling nonstop about bizarre theories and scratching out weird equations on a chalkboard. It'd be real easy to dismiss him as a nut. Once you get past that though, I think he's the real thing. Then there's his assistant. She's smart and…grounded. I'd believe her in a second if she was the one trying to convince me."

"She didn't try?" Carla's pencil did several quick taps.

"I couldn't read her too well. She was…" He paused, wondering about the feeling of pleasure he got when thinking about Yves Harlow. He couldn't explain his attraction to the woman at all. Maybe it was the Veronica Lake hairstyle, he thought. During his time in the lab she had barely spoken to him and when she did, he sensed she was tolerating his presence. "She was controlled," he decided.

"She was controlling the Professor?"

"No," he shook his head, frustrated. He had never been good with words but he wanted to get this right not only for Carla but himself.

He was failing miserably but he plunged on. "She was emotionally controlled. I got the impression she was unhappy and angry and concerned all at once. I don't think she agreed with his decision to call the paper."

"There could be dozens of reasons for that," Carla pointed out. "He may be jumping the gun on his research and she knows it. Assistants have a lot at stake but little input where decisions are involved. Maybe she knows his research is a dead end but he's invested a large chunk of his life on it and is desperate for validation."

"No." Jimmy shook his head, thinking about his conversation with Professor Langly. "No," he repeated more confidently. "It was nothing like that. I didn't understand most of the stuff he talked about but I believe it's real." He met Carla's eyes, hoping to convince her. "There's a story there."

"Professor Richard Langly and Yves Harlow." Jimmy watched in fascination when Carla closed her eyes, her pencil tapping quickly on the finished oak.

"Langly," She murmured softly. "The name sounds familiar but…" her eyes snapped open. "Show me the pictures you took of them."

"How do you know…" Jimmy began.

Carla held up his camera. "You're a photographer, Jimmy. Besides." She smiled at his sheepish expression as he took it from her. "You're never without your friend here."

Her phone rang. She held up a finger then answered the instrument. "Carla Mason; D.C. Gazette." She listened a moment then covered the mouthpiece. She looked up at him. "Jimmy, I'm going to be a while but I want to see those pictures."

"Thanks for listening, Carla. I owe you one."

She indicated his camera. "Give me a copy of the picture you took and we're even." She paused, obviously in thought, and then said, "Despite what I say about him, even Jeffery Spender is occasionally right. There might not be anything to this Professor Langly."

Jimmy nodded his understanding but she had already returned to her phone call, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

Hanging his camera around his neck, he headed for the dark room. Jimmy decided he wouldn't let Carla's warning get him down. He trusted Carla; she was honest and would give him a straightforward, professional opinion unlike Spender who thought it was his mission to make everyone feel like dirt.

Jimmy opened the door to the storage room where the staff photographers kept their most recent pictures in rows of filing cabinets. There were two desks against one wall. These were often used to crop pictures or just hang out at while waiting for the dark room to become available.

Out of habit Jimmy checked the light above the door at the far end. There was a bright red glow indicating the dark room was in use. Whistling, he moved to a file cabinet and opened the second drawer. He flipped though the files but the envelope containing Professor Langly and Yves Harlow's pictures was missing.

He glanced at the letters in the small window on the front: L – M. It was the right section. The pictures should be there. He checked again just in case he missed it but they weren't there.

"Hey Jimmy. Why the long look?"

Jimmy glanced up to see Dylan Walsh stoop as he came out of the darkroom. Dylan was thin and at least 6 inches taller than Jimmy's own 6 foot 3 inch frame. He had red hair and freckles to match. "Hey, Dylan." Jimmy shot the files another frustrated glare. "Can't find some pictures I need."

Dylan glanced at the files. "A bunch of pictures were moved down to the morgue yesterday. Maybe they accidentally got mixed in."

"Maybe," Jimmy commented trying to remember when he'd filed them. He was sure he had put them away in the afternoon and the librarian normally came in the morning. He'd have to go down there and look. Thanks, Dylan."

He would have to tell Carla about the delay. He was thinking about this when he entered the bullpen and discovered her desk vacant.

"Hey, Lenny." Jimmy stopped a passing copyboy. "You know where Carla is?"

"She…"

"She's meeting a source," Jeffery Spender cut in. Lenny glanced at Jimmy, rolled his eyes and walked away quickly. "Working," Spender the Lesser continued, "which is more than I can say for you, Bond."

"I was getting some photographs Carla asked me for," Jimmy defended himself. It wasn't a lie. Carla had asked to see the pictures.

Spender's lips slashed into a scowl. "I heard how you went to Mason with your wild theories, wasting her valuable time."

Great. Jimmy wondered who had gone to Spender then realized belatedly no one did. The bullpen was an open area. Spender probably saw them talking.

"Leave the reporting to the reporters and do your job," Spender ordered. "That is if you're still interested in keeping your job." He let the threat hang in the air.

"I am," Jimmy said quickly, hating Spender's self satisfied smile.

"Good." He handed a piece of paper to Jimmy. "A call just came in about a bank job. The robber is holed up in the vault with hostages. Cavanaugh is screaming for a photographer to get there as soon as possible."

Jimmy glanced at the address. "This is an hour away," he said incredulously.

Spender smirked. "Then you better drive fast."

"But we could call a freelance photographer in the area," Jimmy objected. "By…"

Spender's smiled disappeared. "Just…get...down there." He turned to leave but stopped, looked up at Jimmy, obviously enjoying what he was about to say. "Oh, and Bond? You get a speeding ticket, it comes out of your paycheck."

* * * * *

Frohike turned from the closing door of a house down the street from where the Jennings family lived. The houses in this neighborhood were small but well maintained. White picket fences with flowers at their bases adorned most of the front yards. Small dogs and the occasional larger one barked at Frohike from behind various gates.

It was along this street that Molly walked home alone the last few blocks after saying goodbye to her friends. He wasn't having any luck. Most people were hesitant to talk to him since they had already spoken to the police. And those who did talk to him had nothing substantial to add to what he already knew.

Some offered their own private theories as to what happened to Molly. But most complained about neighbors they didn't like or trust for some reason. He listened to them and took notes but knew that these petty disagreements were not doing him any good. He was looking for something out of the ordinary not whose dog barked too loudly all night or which yard was not as well cared for as the others.

He glanced at his watch. He had time to talk to at least one more person before he had to head back to the office for his three o'clock appointment. He scanned the other houses on the block for those that appeared to have someone home. He thought he'd caught movement in the window of the house across the street. He observed a hand slowly pulling back the curtains for a better view.

Frohike adjusted his hat to hide his grin. "The neighborhood busybody," he thought. "Just what I've been looking for."

As he crossed the road, he saw the curtains fall back into place.

An elderly woman answered his knock. "Yes?" she said in a voice that betrayed her age.

"Hello ma'am. My name is Melvin Frohike." He showed her his identification. "I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by the Jennings family, your neighbors from a couple of blocks down."

"Is that the family that lost their daughter?"

"Yes, do you know them?"

"I read about it in the paper but I've never met them."

Frohike reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his picture of Molly. "I'm talking to everyone who lives on this street in the hopes that someone saw her the afternoon she disappeared." He showed the woman the picture.

She took it from him and, holding the picture at arms length, she squinted at it. "Oh, I can't see anything up close without my glasses." She held the door wider. "Why don't you come in and sit down while I get them?"

Frohike did as he was bidden. The woman's house was hot, stuffy and full of knickknacks and lace doilies. He half expected to see far too many cats but the woman did not seem to have any pets at all. The tables, walls and fireplace mantel were covered with old photographs: many of them appeared to have been taken before the turn of the century.

With a fire burning briskly in the fireplace, he was forced to remove his coat and hat. He glanced at the arrangement of the furniture and sat in a chair that was strategically placed in front of the big picture window that looked out over the street. On the small table next to it, he found a half empty cup of tea. He touched the side of the cup. It was still warm.

Frohike stood as the woman came back into the room. She was wearing her reading glasses, which gave her an owlish appearance. "Now, where is this photograph you wanted me to look at?"

He handed the picture to her. She studied it carefully nodding. "I know this girl. She walks by here most days." She handed the picture back to Frohike.

"Did you see her late in the afternoon four days ago?"

The woman thought for a minute. "Yes, I believe I did."

Finally, Frohike thought, a lead!

"Did you notice anything unusual on this particular day?"

"Yes, I did." Frohike took out a notebook to jot down some notes. "I saw the little girl walking down the other side of the street. When she got to the corner, a car stopped and a man got out and started talking to her. After a little while, she got into the car with him and they drove away."

Frohike couldn't believe the police missed this. The woman continued. "And you know, I recognized the man, too."

"You did?" Frohike asked in excitement. "Who was he?"

"That man from the movies. You know, the one with the funny mustache that always carries a cane."

"Charlie Chaplin?" Frohike offered, his enthusiasm fading.

"Yes!" the woman said smiling. "That's him!"

Even though he figured he was probably wasting his time, Frohike decided it couldn't hurt to be thorough. "Tell me about the car."

"Oh, it was a big, fancy car. The tires were all white on the sides."

"Was it a Packard?"

"I couldn't say, dear. I don't know one car from the next."

Frohike had one more question before he left. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I didn't get your name."

"Mrs. Mildred Patterson." Frohike jotted this down.

"Thank you very much for your time," he said heading for the door.

"I hope you find the little girl," said the woman.

"I hope so, too. Thanks again."

Frohike walked quickly back to his car. He needed to talk to Police Chief Skinner to see if his boys had spoken to this woman. He glanced at his watch.

But first he had to call Maggie and cancel that three o'clock appointment. Even though this was a weak lead, it was a lead. If there was any chance that Molly was still alive, he had to act on it immediately.

* * * * *

"What do you mean, he's not coming?" the client asked.

"That was Mr. Frohike on the phone just now," Maggie explained smoothly. Her southern accent often had a calming affect on irate clients, which is why she never worked to get rid of it when she moved to DC. "He's very sorry but he won't be able to make it. He asked me to reschedule you for tomorrow." Flipping open her appointment book, Maggie picked up her pencil and held it poised over the page. "Will 10:00 a.m. work?"

The man was obviously displeased but seemed to shake off his frustration and smiled sweetly at the secretary.

"That will be fine," he said. "I'll see you then."

Maggie watched him leave, glad to be rid of him. Something about him didn't sit right with her. He was pleasant enough, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this was only on the surface, that something much more insidious lurked beneath that façade.

She glanced back down at her appointment book and carefully noted his name and the time he was due to return: Morris Fletcher - 10 a.m.

Chapter 3

In the Police Chief's office, Frohike ran through his notes, telling Skinner what the woman had told him.

"I'm sorry, Mel. But this lead is a dead end."

"You've talked to this old lady?"

"More often than we'd like." When Frohike said nothing, Skinner went on. "She calls here once or twice a month. I send my boys out there and it's always some crazy thing. She sees famous people on every dark corner."

"But what if she's right this time."

"Do you honestly believe Molly was kidnapped by Charlie Chaplin?"

"No, but what if it was someone who looked like him?"

"You're grasping at straws, Mel," Skinner said not wanting his friend to waste time on a dead end. "Last month she said she saw Jimmy Stewart breaking into her neighbor's house. I sent a patrol car out there and there was no sign of a break in or Mr. Stewart."

Frohike thought for a moment. "So, even if there was a man there, you'd have no idea what he looked like."

The Police Chief was becoming more and more frustrated with the conversation. "I'm telling you, Mel, this woman is not playing with a full deck. Last week she swore she saw the President himself sitting in a parked car down the street."

"And was it?"

"Was what?" Skinner asked shaking his head.

"Was it President Roosevelt?"

"Of course not!" Skinner replied with more irritation than he'd planned. "It was just a man waiting for his wife who was visiting a friend. The friend wouldn't let him smoke his cigarette in her house so he was smoking out in the car."

"Was the man wearing glasses?"

"What difference does it make?"

It was Frohike's turn to express irritation. "Just tell me if the man wore glasses!"

"I have no idea," said Skinner, waving a dismissive hand in the private detective's direction.

"Can you find out?"

"I think you've wasted enough of the Police Chief's and this department's time," said a voice from behind Frohike.

Turning, Frohike was not surprised to see District Attorney Byers standing in the doorway.

"What do you want, Byers?" Frohike asked with more than a little scorn in his voice.

"Is this an open case you're with which you're interfering?" the DA asked. Frohike said nothing. He calmly folded his arms across his chest and met the other man's scowl with one of his own.

Seeing that he was not going to get an answer from the PI, Byers turned to face Skinner expecting an answer from him.

"He's been hired by the Jennings family to help find their missing daughter."

"You mean he's preying on their fears to get money out of them." Byers turned his scorn on Frohike. "I'd bet that, in their desperation, it didn't take much convincing to get them to pay you a hefty fee on the false promise that you could find their little girl alive. Did you make them pay the money up front?"

Skinner came out from behind his desk, worried how Frohike might respond to such an allegation. He stood facing DA Byers but kept his body between the two men. "Did you come here on business, Mr. Byers?"

"My business is with you, not with this conman," said Byers. "And I suggest he leave before I charge him with obstruction of justice or, at the very least, loitering."

Boiling at the unfounded accusations, Frohike grabbed his coat off the back of the chair where he'd dropped it and brushed past the DA to exit the office. "I'll talk to you later, Walt," he called over his shoulder. Frohike left police headquarters without turning back to see what reaction his words elicited from the District Attorney.

Stopping at the watch commander's desk, Frohike asked if Officer Mulder was on duty. Checking his log, the desk sergeant confirmed that the beat cop had just come in from his patrol. Frohike headed for the locker room to talk to him.

Wednesday, September 25, 1940

Frohike arrived at his office early the next morning. He had spoken to Maggie the previous evening and she had expressed her concerns about this new client. Frohike wanted to get there before the man arrived.

Maggie was already at her desk. "Good morning, Melvin," she said cheerfully. She was relieved to see him. She knew how involved he was with the Molly Jennings case and was afraid she might have to reschedule the new client for a third time and Maggie didn't care to see how the man would react.

"Good morning," he said with less enthusiasm. "Did I get any phone calls?" He was hoping to hear from Mulder.

"Just Mrs. Jennings."

Frohike took the slip of paper out of Maggie's hand. The desperate mother called at least twice a day hoping for news. "I'll call her right now," the private investigator said as he headed for the inner office.

Maggie watched him shut the door. She could see his shadow against the frosted glass as he moved around his desk. After a few minutes, she heard his muffled voice as he talked to the worried mother. Maggie knew that these phone calls were not easy for Frohike and that each passing day made it more difficult to offer the parents any hope of finding their precious child alive.

When it became obvious that he was no longer on the phone, Maggie poured Frohike a cup of black coffee and brought it in to him. She stood holding the steaming cup until he looked up at her from his newspaper. She set the coffee on the desk. Frohike picked it up and took a sip of the hot beverage. "Thanks," he said.

"Mr. Fletcher's appointment is at 10 a.m." Maggie reminded him unnecessarily.

"Yes, I know."

Maggie continued to stand by Frohike's elbow. This unusual behavior pulled Frohike's attention away from Carla Mason's daily update on Molly's disappearance in the D.C. Gazette. "What is it, Maggie?"

"This new client…" her hesitant reply was cut off by the sound of their outer office door opening.

They both turned to look toward the door not really surprised to hear a familiar voice.

"Where the hell is everybody? This is no way to run a business. I could be robbing you blind out here!"

Maggie stepped out to the reception area. "Hello, Officer Mulder," she said with a smile.

"I've been meaning to ask," Mulder said coming to lean on Maggie's desk where she had settled, "when are you going to let me take you away from all of this?"

"I keep telling you, Mulder, you're not my type." Maggie got up to open a drawer in the file cabinet to ostensibly look for something thereby dismissing the police officer. Mulder did notice the small smile that refused to stay hidden as she sorted through the files.

He took this for encouragement. He stepped up beside her. "There was a time when you found my company more than a little agreeable."

"That was a long time ago, " Maggie replied not taking her eyes off her work. "I've learned a lot more about you since then."

Knowing he was in grave danger of getting his face slapped for what he was about to do, Mulder reached behind her head and pulled the pencil out of her hair, letting the wavy, blond mass fall around her face.

"Fox!" Maggie said in a soft voice so her boss wouldn't hear. She didn't move away from him though. Instead, she turned to face him fully. Mulder straightened a lock of hair that was caught up under the rest but his attention was focused elsewhere. "You have the deepest brown eyes I think I've ever seen."

Maggie smiled fully then, a smile meant only for him. Mulder grinned back hoping he didn't look like an idiot in doing so. He angled his head closer. He could feel her breath on his face. He took her exhaled breath into his lungs relishing the smell of her.

Maggie's smile softened, her eyelids closing part way.

"Mulder!" Frohike said from his office. "Quit flirting with my secretary and get in here."

Mulder jerked upright sighing in exasperation. Maggie turned away from him, sitting once again at her desk. She expertly wound up her hair, replacing the pencil.

Damn it, thought Mulder. It had been months since she'd let him get that close but the moment was ruined.

"You don't know how good you've got it, Frohike," Mulder said slipping back into his usual role of smart-ass. "A beautiful woman like this at your beck and call."

Maggie snorted, playing her part. "He doesn't pay me enough to be at his beck and call."

"You're still here, Sugar, that's saying a lot," the police officer noted.

"MULDER!" Frohike shouted.

"All right, all right. Keep your shirt on."

Mulder came into Frohike's office shutting the door behind him.

"Did you get the information?" the private investigator asked.

"Yeah." Mulder pulled out a folded paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Frohike.

Unfolding it, Frohike was shocked to note, "This is the original report!"

The police officer shrugged. "I didn't have time to copy it all so I just pinched it."

Frohike scanned the incident report searching for a description of the perpetrator. "Here it is and I was right: he was wearing glasses."

"What are you talking about?"

"The man in the car outside Mildred Patterson's house did wear glasses. He was sitting in the car, smoking a cigarette and he wore glasses. He was in his late 50s and was balding. She said it was President Roosevelt but she was mistaken. He just looked like the President to an old woman who describes people in terms of whatever celebrity they look the most like."

Mulder pushed his hat back on his head. "So, what does this have to do with anything?"

"This same Mrs. Patterson says she saw little Molly Jennings get into a car with Charlie Chaplin. Skinner has dismissed this as the ramblings of a crazy, old woman."

"So, we need to arrest Charlie Chaplin?"

"Don't be an idiot. We need to find a man who looks like Charlie Chaplin, possibly carries a cane and drives a big fancy car with white wall tires."

Mulder nodded. "Let me check around and see what I can find." He rose to leave.

He paused at the outer office door with his hand on the knob. "I'm not doing anything tonight, Maggie. You game?" He said this jokingly but he had to admit, he wished she'd take him up on the offer.

Before she had a chance to answer, Mulder had to jump back as the door was pushed open. He moved out of the way to let the man in. They stood considering each other for a moment.

"Melvin Frohike, the private investigator?" the balding, barrel-chested man asked.

"No, Fox Mulder, the police officer," the uniformed cop said leaving and shutting the door. "As if it weren't obvious," he added to himself as he walked down the hall.

Maggie admitted the client to Frohike's office. "Mr. Morris Fletcher," she said by way of introduction.

The PI rose and shook hands with the man then pointed him to one of the two chairs strategically placed for client use. Although the chairs were old and didn't match they were both sturdy and comfortable.

"I'm sorry I was unable to be here for our appointment yesterday," Frohike said. "I got a lead on a troubling case and needed to check it out. I hope the delay didn't inconvenience you too much."

"If you put that kind of effort into my case, I'll forgive you," the man said with a grin.

Frohike didn't much believe the smile but returned it with one of his own. "So what can I help you with?"

"Well," Morris Fletcher began, "I've been looking for someone for quite a while and am about ready to give up."

"Why are you searching for this person?"

"She's a long lost cousin and I need to let her know that she's inherited some money."

Frohike made some notes. "And you believe she is living in the Washington, DC area?"

Fletcher nodded. "The last I heard, she was. I checked the phone book with no luck and have asked around quite a bit but no one seems to have heard of her."

Frohike continued to write. "What is her name?"

"Monica Reyes."

Frohike's pen stopped in mid-notation. He crossed out what he had written to cover his surprised reaction to the name then jotted down a couple more notes. He didn't want to raise the man's suspicions. He looked up at the client carefully studying his face. This could not be a coincidence.

"This inheritance… what is the name of the deceased relative?"

"Uncle Bernie."

Frohike wrote that down. "Last name?"

Fletcher chuckled. "Brickham. Bernie Brickham. Sometimes we called him Uncle BB." This time the man laughed out right. It didn't seem sincere and to Frohike it was like the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

"What was the woman's last known address?"

"Oh, I have it right here." Fletcher reached into his coat pocket and set a slip of paper on the desk. Frohike copied the address into his notes. This was not necessary because Frohike knew at first glance that it was a fake.

The phone rang. Frohike ignored it knowing Maggie would get it.

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Fletcher. How can I contact you?" As Fletcher was giving Frohike his phone number and address, there was a soft knock on the door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Maggie said coming into the room. "But the Chief of Police is on the phone. I told him you were with a client but he said it was important."

"Thank you, Maggie," said Frohike before turning back to Fletcher. "Once again, I'm sorry, but I do need to take this call. If you'll excuse me, I'll just take it out there." He left the office to pick up the receiver that Maggie had left lying on her desk.

"What is it, Walt?"

Unable to hear the other end of the conversation, Maggie watched her boss's face for some indication of what was going on. Whatever it was, it wasn't good news.

"No, let me check first. If you're right, then I'll bring them in." Frohike hung up the phone and returned to his office.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher, but a situation has come up that needs my immediate attention. I have all the information that I need to get started. I'll let you know what I find out."

A bit bemused at this quick dismissal, Fletcher stood and was escorted to the door. "How soon can I expect to hear from you?" he asked before leaving.

"It's difficult to tell. I'll call you in a couple of days." The man had no choice but to settle for this answer. He left and Frohike watched him walk down the hall until he turned the corner. Checking that there was no one else around, he shut the door.

He went back inside to get his hat and coat. He wasn't looking forward to what he needed to do next but it had to be done. Part of the job, he told himself.

And it was nothing new to him.

Before he left though, he told Maggie. "Call Monica Reyes and tell her that I have to talk to her as soon as possible."

* * * * *

The soft red glow of the darkroom bathed Jimmy as he submerged the photographic paper in the chemical bath. Normally he loved the developing process: seeing his pictures slowly, magically appear on the paper but today he just wanted it to be done.

The previous day, when he got to the address Spender had given him, Tom Cavanaugh, the reporter, was in a foul mood and decided to take his frustrations out on his photographer. Jimmy decided to keep his mouth shut and circulate: taking pictures of the police, bystanders and the bank that was the focus of an intense hostage crisis.

Jimmy stared at the picture his friend, Dylan, would call a coup de grace: a young woman leaning against a police car, her face streaked by tears and marred by shock, grief, exhaustion and fear. He thought about when the hostage taker had released her ‘as a show of good faith’ to the cops. Once the woman was out of harm's way, reporters and photographers descended on her like hyenas. Reporters volleyed a barrage of questions at her while numerous flashbulbs popped in her face.

"How do you feel?"

"What was it like in there?"

"Was anyone killed?"

Still in shock, the woman sat unmoving, unseeing and soon the media, tired of her silence, drifted away. Jimmy stood a few feet away from the woman, his camera in his hands. He hadn’t taken a single picture.

“Bond!” He looked up to see Cavanaugh’s furious glare. “Take the damn picture already!” Cavanaugh hissed.

Jimmy turned to the woman. It was that moment that she raised her head and met his gaze. He nearly wept at the anguish embedded in her green eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks just as he raised his camera and snapped her picture.

"A Coup de grace," Jimmy thought as he hung the picture to dry, one worthy of the front page. It would have his name under it, of course. People would be drawn to the anguish in her face and read the story. It would give him a level of respect among his peers. Reporters would request him for stories. Even Spender would give him some breathing room, at least for a while.

It was at times like this he hated his job.

He wanted to help people, to expose the truth and alert people to things that needed to be fixed. What Jimmy really wanted was to be a reporter. Not one of the pack like Tom Cavanaugh who chased after sensational stories for the sake of the headlines. Jimmy wanted to be a reporter like Carla Mason. She was tough and thorough when she went after a story but she respected the people involved.

She had once told him. “Some reporters, in their haste to get the story, forget that people are living breathing beings. Good reporters remember that and treat people accordingly.”

He had taken the advice to heart. It was why he was so interested in Professor Langly and Yves Harlow. While he felt deep down that there was a story there, he was also curious and wanted to know more about them. Who were they? What was their relationship? Why did the professor insist on talking to a reporter and why was Yves Harlow insistent that he not? Langly had used the word ‘enigma’ several times and Jimmy thought it fit the strange pair.

Slipping his picture of the female hostage into an interoffice envelope, he decided to drop it off to the editor on his way to 'the morgue'. He still had to find his pictures of Professor Langly and Miss Harlow.

* * * * *

"I need to speak to the medical examiner," Frohike told the receptionist.

The elderly woman looked over her dark rimmed glasses at Frohike. Her steel-gray eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "Do you have an appointment?" Her gaze dropped down to the appointment calendar in front of her.

"No," he admitted, "but the Chief of Police called ahead and said I 'd be coming."

The women pondered this information a moment before rising from her chair. She didn't look happy. "One moment. I'll inform the doctor that you are here."

Frohike noted the woman's tone at the word 'doctor' wondering about the obvious pride in the word. While he waited, he glanced around the reception room. The walls had received a new coat of paint. It looked brighter but it seemed a feeble attempt to add cheer to the room.

Frohike considered sitting but decided against it. He just wanted to view the body and be done with it.

Where the hell was the coroner?

The sound of shoes on tile made him turn around.

"About time," he thought grumpily. But his irritation evaporated when he turned to see who it was.

The woman was a looker. She was about his height, maybe a bit taller because of the high heels. She had a nice body. Even her dark suit and lab coat could not hide this fact.

But it was her face that held his attention and took his breath away. Her copper colored, shoulder length hair framed an oval face. Her skin was a pale porcelain like a china doll. Her full, red lips frowned at him while her electric blue eyes studied him.

"May I help you?" Her voice was all business but Frohike wondered what it would sound like in a more intimate setting.

"Just waiting for the coroner, Dollface." Frohike said. "Why don’t you get me a cup of coffee?"

Her full lips became flat and straight. "I AM the coroner."

Frohike snorted. "That’s a cute one, doll. Tell Judd he can’t pull one over me and get his skinny butt out here."

"Mr. -"

"Frohike." He handed her one of his cards.

She barely spared a glance at the card. "Mr. Frohike." Her tone dropped several chilling degrees. "I am not in the habit of joking about my position as Chief Medical Examiner. If there is anything I can help you with, please say so. Otherwise you are wasting my time as well as that of my staff."

Frohike had to admit she was good. She never faltered or blushed in her determination. Where did Judd dig up this babe? The receptionist returned, clipboard in hand. Her eyes bounced between Red and him as if testing the temperature of the room.

She frowned, handing the clipboard to Red. "Dr. Scully," she emphasized the word 'Doctor'. "I need your signature on this release form."

Scully took the clipboard and pen, quickly scribbled on the board before handing it back. Frohike had the sudden feeling he had just made a colossal error in judgment. She was Dr. Scully? The new medical examiner was a female? He was going to kick Walter Skinner’s ass for not filling him in on this little detail. In the meantime Dr. Scully was staring at him, one sculpted eyebrow raised while she waited for him to dig himself out of this mess. He wished she didn’t look like she was enjoying herself so much.

"Well, Doll," Frohike said gruffly, "It’s about time someone with both beauty and brains took over this job." She rolled her eyes but at least some of the antagonism disappeared. He found himself wondering what she would look like if she smiled. He had a feeling she didn’t do it all that often.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Frohike?" Dr. Scully repeated.

He remembered why he had come and his stomach tightened. "You have an unidentified little girl." He pointed toward the business card she still held between two fingers. "I’m here to see if she's my clients' daughter."

Dr. Scully nodded. "Come with me," she said, turning towards the door.

Each time he entered the morgue the sterile, anti-septic smell set Frohike’s gut on edge. It had a way of seeping into his skin and remaining on him for days afterwards. He followed Dr. Scully to where the cold storage lockers were lined up and stacked on top of each other like bus station lockers. At the end she stopped and opened one of the doors, pulling out the drawer it concealed. Frohike stared at the white sheet and its pitifully tiny outline.

"She was found in a dumpster on Canal Street," Dr. Scully stated. "She was raped and strangled." Frohike could hear a touch of anger and disgust in her voice but never once did she loose her professionalism. With a respect Frohike rarely saw for the dead, she lifted the sheet, uncovering the girl's face.

Frohike stared at the lifeless face of little Molly Jennings and something wrenched inside him. She had been an adorable child with Shirley Temple curls and sparkling, mischievous hazel eyes. Now her glassy eyes stared up at him, imprinted with the terror of her ordeal.

"How long has she been dead," he asked.

"No more than 24 hours." Dr. Scully's voice was decisive.

Twenty-four hours. She had been missing for five days.

He touched the ligature marks on her neck. They were deep, cutting into her skin. Her killer had used something thin and strong. Maybe a laundry line or wire. He tried not to think of her struggling uselessly against her attacker, pleading, begging for her life. Did she wonder why her father wasn’t there protecting her? Or was she beyond thinking and catatonic at the end? His gaze went to her face again. She had the same hair color as Emma, the same oval face. His vision blurred and the tiny body on the cold hard slab was his Emma.

He blinked and it was Molly again and he said a silent payer of thanks. Emma walked home from that private school with Molly every day. For some reason the killer had chosen one girl over the other. It could just as easily have been Emma and there would have been nothing he could have done to protect her.

"Mr. Frohike, are you all right?"

He realized his hands were shaking. He shoved them into the pockets of his trench coat, clamping them into fists, willing them to stop but they didn’t listen to him. They never did. God he needed that drink. He could practically taste the alcohol.

"I’m fine." He didn’t sound fine even to himself. Dr. Scully must have thought the same thing.

She pierced him with a stare only a doctor could pull off. "She and my daughter are friends…were friends," he amended. He turned away from Molly and those unseeing eyes not realizing what he'd just said.

"Mr. Frohike… Melvin." Scully hesitated then continued as if she wasn’t sure she should. "Why don't we get some lunch and talk."

The thought of lunch with the sexy redhead should have given him pleasure. Any other time it would have. He shook his head. "I can't. I have to inform her parents that their little girl is dead."

Then I'm going to get stinking drunk. He did not say this last part aloud as he turned to leave.

Chapter 4

“This-- is Trafalgar Square. The noise that you hear at the moment is the sound of the air raid sirens. A searchlight just burst into action off in the distance; there's another searchlight. You see them reach straight up into the sky and occasionally they catch a cloud and seem to splash on the bottom of it. One of the strangest sounds one can hear in London these days -- or rather these dark nights -- just the sound of footsteps walking along the street, like ghosts shod with steel shoes.”

Jimmy leaned back in his seat. The steady hum of traffic on the next street was a startling contrast to Edward R. Murrow's vivid and disturbing radio report from London. Whenever he listened to one of these reports, he was reminded how lucky he was to be so far from war torn Europe and the atrocities perpetrated by a mad dictator.

Like everyone else, he and his friends talked about the war, whether the U.S. should get involved or stay neutral. Jimmy often thought it was only a matter of time before his country stepped in. How could it not? So many people were dying; countries were being enslaved as much as their citizens were. Not to act went against everything the United States stood for. But Jimmy worried about that, too.

Jimmy sighed, snapped off the radio and looked at the converted warehouse across the street. He still needed to figure out what he was going to ask Professor Langly and Miss Harlow. He had never interviewed anyone before and he hoped he didn’t sound like the rookie he actually was.

Opening the car door, he grabbed his camera from the passenger seat then climbed out. Before he left The Gazette he had made sure he had plenty of film. He was still irritated he hadn’t been able to find Professor Langly and Yves Harlow’s pictures in 'the morgue'. He had looked everywhere and bugged the librarian until she had kicked him out.

It was strange, he thought as he crossed the street, it was like they'd simply vanished.

“Hello?” Jimmy called out when no one answered his knock. “Professor Langly? Miss Harlow?” He knocked again, louder this time. The frosted glass rattled in the doorframe. “Professor Langly, it’s Jimmy Bond from The Gazette.”

He waited, listening. He couldn’t hear any sound that might indicate someone coming to answer the door.

“Good job, Jimmy,” he rebuked himself. “They’re probably running errands. Or maybe went out to eat.” Jimmy let out a frustrated breath. He should have called first, let them know he was coming. Who knows when they’d get back?

He sent one last hopeful look at the door before turning to leave.

He paused.

He looked back at the door, ignoring the niggling guilt for what he was about to do then wrapped his hand around the doorknob and twisted. The door opened easily.

“Professor Langly? Miss Harlow?” He called out, just in case they were hard at work and hadn’t heard him before.

No answer.

His conscience told him he should call later and set up an appointment.

Or he could just write a quick note letting them know he stopped by and found the door unlocked. But he had no paper.

He remembered the desk Yves had been working at had been cluttered with paper. This realization made him push the door open the rest of the way and walk in.

He stopped and stared at the room in disbelief. There were no papers, no desk, no filing cabinets, no nothing. The thought scrambled around his brain that maybe he was at the wrong address, the wrong warehouse. There were several and they all looked very similar.

Yeah, he thought sarcastically, and the New York Yankees hadn’t won the World Series last year.

As he navigated the perimeter of the room, he saw the large, freestanding chalkboard Professor Langly had been scribbling his arcane equations on lying on the floor. Jimmy picked it up, careful to touch only the outer edges then stepped back.

Someone had erased everything. He grabbed the top of the board and flipped it over to examine the other side. It too had been cleaned off.

But they hadn’t pressed hard enough. There were pale, faint impressions of numbers and other symbols. Some were smeared but others were still intact. Jimmy raised his camera and snapped several pictures.

“What are you doing?” A gruff voice demanded. “This is private property!”

Jimmy whirled around, his heart thumping in his chest. A burly, elderly man stood in the doorway glaring at him. A caretaker of some sort, Jimmy guessed.

“Well,” the man demanded.

“I was looking for the people who work here,” said Jimmy. “Do you know where they went?”

“You crazy? No one works here.”

“But they were here,” Jimmy protested. “A beautiful woman with long black hair, olive complexion, has an English accent. And a man. Thin, about six feet and long blond hair, wears glasses.”

“Son, this is an empty storage building.” The man said patiently, slowly, “has been for years.

“That can’t be,” said Jimmy with a shake of his head. “I talked to them just a few days ago.”

“Let it go, son,” the man advised.

“You do know then,” Jimmy said with growing excitement. “It’s ok. I’m a reporter. My name is…Jeffery Spender,” Jimmy nearly tripped over the blatant lies but he rushed on, “with the D.C. Gazette. She called me.” Another lie but it wasn’t an absolute lie, he tried to reassure himself, since the professor had called the paper.

The man considered Jimmy as if sensing the kernel of truth in his words. “I don’t know about a man,” he finally said, “but the woman paid me to get rid of everything.”

“Why did she do that,” Jimmy asked puzzled.

“She didn’t tell me,” the man said, turning to leave. “I’ve got to get back to work."

“Wait,” Jimmy exclaimed, hurtling questions at the man. “Did she say where she was going? Or why she was leaving?”

The man paused, turned part way to stare at Jimmy. The undisguised disgust on the man’s face stunned Jimmy and his words more so. "She said she was leaving to end a bad relationship."

* * * * *

Frohike sat in his car outside the school grounds. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to do this. He was risking arrest but, today, he just had to see her to know that she was all right.

He'd been correct to assume that, with Molly's kidnapper still at large, most parents would be picking their kids up after school. He'd seldom seen so many adults milling around unless it was for an evening performance or similar activity.

He spotted his ex-wife, Michelle, standing among the waiting parents. She was still beautiful, still the picture of grace and self-assuredness that had attracted him all those years ago. He'd been pleased when she had first agreed to go out with him and when she said she'd marry him, he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

That is until Emma was born. He hadn't known what having a family could mean, how empty and pointless his life had seemed before then. But tragedy and an inability to deal with the aftermath had destroyed his happy life. He'd lost his wife's trust, then her love and with it, he'd lost the right to be the father of his child.

The bell rang signaling the end of the day. After a few moments, the front doors opened and young, pre-teen girls rushed into the waiting arms of their parents.

Word had spread quickly; Molly Jennings had been found dead. Some of the girls were crying as their mothers or fathers held them or led them away from the school campus. Frohike hoped that these girls were at least unaware of the torment and torture their schoolmate had endured before she died.

Mrs. Jennings was in the hospital. Her shock at seeing her daughter's body had finally pushed her over the edge. She had collapsed right there in the morgue; her husband barely managing to catch her before her head hit the floor. Frohike helped the man carry his wife into the Medical Examiner's office where Dr. Scully tended to the poor woman until the ambulance came to take her to the hospital.

Frohike had stayed with Mr. Jennings outside his wife's room for a while, but his need to see his own family had driven him to this place.

Most of the parents were gone but Michelle still stood waiting. A moment of pure panic gripped Frohike's heart. Where was Emma? Why hadn't she come outside with the rest of the girls?

He watched a few minutes longer uncertain what to do. If he gave himself away, he could get thrown in jail. Michelle had her back to Frohike so he couldn't tell if she seemed apprehensive or not.

Just as he was seriously considering going into the school to see what he could find out, he saw Police Chief Skinner exit the building. He was holding Emma's hand. That is until she saw her mother and ran on ahead into Michelle's protective embrace.

Frohike watched in frustration as Michelle comforted their daughter. He felt useless. He hadn't been able to save Molly and now he couldn't even reassure Emma that nothing of the sort would ever happen to her.

As far as she knew, he didn't love her anymore and didn't care what happened to her.

Michelle said something to Skinner. Then, with her arm around Emma holding her close, they walked off presumably to where Michelle had parked her car. Frohike watched them until they were out of sight.

When they were gone, Frohike looked to see where the Police Chief had parked his car. Too late, he realized he'd been seen and that Skinner was cutting across the school grounds towards the spot where the private investigator was parked.

Deciding not to postpone the inevitable, Frohike unlocked the passenger side door. Skinner opened it and got in.

"Go on. Drive!" said Skinner. "You know you're not supposed to be here."

Frohike started the engine and pulled away from the curb. "Where am I going?"

"Take me back to headquarters."

"What about your car?"

"I'll send a couple of my boys out here to get it."

Frohike headed for the main precinct. "You're not going to bust my chops over this, are you?"

"Not this time," Skinner replied.

"Thanks, Buddy," said Frohike.

"Don't thank me. Thank Michelle. She's the one who saw you and told me you were here. I asked her what she wanted me to do about it. She said she didn't want me to do anything because she understood."

"But I'm warning you," Skinner continued, turning to look directly at his former partner. "You can't keep doing this. You know DA Byers would love any reason to throw your sorry ass in jail."

Frohike kept his eyes on the road. "I had to see her, Walt. I had to know she was all right. After a short pause, he asked, "Is she?"

Skinner shook his head. "Not really. She took it very hard. I called Michelle after you confirmed the dead girl's identity and she asked me to come out to the school. She figured word would spread quickly, which it obviously did. She knew she couldn't get here until after school."

"You told her about Molly?"

"Yes, I did and I tried to reassure her we'd catch this guy but I don't know if I was very convincing."

"You didn't give her all the gruesome details, did you?"

"Of course not, " Skinner said none too patiently. "Just…just that Molly was dead."

Frohike felt a pang of jealousy. This was not the first time Michelle had asked Walter Skinner to stand in for Emma's missing father. And he figured it would not be the last. Skinner was Emma's godfather but Frohike didn't need to be told that there was more to his friend's relationship with his ex-wife and daughter than just an old friend trying to help out.

There was nothing more to say until Frohike dropped Skinner off at head quarters. "I know this case has really gotten to you, Mel," Skinner said holding the car door open. "Go home. Take a couple of days off. You really look like you could use it."

Frohike said nothing as Skinner got out of his car.

The Chief watched silently as his friend drove away and only after his car was out of sight did he turn and enter the building.

* * * * *

Jimmy had a headache and the cacophony of the Gazette bullpen wasn’t helping. He went through the maze of desks trying to ignore the ringing telephones, clattering typewriters and the buzz of conversations.

After his trip to Langly’s lab he was more confused then ever. He needed to talk to Carla and ask her advice. And maybe, he hoped, she could recall what she knew about the Professor without his pictures. God, how could he have lost his only pictures of them? His hand closed protectively over his camera. At least he had the photos of the blackboard though he doubted that would help figure out where Yves and Langly had gone.

“Ah, hell,” Jimmy muttered when he saw Carla Mason’s desk. It was empty.

“Jimmy! Buddy!”

Jimmy turned to see Dylan Walsh walking toward him, a wide smile on his face. He was holding the afternoon edition of the Gazette. “Dylan, have you seen Carla?”

“You made the front page, buddy,” Walsh said with a wealth of pride in his voice. “And,” he paused for dramatic affect while he held up the paper. “Not one but two pictures!”

“What?” Jimmy took the paper from his friend. Sure enough his picture of the female hostage and another photo, the one of several clearly exhausted policemen, were on the front page. The cops had been about to go off shift when the call for the bank robbery had gone out. They had stayed for the duration of the hostage situation.

“I heard,” whispered Dylan, “that the only reason the story made the front page was because of your pictures. Kicked the Blitz beneath the fold.”

Jimmy felt the first tug of a smile on his face in hours. He couldn’t believe it. It was the best news and now Spender was sure to cut him some slack.

“Congratulations, Buddy. I gotta run. Hot date tonight with that gorgeous blond from Metro.”

“Wait.” Jimmy dropped the paper on Carla’s desk and grabbed Dylan’s arm. “Do you know where Carla is?”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied. “She got a call from her snitch. Apparently the cops found that little girl's body."

Jimmy looked sharply up at his friend. “Molly Jennings? Jeez, I hope they get the guy that did that.”

Dylan’s face darkened. “Guy oughta be strung up.”

The two men were silent as they thought of the little girl. It was then Dylan noticed Spender surveying the bullpen. He nudged Jimmy and nodded at their boss's son. “The Lesser looks as if he’s got a mouth full of lemons.”

Jimmy chuckled and was about to say something when Spender looked straight at him. Spender glared with unsuppressed fury then stalked into his office. The man slammed his door so hard the glass rattled.

“Wow!” said Dylan. “Just what did you do to get on his bad side?”

Jimmy stared at the door, deeply troubled. “I wish I knew.”

* * * * *

Dr. Dana Scully was working late. The others had gone home hours earlier but she was still going through paperwork making sure that everything was done correctly. As the first woman to hold the position of Medical Examiner in this county, it was important to her to do a good job. She didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to say that a woman was incapable of doing what should be handled by the 'stronger sex'.

She'd made it through medical school: the only woman in her class to complete premed, medical school, internship and residency. The other six women with whom she'd started out either gave up in frustration or got married leaving their dreams of becoming a doctor behind.

While working at the hospital in which she'd done her residency, she became fascinated with forensic science. And after doing a rotation in that department, she had decided that it was the specialty she wanted to pursue. Her friends and family tried to talk her out of it but they'd been doing that since she first announced that medicine was what she felt she needed to do with her life.

And she had landed the job as Chief Medical Examiner. Her years of working in the hospital morgue gave her the experience necessary to overcome the fact that no woman had ever held the position.

She glanced at the stack of files still on her desk then at the clock. She sighed, so much for a good night's sleep. But she was almost done and a few hours of sleep were better than none.

She picked up the next file and opened it: an accidental drowning, no sign of foul play. A noise distracted her. It sounded like someone was in the hallway. If the police were bringing in a corpse, they would take it directly to the admittance bay, where the night clerk would take all the information. And the clerk knew not to disturb her when she was working late.

Stepping into the hallway, Dr. Scully noticed a figure in a trench coat and fedora leaning at an odd angle against the wall. "Hello?"

The man glanced up at her and took a hesitant step in her direction before once again slumping against the wall.

The quick peek she'd gotten of his face was enough for Dr. Scully to recognize the man. She hurried to his side. "Mr. Frohike, what's wrong?" she asked taking his arm to steady him when he tried again to stand up straight.

His response was nearly incomprehensible but she got the answer to her question. The smell of stale whiskey on his breath was all the information she needed. "Come on," she said straining to pull him away from the wall. "I'm prescribing a large dose of coffee for you."

Putting his arm around her shoulders, she walked him back to her office. Once there, she settled him into a leather high-backed chair Judd had left in the office when he vacated it.

Dr. Scully pulled off Frohike's hat and tipped his head back to study his face. He smiled at her but she could tell he was having difficulty focusing and she wasn't sure he realized who she was.

She knew so little about him. She'd only met him that morning and in that short time he insulted her then flirted with her. But she'd also watched the pain and horror on his face as he identified the body of his client's child, a child who was also his daughter's friend. She'd seen his compassion for his clients as he brought them in to view their little girl's body and watched as he tried to comfort and console them.

Leaving him in the chair, Dr. Scully poured him a cup of coffee. She liked it strong. Before her residency, she'd been a tea drinker but the long on-call hours had necessitated something more invigorating and she'd learned that strong, black coffee did the trick.

Although he seemed to be half asleep, she wrapped Frohike's hands around the cup then guided it to his lips. He took a sip and grimaced. "You're trying…to poison me," he managed to say as he pushed the cup away.

"No, I'm not," the ME insisted as she encouraged him to take another drink.

He complied but further complained. "It tastes like…bilge water."

"And I'm sure you know precisely what bilge water tastes like." She couldn't resist teasing him. She figured he wouldn't remember any of this anyway. She pushed the cup to his lips once again.

"I'm telling you," he said after a large swallow, "it tastes better than this."

Dr. Scully had to laugh at him. He grinned in return and sat up a bit straighter finally holding the cup on his own.

She stood by him as he finished the first cup. She refilled it and gave it back to him. Then she poured one for herself and settled back behind her desk. He drank the second cup in silence as she read through the reports.

After a while, she glanced up to see him watching her over the rim of his coffee cup. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Talk about what?" He was sobering up pretty quickly.

"About why you came out here in the middle of the night?"

He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I had some vague idea about taking you up on that offer for lunch but it looks like I'm too late for that."

The doctor nodded. "At this point, breakfast would make more sense." She scanned the untouched files on her desk. There weren't that many left and they could wait. "What do you say? Are you up for it?"

Frohike was quiet for a few seconds obviously considering her offer. "Yeah, sure. Breakfast sounds good."

Dr. Scully stood up to get her coat. Once she had it on, she turned to see Frohike's rather unsteady rise from his chair.

"I'm driving, though," she said in a tone that broached no argument.

"I made it out here in one piece," Frohike said in his own defense.

"Only by the grace of God," Dr. Scully replied. "And I don't think it's wise to push his good graces too far."

Frohike looked like he was about to protest, but thought the better of it. He held the door for her to exit the office then waited as she locked it.

Their progress down the hallway was rather slow as Frohike was still a bit unsteady on his feet. Dr. Scully finally put her arm through his to help him walk a little straighter.

At least that's what she told herself.

Chapter 5

Jimmy stood outside the door of the Photography Lab, not daring to breath or make a sound. He pressed his ear to the frosted glass and waited, his blond hair obscuring the dark lettering that identified the room.

There.

Soft footsteps, a faint rustling of papers.

Someone was inside the Lab.

Maybe another photographer had forgotten something and returned. But they would have signed in at the security desk just as he had. The security guard even said everyone had left for the night. Jimmy had seen the sign out log. The last person to leave had been the Publisher, C.B. Spender and that had been several hours ago.

And why would someone be sneaking around in the dark?

Another sound dragged his attention back to the lab. This time it was a soft snick. Someone was opening the filing cabinets.

Anger and confusion blazed inside him at the thought of someone rummaging through the files. Why? It didn’t make sense. There was nothing of real value in there. Just photographs that…

His stomach twisted in a sick sense of understanding. The missing photos of Professor Langly and Yves Harlow he had spent hours searching for and believed to be misplaced: someone had stolen them. And now perhaps the thief had returned.

But why?

Jimmy wanted answers. His heart thudding against his chest, he gripped the doorknob, took a slow, steadying breath and pushed the door open. Flipping on the overhead light, he shouted with bravado he didn’t feel, “Hey! What are you do…“

The words died in his throat when he saw the intruder.

Yves Harlow gazed back at him with a cool confidence that implied she had every right to be in the lab in the middle of the night.

His mouth went dry as he watched her fingers smooth her black, tight fitting clothes that revealed a curvaceous body.

“Mr. Bond,” she said in that lilting English accent. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“I…uh…could say…um…the same thing,” Jimmy stuttered. He swallowed hard and tore his gaze from the slow, sure movements of her hands to focus on her face. “I mean, what are you doing here?”

A coy smile touched her lips. “It’s rather embarrassing,” she said. “You see: my employer has this phobia about having his picture taken.” Her soft, husky voice sent shivers up his spine. Or maybe it was because, as she talked, she closed the short distance between them until there was only a hand's breadth separating them.

“It’s silly, I know,” she continued, “but he asked me to retrieve them. Perhaps…?” She let the sentence hang between them.

“Sorry.” Jimmy’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I can’t help you.”

Yves touched his chest gently then slid her hand up slowly until he felt her cool fingers caressing the bare skin at the nap of his neck. Sparks shot down to his toes. Tilting her head, she gazed up at him, her brown eyes soft and inviting. “Is there anything I can do to convince you?”

They were so close that if he angled his head down and moved toward her a fraction of an inch, their lips would touch. He wondered what she would taste like.

She parted her lips as if anticipating the contact.

His heart drummed in his chest. Staring at her full, scarlet lips, he bent his head and inhaled her scent. She smelled of wild flowers and wine.

“I can’t.” The words came out thick, nearly sticking in his throat.

She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t you find me attractive?”

Jimmy nearly choked at that. “I… You're amazing.”

“Then there’s no problem,” she whispered.

The space between them melted away and there was only the soft warmth of her body touching his. He couldn’t think, not with her tantalizing scent surrounding him.

He wanted to touch her. He reached up and brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, thrilling at her smooth, satiny warmth, then brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear then skimmed down the center of her spine, stopping to rest at the small of her back.

She whispered his name in a way that made him ache.

He wanted her. Oh, God, he wanted her.

But not like this.

“No,” he managed, pulling away from her. “It wouldn’t be right.”

He glimpsed surprise on her face before turning from her and what she had been offering him. It was then he saw the open file cabinets. It was an ice-cold awakening.

“You’re too late.” He couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice. “The pictures are gone.”

“Where are they?” Yves demanded; cool, composed and all business as if she had never tried to seduce him.

It was dumb but it hurt, knowing she would use him that way just to get the pictures.

Jimmy shrugged, trying to mimic her attitude but failed miserably. “I figured they've been misfiled in the morgue. That’s like a huge library where we keep…” He trailed off at her impatient look. “But I couldn’t find them anywhere,” he continued. “Someone must have stolen them.”

“Do you know who stole the pictures?”

Jimmy shook his head. “No idea.”

She gazed intently at him, weighing his answer. “Did that reporter write a story about the Professor?”

“Spender? Nah, he didn’t think there was anything to it.”

“Who else knows about this?”

Jimmy started to answer when he realized she was asking all the questions. “Wait a minute. What’s going on anyway? Just who are you?”

She took a step toward him. “Who else knows about this,” she repeated, her voice low and cold. “Did you tell anyone else?”

Jimmy heard the dangerous undertone in her words but oddly it only made him curious. “No one,” he fudged, lowering his eyes. “Spender made it plain that if I tried to convince another reporter to talk to the Professor, he’d have my job.” This time he did meet her tense gaze. “I figured I could do the story myself.”

It was odd, he thought. She seemed relieved that no one knew about Professor Langly yet concerned by his admission he was looking into it.

He went over the facts as he knew them, trying to make sense of it all: the empty lab; the professor and Miss Harlow’s sudden disappearance; the poorly erased chalkboard; the stolen pictures.

“Professor Langly broke the Nazi code,” Jimmy exclaimed, “or he’s close. And you're helping him.” It was all too incredible, he thought, but it fit. The allies would be able to find a way to defeat Hitler and he was the one who discovered the story.

A thrill of excitement went through him until he saw Yves’ face. With the dawning clarity of a developing photograph, he saw in her what he'd seen a few days ago in the police officers during that seeming endless hostage standoff: the exhaustion that came from unrelenting hours of vigilance.

His next thought was both disturbing and frightening. “They know,” he said, stunned. “They know what you and the Professor are doing.” He thought again of the empty lab, the claim of running from a bad relationship. “You went into hiding, didn’t you?”

Her expression remained neutral, neither confirming nor denying his statement. It didn’t matter. He knew it was true and she was in trouble. He moved closer to her and, without thinking about it, said, “I want to help you, Yves. Let me help you.”

She looked at him sharply. “Mr. Bond, You’ll do well to stay away from this.” With those words, she turned and strode from the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

“Wait!” Jimmy was a handful of shocked seconds behind her. He yanked open the door. “Yves, wait I…”

He stared down the empty hall.

She was gone.

Thursday, September 26, 1940

It was well past two the next day when Frohike finally turned up at work a little worse for wear. Maggie knew he'd probably gone on a bender and had called him at home to let him know his presence was needed in the office.

Maggie could be such a nag sometimes but Frohike knew it was her patience and even her persistence that kept him in business.

He hadn't done very well at first. His drinking made it difficult to keep clients. Hoping to help his friend out, Fox Mulder had introduced him to Maggie. At first, Frohike was reluctant to take on an employee but Maggie insisted that she at least be given a chance to show Frohike how much help she could be.

Frohike had been so ill tempered those first few weeks, unwilling to admit that he couldn't do the whole job on his own. But in time, he came to see that he really did need the help: if nothing else, there was someone to answer the phone when he wasn't there. If the clients couldn't contact him, how could they hire him?

Mulder had been right when he told Maggie that Frohike was a decent man who had fallen on hard times and just needed a chance to either redeem himself or to work through the horror his life had become.

Maggie truly respected her boss. He'd proven his worth more times than she could count. Sure, he had his bad days, but smoothing over those rough patches with clients, bill collectors or those who simply needed someone to complain to was her job. And she did it well.

She wasn't proud of everything they did, but those questionable clients seemed to be fewer and farther between. More and more, Frohike didn't hesitate to send them on their way if he doubted their veracity. They were beginning to build a much more respectable clientele like the Jennings family.

"Good afternoon," said Maggie with cheery disregard for Frohike's hung over condition. She followed him into his office.

Waiting until after he'd hung up his hat and coat, Maggie said, "I called the hospital this morning. Mrs. Jennings is doing a little better. I spoke to her husband and he said she's at least able to talk about Molly now. They'll probably release her sometime tomorrow."

"You couldn't tell me that on the phone?" Frohike asked sitting down at his desk. He looked around for his newspaper.

"Yes, I could have but there is something else you need to attend to. I called Monica Reyes as you asked."

She had Frohike's undivided attention at that point. "What did she say?"

"She wanted to speak to you right away. She's in the outer office; you walked right past her on your way in."

Getting up from his desk, Frohike hurried out to the reception area. A tall, good-looking brunette with brown eyes, long dark hair and an intelligent face stood up to greet him. She wore an amused expression.

"Monica, I'm sorry I didn't see you there."

"That's all right, Mel," she said taking his offered hand. "Maggie told me you've been working on a tough case and I did show up without an appointment."

"Please, come into my office." He stood aside allowing her to go first.

Once they were both seated, Monica in one of his ancient guest chairs, Frohike behind his desk, he asked. "How much did Maggie tell you about why I needed to talk to you."

"She said that there was a man here asking you to find me for him but that you wanted to tell me the rest."

Frohike nodded. "The man said his name was Morris Fletcher and that he is your long lost cousin." Checking his notes, he continued, "He told me that your Uncle Bernie Brickham died leaving you some money."

Monica shook her head, her eyes downcast and focused on a spot somewhere above the floor in a look that Frohike recognized as someone searching her memory.

"I don't remember an Uncle Bernie. Did this Morris Fletcher say we knew each other as children?"

"No, but he did give me that impression. He said, 'We called him Uncle BB' and I took that to mean both of you. I could be mistaken."

Monica's brow creased with concern. "Did he give you any indication that he was aware that you and I already knew each other?"

"No, he didn't, which is why I didn't mention it to him."

"Thank you, I'm glad you didn't say anything."

"What would you like me to do about this?" Frohike asked.

Monica didn't seem to hear the question. "This man…what did he look like?"

Frohike carefully observed her reactions as he described the man. She seemed to be growing more and more tense as he answered her questions.

When she didn't say anything for a few moments, he asked. "Monica, what is it? You don't need to worry about this. I won't tell this guy where you are."

"No, it's not that; I trust you. It's just…" She stopped, collecting her thoughts. "I was surprised when Maggie called me yesterday. I've been debating whether or not I needed to contact you myself."

It was Frohike's turn to be concerned. "Why? What's happened? Is it your sister again?"

"No, nothing like that." She hesitated. "I think I'm being followed."

"Followed?" Frohike asked in surprise. "Do you think it's this Morris Fletcher guy?"

Monica shook her head. "No, not from your description."

"Who then?"

"I don't know but this man is younger and thinner and has a full head of hair."

Frohike took a pencil out of his desk. "How many times have you seen him?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I got my first really good look at him three days ago and I realized then that I'd seen him before."

"What does he look like?" Frohike asked turning to a fresh page in his note pad.

"Tall, about six feet or so; early forties; brown hair. He has a long face and prominent ears."

"When did you last see him?"

"Last night, when I left work."

"Did he follow you home?"

"I didn't go home. When I saw him again, I went out to dinner in the hopes he'd get bored and go find something else to do. I didn't see him when I left the restaurant."

"Did you call the police?"

"I did but since I couldn't prove anything, they said to call them back if something happened."

"Let me talk to them and see what I can do."

Monica looked relieved. "Thank you, I'd appreciate that but there's something else… I think someone broke into my apartment."

If anyone else had come into his office with such a story, he'd take the information with a grain of salt, but not Monica. In his past dealings with her, Frohike sensed that she was not a woman who was easily frightened or prone to seeing imaginary enemies around every corner.

"When did this happen?" Frohike asked.

"Yesterday, sometime. I'm not sure when. As I said, I went out to dinner."

"What did the police have to say about that?"

"I didn't call them because, yet again, I can't prove it. Nothing was taken but some things had been moved. They weren't in their usual spot."

Frohike had seen the inside of Monica's apartment and understood how she would know. She wasn't obsessively neat but she wasn't a slob either. And since she lived alone, she should know if objects were not where she'd left them.

"You're sure nothing was taken."

Monica shrugged. "I checked my valuables. They're all there."

"But it may not be your valuables they were after." Frohike studied his notes. He said nothing for a few minutes thinking about all he'd heard.

Monica waited. She had become familiar with how he worked when she hired him the first time and knew he would speak when he was ready.

"All right," he said, "here's what we're going to do."

Relieved that someone finally believed her, Monica sat forward a bit in her chair anxious to hear how Frohike planned to solve her problem.

"First of all," he said, "I want you to take the rest of the day off and go shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Yes, shopping."

* * * * *

With Monica safely out in public for the rest of the afternoon, Frohike decided to hunt down Officer Mulder. Although he did not find Molly Jennings alive, he was still determined to locate the man who had abducted and killed her. It was the least he could do for her parents. And, he had to admit, for his own peace of mind.

Frohike found Mulder walking his beat.

"You mean you're actually doing the job they pay you for?" Frohike asked as Mulder jumped into his car.

Mulder snorted. "I was until you showed up. I tell you, if the Chief knew how much of my time was spent hunting down information for you, he'd probably kick me to the curb."

"Like he hasn't done that already." Frohike shot back.

"Not recently," Mulder said with a smile. "Fortunately, I got that police report back in the files before he noticed it was gone."

"Which is why I'm here," the private investigator explained. "You were going to check around for someone who fit the old woman's description."

"Yeah, the Charlie Chaplin look-alike. Not much luck there. I've only got one guy who says he might know who the lady meant."

"Who's that?" Frohike asked meaning the snitch, not the suspect.

"Kimmy, the Weasel."

Frohike's lip curled in disgust. He'd used Kimmy as an informant before. His information was sometimes questionable but he was correct often enough to warrant checking out what he had to say. "Is he at his usual watering hole?"

"That's where I found him," Mulder said.

* * * * *

"Lou's," Frohike thought, tossing a cursory glance at the flickering light of the dying neon sign. The place was dingy and smoke filled. There were only a few customers: most of them shabbily dressed but all of them with lives so wretched that sitting in this place in the middle of the day was the best they could do.

No one paid much attention to Frohike as he entered.

He scanned the mismatched tables many of which would need a good sandblasting to get them clean. Trying to ignore the smell of stale sweat, cheap beer and too much cologne, he spotted who he was looking for seated at the bar.

The man was rail thin. His hair was combed back over his head with so much pomade in it that the stuff nearly dripped off the ends.

"Well, if it isn't Kimmy the Weasel," Frohike proclaimed sitting down on a barstool next to him.

Kimmy rounded on Frohike. "Kimmy, the Snake. My name is Kimmy, the Snake. Can't you ever get that right?"

Kimmy had earned his hated nickname because of his sharp features and the squinty-eyed expression he usually wore. The man simply refused to admit he needed glasses.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Bub, I forgot."

"You don't even try. You just do that to piss me off."

"And it works so well," Frohike thought but didn't say this out loud. He needed the man's help.

Frohike placed a five-dollar bill on the bar. Kimmy's eyes lit up at the sight of the money. He reached out for it but Frohike slammed his hand down over the fiver before Kimmy could pick it up.

"Mulder says you have some information for me."

Kimmy's eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Frohike. "Yeah, but it's going to cost you more than what you've got there."

"Let's call this a down payment." Frohike had figured he'd end up paying dearly for this but, if he managed to find a suspect with the information, it would be worth it.

The informant grasped the money between two fingers and pulled on it gently not taking his eyes off Frohike. The PI eventually removed his hand and Kimmy quickly stuffed the money into his shirt pocket.

"Now, a name," Frohike said.

"I don't have a name."

Grabbing the front of Kimmy's not too clean shirt, Frohike demanded, "What do you mean you don't have a name?" With his free hand, he reached into Kimmy's pocket to take the five dollars back. Kimmy pushed against Frohike's arms.

"Wait! WAIT!" he shouted. "I don't know his name but I know where you can find him!"

Frohike eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he considered Kimmy for a moment. "You'd better not be lying."

"I'm not! Honest!" the nervous snitch swore with one hand raised in the air for good measure. "I wouldn't lie to you."

Frohike tightened his grip on the other man's shirt a little more pulling him a bit closer. "You have in the past."

"Well, yeah," Kimmy said with a touch of arrogant pride in his voice. "But you were so ripe for it that time." He then grew serious. "But this guy…anyone that does what he did to a little kid…that's just not right."

Releasing Kimmy's shirt, Frohike sat back on his stool. He glanced over at the bartender who was talking to a customer at the other end of the bar and pointedly ignoring what was going on at their end.

Frohike could almost taste the whiskey but he shook off the desire, the need to have a drink, just one drink. He had too much to do. He had to catch this guy and there was also Monica to consider. He would be of no help to anyone if he got drunk again. And experience told him that one drink would become two drinks then another and another.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another five-dollar bill and held it up for Kimmy to see. "Tell me what you know about this guy."

Chapter 6

The ancient radio crackled and hissed with static. Yves Harlow adjusted the tuning dial but when the sound didn’t improve, she gave up and settled back in her chair to listen.

“I'm standing on a rooftop, looking out over London. At the moment, everything is quiet. For reasons of national as well as personal security, I am unable to tell you the exact location from which I'm speaking. Off to my left, far away in the distance, I can see just the faint red anguished snap of anti aircraft bursts against a steel blue sky. But the guns are so far away it is impossible to hear them from this location. About five minutes ago, the guns in the immediate vicinity were working."

Letting out a discouraged breath, she snapped off the radio. While she rarely missed Edward R. Murrow’s broadcasts, the reports from her country left her tense and on edge. Pushing the chair back, she stood up and decided to do another circuit of the house and check the locks and windows, saving the living room for last.

Professor Langly had claimed a windowless corner for himself and was even now engrossed in his work. She thought back to when she first met him. She had been astonished by his one-track thinking and then irritated that he could so easily forget the rest of the world. But she soon realized he was far more aware then he let on.

“Langly,” Yves said waiting for a response. “Professor Langly,” she repeated louder when he gave no indication he heard her though she knew otherwise. “I’m going out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” He waved his hand at her without looking up.

“Please, do not answer the door…” she continued before he cut her off.

“Or the phone or go outside.” He looked at her and grinned. “I remember the drill.” Her grim expression told him she wasn’t in the least amused by his attempt to lighten the mood. His expression turned serious. “Be careful,” he said, turning back to his equations but even the familiarity of his work couldn’t still the sudden chill that ran up his spine.

Yves watched him a moment longer then rechecked the front windows. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she headed for the back of the house.

Where the front had a view of a long, gravel drive leading to the highway, the rear opened to a spacious, outdoor wooden deck. It contained a patio table, four chairs and two chaise lounges. A set of stairs led to a white, sandy beach.

Stepping onto the deck, the breeze ruffled her long hair. The crisp, autumn air felt good on her skin after the recycled heat in the house. She paused at the railing and watched the surf play a game of tag with several sandpipers. The small birds raced the water line snatching sand fleas as they burrowed into the ground.

Ever alert, she descended the stairs to the sand and walked down to the water's edge. The wind was stronger, the cold biting. Since she hadn’t planned to stay out long, she’d left her jacket in the house. She wrapped her arms around herself in defiance of the chill and stared into the distance where white-topped waves rolled and crested with the wind.

Ever since she was a little girl she had loved the beach. It had always given her pleasure and contentment. But today, even it couldn’t quiet the unease that plagued her soul.

She didn’t like leaving the Professor alone for any length of time but there was someone else whose safety was also very much on her mind.

She was aware of the fact that she was stalling.

If she was to return by nightfall she had to leave right away.

Taking one last lingering look at the ocean, she turned and scanned the beach, the dunes and finally the house. Everything appeared to be as it should be. Satisfied, she headed for the deck. Once on the stairs, she glanced quickly around then hopped over the railing, the sand cushioning her landing. She jogged to her car, which was parked in a neighboring driveway. Opening the door, she slid inside, started the engine and headed for D.C.

* * * * *

A man in the long coat and dark hat drew back into the shadows of an empty storefront allowing the darkness to conceal his presence. With the clouds obscuring the moon and a broken streetlight overhead, the recessed doorway made him nearly invisible to the casual observer.

He pulled his hat lower over his face so that even his eyes didn't show.

He waited.

No one noticed him as they passed: a couple laughing and talking together as they walked: a woman obviously in a hurry, a man with a little dog. The dog sniffed Frohike in the doorway, but its owner jerked on its leash to keep it moving which allowed the private investigator to remain unobserved.

Monica Reyes walked briskly down the opposite side of the street, her heels making a distinct click, click, click on the pavement. Their cadence slowed as she neared her building. She fished around in her purse to find her keys. Locating them, she climbed the stairs to her apartment building and, unlocking the door, she went inside.

Frohike carefully scrutinized the other pedestrians. No one seemed to have any interest in where Monica had gone. They all went about their own business. His attention was drawn to one slow moving car. The driver stopped near another vehicle that was pulling away from the curb as if waiting for the parking spot.

A tall man in a dark coat and hat came around the corner: his collar was turned up and his hat pulled low over his ears. This made Frohike suspicious since it was not that cold an evening. The man approached Monica's building, stopping near the bottom of the stairs.

Frohike tensed when he saw the man turn to scan the street as if searching for someone. He then glanced up at the building before checking his watch.

Suspecting that this was his man, Frohike stepped forward out of the shadows to get a better look.

"Dennis!" a female voice called out. Both the man and Frohike turned to see a woman running as quickly as her high heels would allow towards the man at the bottom of the stairs. She joined him, linking her arm in his. They walked off together.

Irritated but not discouraged, Frohike refocused his attention on the car that had been waiting to park. It was now tucked nicely up to the curb but the driver was still sitting behind the wheel. He had shifted in his seat so he was facing Monica's building making it impossible for Frohike to get a good look at him.

Slipping back into the shadows, Frohike waited for the driver to turn his way.

The night was getting colder and it began to drizzle. Frohike buttoned his coat then shoved his hands deep into his pocket. He seriously considered just walking up and confronting the man but knew that, if he was wrong and this was not the person following Monica, he would give himself away to the real stalker.

Deciding that he did not have all night, Frohike searched for some way to create a distraction to get the man to turn around. He spotted an empty beer bottle set atop a newspaper box. Quickly retrieving it, he returned to his hiding place.

He was hesitant to throw it out into the street leaving broken glass for people to drive over. A beat-up, old garbage can became his target. The bottle did not break as it entered the can but made a respectably loud noise.

The man in the car was startled by the racket and swung around in his seat to discover the source.

"Got ya'!" Frohike declared under his breath. He strode out into the street toward the car.

The man watched him cautiously at first then with growing wariness. He reached inside his jacket as Frohike yanked open his car door. "If your hand comes out of your coat with anything more than the fingers it went in with, I'll break your arm!" Frohike declared grabbing him by the forearm and twisting out and away from the man's body.

"Hey!" the man yelled in pain. "I'm a federal agent! I was just going for my identification!"

Frohike loosened his grip a bit saying, "All right. Slowly then."

The man reached farther into his coat to retrieve his wallet. Frohike could tell he had a holstered gun under his left arm. Releasing him, Frohike took the wallet.

The man waited while Frohike carefully studied his ID. "Special Agent John Doggett of the Federal Bureau of Investigations," he said looking from the photo to the man before handing it back to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here in an official capacity for the FBI and you're interfering with my investigation."

"And how is Monica Reyes involved in your investigation?"

"That's none of your business," Special Agent Doggett declared.

"Monica is my business," Frohike explained none too patiently. "She's my client."

"Your client?" the federal agent snorted. "What are you, her lawyer?"

"No," Frohike said reaching into his own pocket. He handed the man his card. "I'm a private investigator. My client came to me asking for help when she realized you were following her. Is she suspected of some crime?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. Now, leave here before I have you arrested for interfering with official FBI business," the agent said attempting to shut his car door. Frohike grabbed it making this impossible.

"Look," Frohike said, "I'm not leaving here until you tell me why you are stalking my client and what you were looking for when you broke into her apartment."

The door suddenly swung wide throwing Frohike off balance and forcing him to step backwards. Special Agent Doggett got out of his car. "Someone broke into her apartment?"

"Yeah. It wasn't you?"

"Was she hurt?" Doggett asked taking a step closer to Frohike.

"No," Frohike said a bit bemused to be answering questions instead of asking them.

"What was taken?"

"She's not sure," Frohike admitted.

Agent Doggett turned suddenly and got back in his car. Frohike had to jump out of the way as the FBI agent pulled away from the curb and, with a squeal of tires, drove off leaving Frohike standing alone in the street.

* * * * *

From her vantage point in the alley of the old apartment building, Yves saw Monica Reyes before she heard the sharp click of her heels on the pavement. She waited patiently for the one brief moment where she could step out and hustle Monica into the building where they could talk safely and privately.

When the moment came, instinct forced Yves back into the shadows, letting Monica pass. Once she heard the door close and the soft audible 'thunk' of the lock engaging, Yves stepped foreword to scan the street.

She made a disgusted sound as she watched a car pull away from the curb and then another car pull into the same spot. It was obvious that the occupants of the cars were working in tandem, watching Monica’s apartment. She herself had been part of many such stakeouts. She knew they were professionals. What she didn't know was whether or not they were the enemy and, if they were, how much information they had.

Maybe, she thought, she would discuss the matter with them.

Before she could do anything more than remove her gun from its hiding place, there was a loud clatter. Then to her surprise she saw a shape step from the shadows. It was a man, she could tell that. And he was short. But his features were hidden by a fedora.

Yves watched as the man strode across the street, yank the car door open with one hand and grab the man behind the driver's seat.

“Not bad,” Yves mused, but it didn’t answer who this new player was. There was a vague familiarity about him that worried her. Russian, perhaps? She heard the Russians were racing to unlock the secrets of the German codes before anyone else.

“Hey! I’m a federal agent!”

Yves heard the shout clearly from her hiding place and took notice. The voice, though tinged in pain, was one she recognized but she couldn't put it with a face. She stepped out of the shadows as far as she dared, listening. She couldn’t hear any part of the two men’s conversation except for the differing timbre of their voices.

Dammit! She needed to see their faces. She needed to know who they were.

Then there was a squeal of tires as the car shot forward. When the other man jumped out of the way so he wouldn’t get hit, she saw his face illuminated by a streetlight. She did know him. He was a private investigator. His name was… she thought for a moment. His name was Melvin Frohike.

Yves didn’t have time to fully digest this information. The car was racing toward her hiding spot. She shrank against the wall as it passed and caught a quick glimpse of the driver.

Yves clenched her gun as a wave of fear swept through her. She knew the second man as well.

He had been part of the trap from which she had narrowly escaped a few days earlier. It was Special Agent John Doggett of the FBI.

* * * * *

Frohike hesitated outside Fast Eddie's Bar and Grill. Eddie was an old friend of his: a relationship that extended beyond that of a bar's owner and his best customer. They had known each other as boys in high school and had remained friends over the years. So, when Frohike's life began to fall apart, it made sense to come and visit with this old friend and toss back a few. Unfortunately, these visits became far too frequent causing more complications in his life. All too soon Frohike had nowhere else to go in the evening.

He opened the door and went inside. Scanning the place with a critical eye, it became clear to Frohike that his favorite spot was really only a couple steps above Kimmy's. At least the furniture matched. The people here were better dressed and sat together talking and laughing at tables that Eddie made sure were properly cleaned.

Sitting down at the bar, Frohike motioned to the bartender. "How's business, Mel?" the man asked as he poured the P.I. his usual whiskey on the rocks.

"Business is good, Nick," Frohike answered watching the amber liquid slip down around the ice causing the cubes to settle into the bottom of the glass.

The bartender held the whiskey bottle up in a salute. "Here's to good business then," he said with a grin before moving farther down the bar to serve another customer.

Frohike watched him go, glad to be alone. He picked up the glass, swirling its contents around. He held it up at eye level and watched as the water from the melting ice didn't quite mingle with the whiskey.

He set the glass back down on the bar without tasting the alcohol. He stared at it for a couple moments longer before pushing it away. This wasn't helping anything. He needed to get a grip. Because of his drinking, he'd lost everything he'd loved or held dear, everything that was important in his life: Michelle, Emma, his job on the police force and his self respect.

For years he'd blamed that one on-the-job incident: the pursuit of a suspect that had gone horribly wrong resulting in the death of an innocent by-stander. The whiskey dulled the guilt he felt making it possible for him to live day to day. But these attempts to obliterate the pain had made it impossible for him to see what he was doing to his family.

"I won't stand around and watch you kill yourself, Mel!" his wife had finally told him in desperation, "And I won't allow Emma to watch it either." Three weeks later, they were gone.

In hindsight, he could see that she was right. He was slowly, but surely, killing himself.

And he had too many people depending on him at the moment to get off that easily.

Monica was going to search her entire apartment for anything that might be missing and report back to him in the morning. No matter how insignificant it might seem it would at least give them an idea of what the burglar was looking for. The FBI agent seemed surprised that Monica's apartment had been broken into. Maybe it was that Fletcher guy. Frohike needed to check him out.

He figured he'd have time to do that before going with Mulder to talk with Kimmy. The snitch had agreed to track down the person he thought might be Molly's murderer. If Kimmy could talk the man into meeting with them, he would. Frohike knew Kimmy to be a good liar so had no doubt that this would be possible.

Lost in these thoughts, Frohike absent-mindedly picked up the whiskey glass again and brought it to his mouth. But as the cold liquid touched his lips, he stopped then put it back down.

He shook his head. This movement drew his attention to the mirror behind the bar. He studied his reflection. Taking off his hat, he could see what Walter Skinner meant when he told him he needed to take a couple of days off. He looked like one of the corpses in Dr. Scully's morgue.

Dr. Scully.

Now there was something else to regret. He had shown up at her office drunk and barely able to walk. She had filled him with the worst coffee he had ever tasted and then, when he was finally able to put two coherent thoughts together, she had taken him out for breakfast.

They talked until the sun came up. They talked about everything and nothing. He asked her about her life. She shared some of her experiences in medical school and her residency and how she had gotten her current job.

She eventually turned the conversation to a discussion of his life. He told her about being a police officer then about becoming a private investigator. If she noticed there were a few years missing from his narrative, she didn't let on.

Then, when they finally got up to leave the all-night diner, Dr. Scully had insisted on paying, stating that it had been her idea in the first place. Frohike didn't feel right allowing a lady to pay but she had been adamant.

Frohike took one last look at his untasted glass of whiskey, pulled money out of his wallet to pay for the drink and left it on the bar.

He wanted to get to the morgue before it was too late and Dr. Scully went home for the evening. He just didn't feel right leaving things as they were between himself and the redheaded doctor. He wanted to return the favor of the meal as soon as possible.

At least that's what he told himself as he left the bar.

* * * * *

Yves slipped her key in the lock and let herself in. She allowed herself the luxury of one last look at the turbulent waves before entering the beach house. The broken cloud cover allowed the moon to shine through. There was just enough light that she could just make out the breakers. Closing the sliding glass door, she cut of the sound of the surf.

During the entire trip back she had considered the ramifications of the meeting between Agent Doggett and Melvin Frohike. She dismissed the idea that Frohike was working for Nazis. They wouldn't need him, not when they had F.B.I. agents at their disposal.

Then why was Frohike there? It had to have something to do with Monica.

And Monica didn’t understand the dangerous situation in which she was mired. She still needed to be warned about Agent Doggett. A phone call was out of the question; her phone could be tapped. Meeting Monica was now also out of the question. It left her with one solution: one that she detested but she didn’t see a way around it.

While thinking, she headed to the living room. The professor was right where she'd left him only now he was tinkering with the Enigma machine itself. She pushed her concerns to the back of her mind. It wouldn’t do for him to see her worried. They both had their jobs and his was to concentrate on the Enigma.

She watched him for a few moments as he slowly turned one of the dials. He'd removed part of the casing so he could see how the internal gears affected each other as they spun. The machine made a faint tick-tick sound as the inner works settled into each new setting.

“I’m back,” she finally announced.

He didn’t look up or acknowledge that he'd heard her. When she turned to leave he said, “How was it?”

“How was what?” She asked, perplexed by the question.

“D.C.” he replied, still focused on his work, “it's so lovely there this time of year."

She shook her head then asked. “Does the befuddled scientist routine serve a purpose?”

He did look up at her then. “It saves me from having to put up with tiresome conversations during parties.” The admission earned him a faint smile.

“But seriously," he said turning in his chair so he could face her. His sober expression couldn’t hide his concern. "There's something I need to know." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I’ve trusted you with my life. When you said we needed to leave DC, I left knowing it must be for a good reason. But now I'd like to know the whole story and I would hope you'd trust me with the truth.”

He deserved the truth, Yves thought. He needed to know otherwise she wouldn't be able to protect him.

“The Nazis have learned your identity.” His face became the color of spilled milk at this news. Yves continued. “Due to the Blitz, there is a communication blackout. I’m totally cut off from my superiors until our rendezvous.” She paused. “We’re alone.”

“Surely the F.B.I…?” He began.

“I set up a meeting with them. It was a trap. Someone within the organization is leaking information to the Nazis or the SS.” She thought of Agent Doggett sitting outside Monica's apartment.

“And now, because I was slow to act in retrieving the pictures from that newspaper photographer, they know what we look like.” Her anger bubbled to the surface and Langly winced. Yes, he had called the Gazette in a rush to announce the truth but she should have been watching him more closely. She should have stopped him.

“We’re alone,” she repeated. She met his gaze, a steely determination in her eyes. “But I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you alive.”

Langly broke eye contact first.

“Good to know,” he replied turning back to his work. Pulling down one of the many papers he had tacked up on the wall, he added more equations to those already on the page.

Yves watched him a moment, understanding that in his own way he was thanking her for the truth and the vow she had made to him. Letting him work, she went to the desk, sat down and opened a drawer. She removed a single sheet of paper, an envelope and a pen.

She still had to warn Monica.

Chapter 7

Friday, September 27, 1940

Maggie came in to work at her usual 9:00 a.m. As she tried to put her key in the lock, the door swung open. She hesitated. She knew she had locked the door when she left. She always did.

She peered cautiously into the room. Nothing seemed to be amiss except for the smell of fresh brewed coffee.

She took an apprehensive step inside, pushing the door open all the way. She walked behind her desk and ran a hand along the file cabinets checking to see that they were still locked. They were but one had a strange scratch around the lock, a scratch she didn't remember making. She would have to ask her boss if he'd been in the files.

She was distracted from her examination of the files by the sound of whistling.

Whistling?

She turned toward the noise and saw a figure moving around in the other room.

"Melvin, is that you?" she asked.

"Maggie!" he said coming out of his office. "How are you today, Gorgeous?"

"I'm fine," she said studying his smiling face. "You're in a good mood this morning." He helped her out of her coat and hung it up on a peg near the door.

Continuing to watch him closely, she asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened." He walked over to the coffee pot and poured her a cup. He added sugar and stirred it in before handing it to her.

"Something happened. You're just not telling me."

"What time did Monica say she'd be here?" Frohike asked pointing to her appointment book.

"You know very well what time she's coming," Maggie accused him. "You're just avoiding my questions."

Giving his secretary a lopsided grin, he returned to his office.

Maggie sat behind her desk and picked up her phone's receiver. "He thinks he can keep secrets from me," Maggie thought, chuckling softly. "But I'll get to the bottom of this."

~:~:~

Monica arrived at her prearranged time of 10:00 a.m.

She barely got her coat off before she was ushered into Frohike's office.

"Monica, thanks for coming," Frohike said as he escorted her to a chair. He leaned back against the front of his desk crossing his arms over his chest. "I talked to the man who was following you."

"You did? Who is he?"

"He said he was from the FBI, an agent John Doggett." He watched Monica's reaction carefully. Her amazement at this revelation was sincere.

"The FBI? Why would they be watching me?"

"I asked him that question and he wouldn't give me a straight answer."

"What did he say?"

"Just that he was there on official FBI business. Can you think of any reason you might be part of an FBI investigation?"

Monica shook her head, deep in thought.

"Anything going on at work?" Frohike asked.

Monica was the chief administrative assistant to the Undersecretary of International Affairs at the Treasury Department. "Not that I've heard of but I can check when I get there."

Frohike nodded. That the investigation was work related was a possibility but his gut told him otherwise. It was something of a more personal nature. The agent's first reaction to hearing that someone had broken into her apartment was concern for Monica's safety. Only after he had ascertained that she was unhurt did he ask if anything was stolen.

"Let me know what they say at work." He moved around to behind his desk. "You were going to go through everything…" He didn't need to finish the sentence.

"Yes, I spent most of the night going through all my possession. There didn't seem to be anything missing until I noticed that the photograph of my sister and I at the beach was no longer in its usual place on the mantel. The other picture I had of her was gone from the wall in my bedroom."

"This is the sister you hired me to find?"

"Yes." Monica continued, "I'm also missing all the letters she's sent me. The ones from my brother in the army and the ones from my father were still there but everything from my sister is gone."

Frohike sat with his chin in his hand recalling what he knew about Monica's sister. He hadn't looked that far into her background when Monica had asked him to locate her. At the time, it was none of his business but now he regretted not taking his investigation a step further.

"What was in the letters?" he finally asked getting up and going to the door that led to the outer office. "Maggie, would you get me Monica's file?" He turned back to listen to Monica's response.

"Nothing of importance just general chit-chat, getting to know each other. That's all."

Frohike made a thoughtful noise and sat back down at his desk.

"Did you continue your correspondence when she moved to this country?" he asked.

"We wrote each other a couple of letters but it was easier to get together for lunch or dinner."

Maggie came into Frohike's office. He held out his hand for the expected file but she was empty handed. "Mel, can I speak to you out in the reception area."

Realizing that what she had to say couldn't be said in front of a client, Frohike got up and followed her, shutting the door to his office behind him.

"What is it, Maggie?"

"Monica's file is gone. I know it was here the other day. I got her phone number out of it when you asked me to call her and I know I put the file back."

Frohike knew that if Maggie said she put something away, it was put away. She was nothing if not meticulous.

"And I noticed this earlier," Maggie continued. She pointed to the scratch on the file cabinet's lock.

Frohike recognized the damage that is caused when a lock is picked. He scanned the other cabinets looking for similar markings. "This one is scratched, too," he said pointing to the cabinet labeled F-G-H-I-J.

He pulled open the third drawer down already suspecting what he wouldn't find. He sifted through the files: Hackett, Hagen, Hamilton, Harwood, Harris, etc.

"Monica's sister's file is gone, too."

Maggie glanced at the folders. "Which one was it?"

"Yves Harlow."

~:~:~

Maggie, upset by the violation of her files, spent the next hour going through them attempting to assess which others were missing. As far as she could tell, those two files, Monica's and her sister's, were the only ones that were taken.

Monica had returned to her job at the Treasury Department. She told Frohike that she'd tried the previous evening to talk her sister by phone but had no luck. Frohike told her to try a few more times and, if she weren't able to contact her, he'd look into it.

Maggie shut the last file drawer and closely examined the damaged locks. She wondered when it could have had occurred. She didn't remember seeing it the day before but couldn't swear it hadn't been there either.

The ringing phone pulled her attention away from the cabinets. "Frohike Investigations," she said. "How may I help you?"

"Hello, this is Dr. Scully," the woman's voice on the phone said. "Is Mr. Frohike available?"

"Dr. Dana Scully from the Medical Examiner's Office?" Maggie grabbed a notebook and a sharpened pencil ready to take notes. "May I ask what this pertains to?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "I'm afraid it's of a personal nature," Dr. Scully finally said. "May I please speak to him?"

"Just a moment," Maggie said keeping her voice professional even though her mind was racing.

Getting up to open the door to Frohike's office, Maggie told him, "Dr. Scully is calling for you." The grin on his face fueled the speculations and possibilities that Maggie was considering. She left the room as he picked up the receiver on his phone.

As was her habit when he was talking to someone, she shut the door behind her. Sitting down at her desk, Maggie gently hung up her phone. She sat quietly, trying to busy herself with her appointment calendar yet in the silent office it was impossible not to hear at least the rumble of his voice as he spoke on the phone.

Frohike laughed suddenly: a full-bodied laugh that made Maggie chuckle along with him even though she couldn't discern what had caused his amusement. He settled back into the tenor tones of his normal talking voice. Although she could not hear individual words, she could tell this truly was a personal call and had nothing to do with open investigations.

When she could no longer hear Frohike talking on the phone, Maggie glanced at the clock wondering how long it would be before he came out of his office or how long she should wait before she could reasonably disturb him. In only a couple of minutes, Frohike walked out with his coffee cup in his hand.

"That was the new M.E?" Maggie asked him as he refilled it.

"Yes," he responded, keeping his back to her.

"Will you be heading over to the morgue today?"

He turned and faced her, pausing to take a sip of hot coffee. He was looking right at Maggie but she could tell it was not her face he was seeing. The corners of his mouth slowly curled up to form a smile. "Yes, I'll be visiting the morgue later…" He focused on Maggie at that point, "…at, oh… say, dinner time."

Maggie jotted this information down in her appointment book. "Dr. Scully must have a very busy schedule if this is the only time today she can meet with you," she said not taking her eyes off her writing.

Frohike laughed again. "Oh, for God's sake, Maggie, just ask me the question you're dying to ask."

"Okay, I will," said Maggie grinning at her employer. "Are you and Dr. Scully seeing each other?" Maggie got up and came around her desk as she continued to talk. "Is that where you were last night and is this why you were in such an uncharacteristically good mood so early this morning?"

"Whoa there!" Frohike proclaimed still laughing. "I said ONE question." His expression changed to one of mock severity. "And what do you mean by 'uncharacteristically good mood'?" He set his coffee cup down on a corner of her desk. "I'm always in a good mood."

"You're never in THAT good a mood. Do you realize you were whistling when I came in?"

"I don't whistle."

"You were this morning."

"Now, Maggie, it's beneath you to make up stories like that."

"I swear you were whistling… Hey," Maggie said realizing what he'd done. "Stop changing the subject," she advanced on him, poking him in the chest to add emphasis to her words, "You're the one who told me to ask. Now, answer the question."

Frohike grabbed her offending hand and held it in both of his. "Yes, Dr. Scully and I are seeing each other," he finally admitted. "She called just now to make it official for this evening. She says it makes more sense than me just showing up and hoping she'd be there."

"This is wonderful, Mel," Maggie said giving him a quick hug. "She sounds like a sensible woman. I like her already."

"I like her, too," Frohike said letting Maggie go.

"So," Maggie continued as she moved back behind her desk, "when do I get to meet her?"

"I thought it would be a good idea to get to know her better before I brought her in for your approval. I wouldn't want to waste your precious time on someone new only to discover that it isn't going to work out."

"But why bother when I could tell you right away?" Maggie insisted while employing her best innocent look.

"Believe it or not," Frohike said with a chuckle, "I am capable of making decisions about my personal life on my own." He paused, studying her face. "And speaking of personal lives, when are you going to stop flirting with Mulder and take him up on his offer?"

"Oh, him?" Maggie said avoiding her employer's gaze. "He's not serious."

"I'm not so sure, Maggie. I'm a pretty good judge of people," said Frohike. "I wouldn't be a very good detective if I wasn't. I think Officer Mulder is quite serious in his offers but hides it behind his outlandish sense of humor."

Maggie shook her head. "We tried it, he and I. It didn't work out. He just didn't seem ready for any sort of commitment."

"He's older now and, hopefully, a bit wiser," Frohike pointed out. "I think he knows what he lost: a chance at real happiness."

Maggie said nothing but Frohike could see that she was considering what he'd said. "Call him," Frohike encouraged tapping the phone on her desk. "Take him up on his offer. If nothing else, you can at least get him to buy you dinner." He grinned at her.

If he had more to say on the subject, Maggie never found out. The knock at their office door prevented him from going on. "I'll get that," Frohike stated when Maggie stood up to answer it.

Opening the door, Frohike was surprised to see the mailman. "I have a registered letter for Melvin Frohike," he said.

"I'm Melvin Frohike."

"Sign here."

The private investigator did as he was asked then handed the clipboard back to the man. He studied the envelope as he closed the door. Tearing it open, he discovered another, smaller envelope inside. This one was not addressed to him. It was addressed to Monica Reyes.

Frohike glanced at the spot where the return address would be. There wasn't one. There was just a name: Yves Adele Harlow.

"Call Monica at work," Frohike told Maggie. "Never mind," he said heading for his office. "I'll call her myself."

* * * * *

Monica stood outside the building that housed the Treasury Department. She was lucky her boss was so understanding about her missing work over this. But he was patient man; he had to be in his job of Undersecretary of International Affairs. He was known as a bulldog when it came to issues of policy but Monica knew a different side of him: the side that housed a kind spirit and a gentle heart who told her to take all the time she needed to solve a family crisis. He had been just as patient and understanding when her father had been ill for so long before he died.

And Monica did consider this whole situation to be a crisis. The FBI was following her, her apartment had been broken into and all her sister's letters had been stolen. She had called Yves' home several times in the last two days and gotten no response. Phone calls to her work place had gone unanswered also.

Monica scanned the passing cars looking for Frohike's. He'd called saying that Yves had sent a letter for her to his office. Monica could not imagine what her sister was involved in that would warrant this unusual behavior. As far as Monica knew, Yves was merely a research assistant to a mathematician.

None of this made any sense. Maybe the letter would answer some of these questions. Monica asked Frohike to open the letter and read it to her but he insisted that he'd rather have her open it.

Frohike drove up in his Ford Fordor Sedan. He stopped in a no parking zone and, leaving the engine running, got out to open the door for Monica. Once she was settled in the front seat, he closed her door and walked quickly back around to his side of the car.

Pulling away from the curb, Frohike picked up the large, manila envelope from the bench seat between himself and his passenger.

Monica took it from him and examined the envelope. She recognized the handwriting as her sister's but it was addressed to Frohike. She turned it over, lifted the flap and pulled out the smaller envelope that was addressed to her.

She hesitated to open it. Until she actually looked at the letter it could contain anything: news of what Yves been doing recently, an invitation to dinner, or even an explanation for her disappearance. But if it were any of those things, there would have been no reason to send the letter to Frohike's office.

Monica finally decided she would never know until she actually looked at it. She ran one finger under the flap of the envelope to tear it open. She extracted the letter and began to read.

Frohike watched Monica as best he could while driving. She held the paper in one hand while the other one covered her mouth. Her hand holding the paper shook slightly before she dropped it into her lap. Covering her eyes, she sat with her head lowered.

Frohike found a safe spot on the side of the road and pulled over. He waited a few moments before asking, "Are you all right?"

Taking a big breath, Monica managed a fairly convincing smile. "No," she said belying her expression.

"What did she say?" Frohike dared to ask, knowing Monica would understand that he needed all available information if he were to be of any further assistance.

Instead of explaining what was in the letter, Monica simply handed it to him.

He read it without comment.

~:~:~

Dear Monica,

I cannot explain anything in detail at this time but you are in danger because of your association with me.

Trust no one, especially the FBI. They have you under surveillance. Be especially careful of an agent named John Doggett. I have reason to believe he is not who he seems.

If he knows I have contacted you, it could put you in greater danger than you are already in. I apologize for this and hope, someday, to be able to answer all your questions. But for now, please, be careful.

Yves

~:~:~

Frohike carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope leaving it on the seat between them. "Do you still want to go out there?" he asked.

It was a tough decision but Frohike knew it was one Monica needed to make on her own. It was her life that was in danger, not his.

"Yes," Monica said without hesitation. "I think it's more important now than ever."

"All right," Frohike said checking his review mirror before taking the car back out into traffic.

* * * * *

Special Agent John Doggett surveyed the mess around him. Who ever had searched the tiny house had done a thorough job of it. Everything had been dumped out of all the drawers. The cushions on the furniture had been slashed, as well as the mattress and all of the pillows, their innards strewn about the rooms.

In the kitchen, the contents of the small pantry rolled around on the floor as Doggett's fellow agents moved through the room, kicking canned goods and bits of broken dishes out of their way.

In every room of the house, the floorboards had been torn up in places and holes had been punched into the lath and plaster walls.

Whatever the vandals had been searching for, they wanted it badly.

Doggett worked his way to the small bedroom in the front of the house. Of the debris there, he noted that there were very few personal items: clothing, toiletries, etc. It looked to him like the occupant of the house had probably left before the damage had been done.

A loud gasp caused him to turn and look toward the front door. He stepped into the living room. "What are you two doing here?" he asked.

"What have you done to Yves's house?" Monica demanded at almost the same instant. Her expression was a mixture of anger and fear.

"This is a crime scene. Civilians are not allowed," Agent Doggett insisted taking a step towards her, holding out his hand to encourage her to turn around and leave. Instead of stepping backwards towards the door, Monica moved away from him and further into the house.

The private investigator, who had come in behind her, positioned himself between Agent Doggett and Monica. "This is her sister's home," he said. "She has every right to be here."

Doggett crossed his arms over his chest and considered them for a moment. "Since you seem determined to stay, let me ask you a few questions." He turned his focus on Monica. "When was that last time you had any contact with your sister?"

"Don't answer that," Frohike warned.

Doggett ignored him. "Do you have any idea where Yves might be right now?"

"Don't answer that one either."

"What are you, her lawyer?" Doggett said with more than a bit of sarcasm.

"We already covered that in our last conversation," Frohike said with obvious contempt.

A voice called out from the kitchen. "Hey, Doggett, are you going to help us out here or what?"

All three of them turned to look at the man who had spoken. He was tall with short dark hair. He had striking green eyes, a caveman brow and a deadly air about him. He took a long, hard look at Monica and Frohike.

"Give me a minute," was Doggett's terse reply.

"You got that situation under control?" the other agent asked inclining his head towards the two newcomers.

"Nothing to worry about, Krycek," Doggett insisted before turning back to Monica and Frohike. "You need to leave now," the agent repeated with a sense of urgency.

"But what about my sister?" Monica asked her voice tinged with worry. "Why is the FBI investigating her?"

Seeing he was getting nowhere with Monica, he turned to Frohike. "You have to get her out of here."

Wondering about the FBI agent's choice of words, Frohike took Monica by the arm. "Let's go," he said.

Pulling her arm out of his grasp, Monica turned her frustrations on Frohike. "He knows what's going on here but he's not telling us. I want some answers."

"Monica," Frohike said keeping his voice low and calm, "we'll talk outside but right now we need to do as he said and leave. Come on." He opened the front door and waited for her to exit in front of him.

Pausing for just a moment longer, Monica grudgingly did as Frohike asked.

She held her anger at him in check until they were in the car. "How could you give up so easily? He's the only one who knows the truth about what's going on."

"And Yves said not to trust him," Frohike pointed out. "So, it doesn't really make any sense to ask him questions."

Although she was still angry, Monica couldn't argue with this logic. She sat back in her seat, and taking one long last look at her sister's house, she said, "You're right. Let's go."

"Look, why don't we go out to the lab," Frohike continued, "and see if her employer can't give us some answers."

~:~:~

“Was that the sister?” Krycek asked, coming to stand next to Doggett.

Doggett continued to stare thoughtfully at the door. “Yes.”

“Who's the guy?”

“A private detective she hired to find Yves Harlow.” Doggett glanced at Krycek. “Are you sure the park was swept thoroughly?”

“I searched those cherry trees myself,” Krycek said. “I didn’t find any evidence of a sniper. Harlow killed Agent Brendan in cold blood.” He swept his gaze around the destroyed room. “Whatever she’s hiding, it’s not here. We need to find her before her sister does.”

“We will,” Doggett assured him. Watching the younger agent rejoin the others, he stuck his hand in his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the smooth metal of a shell casing.

Chapter 8

Frohike looked up at the seemingly empty warehouse. He double checked the address and turned a questioning eye on Monica. “This is where she works?”

“It’s the address Yves gave me in case of an emergency,” she replied, no longer sounding certain. She grimaced when she saw a rat scurry along the perimeter of the building before darting behind a trashcan. “I can’t imagine her working in this place.”

Frohike shut the driver's side door. “Let's go see what this Professor Langly has to say.”

Taking Monica’s upper arm, he guided her around the worst of the foul smelling trash that littered the ally. Frohike could see where the area was once well cared for but it was quickly falling into disrepair.

Or abandoned. The other came unbidden to his mind as they climbed some steps then descended to a small landing. He knocked on the door, waited then knocked again. After a few seconds he tried the door.

It was unlocked.

Frohike gave the door a gentle push.

“Professor Langly?” Monica called as they stepped inside. “Melvin, this can’t be,” she said, distraught. She moved further into the vast, empty warehouse, turning 360 degrees. Her voice reverberated in the open space. “What’s going on?”

Frohike just shook his head. It didn’t make sense. First, Yves' home was destroyed in an obvious attempt to find something, now this empty building. He scanned the area. From the differing layers of dust, he deduced that there had been furniture there not all that long ago, maybe up to a couple of days previously. Had the same people who recklessly searched Yves Harlow’s house also removed everything from the warehouse? Had they found what they were looking for?

Through his ponderings, he walked the circumference of the building looking….for something. Anything that would tell him what happened in this building. “Monica,” he said knowing she would hate what he was about to say, “are you sure this Professor Langly is real?”

Monica’s gaze snapped to the detective, her cheeks flushed with anger. “What are you inferring, Melvin? That my sister made everything up?” She shook her head. “Forget it. I met the man. Professor Richard Langly is real as you or I.”

“You never told me you met him. When was this?” Frohike looked up from the wall he was studying to gaze at Monica.

“It was about a month after Yves moved to the States. At that time, we'd only been able to get together for dinner a few times. I wanted us to have a chance to really talk, so I suggested we go away to the beach for the weekend.” Monica smiled for the first time since the whole mess started. “Yves loved the idea. She told me that the beach was one of her favorite spots to go on holiday.” Her smile faded. “But she insisted the professor come with us. She said the man was obsessed his work and never took time off.

“I thought it was odd but I agreed.” Monica wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her arms. “He seemed like a lost little boy, unsure what to do with himself. He roamed the beach carrying a walking stick. Yves would call from her deck chair that, if she discovered he was writing equations in the sand, she would toss him in the surf. He would look so guilty.”

Monica chuckled. “Like I said, it was very odd but I didn’t mind. Yves and I talked and laughed all weekend. It was good.” Her amusement faded. “I’m worried about Yves, Melvin. What’s happening… what are you doing?” she demanded. He was feeling along the wall with his fingertips.

He didn’t bother to look up. “There’s a hidden door here, I’m trying…there we go.”

He managed to get the door open. Monica joined him and looked inside. There was a cot and blankets, a small dresser and lamp. Frohike opened a dresser drawer. It was empty. He tried the next two and found some clothing. He picked it up then quickly shoved the men’s underwear back into the drawer. He glanced at Monica who was ostensibly looking away.

He stared at the makeshift bedroom. “He was working and living here.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Who the hell would want to live in a warehouse?” he muttered. He stirred from his musings. “Let’s go. I want to talk to the landlord and see what he says about this Professor Langly.”

~:~:~

“I never met this Professor” Albert Simms said as he set two cups of coffee in front of Monica and Frohike. Monica smiled her gratitude and took a sip. When they had first arrived on his doorstep, the man claimed to have no knowledge of Yves but when Monica informed him Yves was her sister and was missing the man relented.

The burly landlord took his seat opposite his visitors before continuing. “I spoke to your sister twice. The first time was when she approached me to rent the warehouse for two months. She paid in cash. Up front.”

"What about the second time?” Frohike asked.

The man hesitated then shrugged. “The second time she hired me to clean out the warehouse. Said she didn’t want anything in there and that I should burn everything. Paid me a hundred dollars.” From his expression and the gleam in his eyes, Frohike surmised the man had never seen that amount of money in one place at one time. That much money could buy loyalty or silence up to a point.

“Did she say why she wanted you do this?” Monica asked.

The old man looked at her sympathetically. “She said she was leaving to get away from a bad relationship.”

"Boyfriend?" Monica said softly. Yves had never mentioned a boyfriend.

Frohike glanced at Monica and, leaning back in his chair, asked casually. “Did she say who this boyfriend was?”

“I figured it was the guy who showed up the next day looking for her.” The old man shook his head and said disdainfully, “Claimed he was a reporter and that she had called him.”

It was obvious from the landlord’s tone he hadn’t believed the man’s story but it was Frohike’s only lead. “Did he say which newspaper?”

The old man knitted his brows together thinking back. “I believe it was the Gazette. Yeah, that’s right. The D.C. Gazette.”

“Did he say what his name was?” Monica jumped in before Frohike could say anything. “Please, Mr. Simms, my sister may be in danger.”

Simms studied Monica. “He did,” he said then leaned back in his chair in imitation of Frohike's relaxed posture. Carefully, slowly, he took a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it between his cracked and weathered lips. He struck a match and held it to his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled, blowing smoke in the air.

Puzzled by the man’s silence, Monica glanced from Simms to Frohike with growing anxiety. The two men stared at each other for a long moment - a contest of wills - before the detective pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed several bills.

Simms snatched them up, making them disappear. “Spender. He said his name was Jeffrey Spender.”

* * * * *

“I heard it was going to be 18 to 35,” Dylan Walsh said, his expression worried.

Jimmy frowned. “You really think the Selective Service bill will pass?”

“Amos Hendriks, on the political beat, seems to think it's a sure thing and he's rarely wrong.”

“The Allies could still defeat Germany,” Jimmy pointed out.

Dylan shook his head and spoke softly so only Jimmy could hear. “I heard England is bankrupt; they can barely afford to defend themselves. Russia is struggling and the rest of Europe…” he shrugged, raking a hand through his shock of vibrant red hair. “It’s just a matter of time before the United States gets involved in the war. And when that happens…two healthy guys like us…we’ll be seeing some action alright…on the battlefield.”

“Maybe…” Jimmy’s spine tingled with the feeling that someone was watching him. He glanced up positive he would see Spender glaring at him.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Spender.

“Who is that?” Jimmy asked.

“What?” Walsh glanced down at Jimmy. “Who?”

“That guy…” Jimmy started to point but thinking better of it said instead, “The one in the trench coat and fedora.” The man watched them a moment longer then turned away and slowly scanned the rest of the bullpen as if searching for someone. Around fifty, the man had the face of a bulldog and a similar demeanor about him.

“Looks like a cop,” Dylan guessed.

"Maybe," Jimmy murmured. He continued to watch the man's careful scrutiny before stopping a copy boy who was hurrying past him. They exchanged a few words then the copy boy pointed in the direction of the private offices.

Wondering who the policeman was there to see, Jimmy watched curiously as he approached two men deep in conversation.

The short walk towards them gave Frohike an opportunity to study them closely. One was in his late fifties, perhaps sixties with a craggy face and droopy eyes. He held a lit cigarette between two nicotine stained fingers. The second man was younger, had a weak chin and thin lips.

"Jeffrey Spender?" Both men turned their gaze to him but it was the younger man who spoke.

"Yes," Spender said, irritation passing over his face as he appraised the newcomer. "And you are?"

"Melvin Frohike. I'm a private investigator."

"I'll be in my office, Jeffrey." The older man brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The thought crossed Frohike's mind that the man was evaluating him in a more in-depth manner. The man exhaled, blowing a curtain of smoke out then walked into an office that read 'C.S. Spender' on the door.

Frohike turned his attention back to the younger Spender. "I'm investigating the whereabouts of a missing person, a woman. Her last known location was a small laboratory in the warehouse district."

“I fail to see how this concerns me, Mr. Frohike”

“I spoke to the landlord. He said reporters from the D.C. Gazette had visited her and her employer. He mentioned your name.”

“I interview many people in my line of work. It’s what I do, Mr. Frohike. Perhaps if you supplied a name.”

Frohike slowly counted to five. The man’s superior and snotty attitude was grating on his nerves and he felt the need to wipe the man’s smirk off his face. Instead he smiled genially. “This is a picture of the missing woman.” He took a photograph that Monica had given him from his breast pocket, the only one that hadn’t been stolen since she had kept it on her desk at work. “Her name is Yves Harlow.”

Frohike met Spender's glare with his own steady gaze until the man lowered his eyes to the picture. “I'm afraid your informant was mistaken.” He looked at Frohike. “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Are you sure,” Frohike pressed. Had there been a subtle recognition in Spender’s eyes, a slight difference in the cadence of his words? “The landlord said ‘reporters’. Perhaps there was someone else?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Spender clipped the words

“She may be in danger,” Frohike tried again.

“Then perhaps her family should go to the police,” Spender emphasized the last word, his lips curling into a smile, “instead of a private investigator.”

Intuition told Frohike that the man was lying but he sensed that no matter how much he pushed he wouldn’t get anything from Spender except a rude diatribe. Frustrated, he left the newspaper office.

As he worked his way through the building, he turned the facts over in his mind. What did he know? Yves Harlow was missing. Her home had been torn apart. Why? What had they been looking for? Had they found it? And who were they, the F.B.I? Or had someone else done this?

Yves's place of employment was deserted with very little left to show that anyone had ever even been there. Why was everything stripped from the lab? What was so much more important in the lab that everything be removed from there but not her home? And should they now be looking for two people: Yves and her boss, Professor Langly?

He had no answers to these questions and neither did Monica.

The only thing he did know for sure was that Yves Harlow had written her sister, warning her of danger. But while Monica confirmed it was Yves’s handwriting, the letter itself was suspect. Had the woman been forced to write it or was it penned of her own free will? And if she had been forced to write the letter warning Monica about John Doggett, should they then trust the agent and tell the man everything they knew in the hopes that he might be able to help them find Yves?

“Mr. Frohike?" He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Startled, Frohike whirled around instinctively reaching for his gun in its shoulder holster until he belatedly remembered it was locked in the trunk of his car.

“Whoa. Hey!” The man’s eyes widened in startled fear, his hands shooting up; fingers spread wide like they did in the movies.

Frohike kept his hand in his jacket, as if at any moment he would withdraw the nonexistent gun. He eyed the man. Tall and blond with conventional good looks, he had an imposing athlete's physique yet Frohike sensed no menace from the man. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jimmy. You’re a cop right?”

He remembered seeing the kid in the Gazette bullpen. “Private investigator,” Frohike corrected, taking his hand out of his coat. He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt from the obvious relief on the kid's face. “What are you doing sneaking up on people?”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” Jimmy protested. “I followed you outside because…” he looked around then up at the building. “Oh no,” he muttered, moving backing up towards the door. Frohike followed the other man's line of sight in time to see the blinds from one of the windows move. “If he saw me, I’m as good as fired,” he muttered to himself. To Frohike he said, “Can we meet later?”

The kid's disjointed conversation was irritating Frohike. “Why do you want to meet later?”

“To tell you what I know about Miss Harlow and Professor Langly.” Jimmy glanced nervously up at the window again. “I get off at 6 p.m. Meet me at Henry’s Diner on Lexington.” With that, he shot back inside the building.

Frohike stared after the kid not sure whether to be elated or not. He decided to take him at face value. He glanced at his watch. He had somewhere else he needed to be but if he was lucky, he'd have enough time to take care of that matter before needing to meet this guy, Jimmy, at Henry’s.

~:~:~

Jeffery Spender watched from his window as Frohike drove away. He had seen the detective talking to Jimmy Bond. Bond had a number of pieces to the puzzle and, while Spender wasn’t worried about the photographer figuring anything out, if he told the detective…

“I’ll have someone take care of the photographer,” Spender said.

“Don't be hasty, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey turned to face his father. Spender Senior took a drag on his cigarette. “Let the photographer tell the detective what he knows.” His condescending smile grated Jeffery’s nerves but the younger man held his tongue. “Perhaps Mr. Frohike will succeed where you have failed." He took another deep pull on his cigarette; burning it down to the butt. He crushed it out in the ashtray and when he spoke, smoke curled from his lips. "Once the Professor and Miss Harlow's location has been confirmed you can inform our contact at the F.B.I."

* * * * *

Police Officer Fox Mulder was off duty. He paced back and forth outside Lou's waiting for Frohike. He knew Kimmy was inside but, in Mulder's opinion, the less time spent with the man the better. He glanced at his watch; Frohike was late. Mulder knew his friend was working on a missing person case and figured this was what had held him up.

Spotting Frohike's Ford Fordor drive past as he searched for a parking place, Mulder leaned back against the wall knowing his wait was almost over. He hoped that Kimmy had located the man they were searching for.

He experienced a moment of uncertainty. He knew his actions were unprofessional. He should be handing over any pertinent information about Molly Jennings's killer to the detectives in charge of the case, but he felt the need to help Frohike solve this one. He also saw it as an opportunity to prove he could do the job of detective.

He wanted it for himself as much as he wanted it for Frohike.

Mulder heard approaching footsteps. He turned to see Frohike walking quickly towards him. Without saying a word, they entered the establishment together.

Kimmy was not at his usual spot at the bar. Mulder scanned the smoke filled room but still didn't see him. Frohike backhanded him on the arm and pointed to a far corner where there was a figure seated alone in a booth.

They approached him. "Sit down!" Kimmy the Weasel hissed testily. "I don't want anyone to see you talking to me!"

Frohike quickly slid into the booth across from the snitch. Mulder followed him in. "Where's the money you owe me?" Kimmy asked.

"First the information," Frohike insisted.

Kimmy held up a folded piece of paper. "I went to a lot of effort to get this for you. I want my money and the respect I deserve."

Mulder got up and moved around to the other side of the booth effectively blocking Kimmy in. He nodded at Frohike who pulled an envelope of money out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. "The respect you'll have to earn," Frohike said watching Kimmy gleefully count the money.

"Money is respect," said Kimmy, stuffing the cash in his pocket. Frohike held his hand out, palm up. He gestured at Kimmy with his fingers. Kimmy curled one disdainful lip at the private investigator before placing the folded slip of paper in his hand.

After quickly reading the note, Frohike handed it to Mulder. It said, "Ernie Campbell -4 o'clock - Chuck's Bar and Grill on K Street."

"How will I recognize the guy?" Frohike asked.

"You'll know him," said Kimmy. "He insists on dressing like that actor…"

"…Charlie Chaplin," Mulder finished his sentence for him.

"Yeah," Kimmy agreed, "right down to the ridiculous little mustache."

~:~:~

Mulder was familiar with Chuck's Bar and Grill. The management had ceased selling food years earlier but never got around to changing the sign. Besides, new signs were expensive and most of the patrons were satisfied with the peanuts and popcorn that were provided for free because the salty snacks made them thirsty for more beer.

Entering the bar, they spotted the man seated at a table off to one side. The old woman was right. He did look like Charlie Chaplin, right down to the little, Hitler mustache. Mulder and Frohike approached him. The man looked up at them questioningly as they each pulled out a chair and sat down. "Hey, Ernie!" Mulder said cheerfully.

"I'm trying to have a private drink here," their suspect said. "What do you want?"

"Rumor has it," Frohike said, "that you are the man to see about fulfilling…certain needs."

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said, suspicion evident in his voice.

Mulder leaned forward, putting an elbow on the table. "Ah, come on," he said. "We got it from a pretty reliable source." He glanced quickly around the room pretending to make sure their conversation was completely private. "Ted Mead mentioned you could hook us up." Mulder hoped that Frohike would trust him. This was not how they discussed playing it out. Campbell was already suspicious of them and Mulder hoped that giving him the name of a known pedophile would help earn the man's confidence.

"You know Ted?" the man asked cautiously studying first one face then the other.

"Yeah," Mulder smiled in a knowing way. "He said your specialty was sweet young things."

Frohike nodded. "Yes, the sweeter and the younger the better." Mulder watched Frohike's fingers curl into a fist then stretch them out flat on the table. He knew how difficult it must be for Frohike to maintain his undercover persona of a pervert.

The man looked at them through narrowed eyes. "How do I know you're not cops?"

Mulder leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Do we look like cops?"

This pronouncement was met with several seconds of silence as Campbell thought about it. Mulder glanced sideways at Frohike remembering the prostitutes on his beat and their assertions that Frohike looked like a dirty old man.

Turned in his chair, Mulder signaled the waitress. She walked over and stopped next to Frohike. "What can I get you?" she said, snapping her chewing gum.

"You want another beer, Ernie?" Mulder asked.

Campbell glanced into his nearly empty glass. "Yeah, I could use another."

"Make it a pitcher and a couple more glasses," Mulder told the waitress.

* * * * *

"Refill, Sugar?"

Jimmy gave the waitress a distracted smile. "Sure." He watched as she topped off his coffee for the third time.

"It looks like your friend's not going to show."

Jimmy glanced at his watch, making a decision. "Do you have a pay phone?"

The waitress inclined her head towards the restrooms. "There's two of 'em back there."

"Thanks." He got up feeling in his pocket for the necessary change.

Keeping an eye on the front door, he dialed the operator. "I need the number for Melvin Frohike." He listened to the operator. "Frohike Investigations? Yeah, that sounds right."

He waited as the operator made the connection. He counted a dozen rings before he hung up with a sigh. He went back to his booth and sat down. Glancing at his watch, he decided to give the man another twenty minutes.

* * * * *

After two additional pitchers of beer, Campbell was getting very talkative. Mulder and Frohike kept the suspect's glass full while only appearing to drink with him.

They let the other man take the lead in the conversation knowing that once he was comfortable with them he would come back to the reason they had approached him in the first place. Mulder noticed Frohike surreptitiously check his watch several times.

"…now if you want a good steak, go to McNulty's. They have the juiciest, most tender steaks in town." Campbell drained his glass and set it back on the table. He watched Frohike refill it. "So," he said lowering his voice and leaning into the table, "how sweet do you want 'em?"

Mulder and Frohike glanced at each other surprised by the sudden change of topic. Mulder slung one arm over the back of his chair. "What do you got?"

Ernie chuckled. "I don't have anything right now but I've got my eye on tasty morsel you might be interested in."

"I've always had a preference for curls," said Frohike.

"You and me both." Ernie chuckled, getting a dreamy, far away look in his eyes. "Recently, I found this one…" He stopped, obviously savoring the memory.

This is it, Mulder thought. "What was she like?"

"She was …special: skin so soft, she smelled clean and fresh, untouched…well, at least until I got to her."

"Did you keep any mementos?" Mulder asked.

He smiled at them and reached into his pocket bringing out a folded handkerchief. He set it on the table and gently turned back the folds to reveal a single curl of light brown hair: the end of which was tied in a pink ribbon.

Glasses went flying as the table was upended. Frohike grabbed Campbell by the front of his shirt, yanking the man out of his chair. He slammed him up against the wall. "You sick bastard!"

Campbell squealed in shock and pain, his eyes bulging in fear. He flailed ineffectively at his assailant.

Startled, Mulder yelled. "Frohike, STOP!"

Deaf to Mulder's order, his rage overwhelming his common sense, Frohike smashed his fist into Campbell's face. "You killed that little girl!"

Mulder scrambled to locate the evidence. If it got destroyed, they would have no case. Spotting the handkerchief containing the precious lock of hair, he snatched it off the floor and shoved it in his pocket.

"Admit it, you filthy animal!" When the man didn't answer immediately, Frohike hit him again. Blood gushed from Campbell's shattered nose.

Grabbing Frohike by one shoulder, Mulder tried to pull him off. Frohike spun around still clutching Campbell. The battered man fell to the ground whimpering. He started to crawl away.

Frohike shoved Mulder sending the cop stumbling backwards over the furniture. As he fell, he saw Frohike fling himself at the bleeding man. The PI seized one of Ernie's outstretched arms and flipped him over.

Campbell stared up at Frohike with terror filled eyes. "Please," he begged, "don't hurt me any more!"

His pleas further enraged Frohike. He yanked the man's head up off the floor. "Did Molly beg for her life? Did you show her any mercy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Frohike struck him again.

"Stop! Stop!" the man cried, tears mingling with the blood on his face. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to confess," Frohike roared. "I want you to admit you murdered Molly Jennings."

Mulder struggled to extricate himself from the upturned furniture. He had never seen Frohike so out of control before.

"All right, all right," the injured man implored. "YES, yes, all right. I did it."

"No, you need to say it! Say, I killed Molly Jennings!"

Campbell was now crying in earnest. "I killed Molly Jennings," he sobbed.

Frohike had been teetering on the edge of reason. This simple confession pushed him over that edge.

Mulder watched in horror as Frohike began to smash the man's head against the floor. He ran to them, wrapping his arms around Frohike's chest from behind in an attempt to haul him off the suspect. "Frohike…Mel, STOP! You're going to kill him."

Effortlessly, the private detective shook Mulder off.

"Call the cops and an ambulance," Mulder yelled at the stunned bartender. "NOW!" he ordered when the horrified man didn't move. He barked at the other patrons, "Help me get him off!"

Two men, after a momentary hesitation, rushed to Mulder's side. Mulder and one man each grabbed Frohike by an arm. The other man dragged the now unconscious Campbell out of the fray.

Frohike struggled against his captors. Mulder realized his friend was running on pure adrenaline. "Mel, goddamn it, calm down! You did it. You got the confession. He's going to jail for a long, long time."

Breathing heavily, Frohike's struggles ceased. Mulder's words had finally broken through allowing reason to return.

He looked up at Mulder. "I'm fine. You can let me go now."

Mulder glanced at the bloodied man lying on the floor near the bar. A worried look crossed the police officer's face. "I'm sorry, buddy. I can't."

Chapter 9

An optimistic man, Jimmy Bond believed the best in people and any given situation. But as he strode into the D.C. Gazette, he had to admit that the week had seriously taxed that positive outlook.

He loved his job at the Gazette but lately there was a sense of trepidation whenever he went to work, the root of it all being Jeffery Spender’s apparent vendetta against him. He couldn’t figure it out, especially when Spender always viewed the photographers as beneath his notice. Then there were his lost pictures. No, he corrected himself, they were stolen. Why were photographs of a scientist and his assistant so important? He thought of his encounter with Yves Harlow a couple nights earlier…God, he had spent a restless night thinking about her.

He sighed in frustration, not only because he could still remember her touch or the way she smelled but her reaction when he blurted out his theory. She had given him a cryptic warning then fled the lab, vanishing into thin air. It had left him confused and more determined than ever to find her but he had no idea how to do that or where to start. If only he could talk things over with Carla, but she had been out of the office chasing down leads to her own story.

Then he had a stroke of luck when that private investigator had shown up at the paper asking for Jeffery Spender. There was something about the man that made Jimmy eavesdrop on the conversation. When he mentioned Yves Harlow’s name, Jimmy thought his problem had been solved. He quickly arranged a meeting with the man. But Frohike never showed up at the diner.

And to top it all off, after trudging home from the diner he discovered he had forgotten his apartment keys at work. It was the third time that month. He had to go back to the office to get them. He thought he had solved the problem by stashing them in his camera bag. It made perfect sense since he never went anywhere without his camera.

If only he could say the same about the bag. It was sitting on the worktable in the photography lab.

A short elevator trip to the third floor and he was outside the lab. The lights were on and Dylan, holding a magnifying glass was sitting at a workstation peering critically at several photographs spread out before him.

“Hey,” Jimmy greeted his friend, “What are you doing here so late?”

Not bothering to look up from his task, he said good-naturedly, “Contrary to what some people think, the news doesn’t stop at 6 p.m.” He discarded a picture, picked up another. “What about you? Thought you had a hot date or something.”

Jimmy grabbed his bag and slung it over one shoulder. “Or something,” he replied vaguely.

“By the way,” Dylan said, “I saw Carla Mason in the bullpen earlier. I know you wanted to talk to her.” He glanced up when there was no answer. He was alone.

Forgetting his apartment keys was the best thing to happen to him, Jimmy decided as he jogged into the bullpen minutes later. Carla was sitting at her desk, he noted, tapping her ever-present pencil.

“Carla!” He paused to get his excitement under control. He wanted her to take him seriously but if he went off spinning an incoherent tale, she might brush off his concerns.

Carla looked up. “Good evening, Jimmy.”

“I wanted to tell you what I learned about Yves Harlow and Professor Langly.” It was then he saw her directory and personal address book open on her desk, her notebook half filled with notes. He hadn’t even considered she might be working on her own story. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, embarrassed, “I’m interrupting.”

“It’s ok, I can use a break.” She closed her notebook, giving him her full attention. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me everything.”

He dragged a nearby chair to her desk, sat down and proceeded to bring her up to date. He told her about the missing photos of Langly and Yves, Langly’s empty lab, finding Yves in the photography lab late at night and her reaction to the missing pictures. He told her about the private investigator who showed up at the paper and their subsequent scheduled meeting.

"What's his name… the private investigator?" Carla interrupted his tale to ask.

“Melvin Frohike."

"I know the name," said Carla. "Go on," she encouraged Jimmy.

"He never showed up.” Jimmy’s voice filled with frustration. “I called his office a couple of times but no one answered.” His gaze drifted to the darkened publisher's office. He slumped in his chair, his expression troubled. “I don’t know what to do next, Carla. And if Jeffery Spender discovers I’m still looking into it, he’s gonna get the boss to fire me for sure.”

Carla’s pencil tapped once. Twice. “If you’re that frustrated, then forget about it.”

Jimmy’s gaze snapped toward her. Was she advising him to give up? He sat up, squaring his shoulders. “I can’t,” he said fiercely. His voice carried in the near empty bullpen, startling him. He glanced around and, although the other reporters burning the midnight oil never gave him notice, he lowered his voice. “I can’t,” he repeated.

“Why?”

Why? He stared at Carla as she waited for his answer. All the reasons muddled about his brain. There were so many but he said the simplest one, the one that explained it all. “I need to know the truth,” he said finally.

“Good.” The smile curving her lips confused him. “I did some digging into this Professor Langly…"

The ringing of the phone interrupted her.

Jimmy swore silently as she scooped up the receiver. Her face darkening, her eyes flicked to Jimmy as she listened to the speaker. Barely a minute later, she hung up.

His heart sank, heavy with disappointment. She was going to tell him she had to leave, that they would have to continue their talk later. These thoughts in mind, he was quite surprised when she said, "Got your camera?" He held it up. "Good, let's go."

"Where are we going?” He jumped up, following her out of the bullpen. He hesitated briefly then added, “Who was on the phone?”

“An informant in the police department. Melvin Frohike was just arrested for the attempted murder of a suspect in the Molly Jennings case.”

* * * * *

"Don't tell me how to do my job!" District Attorney Byers was nearly yelling at the Police Chief.

Skinner got up to close the door to his office. "If it was anyone else, would you even be pressing charges?" he asked returning to sit behind his desk.

"Of course, I would." Byers insisted, lowering his voice. "You heard what the witnesses said: it looked like he was trying to kill the victim."

"The 'victim', as you call him, confessed to killing little Molly Jennings."

"Only after your buddy beat him into it," Byers claimed. He threw the folder he was holding onto Skinner's desk. "Look at those pictures."

"I've seen the suspect," Skinner said pushing the folder back towards Byers.

Picking it up, Byers selected a particularly graphic shot. Campbell's eyes were blackened and his nose looked off center. The guy's swollen face held stitches in three places. He brandished the photo, illustrating his point. "Hell, I would have confessed to her murder just to get him to stop. But he didn't stop did he?" He slammed the photo onto the desk. "He continued to pummel that man until he was pulled off and it took three people to do that." Byers shook his head. "No, I'm going to charge him with attempted murder and if the man dies, it will be first degree murder."

* * * * *

“Remember,” Carla whispered to Jimmy as they entered the police station, “Whatever happens, just follow my lead.” With that bit of advice, they strode up to the counter.

The desk sergeant on duty looked up from his paperwork, a bored expression on his face. “How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see the Chief of Police.” Carla handed him her reporter's credentials.

The officer studied the ID then eyed Carla warily before taking in Jimmy and his camera. “Chief Skinner is in a private meeting with the District Attorney,” he stated. “I don’t know how long they’ll be. If you’d like, I’ll inform him that you stopped by, Miss Mason.”

Jimmy glanced at Carla. She appeared unperturbed by the curt dismissal. In fact, she looked pleased.

“That won’t be necessary,” Carla said. “I'll just wait. Who knows, maybe they will finish early.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, pointing to a row of chairs against the wall. “You can wait there.”

“Thank you,” Carla said but he had already returned to his paperwork. She flicked a glance toward Jimmy, silently reminding him to be ready. “Could you tell me where the restrooms are?”

The officer sighed as if he expected non-stop interruptions until she left. But when he spoke his voice had the same courteous tone. “It’s in the corner over there.” He pointed needlessly since Carla knew exactly where they were: right next to the entrance of the detectives’ bullpen. At the end of that maze of desks, was the chief’s office.

With a satisfied smile and an obvious click of her heels on the tired linoleum she walked with casual purpose. Jimmy followed her lead.

Not even pausing to look back, she bypassed the door to the bathroom and walked directly into the squad room.

“Hey!” She heard the cop shout. “Come back here!” She ignored him, weaving quickly among the desks, catching sight of faces and watching for any sign that one of the plainclothes officers might provide interference for the desk sergeant.

She saw mild amusement from some but mostly they ignored her and the desk sergeant's shouts. She wondered if one of them was her anonymous tipster. She reached the door, wrapping her hand around the knob, pausing when she heard a muffled yet familiar controlled but angry voice on the other side. “…I'm going to charge him with attempted murder.”

“Miss Mason…” She glanced from the door. The desk sergeant and Jimmy were several feet away and it looked as if the photographer was simultaneously trying to block the officer from her and stay out of his grasp. “You CAN'T go in there!”

Oh no? She thought. Yanking the door open, she stepped inside interrupting the heated conversation between the two men. Jimmy stopped in the doorway, blocking the desk sergeant's entrance.

"Chief Skinner," the sergeant said in a flustered voice, “I’m sorry. I'll take care of them."

Skinner’s gaze took in Carla, recognition on his face before sweeping his gaze over Jimmy to land on his officer. He waved a hand. “It’s alright, Randy.” The man frowned, glanced at everyone then stalked out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Good evening, Miss Mason,” Skinner said affably as if reporters regularly stormed his office.

Carla didn’t reply, only raised a questioning eyebrow at the sudden flash of insight before focusing on the District Attorney. “John, why you are holding Melvin Frohike?” she demanded.

John Byers stiffened. “I’m sure you’re aware he nearly killed a man tonight.”

“A man,” Carla said the word with obvious disgust, “that kidnapped, raped and murdered an innocent child.”

“What should I do, ask the mayor to give him the keys to the city?” His well-modulated voice remained even but there was no mistaking the current of anger beneath. “Should we turn a blind eye to every vigilante who takes the law into his own hands?”

“You are so narrow-minded…” Carla started before biting off the words. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, reminding herself to stay professional. “As you know I’m covering the Molly Jennings case. In my next story, I will explain to the public how Mr. Frohike single-handedly succeeded in stopping a man who preyed on their children when the entire police department failed. In that same article, I will inform them that their District Attorney threw him in jail. Jimmy?”

Jimmy didn’t have to ask what Carla wanted. He raised his camera and snapped several pictures of the District Attorney. For good measure, he snapped one of the Police Chief who wore an expression that held both bemusement and concern.

Byers’ lips thinned. “Melvin Frohike has a history of violence – “

“That was an accident.” Skinner's voice boomed in the office.

“He shot and killed a little boy,” Byers continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

"And he was cleared of all wrong doing by the shooting review board. You know that yet you insist on bringing it up at every turn!"

Skinner visibly collected himself, lowering his voice. When he spoke next, regret was obvious in every word. “But he could never forgive himself. He lost everything. His job. His family." After a moment's consideration, Skinner added, "And his self respect."

“Gentlemen,” Carla cut in smoothly before Byers could fire off a scathing retort, “Could we please return to the present issue?" she asked shifting her focus from one combatant to the other.

"Thank you,” she said when she saw she had their attention. “When I write my next article, the public will see Melvin Frohike as a hero.” She gazed steadily at John Byers. “The public just may ask for a recall of their overly zealous D.A.”

Byers folded his arms and glared at her. “Neither the District Attorney’s office nor I will bow to media pressure,” he replied.

No, he wouldn’t, Carla thought. John Byers was a principled, stalwart man with an unyielding moral compass. He also had an idealistic streak in him. She wondered how he managed to retain those ideals while dealing with the harsh politics of his office. If he didn’t loosen his stranglehold on this grudge against Melvin Frohike, she worried it would color how he preformed his job, if it hadn’t already.

If he followed his threat…and he would…he could become a victim of those politics just as Melvin Frohike had been almost half a decade ago. She didn’t want that to happen to John. He was often rigid and infuriating in his black and white view on things but he was a good man with a good heart. She would miss…

She tamped down the errant thought but it wouldn’t stay quiet, demanding recognition. She enjoyed verbally sparring with him, considered it a bonus when his self-possessed composure slipped, revealing the fire of his convictions inside.

She knew then that, if she was going to get the man to ease his rigid stance, she couldn’t antagonize him. She needed to appeal to his heart.

“I don’t condone Mr. Frohike’s actions, John,” she said stepping closer to him, trying to get him to look directly at her, “but I do understand them. I did the background research, interviewed relatives and neighbors but failed like you and the police to further investigate the one lead that led Melvin Frohike to Ernie Campbell.”

She could tell that the admission of her own failure was getting through to him but he still hadn’t met her gaze. “Mr. Frohike’s daughter was Molly’s best friend. They walked home from school together every day. It could just as easily have been her and not Molly."

For a fleeting moment she saw a profound sorrow in his blue eyes that intrigued her professionally as well as personally. Before she could consider this, it disappeared and the tenacious DA was back but his rigid posture eased. When he spoke, he looked directly at Carla. “I’ll drop the charges against Frohike because of extenuating circumstances but only on one condition…”

“What condition?” Skinner asked warily.

“That Ernie Campbell doesn’t die.”

Byers jammed his files into his briefcase like a man who had been thwarted from finally attaining his desires and was not unsure how he felt about it. He glanced at Carla; she was speaking to the photographer. The young man didn’t look too happy but after a moment he nodded to something she said, started to turn then gave her a quick hug before trotting out of the office.

“I’ll see you tomorrow to get a copy of the full report on Campbell," Byers said to Skinner. "And I do mean full. If he wakes up and sticks to his confession, I want to know about it right away. Don't leave so much as a comma out of place."

Skinner frowned. “You’re planning on trying the case yourself?” Usually the Assistant DA tried the cases while the DA guided and advised from the sidelines.

“That little girl and her parents have suffered enough,” Byers said tightly, “I don’t intend to allow that man to get off because of a technicality from tonight's fiasco. Good night, Chief.” He strode from the office. As he passed Carla Mason he noted her pursed lips and thoughtful expression.

“John.”

He continued walking, pretending he hadn’t heard her. The click of her heels on the grungy linoleum was purposeful yet she kept her pace slower then his. It was obvious she wanted to talk to him but intended for their conversation to be private.

While he wasn’t in the mood, his curiosity was aroused. Normally a patient man, he suddenly couldn’t wait until they were outside so he stepped into an empty interrogation room. Carla Mason entered a few seconds behind him, pausing to close the door behind her.

She studied him carefully. “I wanted to thank you, John.”

“I did what I felt was right,” he said. There was something else she wanted to say to him, he could sense it but when she didn’t continue he said. “Was that all you wanted because…”

“No,” she interrupted. “There’s something else.” She stepped toward him almost cautiously. “I’m not sure how to put it.”

“I wouldn’t let your editor hear that his star reporter is at a loss for words, especially with me. It wouldn’t bode well for job security. What?” he asked, puzzled when surprise glanced off her blue eyes.

Since when, he demanded of himself, did he notice the color of her eyes?

“I…" she started to say she had never heard him crack a joke before but stopped herself. It wouldn’t do to let the conversation wander toward a more intimate direction, however much the thought intrigued her. What she needed to say was difficult enough, especially to someone as private as John Byers.

For as long as he had known her, Byers had never seen Carla as anything but confident and self-assured. Her hesitant demeanor made him uneasy and he slipped back into his familiar and safe role of district attorney where he didn’t think about the color of his adversary's eyes. “Miss Mason, if you’ll excuse me, I have a case to prepare for. I only hope I can undo some of the damage Melvin Frohike caused.”

Carla continued to stand in front of the door, blocking his exit. “John, if you persist in this vendetta against Melvin Frohike, it’s going to ruin your career.”

“Vendetta?” Byers chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “I don’t have a vendetta against that man.”

“No? Then explain why you had him arrested tonight.” Carla held up a hand, stopping him as he drew a breath to speak. “Alright, I understand that but I've seen how you always tear apart his testimony on the stand even when he’s a witness for the prosecution.”

She continued. “I’d hate to see Ernie Campbell get acquitted because you gave the jury a reason to doubt Melvin Frohike’s testimony. You’re a good man, John. One of the best I’ve ever met," She paused, laying a hand on his arm and holding his gaze, willing him to see what he was doing. “But if you continue on this path, it will destroy you.”

The concern Byers saw in her eyes was more than a professional courtesy. It was for him. And he could see she had no motive other than concern for his well-being.

For the first time in almost ten years he needed someone to understand. He needed her to understand.

“It’s not Melvin Frohike I hate,” Byers began. The words stuck in his throat. Just thinking about it brought back the memories and with it the pain he'd learned to live with. “It’s his methods. Or maybe it’s what they represent. I’m not sure if there is a difference anymore.”

Carla studied him with that quick intelligence of hers. “What happened, John?” she asked softly.

There was a long pause. “Susanne was beautiful, smart…so alive," he said eventually.

“Susanne was your wife?”

Byers swallowed. “We were never given that chance,” he said regret lancing his words. “She was coming home from work one night when she was mugged. When she tried to fight back, her attacker killed her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Carla said. “Did they catch her killer?”

“Yes, but someone messed up and no one caught it, not the police, not the DA prosecuting the case.” Sadness filled Byers’ face, “The bastard was released on a technicality because proper procedure wasn’t followed in the investigation.” He took a steadying breath. “I was numb from Susanne’s death and when I saw him walk out of that courtroom a free man…”

“What did you do?”

Byers saw the worry in her face; a wan smile touched his lips. “I vowed to make sure what happened in that courtroom would never happen again. I quit my job at the law firm I was with and applied for one with the DA’s office. I've worked hard trying to make sure that another killer or criminal didn’t get off because of a technicality. But five years ago…”

When he didn't continue Carla asked. “What happened five years…” She stopped. She knew what had happened. It had been in all the local newspaper for weeks. “That child’s death was an accident, John. No one, not even Melvin Frohike knew the little boy was there.”

Byers stepped back from Carla, anger flaring in his face. "He didn't wait for back up. Instead of following procedure, he decided to play the hero and went in shooting. The little boy died because of it! If he had waited for the other officers to arrive, the man would have given up and the little boy would still be alive today!"

“That bank robber should never have tried to elude police with his own son in the backseat,” Carla said forcefully.

“No one paid for that little boy's death," Byers ranted.

“Damn it, John,” Carla snapped, volleying her own anger at him. “Melvin Frohike isn’t to blame for that any more than you are responsible for Susanne’s killer getting away. The world isn’t black and white. If you can’t see that,” Carla shook her head, “then maybe I was wrong about you. Good bye, Mr. Byers.”

Byers watched her open the door and walk out. The door closed softly behind her but to Byers it felt as if she had slammed it shut with the force of her anger. She was wrong, of course. The world was black and white, good and bad. Ever since Susanne’s death it had been so clear.

But if he was right why did he feel so empty?

Chapter 10

Frohike watched as the officer behind the wire cage dumped his meager possessions out onto the desk. "Thanks, Paul," he said grabbing his wallet and putting it in his hip pocket.

"No problem," said Officer O'Brien holding out the clipboard for Frohike to sign, which he did before putting on his belt and necktie.

Watching him, O'Brien said, "To tell you the truth, Mel, I'm amazed the DA let you go. He's always had it in for you."

Scooping his car keys and loose change off the counter and depositing it in his pocket, Frohike nodded. "He does but Skinner tells me the suspect woke up and started confessing to everything."

"Everything? You mean killing the Jennings girl,” Paul clarified.

Frohike nodded. "Not only did he confess to killing little Molly but three other girls in Maryland and one in Virginia."

O’Brien swore softly. "Tough news about Mulder," he said. "Suspension without pay. Should have given him a medal. Should have given both of you medals for ridding the streets of that pervert."

"I'm not proud of what of what I did,” Frohike said as he turned to leave.

Stepping out into the ally behind the police station, Frohike stood for a moment looking up at the sky. It was a cloudy, starless night. He had spent the time in jail thinking about what he had done. The fact that he had been able to lose it so completely scared him. If Mulder hadn’t been there…

He heard a voice call out to him.

"Mr. Frohike!" The young man he'd met outside the newspaper office ran up to him with a huge grin on his face. He had to search his memory for the guy’s name

"Jimmy," said Frohike finally remembering. "What do you want?"

The smile faded from Jimmy's face. "We were supposed to meet earlier.”

“Yeah, well, something came up," said Frohike moving away.

"I know," said Jimmy walking quickly to keep up with him. "I heard all about it. You found that little girl's killer. You're a hero."

Frohike stopped abruptly causing Jimmy to nearly run into him. Struggling to hold his frustration in check, the private investigator said, "Look, can we talk about this later. It's been a very long, difficult day and I just want to get my car and go home."

Jimmy smiled again, "I have my car. It's right over there." He pointed down the street the other way. "Come on,” he urged, “I can give you a ride."

Frohike hesitated weighing the chances of catching a taxi. The empty streets didn’t look promising. “All right," he decided.

"Great, and I can tell you what I know about Yves Harlow and Professor Langly.”

Talking about Yves and the Professor would help take his mind off the day's events. “Works for me,” he said.

Saturday, September 28, 1940

Monica willed her phone to ring. Frohike had called her the previous afternoon with the news that his visit to the newspaper office had been a waste of time. She had not been able to accompany him because she simply had to go back to the office to get some work done.

Mel did say he had one more lead but he wasn't too hopeful that it would pan out. He'd promised to call her when he had any more information.

She had hoped to hear from him long before this but calling his office would be a waste of time. It was Saturday. There wouldn't be anyone there.

She could only wait.

At about 9:30 a.m. her phone finally rang. She picked it up on the second ring.

"Monica?"

"Yes, Mel?"

"Would you mind if I came by later? I've found someone who has some information about Yves."

Monica gripped the receiver a little tighter. "You can come right now!"

"There's something I have to do first that can't wait. I'm sorry."

Monica swallowed her disappointment. "No, I understand. Why don't you come around noon then? I can make us some lunch."

There was a short pause as Frohike spoke to someone in the background before he said, "Lunch works for us and thank you for the offer."

Shortly before noon, there was a knock at Monica's front door. Looking through the peephole, she saw Frohike and a younger, blond man standing in the hallway outside her apartment.

Monica quickly opened the door. "Hello, you're right on…"

Frohike cut her off. "You're supposed to ask who it is!" He and the other man stepped inside so she could shut and lock the door.

"I looked. I knew it was you," said Monica in her own defense. She glanced at the other man wondering who he was and why he needed to talk to her.

"You know me but you don't know him," said Frohike hitching his thumb at his companion who smiled at Monica in an unspoken greeting.

"You said you were bringing someone with you," said Monica getting irritated at the nagging.

Frohike's scowl deepened. "You shouldn't make assumptions with all that's been going on. For all you know, he could've had a gun at my back to force me to get you to open the door."

Tired of the scolding, Monica drew a breath to tell him he was being ridiculous but he had taken off his hat and she got a good look at his face. She saw sadness deeply etched into the lines of his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. This made her realize the strain he was under and the worries he was forced to deal with, some of which were hers.

Monica knew then that he was correct and she wasn't making things any easier by arguing with him. "You're right. Next time, I'll ask."

"It's for your own safety," he said, removing his coat. His companion did the same.

"I know," said Monica as she hung them in the closet.

Frohike turned to his silent companion. "This is Jimmy Bond. He works for the DC Gazette. He's one of the reporters who talked to your sister and her professor."

Jimmy stepped up to Monica offering his hand. She shook it. "Nice to meet you, Monica," he said. "Actually, I'm a photographer but I've been trying to find them, too."

Frohike interrupted. "I figured the easiest thing to do would be to get you both together, see what we know, what we need to find out and what to do next."

"I made some coffee, would either of you like some?"

"Yes," Frohike said immediately. "Coffee would be great."

After getting an affirmative response from Jimmy, she was glad she'd made a full pot.

While Monica poured the coffee, she encouraged Jimmy, "How did you meet my sister?"

"The professor called our office saying he needed to spread the news about something he was working on. One of the reporters, Jeffery Spender, went with me to see what he had to say."

"Yves was there?" Monica asked sitting down on the couch with Frohike.

"Yes, but she seemed very uncomfortable about us being there. Mr. Spender was convinced the Professor was a nut. So, he left. But I thought there was a story and hung around for a few minutes. I took a couple pictures until your sister made it very clear that I should leave, too."

"Was Yves in any of the pictures?"

Jimmy took a sip of his coffee then nodded. "Well, that's the next part of the story. I saw your sister again at our office late the next night after almost everyone had gone home. She had broken into the files where we keep the photographs. When I found her, she said she was looking for the pictures of the professor. I told her it was too late, the pictures were already gone."

He glanced at Frohike before continuing. "I've talked this over with Mr. Frohike and we don't think your sister is just a scientist's assistant. There's definitely more going on here than that."

Monica was stunned. None of this made sense. She looked to Frohike, someone she could trust, for confirmation. "You actually believe this?"

Frohike chose his words carefully because he had no proof to back them up. "His story does explain a great deal."

Monica sat back on the couch shaking her head.

"Think about it," he went on, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. "You're being followed for no apparent reason." He touched a second finger. "A man comes to my office asking me to find his long-lost cousin who turns out to be you." Third finger. "You're apartment is broken into but the only thing taken is your correspondence with your sister." Fourth finger. "Your sister and her boss have disappeared without a trace." Fifth finger. "Her house has been thoroughly searched." He continued ticking off the points on his other hand. "And we found the FBI crawling all over it."

Frohike did not mention the fact that Monica and Yves's files were stolen from his office. She didn’t need the added stress.

When Monica still did not seem convinced, Frohike continued. "Didn't you find it more than a little odd that she wanted to bring her boss with her on vacation?" Monica's gaze flicked to Frohike's face. "Why would anyone bring their employer on vacation?" He paused. "With what Jimmy told me, it all started to make sense."

“What was that?” Monica clearly looked worried.

“As I said its speculation –“

“Mel, please don’t coddle me,” Monica snapped. “What is it?” When he continued to hesitate she turned her gaze on Jimmy. “Well?”

Jimmy shook his head apologetically. “I didn’t understand a lot of what the professor was saying but I think the gist of it was it’s supposed to help figure out how to break the Nazi codes.”

“I don’t see what Yves bringing her employer with her on vacation has to do with –“ She stopped, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You think that’s why the FBI was following me, searching her house and asking me questions?”

She got up, walking over to the fireplace. “No. Nothing you say will convince me Yves is a Nazi.”

Frohike quickly rose from the couch and went to her in the hopes of calming her down. “No, Monica,” he said gently, “I don’t think she’s a Nazi.”

Monica searched his eyes and saw he was telling the truth. “Then what?”

"She had to bring the Professor. She was protecting him. I think she’s with the British Intelligence.”

"British Intelligence?" Monica exclaimed. It sounded just as ludicrous as Yves being a Nazi spy. “She would have told me. She’s my sister.”

“She probably couldn’t,” Frohike said softly. “And like I said: it’s all speculation. We won't know anything for sure until we find them."

"I can't believe she would lie to me like this," Monica said in a pained voice. She'd suffered enough betrayal from family members. Yves was last person she had expected it from, someone she thought must understand how she felt about the way their father had lived his life. Her brother refused to believe it.

"Monica," Frohike said placing his hand over hers on the mantle. "Let's go back and sit down." He waited for her to move ahead of him to the couch.

Monica sat, picking up her coffee and stared into the brown liquid as if she could find some answers there.

Jimmy broke the momentary silence that had developed among them. "I have a question," he said to Monica. "If you don't want to answer it, I'll understand."

"What is it?"

"You say that you and Yves are sisters but she has a British accent and you don't."

"We're half sisters. We share the same father." This answer would have been enough of an explanation but Monica continued as if telling the whole story might help make some sense of recent events.

"My father was an ambassador. When I was not quite a year old, he was assigned to the American embassy in London. My mother wasn't willing to move away from her extended family while I was so young. At least that's what she said. My father couldn't give up such a prestigious placement and moved to London without us." Monica sighed.

"So your parents got divorced?" Jimmy surmised.

"No, they remained married; we just didn't live together as a family. As I got older, I begged my mother to change her mind and let us go to live with my father. But she became pregnant with my younger brother, Jacob. When I realized what this would mean, I asked my father to let me come live with him even if my mother refused. He told me that he loved me but that my mother needed me to help her with the new baby and maybe when my brother got older I could come stay with him, at least for a while.

"This went on for years, promises were made and broken. Sometimes we even made plans for my brother and me to join our father for the summer or the holidays. But something would always come up at the last minute, some international crisis that would make it impossible for us to visit him in England. My mother was always sympathetic but never seemed surprised by his actions.

"I'm beginning to believe now that my mother knew all along."

Jimmy watched her closely, puzzled by her last comment but he let her continue.

"She died four years ago. Shortly after this, my father retired and moved back to the states permanently. These few years were my first chance to spend any time with him. He died a year ago but, literally on his deathbed, he finally told me the truth.

"He said he'd been very lonely in London. He missed my mother and me terribly. He was so lonesome he turned to another woman, a woman he grew to love. Her name was Christine Harlow. He never told her about his family in the states. They married and had a daughter, who, as I'm sure you can guess, was Yves."

"When Christine found out about my father's second family, his infidelity, she left taking Yves with her. He begged me to find Yves. He hadn't seen her in years. It was his hope that we could be a family, the three of us, Yves, Jacob and me.

"I was stunned and hurt by his revelations but I agreed to try to find my sister. At first I did nothing. But a few weeks after his funeral, I was going through his papers and came across some photographs of Yves as a child and decided she was as much a victim of my father's poor choices as my brother and I were.

"I made some inquiries but had no luck. That's when I hired Mr. Frohike," Monica said turning to glance at the private investigator. "I used some of the inheritance from my father's estate to send him to England to find her. He's the one who figured out that Yves had taken her mother's last name and managed to track her down."

"It took a bit of convincing," said Frohike telling his part of the story, "to make her believe that Monica should not be held responsible for their father's actions. She agreed to read the letter from Monica that I'd brought with me."

Monica continued. "I was very excited to receive the first letter from her. We corresponded for a couple of months when she announced she had gotten a job here in the states and would be moving to DC."

"Her job with Professor Langly?"

"Yes."

"What about your brother?" Jimmy asked.

"Jacob's in the Army and is stationed on the west coast. He's never met Yves. I told them about each other but neither of them as even tried to contact the other." She sighed again. "I can't force them to be close. It's up to them." Her face fell. "That is if we ever find Yves."

"We're well on our way, here," said Frohike in encouragement. "We know a lot more now than we did yesterday."

Monica nodded. "She's hiding…they're hiding. But from who? And why?"

"It sounds like the professor made a big mistake in calling the newspaper," said Frohike.

Jimmy agreed. "When I went back to talk to them again they were gone. It was after that I found Yves in the newspaper office looking for the photos."

"What did she say to you?" asked Monica.

"Nothing… but her actions spoke for themselves. She was worried and willing to do anything to get those pictures back."

"What we need from you," said Frohike, "are any thoughts you might have on where she would go. Obviously the FBI is looking for her, so she didn't get any help from them. Where would she feel safe and secluded?"

Monica thought about it but nothing leapt to mind immediately.

She heard an odd noise and turned towards the sound. Jimmy had a sheepish grin on his face, his hand on his stomach. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh, no, don't worry about it," Monica insisted. "I've kept you talking for so long. I have lunch ready."

They talked through lunch, all of them suggesting possible places where Yves could have taken the professor. When they were done eating and the dishes were cleared away, they still hadn't come up with a satisfactory answer. Frohike had written down some places they wanted to check out but so far they had failed to come up with one location that stood out as a best place to start.

Monica made a second pot of coffee since Frohike couldn't seem to get enough. As it was brewing, he had a revelation. "Wait a minute. I've got something in the car that might help." He got up and walked quickly out of the apartment.

Jimmy and Monica just looked at each other, neither having any idea what he was talking about.

Two minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Jimmy chuckled as Monica got up to answer it. "Make sure to ask him who it is," he said.

Monica turned to smile at him. "Don't worry. I will."

She stood with her hand on the knob. "Who is it?"

"It's me, open the door," growled Frohike. When he stepped inside the apartment, he noticed that Monica's smile lacked the sadness that had been prevalent all afternoon. He handed a large manila envelope to Monica. "This is the envelope the letter from Yves came in. Look at the postmark," he said pointing to the upper right hand corner. "It meant nothing to me but maybe you can think of some connection that might give us a clue as to where they are hiding. "

Monica looked closely at envelope. She could barely make out the letters. When she finally did, she turned to smile at Frohike saying, "I think I know where they might be."

* * * * *

C.B. Spender glanced up at the knock at his door. He snubbed out the cigarette he was holding leaving the butt in the company of several of its brethren that were huddled together in the overly full ashtray.

"Yes?" he said knowing full well who it was.

His secretary opened the door. "Mr. Fletcher is here to see you, sir."

"Send him in."

Morris Fletcher entered the office and sat in the chair Spender absent-mindedly pointed out to him, his attention on a stack of papers on his desk. Fletcher had the good sense to wait until he was spoken to before he began defending himself.

Spender picked up a pack of Morleys off his desk and, with an expert flip of the wrist, coaxed a single cigarette forward. He took it between his lips. He didn't offer Fletcher one but this was not expected. He lit it taking a deep drag. "Have you found it yet?" He asked smoothly not bothering to look at the other man while waiting for an answer.

Fletcher shifted uneasily in his seat. "Uh, no, sir. I haven't found it yet."

"What seems to be the problem?" His exhaled smoke drifted upwards.

"That private investigator who wouldn't play ball got himself thrown in jail for beating some guy senseless. He's not going anywhere, so that's a dead end."

"You're certain of that?" Spender asked blowing smoke in Fletcher's direction.

"I can't follow someone who's in jail."

Spender tossed a folded copy of the most recent edition of the D.C. Gazette into Fletcher's lap who picked it up with a confused look on his face. "Look at the headline."

Local PI Catches Child Killer

Fletcher quickly scanned the accompanying article by Carla Mason. It detailed how Melvin Frohike had apprehended a serial child molester and murderer. The mayor and the city council were proclaiming him a hero.

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know. I didn't think…"

Spender snubbed out his cigarette. "Obviously," he said, his tone menacing.

Fletcher made as if to stand. "I can find him again. He's probably gone home or is at his office."

"Don't bother," said Spender. "I have something better for you." He held up a small stack of handwritten sheets. The papers were smaller than regular notepaper and the writing had a woman's flowery touch. "I've been doing some light reading. I believe I know where our elusive Miss Harlow has taken her charge."

"Where?"

Spender held up a framed picture of two women. They were standing side by side each with one arm wrapped around the other's waist. They were smiling for the camera. Behind them, Fletcher could see the breakers of the Atlantic Ocean. Spender set the picture down and held out a folded piece of paper.

Assuming it held the address of where he was supposed to go, Fletcher stood and took the paper. "Take one of our friends from the FBI with you," said C.B. Spender.

Fletcher turned to leave. "I want this problem solved." He stopped and looked back. There was a short pause as Spender lit another Morley. "Permanently."

Chapter 11

“Shouldn’t we go knock on the door instead of sitting in the car?”

Frohike glared at Jimmy Bond, attempting to quell his irritation from the endless string of questions and comments that began when they left D.C. Unfortunately the young man, who was sitting in the passenger seat, was facing away, watching the beach house intently and missed the private detective’s sour look.

Frohike slowly counted to ten, regretting the decision to allow the kid to come with him. He had already argued for a good half hour with Monica about the same thing, just barely convincing his client it would be best if he checked the lead on his own. Exhausted from too little sleep and too much caffeine, he hadn’t the energy to argue with the kid, especially since he sensed he just might try to follow him. Losing him wouldn’t have been too difficult but he would have lost valuable time so he gave in, ordering the kid to do exactly what he said and not get in the way.

“We need to make sure they're in the house,” he finally replied. “If they’re not, we could give ourselves away if they return while we’re in there. Then,” he said the next slower, partly to get a handle on his impatience and partly to make sure the kid understood, “they might disappear and we’d never find them.”

Jimmy didn’t take his eager attention off the house. “What if they’re not here? I mean Virginia has hundreds of mile of beaches. What do we do then, Mr. Frohike?”

“We’ll figure that out if and when we need to,” Frohike replied. “And for God’s sake stop calling me Mr. Frohike. Just Mel or even Frohike will work.”

Jimmy glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back out the window. “Sure,” he said. “Hey!” he whispered excitedly seconds later, “did you see that? The curtains moved!”

Frohike swore under his breath, focusing his attention on the house. “You sure it wasn’t just the shadows from the trees?” The sun was sinking towards the horizon and he bet that’s what the kid saw: shadows moving over the window.”

“The curtain moved,” Jimmy insisted vehemently. As if he intended to prove it, he opened his door. The sound of the surf, turbulent and forceful filled the car.

“Jimmy,” Frohike hissed through clenched teeth. “Get back here!” But the photographer was already making his way down the sloping driveway. “Dammit!” Frohike scrambled out of the car. And the kid wondered why that reporter, Spender, had it in for him, Frohike thought as he rushed after the younger man.

Bond’s long stride ate up the distance quickly but Frohike, though older and with an expanding girth, was no slouch and caught up to him. He grabbed Jimmy’s arm and said in a harsh whisper, “If you want to get killed, by all means rush in there.”

His words had the desired effect. Jimmy stopped abruptly, casting an uneasy, indecisive look at the house.

“We need to approach this slow and easy,” he continued. If Yves Harlow was in that house then it was already too late. She knew they were there. But if…and this was a big if… Harlow was the British agent he thought she was, then the fact they were still alive and not laying face down in the grass with a bullet in their brains heartened Frohike.

It meant she recognized him and deduced he was working on Monica’s behalf. Why else send the letter to him? But after all the lies Yves Harlow told her sister, Frohike wondered how the woman would receive him.

If it really was Yves Harlow in that house.

There was one thing Frohike hated more than unanswered questions. It was someone using an unwitting person to further her agenda: especially family members. Monica Reyes already had enough of it from her parents. Shunted aside by a father who had juggled two families and a career, a mother who in all likelihood knew of her husband's infidelity and used her daughter as a pawn against her husband. And Monica’s brother, once the infidelity had been exposed on his father's deathbed, had refused to accept the truth, estranging himself from his sister.

Searching for a familial connection, Monica had been used and manipulated by her sister and consequently placed in peril because of it.

Suspecting what he did about Harlow, Frohike would have chosen to leave the woman to defend herself. She was obviously capable of it. But if something happened to Yves because he didn’t so much as warn her of the danger closing in on her, it would crush Monica.

And Monica didn’t deserve the grief.

His anger burned like a slow fuse. He understood about losing family: the void it created in your heart and life. Maybe that was why he was now ignoring his own advice and striding with Jimmy trailing in his wake to the door. The woman better damn well be worth it, he thought.

Frohike resisted the urge to pound on the door. That might attract unwanted attention. Instead, he knocked softly, carefully watching the curtains on the window near the door where Jimmy swore he'd seem movement earlier.

He paid for his inattentiveness of the door when it was yanked open suddenly. He barely had time to register the steely grip of a hand on his collar before he was pulled unceremoniously into the house and slammed up against the wall. The cold metal of a gun barrel jammed firmly under his chin was unmistakable.

Frohike heard Jimmy suck in his breath and sent a silent prayer that the kid wouldn’t do anything rash.

The look of blind fury was evident in Yves's eyes. "What…" she said through clenched teeth, "do you want?"

"Your sister sent me," Frohike managed to say. "She's worried about you."

She pushed the gun tighter against his neck. "Message received," she said slowly. "Now leave before I ventilate your throat."

They stared at each other, the tension thick in the air. He had little doubt she would follow through with her threat but he had made a promise and he was going to keep it.

“You won’t pull the trigger, Sugar” Frohike said mustering a confident, nonchalant tone despite his racing pulse.

Yves raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Why not?”

“The neighbors will hear the gunshot for one,” Frohike said. “Second: talk of it will bring a great deal of unwanted attention our way. I’m sure you know exactly who I mean. Now, why don’t you put the hardware away and we can have a little chat.”

Yves studied him a moment, then the pressure against his throat eased as she lowered her weapon. She stepped back allowing him to stand on his own. Frohike pushed away from the wall, and shrugged his coat back into place, giving himself time to calm his jangled nerves. He turned to see Yves with one hand on the still open door blocking Jimmy's entrance into the house.

"He's with me, Sugar," the detective said to further lesson the tension that radiated off her. "Don’t worry, he's harmless."

Yves narrowed her eyes at him. "Your recommendation is reassuring,” she retorted but she opened the door further to allow Jimmy to enter.

She closed the door, locked it and said dangerously. “And Frohike? I don’t care who hears but if you call me ‘Sugar’ one more time, I will shoot you.”

When Langly saw Yves enter the kitchen with the two men he jumped to his feet, crumpling the piece of paper he had been working on. “Who the hell are they?” He demanded.

Yves noticed the befuddled scientist routine that he'd employed off and on since she first met him was distinctly missing. She raised an eyebrow at him, keeping her tone calm.

“I’m sure you remember Mr. Bond. This is Mr. Frohike. He’s a private detective sent to find us.”

Langly’s face turned ghost white. “A private dick?” The anger in his voice barely masked the fear. “How did you find us? Why were you even looking for us? Do you realize how much danger you’re putting us in?”

Frohike, taking an instant dislike to the man, turned to Yves. “Can't you send him away to play with his chemistry set?”

“Chemistry set?” Langly sputtered, outraged. “What I do is far more important than…"

“Um, guys,” said Jimmy interrupted the tirade. “…the bad guys.”

“Where?” Yves’ gun made a sudden reappearance as she stepped closer to Langly, pulling him away from the windows.

Jimmy raised his hands and shook his head. “No. No,” he said quickly. “I just meant…shouldn’t we be talking about why we’re here?”

“I’m not a chemist!” Langly complained refusing to let the insult slide.

“Of course not,” Yves said in a soothing tone that sounded as if she was reaching the end of her patience. “But Mr. Bond is quite right.” Her gun disappeared once again and she crossed her arms over her chest to gaze at Frohike. “Why are you here?

“I told you. Your sister hired me to find you when she couldn’t contact you. She’s worried sick.”

“You can tell her I’m fine –“

“Fine?” Frohike interrupted, “Not from where I’m standing.”

“We’ve had no problem until you barged in here,” Langly shot back.

“Langly,” Yves warned, shutting him up. To Frohike she said, “I can take care of myself as you discovered earlier. I can’t explain further but I have everything well in hand.”

“I know who you are,” he said. It was a bluff but he wanted to hear her confirm his theory she was a British agent. But Yves simply gazed at him. “Deny it or don’t deny it,” said Frohike, “I don’t care but you need to go to the F.B.I.”

Yves scrutinized his face. “Tell me Mr. Frohike. What were you doing talking to Agent Doggett outside Monica’s apartment building?”

Talk about being blindsided! Frohike hadn’t seen that question coming. But he hid it, saying smoothly. “Blondie made a serious tactical error when he called the newspaper. We know about the German codes.” If he hadn’t been scrutinizing her face, he would have missed the ripple behind her eyes. Even then he nearly missed it. He had to admit she was one cool customer. But all it took was one well-placed bullet.

“I can play that game too, Sugar. Shall I tell you what else I know or can we have an honest discussion here without the one-upmanship?” It was complete bullshit, he had used his trump card and he was afraid she knew it.

Jimmy spoke up then. “You can trust us,” he said softly, compassionately.

Yves turned, appraising him coolly. “That remains to be seen,” she said then sighed. “The F.B.I. can’t be trusted.”

“Are you sure?” Jimmy asked.

“Yes. After your little visit, I decided not to take any chances and moved the Professor. When I went back to get a few things, I saw several men hanging around the lab. I recognized their type. At the time I assumed they learned about the Professor from the article the reporter wrote.”

“But Spender didn’t write an article,” Jimmy pointed out.

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Yves retorted. “All I knew was the Professor had been compromised. I called the F.B.I. and arranged a meeting.”

“Let me guess,” said Frohike, “it was a trap.”

Anger burned in Yves’ dark eyes as she remembered her narrow escape. “Yes.”

“Which explains the cryptic letter to your sister,” Frohike said. “You think Agent Doggett is a mole?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Yves admitted, “But he’s everywhere I turn. I have to think he’s a likely suspect.”

Jimmy was puzzling over something. “If the FBI has a mole, then how did those men know you were at the warehouse before you called the FBI? Wouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Langly snorted, breaking his silence. “Jeez, some reporter you are. The FBI mole is working for someone else.”

“The person who stole my photographs,” Jimmy said then wrinkled his brow. “Why would they take my pictures of Yves and the Professor and then break into Monica’s apartment to steal all the pictures of Yves.”

“Someone broke into Monica’s apartment?” Yves looked worried. She had suspected they would follow her sister in hopes she would lead them to her and thus Langly but this she hadn’t considered.

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah, they took all your letters to her as well as Frohike’s files.”

“Jimmy shut up,” Frohike growled.

Yves looked from Jimmy to Frohike. “What files?”

Frohike ignored Yves question. “Look, you're not safe here. We can talk about this somewhere else.”

Yves wasn’t going to let him put her off. “What files, Frohike.”

Frohike sighed, realizing she was immovable on the subject. “My files of you and your sister when she hired me to locate you the first time.”

Yves stared intently at him. “Do you have any idea who stole them?”

“Yeah. Some guy who tried to hire me to locate Monica under the pretense of an inheritance. I put him off but, when I tried to check him out, I couldn’t find anything on him.”

“This man…what was his name?”

Why did Frohike have the feeling she already knew who it was? “Morris Fletcher,” he said. “Who is he, Yves?”

She ignored the question, asking one of her own. “How did you find us?”

“I think it's your turn to answer a quest…"

“How did you find us?” she interrupted, eyes blazing.

Frohike stared at her deciding to pursue the answers to his questions later. Whoever this Fletcher guy was…he was bad news. “From the postmark on the letter you sent. Monica noticed the town was only an hour away from the family beach house. And when she told me how much you seemed to enjoy it when the two…make that three of you," he added glancing at the still scowling scientist, "vacationed here it seemed a logical place to begin. I considered the possibility that it was a red herring but she also said you mentioned the beach was your favorite place to go to think when you were a child.” He smirked at her. “Old habits are difficult to break, Sweetheart.”

"You talked to Monica today?"

"Yes," answered Frohike, "right before we headed out here."

“You fool,” Yves spat angrily, striding to the nearest window and looking out. “You probably led them right to us!” She searched for anyone lurking around the grounds but the dwindling light and shadows made it impossible.

“No one followed us,” Frohike said. “I watched the house for a while before we approached. They would have had to pass us on the road but no one did.”

Yves turned from the window. “I’m relieved by your assessment of the situation,” she said sarcastically.

“Where are you going?” Langly asked in a panicked voice as she strode out of the kitchen.

“I’m going to take a look around outside.” Yves palmed her weapon. “Pack it up. As soon as I get back, we’re leaving and for God’s sake, stay away from the windows.”

Langly hurried off to do what he was told. He wasn't happy about it but he did trust Yves's judgment. He began packing up the Enigma machine and all it's parts replacing the wooden casing and closing the lid. Another smaller box lay nearby.

Jimmy watched him. "Do you need any help?"

"No, I've got it under control," Langly said not looking up from his work. He had two of the screws in place and was working on a third.

Jimmy bent to pick up the fourth screw, which had rolled onto the floor. He held it out to Langly who snatched it out of his hand then inserted it into the wood casing. "I really don't need your help," said Langly twisting the screw into place. "I actually can take care of myself."

Jimmy could sense that Langly resented their presence, his and Frohike's. "We just want to help you," said Jimmy. "We want to make sure you're safe and can finish your work."

Langly paused for a moment to glare at Jimmy. "If that was true, you would have left us alone." Everything had changed so much in the past few months. Before he had solitude, numbers and endless time to do his work. Then Yves showed up challenging him with the Enigma. And now he was in hiding and on the run with this terrible fear shadowing everything he did. He just wanted to figure out this puzzle and maybe help win the war in Europe. Well, that and stay alive. That would be good, too.

"I'll never get my work done if I have to run off every few days because some big, dumb reporter and his pals just can't keep their noses to themselves."

"Hey, you called me!"

"And I'll regret that decision until the day I die!" Langly closed his eyes. If only he'd talked to Yves before he'd made that call. None of this running and hiding would have been necessary. He returned his attention to Jimmy. "And besides, Yves told you to drop it. You should've just minded your own business."

He realized he probably sounded irrational but he plowed ahead. It was the only way to keep the growing uneasiness at bay. "What I'm working on is important and I don't really need you interfering with it." He turned his back on Jimmy at that point, who heard a distinct click as Langly locked down the wooden lid of the machine.

Jimmy left him to his work and returned to the kitchen where Frohike was looking at the papers the professor had been scribbling on when they came in. "Is he ready to go?" Frohike asked Jimmy as he set the paper he'd been holding on the table.

"Yeah, just about," said Jimmy. "Boy, is he in a bad mood."

Frohike snorted. "It's probably from living with the queen of happiness for so long."

A loud racket on the deck facing the beach cut off Jimmy's response.

“Langly!” Yves yelled, sprinting into the house. Behind her, the sliding door slammed shut with a crash then bounced back on the track. “Langly!”

“Yves…” Frohike came out of the kitchen, Jimmy behind him.

“Get out now!” She snapped brushing passed them. “Langly!”

“I’m here. I’m here,” he muttered, lugging the Enigma machine, the other wooden box and a small black bag. He saw her face and stopped. He had never seen her look anything but cool and composed and now there was fear on her face. “What?” His voice was barely a whisper. “Oh God, are they here?”

Spoiling for an argument, Frohike barked. “We’re not going anywhere until…"

Yves whirled to face Frohike. “There is a bomb,” she hissed. “We have less than two minutes to get out.” With those words, she turned to back to Langly who stood as if paralyzed, his eyes like an owl’s behind his thick glasses. “Go!” She pushed him toward the front door. “Professor!” she urged.

He snapped from his paralysis, and took off for the door like a racehorse coming out of the starting gate, his long legs pulling ahead of Yves, clutching the heavy Enigma machine to his chest. With his arms full and no free hand to open the closed door, he stopped. Yves grabbed the handle, sweeping it open. “My car is across the street in the neighbor's drive.”

“My car is closer,” Frohike shouted from behind her. “A Ford Fordor on this side of the road.”

Yves would have ignored Frohike if she was alone but she wasn’t. And she had no idea where the person or persons were who'd set the bomb. “His. Don’t stop,” Yves clipped the orders when Langly paused. He made a whimpering sound but did as he was told.

With Jimmy behind her and Frohike bringing up the rear the quartet raced out of the house. Yves had lost track of how much time they had but knew the countdown was close. But they were quickly putting distance between themselves and the bomb. They were going to make.

They had to.

“My notes,” Langly shouted frantically, skidding to a stop. “I forgot my notes!”

“Leave them…Langly, no!” Yves yelled.

Langly dropped the Enigma none too gently then abruptly turned and raced back toward the house. She started after him when she felt Jimmy's arm snake around her waist pulling her backwards into his chest, restraining her. She could feel his heart pounding with fear.

“Yves, no!” Jimmy’s worried voice said in her ear. “Frohike’ll get him.”

He was right. She saw the private detective sprinting after the Professor. But Yves couldn’t stand back. The professor was her responsibility. She rammed her elbow into Jimmy’s stomach. He grunted in surprise, relaxing his hold. She shrugged him off and tore after Frohike and her charge.

“Yves!”

She heard Jimmy shout and then his footsteps somewhere behind her. The man was either extremely daft or very brave.

And then the beach house exploded.

The force slammed into Yves, flinging her backwards. She crashed into the ground, gravel biting into her skin. Her breath whooshed from her lungs, stunning her. Intense heat licked her skin and debris rained down on her. She threw her arms protectively over her face. Rubble struck her arms, her legs. It continued for what seemed an eternity but in reality she knew it was only a few seconds.

She crawled to her knees hearing only the roar of the fire. Pain lanced through her shoulder where something hard had struck her, ripping her jacket and drawing blood. “Professor,” she gasped, tasting thick, acrid smoke. She struggled to her feet. He had been so much closer to the house when it blew.

Then she saw Frohike kneeling next to the prone scientist who didn’t appear to be moving. Yves sprinted the remaining distance ignoring the pain in her shoulder.

Frohike glanced back when he heard Yves’ shout. The woman ran up to them, skidding to a halt then dropping to her knees next to him. “Professor.”

“He’s unconscious but alive,” Frohike informed her, watching as she checked the unmoving man on the ground. His glasses were gone, either knocked off when he fell or blown off by the force of the blast. “I think he was struck in the head by debris. We need to get out of here before the police arrive.”

She tilted her face to gaze at him. The fire was bright enough that it gave Frohike a good look at the damage done to her. She had cuts and scrapes, her clothes were torn and pieces of rubble were tangled in her dark hair.

He felt as bad as she looked. His own clothes were dirty and ripped. There was a gash in his leg that brought searing pain when he put his weight on it. His face stung from a number of cuts: some felt deep enough to draw blood. But the thing that hurt the most, he thought ruefully, was the loss of his favorite hat, which had been blown away in the explosion.

“We need to get out of here before our ‘friends’ realize we didn’t perish in the explosion,” she retorted. She glanced up as they heard footsteps on the gravel.

“Guys?” Jimmy looked shell shocked but other than that he barely had a scratch on him.

“Help me get him up,” Yves said.

Unquestioningly, Jimmy crouched down to haul the unconscious Professor off the ground.

“Wait. Leave him,” Frohike said quickly before Yves could object. “We don’t know what kind of injuries he has. Carrying him might make them worse.”

He dug into his pocket. "Jimmy!" Frohike tossed him his keys. The kid caught them one handed. “Go get my car. Now!”

Jimmy took off at a dead run, vanishing into the darkness.

“Listen,” Yves said, her voice straining with tension. “Sirens."

“Police,” Frohike identified grimly. They were still a ways off but the last thing they wanted right now was to answer a bunch of questions. He glanced at Yves. She withdrew her gun, meeting his gaze with a cold look of determination that made him shiver. Where the hell was Jimmy?

He heard his car making its way slowly down the driveway seconds before the flames from the burning house illuminated it. Jimmy hadn’t turned on the headlights, which in another situation would have been good thinking, but the fire raging behind them made it pointless.

Leaving the engine running, Jimmy hopped out of the car and jogged over to them. Together, he and Frohike easily lifted Langly but had to struggle to put the unconscious man in the car without doing further injury to him. Yves ran behind the car to snatch up the Enigma from where Langly had dropped it in the gravel.

“Hurry!” Yves warned tossing the two boxes carelessly onto the floor in the back seat. “Someone’s coming!”

Frohike cleared Langly’s feet of the door, shut it, then turned to see car beams at the end of the drive slowly making their way toward them. The firelight reflected off the windshield of the car making it impossible to see who was in it.

One thing he knew for sure though… it wasn’t the police.

“You drive,” he told Jimmy, circling to the passenger side. “Let’s go, Sugar, we’re leaving.”

Shooting Frohike a dirty look, Yves jumped into the backseat with Langly. “Go!” she shouted.

With the other car blocking their only means of exit, Jimmy had only one choice: to go toward the burning cabin then loop around. He just hoped Frohike’s car could handle driving on the beach.

The car shot foreword, gaining speed as Jimmy tried to put as much distance between them and the other car as possible.

“No!” Yves practically shouted from the backseat. “There’s a ten foot seawall!”

“A what?” Jimmy’s gaze darted back at her incredulously.

“Watch where you’re going!” Frohike snarled.

Jimmy tore his gaze back to his driving and what he saw filled him with cold, liquid fear. A half-dozen yards ahead the bright scarlet blaze of the fire illuminated the drop-off. Beyond that he could see frothy whitecaps and the black void of the ocean.

He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The tires spit gravel before crashing into the tall privacy bushes. He heard twigs scraping the sides of the car and undercarriage but he kept going, pressing the gas down, praying he wouldn’t come out of the bushes safely only to crash into a tree.

They shot out of the underbrush onto spacious grass. The headlights illuminated the neighbors' driveway.

“Go right,” Frohike ordered.

“I know,” Jimmy muttered, twisting the wheel toward the road.

Once they were on the highway, Jimmy eased up on the gas. "Where to?" he asked, needing the reassurance of a concrete course of action. When no one responded he glanced at the private detective. "Frohike?" he pressed.

"I'm thinking!" Frohike snapped.

"Car bearing down on us!" Yves warned. "Mr. Bond, step on it."

The first shot shattered the back window.

Jimmy did as she said; the fear that had eased with finding the highway returned in full force. His heart felt as if it would crash out of his chest.

Frohike swore, yanked open the glove compartment and grabbed his gun. He rolled down his window, leaned out and fired. A deafening boom shook the inside of the car.

The sound hadn’t come from Frohike. Jimmy risked glancing in the rearview mirror. He saw Yves firing a large, lethal looking gun out the back window at their pursuer.

The other car swerved as the driver worked to evade the bullets before bringing it back directly behind them.

Another shot… this time from Frohike.

The car veered crazily then drove off the road.

Frohike whooped. "Got him!"

"You got his tire," Yves corrected, "there's a difference."

"I stopped him, Sugar," Frohike retorted. "What did you do?"

"I kept him from shooting you." Yves returned to her seat to check Langly. He was coming around. "Langly, are you okay?" Yves asked him. His answer was incoherent, not much more than moaning, and his face was far too pale for Yves liking. “We need to get Langly to a doctor,” she informed the two men.

“There’s a hospital about ten miles up the road,” Jimmy spoke up, glancing toward the back seat. Yves had Langly’s head in her lap and she was gently smoothing his tangled hair.

"No,” she said immediately. “We can't go to a hospital: too open. People will ask questions. We need to go somewhere more discreet.”

“The morgue,” Frohike decided.

This statement shocked Jimmy. “But…he’s not dead.”

“Just do it,” Frohike said, “I know someone there who can help him.”

Jimmy nodded his acquiescence. He checked the rearview mirror to make sure there were no headlights following them. All he saw was darkness and Yves’ worried expression. “Who were they?” he asked aloud.

He didn’t get an answer but then he didn’t really expect one.

* * * * *

The driver of the pursuing car struggled to keep control of his swerving vehicle. The flat tire was making it veer back and forth dangerously across the highway. He managed to bring the car back to the correct side of the road and off onto the shoulder, barely keeping it from sliding into the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the highway.

Shoving his door open with one foot, the driver climbed out and stood watching the retreating taillights of his intended victim's car.

In fury, he kicked the flat tire, uttering a string of curses.

“Alex, are you finished or will you continue to take your aggressions out on the car?”

Krycek glared at his companion but ceased his actions. Morris Fletcher was right. It was wasted energy. “Now what do we do? After this they’ll disappear and we’ll never find them again.”

A large, self-satisfied smile spread over Fletcher’s face. “Don’t worry, Alex,” he said mysteriously, “we're not out of options yet.”

Chapter 12

Maggie opened her front door to find Mulder. "Fox? What are you doing here?" He hadn’t been to her apartment since they had ended their relationship. The brief reminder made her aware that she wasn’t wearing any makeup and her unruly hair was a mess after giving her bathroom a good scrubbing.

"I’m looking for Frohike. I was hoping you knew where he was.”

"Mel?" Maggie said surprised. "No. I heard about him on the radio though," she said with obvious pride. "He caught Molly's killer."

"I know. I was with him." The expression on his face told her something was wrong. All thoughts of her disheveled appearance vanished and she opened her door further.

"Come in,” Maggie said, backing up to give him space.

Mulder came in just far enough for her to shut the door. He dropped his head, covering his eyes with one hand. "Oh, Maggie. He completely lost control." He looked at her then. The pain she saw in his eyes made her worry for his sake and Frohike's. "I thought he was going to kill the guy. When I tried to stop him, he tossed me off like a rag doll. It took me and two other guys to pull him off."

Maggie reached out to him then, intending to give him a comforting hug but he drew her close, burying his face in her neck. Holding each other this way made her think of when they dated. The only thing that held her back from fully enjoying the pleasure of his arms around her was the tension and grief radiating from his body. She leaned back to look at him.

"Come sit down and tell me everything," she encouraged him.

Over the next half hour, Mulder related the whole story. Maggie just let him talk, knowing that's what he really needed to do. She was very worried about the fact that Frohike had not been seen since he was let out of jail but she was more concerned about Mulder at that moment.

"So, I'm suspended without pay pending an investigation into my involvement in the severe beating of a suspect," said Mulder reciting what he had been told the night before.

"How do you think that will turn out?" asked Maggie.

Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. There were plenty of witnesses there that can testify that I pulled Mel off the guy but I was working on an open investigation. Me… a lowly beat cop…I had the nerve to overstep my authority and Internal Affairs is gonna rake me over the coals for that."

Maggie knew Mulder aspired to become a detective but his general attitude and penchant for doing things his own way and not by the book had kept him from advancing through the ranks. "You're a good cop, Fox. They'll see it in time."

Mulder chuckled. "I think it's going to take a lot more than time for them to see that." He truly believed this and was beginning to understand that it was up to him to make the changes necessary to prove it. If he wanted to keep his job and demonstrate that he was detective material, he needed to be more serious about it.

He met Maggie’s sympathetic gaze and felt a sharp pang of regret. She was something else he should have taken more seriously. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

He took her hand. "Maggie, I…" he began before words failed him.

"Yes," she said her fingers lightly caressing his, her eyes searching his face.

He swallowed and tried again. "I messed things up between us. I was stupid and immature. I’d like another chance with you.” He held up his hand when she started to speak. “Just think about it, please? Maybe one day we could go out for dinner.”

Mulder could tell from Maggie's little smile that he had said the right thing. "How about tonight?" she asked.

“Tonight?” Mulder nearly gaped in surprise then laughed in relief and elation. “Tonight would be great.”

She stood up. "Let me go change."

"What you have on looks great," Mulder said eyeing her old slacks and the overly large shirt whose tails she had tied in a knot at her waist.

Maggie laughed. "No, it doesn't and you know it." She paused, the laughter fading from her face. “Fox? I’m worried about Mel. Before we go out I'd really like to see if we can track him down. You said no one's seen him since he got out of jail, right?"

Mulder’s own concern returned. "That's right."

"Did you call the office?"

Mulder nodded, saying, "And his place. No answer at either spot."

"What about Eddie's?" Maggie knew this was Frohike's bar of choice.

"I drove out there before I came here. He wasn't there either."

Making a decision, Maggie got up saying, "I'll be right back."

Mulder didn't have to wait very long before Maggie came back. She was wearing an elegant blue dress with her hair combed and styled and make up on. "You know, you don't have to do all that for me," Mulder quipped but he couldn’t hold back the approving smile.

"Sure I do," Maggie said smiling again before she became quite business like. "I'll go out to the office and check if he's even been there." She said opening the closet and taking her coat off its hanger. Mulder joined her, helping her into it her coat. "Why don't you go to his house and see if he's passed out or just not answering the phone."

"I don't have a key," Mulder insisted.

"That hasn't stopped you before." Maggie picked up her purse fishing around in it for her own keys. Making a decision she turned around and placed a soft kiss on his lips. "If I don't find him, I'll wait at the office. Call me there when you know anything."

"I'll do that," Mulder promised as they left her apartment.

* * * * *

Dana Scully was exhausted. She had come in on Saturday, her day off, intending to spend a half-day catching up on her mounting paperwork. The half-day stretched into a full day when she had to cover for a lab attendant who went home sick. It had been quite busy at the morgue and she hadn’t been able to return to her office with its dreaded paperwork until nearly five o'clock.

A few hours later, she finally finished and was heading home. She took one last look at her neatly organized desk then snapped off the light. She opened the door, surprised to find Melvin Frohike, his hand raised, ready to knock. Her first thought at seeing him was that he’d stood her up for their first real date. Only later did she hear from a beat cop that he had identified Molly Jenning's killer and was subsequently thrown in jail for beating a confession out of the man.

What bothered her most though, was the fact that he didn't call to tell her all about it himself, especially since she'd worked on the case and had expressed a desire to see the perpetrator go to jail for the rest of his life. She even tried calling him but got no answer at his home or his office.

She told herself she was being silly, like some schoolgirl with a crush. They'd really only known each other for three days but that in the short time she thought they'd begun to develop a meaningful relationship.

Now here he was at her door, unannounced and, although the hall was dark, she could see he was using the wall for support. Apparently he had come to her drunk…again.

“What are you doing here, Mel?” she asked trying very hard not to sound angry.

“I need your help.” His voice was strained as if he was in pain not slurred like she expected.

Concerned, she snapped on the light. “Mel,” she said, stunned by the fresh cuts on his face: blood was smeared across one cheek. His clothes were ripped and he smelled of smoke. “What happened?”

“There was an explosion. I –“

“Explosion,” Dana interrupted. “Where? Are –“

“Dana, Please. I’ll explain later. I've got a man who's seriously wounded. I need you to look at him. Please.”

Dana didn’t hesitate. “Where is he?”

“At the back entrance.”

Scully nodded, walking briskly down the hall, expecting Frohike to be right behind her. “What are his injuries? Mel?” She prompted then turned around when she heard him groan. “Mel!” He was leaning against the wall, his face gray and haggard with strain. It was then she noticed a dark cloth tied around his leg.

She ran back and crouched down, running expert hands over his leg. The cloth, she realized, was stained with blood. “Mel, you need to get to a hospital. You need stitches.”

“No. No hospital,” he said adamantly. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

“Mel,” Dana objected.

“Dana, please. Just trust me on this.” He pushed himself away from the wall, inhaling sharply at the pain in his leg. “You have to help the professor.”

Dana laid a hand on his arm, silently offering her assistance. “I will,” she promised. She saw the relief in his eyes as he took her arm and together they made their way to the admittance bay in the back of the morgue.

When they got there, Frohike stopped. He looked through one of the round windows of the double swinging doors at the night attendant seated with his feet up on the desk in the far corner of the room. He was listening to the radio and doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. “You need to get rid of him. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

Dana looked into Frohike’s bruised and cut up face and any niggling doubts that had been dancing at the edge of her mind disappeared. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

Frohike watched her step through the doors to speak to the man. His leg hurt like hell and all he wanted to do was sleep for a week. But he wouldn’t relax until he knew his little group had some measure of safety.

Dana came back less than two minutes later. “We’re clear,” she said.

“Are you sure? What if he comes back?”

Dana gave him a small smile. “He won’t. I told him the city was cutting our budget again and that I was finishing his shift.”

Frohike couldn’t help but return her smile before they entered the admittance area. He paused by the outer door and signaled a car that sat at the end of the parking lot. It moved forward without its headlights.

Scully stifled a gasp when she got a closer look at the car. She saw what could only be bullet holes along the sides and that the back window was shattered.

It stopped within a few feet of them. A tall, young man jumped out of the driver's seat and ran around to the other side of the car to open the door.

“Stay here,” Scully ordered when Frohike started to move. Not waiting to see if he obeyed, she trotted up to the car. The young man automatically opened the door to the back seat for her.

“Be careful,” he warned, “there’s broken glass.”

Scully nodded to let him know she understood then leaned well into the backseat. The light shining out of the building was the only illumination within the close confines of the vehicle. She gingerly avoided the pieces of glittering glass. A young woman watched her warily from the far side of the car. A man with long blond hair lay curled up on the seat next to her, his head in her lap. His eyes were closed.

“Hello,” Scully said in a reassuring tone as she reached out to touch the man. “How long has he been unconscious?”

There was a pained groan in answer. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”

Surprised, Dana flicked a glance toward the woman.

“He was unconscious for only a few minutes. He’s been complaining of a splitting headache since then.” The woman paused, a worried expression passed over her face. “He also says his chest hurts.”

"Has he complained of back or neck pain?"

"Not at all."

Dana stood up and looked around for the young man. "What's your name?" Scully asked.

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy, go inside and get a gurney. There should be one right inside the door."

"Yes, ma'am," he said before hurrying into the building.

"We have to get him inside where the light is better," Scully told the woman. She checked Jimmy's progress and saw him wheeling the gurney out of the building. She had him put it up against the side of the car.

She ducked her head back inside. “Sir, I need you climb slowly out of the car.”

There was a brief lull of silence and then a woeful, “I can’t. I’m dying.”

Scully glanced back at the young man who looked worried. She stuck her head further into in the car. “Sir, I know you’re in pain but I can’t help you unless you come out of the car.” She paused then added, “I have a gurney you can lie on.”

There was an agonized groan from the man but he didn’t move until the woman leaned down and whispered something in his ear. There was another dramatic groan before he slowly crawled off her lap and over the seat.

He was extremely unsteady on his feet. Dana, with Jimmy's helped, got him onto the gurney where he practically flopped down, throwing a thin hand over his face. Without being asked, Jimmy wheeled him into the building then, with direction, into the autopsy room. In this place, they were assured privacy and plenty of light.

Yves stood at the foot of the autopsy table they had transferred Langly to and watched Dana's every move. Frohike collapsed into a chair at the desk where the doctors recorded their findings and Jimmy was standing near the door as if on lookout. On the desk near Mel, Yves had placed two wooden boxes, each with a leather handle nailed to one end.

Scully ran experienced hands over the blonde's body, feeling for broken bones. He would occasionally moan when she touched a sore spot. She discovered he had a few cuts that would need stitching. Two of which were worse than the others: one on his chest, the other on his right arm.

"Can you fix him up?" Yves asked breaking silence.

Scully shook her head. "I can clean him up but I don't have the bandages I'd need to dress the wounds let alone the suturing materials. He needs stitches. By the looks of it, you all do. He also needs an x-ray. I suspect he's fractured a couple of ribs.” She paused, knowing they would object to what she would say next but she had to say it. “He really should be in the hospital."

“The hospital is out of the question,” Yves said quickly, a dangerous tone in her voice. “Whatever you need, get it. If necessary, I’ll pay for any medical supplies.”

Scully looked to see Frohike watching Yves closely. She refocused her attention on the woman. "This would be a lot easier to do if I understood what was going on and why?"

Yves stared at her with a stony expression. “You already know all you need to know."

“Someone tried to kill him tonight,” Frohike said from his chair, his exhaustion evident in his voice. There was a louder moan along with some frightened whimpering from the man on the table at this pronouncement.

Sensing this was all the explanation she was going to receive for the time being, Dana came to a decision. "Wait here. I need to make a phone call."

Yves stepped forward to block the doctor's exit. "No one else can know!"

Dana looked into the woman’s eyes, her temper flaring. “Ma’am, I’ve already explained," she said sweeping a hand outward indicating the room, "this is a morgue. I don’t have the necessary supplies or equipment to take care of your friend. If you want him to recover fully you will defer to my judgment. If not, you can leave now.”

Yves stepped back as if she were stunned by Scully’s words. It was in that brief moment that the young woman’s guard slipped and Dana saw the exhaustion that Yves was fighting. She was probably running on fumes the same as Mel.

"Yves," Langly spoke for the first time since they'd wheeled him in, "did she say 'the morgue'? Why am I in the morgue? You said I wasn't dying."

Returning to his side, Yves laid a hand on his forehead. He looked so different without his glasses, younger somehow, more vulnerable. "Yes, this is the morgue and no, you are not dying. Not if I can help it."

Yves turned to meet Dana's eyes. "Just make sure you would trust this person with your life," she said with grim resolve, "because you may have to."

"I understand," said Dana before walking quickly from the room to make the call.

In her office, she dialed the number from memory. The phone only rang twice.

"Hello?" a woman's voice said.

"This is Dana. I need your help. Bring medical supplies especially bandages and suturing materials. I'm at work. Come to the back door."

"What's going on?"

"I'll explain when you get here. Don't tell anyone where you are going."

"I'll be there shortly."

Scully had to give her friend a lot of credit. Not many people would run out this late in the evening with so little information.

When Dana returned to the autopsy room, she noted that someone, probably Jimmy, had rounded up a couple more chairs. He was sitting in one, still near the door but Yves continued to stand next to the injured professor. She was trying to convince Langly that he needed to stay on the table.

"You need to lay flat until help gets here," Scully said walking over to them. "I don't want you injuring yourself any further."

"Listen to the doctor," Yves insisted.

"My head hurts," complained Langly. "And the table is really hard. And I'm cold. Why don't you turn on the heat in here?"

"Nothing but time is going to help your head," Scully said aiding Yves in settling the professor back down onto the table. "Besides, I can't be sure what other injuries you have and we don't want to take a chance of making it worse." Feeling bad for him, she added, "Why don't I see if I can't find something to cushion your head? Would that help?"

"It can't hurt any more than it already does," Langly whined.

"Stop complaining," Frohike ordered. He had been resting with his head in his hand and his elbow on the desk. "It could be a lot worse."

"Help is on the way," Scully said in hopes of lightening the mood in the room. She patted Langly's arm to reassure him. "Can you come with me?" she said to Jimmy as she left the room.

They came back ten minutes later with coffee for everyone, a pillow for Langly and a couple of blankets. Moving a chair nearer the autopsy table, Scully tried to convince Yves to sit down and have something to drink. She accepted the coffee but stubbornly remained standing at Langly's side. Frohike gladly accepted the cup of Scully's infamously strong brew.

"Hey, how come I don't get any?" Langly fussed.

Scully smiled at him. "Not yet,” she said. “We need to get you fixed up first." She tucked his blanket tighter around him.

"But I'm thirsty, now."

"Does he ever stop complaining?" Frohike muttered to himself. His leg hurt like a son of a gun, which shortened his patience. There was one advantage to the pain, though: it was keeping him awake and alert.

There was a loud buzz from the admission bay making everyone but Scully jump. "It's reinforcements," she said to reassure them. Her eyes widened when Yves drew a gun from her pocket. “What are you doing,” she demanded.

“I’m going with you,” Yves said, “to make sure it’s your friend.”

“This is insane. Mel! Reason with her.” Scully turned to Frohike expecting him to object to Yves’ guerilla tactics but he was standing, favoring his hurt leg while he clutched an scalpel.

“We need to be cautious, Dana,” he replied, tension radiating from him.

Scully glanced at the other two. Jimmy was clearly worried while Langly looked terrified. Until that moment, the danger Frohike had glossed over hadn’t been real, even with their myriad wounds.

She turned, going to the admission bay. Yves positioned herself on the other side of the door, her gun in her good hand. Yves nodded and Scully opened the door.

She couldn’t describe her relief upon seeing her friend. "Sally," she said for both Yves’ benefit and the woman outside the door. "Thanks so much for coming."

"If anyone else had called me out of the blue with such a request, I would have hung up on them." Sally raised a questioning eyebrow at Scully as Yves stepped from behind the door. She gave the young woman a good long look, noticing first the wound in her shoulder; secondly the gun she held in her hand. Her first thought was for Dana's safety. Was she being coerced into helping fugitives?

“It’s not what you think,” Dana said. She turned to the woman. “Put your gun away. She thinks your forcing me to assist you.”

The young woman glanced at Dana but did as she was asked. “I’m going to check to make sure she wasn’t followed,” she said slipping outside.

“Dana…”

“I’ll explain everything I know as we walk,” Dana said.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Sally said.

Dana took one of the two bags her friend was carrying. She quickly explained the situation as they walked down the hallway to where their patients were waiting.

"The professor is the worst off. He definitely has a concussion and I'm worried he may have some broken ribs. All but one of them will need stitches. I'd like you to handle that. I’m afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

"That shouldn't be a problem," said her friend as Scully opened the door into the autopsy room.

Scully took the two bags of medical supplies and set them down on the counter. She then addressed the others. "This is my friend, Dr. Sally Mackenzie. She works in the emergency room at Georgetown Memorial." Sally was a little more than five feet tall, with red hair like Scully's and a quiet confidence about her that said she meant business.

While Scully was talking, Dr. Mackenzie surveyed the room. They were a sorry looking group, all blood stained and seriously battered. Dana said they'd been caught in an explosion and they certainly looked like it. The mysterious woman came into the room, positioning herself next to the man on the table.

She walked over to the table to look down at Langly quickly assessing his condition.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

He squinted at her, trying to get a good look at her face. "Richard," he said.

"Richard," she repeated. "You can call me Sally."

"Okay, Sally."

"Dana said you blacked out for a couple of minutes. Do you remember hitting your head?" She studied his pupils.

"Not really," Langly admitted. "About the only thing I remember is a lot of noise…and heat."

She carefully examined every inch of his skull. She found a big lump on the side of his head. He sucked his breath in between his teeth when she touched it. "Sorry," the doctor said, "I hate to tell you but that's going to hurt for a while. You have a headache, no doubt."

"Yeah, and it's a killer."

She came around so she could look him in the face. "It's better than the alternative," she said laying a hand on his cheek.

With Langly under one doctor's care, Yves allowed the other doctor to more closely examine her wound. Dana suggested they go down to her office where Yves could have some privacy. She was hesitant at first to leave the professor.

"Don't worry, Yves," Jimmy told her, "me and Frohike are here. We're not going to let anything happen to him."

Dr. Mackenzie continued her examination of the professor. She ran warm, gentle fingers over his abdomen pressing firmly on each rib. Although, the ones near the gash in his chest were tender, none of them appeared to be broken.

She worked on him for quite a while finally saying, "You're a very lucky man. Except for the concussion, you're in relatively good shape. You'll have a headache for a few days but you should be all right. I would like to take you in for a few x-rays but I hear that's out of the question."

"Yves says no hospitals," Langly told the doctor.

"I understand that. We'll just keep a close eye on you for a while and hope there are no further complications. This will mean keeping you awake all night to make sure you remain coherent."

Langly didn't ask what those complications could be. He really didn't want to know.

Before Dr. Mackenzie was done with Langly, Scully returned to let her know that Yves was ready for her.

"She's in my office," she said before turning to Frohike. "Okay, Mel it's your turn."

Scully got a pair of scissors. "Here," she said. "Stand up." He did with difficulty. He kept one hand on the desk as she carefully cut through the fabric of his pants leg exposing his injury.

They turned to see Jimmy helping a freshly bandaged Langly off the table. His bloody shirt lay on the floor so he kept the blanket wrapped around himself for warmth.

"It will be easier to stitch you up if you're on the table," Dr. Mackenzie said to Frohike. He hobbled over with Dana's help. The table was high off the floor making it difficult to get up on it without a bit of a jump but he managed it, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Although his injury was ragged and deep, Dr. Mackenzie quickly cleaned, stitched and bandaged him up.

She then turned her attention to Yves. Finding her waiting in the ME's office, she examined the deep puncture wound in Yves's left shoulder.

"What hit you?"

"A brick, I think."

Dr. Mackenzie made a thoughtful noise. "It looks pretty clean. Did it bleed a great deal?"

"It bled enough."

Yves watched the doctor carefully while she worked, trying to assess her. "It's very important that no one knows about us. Dr. Scully says we can trust you to be discreet."

"I've been known to keep confidences and it seems to me that whatever's going on here is quite confidential."

"You could be in as much danger as we are if word got out that you helped us."

Dr. Mackenzie stopped midstitch to look Yves in the eyes. "I understand that. But I do have one question."

"You can ask it but I cannot guarantee an answer."

"Fair enough," said the doctor. "All I really want to know is that what you're doing is for the greater good, that it's important and not for personal gain."

Yves nodded. "It is important and, if we succeed, it will save thousands of lives."

"Then I'm glad to be of help."

Chapter 13

Maggie couldn’t decide what to feel as she sank into her office chair. She had hoped Mel would be at the office although what he would have been doing alone in the dark she didn’t want to contemplate. She sighed, leaning back in the chair. Did she really want to find Mel drunk or passed out?

Of course not, she admonished herself. And Mel was stronger then that. Yes, he’d had a few set backs recently but the Jennings case had hit him hard. However, he was doing better in his professional and personal life. He even….

Maggie shot up in her chair, laughing aloud. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

She grabbed her phone and quickly flipped through her address book until she found the number she wanted. Mel, she was sure, would seek the company of the one person who was responsible in large for his change in moods these days.

She dialed the morgue, hoping she was correct. The phone rang several times with no answer.

“Office attire has never been more lovely.”

The familiar voice made Maggie turn around. “Mr. Fletcher,” she said, dropping the receiver on the hook.

Morris Fletcher stood at the door, a smarmy grin on his face. "It’s Maggie, right?”

Maggie stood up, unconsciously smoothing her dress, trying to disguise how uneasy the man made her feel. “What are you doing here, Mr. Fletcher?”

He entered, still smiling. “I was hoping to speak to Mr. Frohike about my case.” His gaze flicked around the room, settled on Frohike’s closed office door a moment before returning to Maggie. “Is he here?”

“Of course not,” Maggie said cautiously in her most businesslike voice. “It’s Saturday night.”

“And yet you’re here.” Fletcher’s smile never wavered; his voice never lost its mild tone. It unnerved Maggie. She had worked too long for Mel not to understand the man was fishing for information about her boss and was not above putting her on the defensive to get her to slip and reveal the information he wanted.

Except Maggie didn’t know where Mel was. She pasted an embarrassed smile on her face. “Yes. I was meeting a friend for dinner…" Where was Fox? He should have called by now. “…when I realized I had forgotten to type up a contract for a client.”

“If you're still interested in talking to Mr. Frohike,” she continued, “he will be back in the office at 9 a.m. on Monday.” Maggie tried to guide the man out but he neatly sidestepped her.

“I don’t think you understand what I want, Maggie.” Fletcher continued to smile.

Before Maggie could think of anything to say, she heard footsteps in the hall. She looked up, expecting to see Fox, a boyish grin on his face and she nearly let out an audible sigh of relief.

It caught in her throat.

A man, tall and good looking stood in the doorway. He didn’t say anything, just gazed at her. His silence was more frightening then Morris Fletcher’s malevolent smile.

“Krycek,” Fletcher said cheerfully. “Come in. Maggie and I were having a conversation, why don’t you join us?”

Krycek stepped inside the office, closing the door behind him.

Maggie heard the snick of the lock a moment later.

* * * * *

Jimmy couldn’t believe his luck. His camera seemed to have made it through the evening’s craziness intact. Its only real value was sentimental. He'd purchased it with his first paycheck as a staff photographer on the Gazette.

He looked through the viewfinder and scanned the room. Professor Langly was sitting in a corner with a notebook and pencil furiously attempting to recreate his lost notes. If Langly had been agitated about being in a morgue, he apparently had forgotten all about his fears once he was lost in his work.

He turned his attention, adjusting the focus until he saw clear images of Frohike and Dr. Scully talking quietly to each other. Back in the chair he had claimed when they first arrived, Frohike looked a lot better. Dr. Mackenzie had sutured his leg and ordered him to stay off it as much as possible. He had pretty much obeyed her instructions with the exception of washing up and changing into an extra set of clothes he had stashed in the trunk of his car for long stakeouts.

He heard footsteps from the hall and quickly set the camera on the little table that held gleaming surgical tools. Trying not to dwell on the possible use of a particularly nasty looking saw-like thing, he watched anxiously as the door swung open.

He let out his held breath when Yves and Dr. Mackenzie entered. Yves looked a lot better. Like Frohike, she had washed off the worst of the dirt and soot. Dr. Scully had lent her some clothes she kept in her office for, as she said, ‘just in case.” She hadn’t elaborated or given an explanation for those cryptic words but after seeing the tools of her job, Jimmy didn’t particularly want to know.

“Miss Harlow,” Dr. Mackenzie was saying, frustration evident in her voice. “You should at least wear a sling to keep that shoulder immobile. "If those stitches …”

“They won’t,” Yves interrupted dismissively.

“Then at least get some rest.” Mackenzie’s gaze slid from Yves to Frohike. “Both of you. Your bodies have suffered significant trauma and blood loss not to mention the signs of exhaustion you're both exhibiting. You need to let your bodies heal; sleep is the best remedy I could prescribe.” When both of her patients just met her gaze with obstinate expressions, she sighed.

Yves spoke up. “Doctor Mackenzie.”

Expecting yet another warning to remain silent Mackenzie said, “I know it’s pointless to tell you not to worry so I won’t. But I will say this: however unorthodox this situation is, I believe what you told me earlier. The only assurance I can give you is that I gave Dana my word I would keep silent. I would not willingly betray her trust and by default…yours.”

Mackenzie left it at that; whether the young woman chose to believe her was up to her. Yves listened and when she finished, she saw the corner of Harlow's mouth lift a fraction of an inch.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Yves said.

“Oh.” Dr. Mackenzie was momentarily taken aback but she recovered quickly, offering a slight smile in return. “You’re welcome. Dana? Walk me out?”

Once the two doctors left, an uneasy silence fell over the weary quartet and each slipped into his or her own thoughts. Langly continued to scribble in the notebook Dr. Scully had provided him. Jimmy, at a loss of something constructive to do, took up a sentry position by the door. Frohike had said they would be safe here and he believed the detective but the vibes he was getting from Frohike and Yves did nothing to quiet his rattled nerves.

Frohike, taking Dr. Mackenzie’s advice, settled in the only comfortable chair. He stuck his bad leg straight out in front of him. Yves, her back against a wall, arms crossing over her chest, watched the Professor. Their calm veneer belied the fact they'd nearly been blown to bits earlier in the evening.

Since arriving at the morgue, Frohike'd had time to think. He kept going back to the abbreviated conversation at the beach house and the questions it birthed. He had set them aside once all hell had broken loose when their focus had changed to one of survival. But they weren’t running for their lives now, making it a good time to get some answers.

He labored out his chair, grimacing when he placed his weight on his bad leg. “We need to talk, Yves. I want –“

“Goddammit!”

Startled by Langly’s furious outburst, Frohike, Yves and Jimmy all focused on the Professor.

“What now?” Frohike growled, expecting another round of theatrics. He already missed the quiet when the Professor was unconscious.

Langly shoved the notebook away from him. “You can't expect me to recreate from memory equations that took weeks to formulate especially when I’m tired and hungry. When are we leaving this hole?” The last was directed at Yves.

“We will as soon as I can arrange a safe place for us.” For the first time since he had met her, Frohike saw a shadow of doubt behind her eyes.

“This place stinks,” Langly continued to whine. “I need someplace that doesn’t stink.”

Ignoring the scientist, Frohike leveled his gaze on Yves. In a skeptical voice he asked, “That’s your big plan? Run and hide?”

“My first priority is to keep the Professor alive,” Yves said. “If that means we run and hide, then that is what I will do.”

Not what she wanted to do.

It was obvious to Frohike that she preferred a more direct approach to the problem but as long as she was saddled with the task of protecting the Professor she would do just that.

“Yeah,” Langly said in a haughty voice. “Besides, it’s only for a few more days.”

“Professor, do you intend to call another press conference?" Yves asked mildly. A guilty flush spread over Langly’s face and he lapsed into silence.

“What’s going to happen in a few days?” Jimmy asked glancing from one to the other.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Yves said tersely.

“The hell it doesn’t,” Frohike retorted, jerking a finger at Jimmy. “He and I were nearly killed tonight. I think we deserve to know the truth about what’s going on.” When she didn’t reply, he took several steps toward her. “I want answers, Yves, and it had better be the truth.”

Yves stared at him, a bland expression on her face. Frohike glared back, refusing to back down. After a few seconds, she sighed, as if coming to a decision.

“What you said at the beach house was correct,” she said finally.

Frohike mentally reviewed what they had discussed. They had touched upon a number of things but before he could ask which one Yves meant, Jimmy did it for him.

“What was he right about?”

Yves flicked a glance at him before returning her attention to Frohike. “Before I answer that, I’d like you to answer a question.” She studied him carefully continuing. “Who do you think I am?”

Frohike grinned. “British Intelligence. MI-6 to be precise.”

Yves crossed the autopsy room to stand by the table where she had place the two wooden boxes. Frohike recognized them as the boxes the Professor had made a point of taking from the house before it exploded. Yves had also risked her life to save them before they fled from their pursuers.

“You were correct about this being about German codes.”

It was at that point the Dana Scully returned. She looked from Frohike to Yves, sensing the tension in the room. “Am I interrupting something?”

Frohike’s first impulse was to assure Dana she wasn’t. After everything she had done for them, he figured she had a right to hear what Yves was about to say, no matter how much the younger woman pursed her lips in disapproval. But common sense won out in the end. The less Dana knew, the safer she would be. “Dana, could you give us a few minutes?”

“I have some paperwork that I need to attend to,” she said. Frohike could have kissed her right then and there but she had already turned to leave, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She was an incredibly special lady, one he didn’t deserve, but he would do whatever it took to atone for every ugly thing he'd dropped on her doorstep.

“The Allies have been unable to decrypt the German codes,” Yves continued, glancing at Frohike. “We received information that they had an advanced encoding device called ‘the Enigma’."

“Enigma?” Jimmy interrupted looking at Langly who had set his notebook aside and was listening to the conversation. “You mentioned that a couple times when I talked to you. I thought you were referring to the codes but it was a machine.” He pointed to the box. “That machine.”

“Actually,” Langly said in a superior tone, “I was referring to both.”

“Shut up. Both of you,” Frohike ordered. To Yves he said. “I take it there was a mission to…" he paused, “…acquire one.”

She nodded. “Only it was the Poles who succeeded but before they could hand it over to British agents it disappeared. It was learned that an unknown player hired an independent agent to steal the machine. This person’s identity has not been discovered, but the thief’s identity was and plans were made to recover the Enigma.”

“Why do I have the feeling,” Frohike said, “that the thief was Morris Fletcher.”

“Morris Fletcher is a slick conman,” Yves said by way of confirmation. “Each time he would identify the agents then…"

“He'd disappear,” Frohike finished.

Yves scowled. “Not right away. He’d let the agents get close and then vanished, often setting them up so they would end up in embarrassing or compromising situations. To him it was a game, something to amuse himself until he could deliver the item to his employer.”

“London decided to send one last agent but this time the agent was to play Fletcher’s game and use it against him. This agent succeeded where more experienced agents failed.” From the brief, proud smile Frohike suspected Yves had been the agent in question. It was then he realized with some amusement that she never admitted to being an agent.

Jimmy furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand. Why would you bring the Enigma machine to America? Why not England?”

“It was taken to England originally. From what I understand, there is a cadre of scientists working around the clock on deciphering the code. After a time, I was asked to bring it here.”

“Yeah, they sent Yves to beg me to join them,” Langly boasted.

Yves rolled her eyes. “In a few days we are rendezvousing with MI-6 agents who will escort the professor back to England to a place there where he can help break the codes.”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed, “But you have an Enigma machine. Don’t you know how it works?”

“They do,” Langly said from his corner, “but there are 150 million million million possible combinations. For the last ten months, the best minds in cryptography have been trying to figure out which combination the Nazis have been using but they are no closer to it than when they started."

“Thanks for that enlightening lesson,” Frohike said sarcastically, “don’t let us keep you from your work.” With a frown, Langly submerged himself in the notebook muttering to no one in particular about his ill treatment. Frohike turned to Yves. “So basically, what you’re saying is Morris Fletcher is trying to get the Enigma back?”

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss Fletcher. He’s a conman, yes, but he's also quite dangerous. He didn’t take losing the Enigma too well.” Yves glanced at the machine, a shadow passing over her features. When she looked up again, she wore an expression of careful neutrality. “He’s working for someone who is powerful and far more dangerous…"

“This mysterious employer have a name?”

“The only name we have for him is a codename.” Yves shrugged as if to infer she had no part in naming him. “Cigarette Smoking Man… due to the fact that, the few times they’ve gotten close to him, they found ashtrays full of crushed cigarettes.”

Jimmy snorted. “That doesn't narrow it down much: nearly everyone smokes.”

Frohike glanced at the photographer. “I think that’s their point.”

Yves went to stand next to Langly. “Regardless, the fact remains that this person is powerful and has connections inside the FBI and Fletcher has access to those resources.”

“Which means we can’t trust anyone in the FBI,” Langly said softly, fear in his voice. “And because of the Blitz, Yves can’t contact anyone to let them know we’re in trouble.”

Carefully considering everything Yves had told him, Frohike said. “I think I know someone who may be able help us.”

Yves raised an eyebrow. “Us?”

Frohike leaned against the desk taking some of the weight off his bad leg. “Whether you like it or not, Sugar, we’re involved: me and the boy wonder there. The bad guys know what we look like and I have no intention of crawling into a dark hole counting the minutes until your buddies get here. And from what I’ve seen of you, you wouldn’t much care for that either.”

“What are you suggesting?” Yves asked.

“The F.B.I.” He raised a hand when she started to protest. “I know someone who has connections. I'm sure they could find you somewhere safe to wait until it's time to meet up with your pals.”

"How can you be so sure I can trust this person?" asked Yves.

"He’s honest and can’t be bought."

“Everyone can be bought,” Yves stated. “It’s just a matter of discovering his price.”

“That’s an awful way to think,” said Jimmy quietly.

Yves turned her gaze on him. “It’s reality,” she said simply.

“So, do you agree?” Frohike asked.

“To what,” Yves asked, “exchanging one rabbit hole for another? It’s still hiding and I'm no longer in control.”

The woman could be stubborn, Frohike thought. But he still had an ace up his sleeve and he played it. “At least the professor would be safe. Besides, you could throw the G-Men a few tidbits about Fletcher. And I'm sure they would like to hear whatever information you can give them about a mole in their ranks.”

Yves frowned, thinking long and hard about Frohike's offer. The others watched her knowing that, with the Professor under her protection, all the decisions for his safety were hers to make.

After a full minute of silence, she admitted, “I don't like it but I can't see that we have any other choice."

“You always have a choice. Just make sure you're using that pretty little brain of yours when you make it.” The angry spark that lit her eyes told him he’d gone too far. “Easy, Sugar,” he said. “All I meant was, I can help you but I don’t want to get back here and find you've vamoosed with the walking math problem over there.”

"We'll be here," Yves assured him.

“Good. I’ll go now,” Frohike turned to leave then paused. He glanced back at Yves. “You’re returning to England with Blondie, I take it?”

“Of course,” she said.

He reached into his pocket, removing his wallet. He took out a slip of paper and offered it to her.

“What’s this?” Yves asked quizzically.

“In case you’re wondering, I sent Monica out of town for the weekend. That’s the phone number where she can be reached.” When Yves didn’t reply or take the paper, he asked, “You were going to tell your sister that you're leaving?”

Even as he said the words, he knew she had no intention of telling Monica. He wondered whether or not Yves had used her relationship with Monica as a cover. He was afraid to look too closely because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t have time to deal with Monica right now.” Yves’ dismissive tone angered Frohike.

“You'd better make time because you were the one who pulled her into your little web of lies and put her in jeopardy. She knows we went to that beach house. I think you owe her a phone call to let her know you didn’t get roasted alive before she hears about it on the radio.”

He let go of the folded paper, which fluttered to the floor. He then turned and stormed from the room as best he could with his bum leg. He nearly ran into Scully who was returning to check on them. She took one look at his expression and, circling an arm around his waist, left with him.

Yves picked up the piece of paper. She looked at it a moment, indecision on her face before crumpling it up.

“You’re not going to call her?”

Yves glanced at Jimmy, noting the disapproval in his expression. “No.”

“But she’s your sister,” he protested.

She sighed. “Which is precisely why I can’t call her.”

“But you wrote her that letter,” Jimmy pointed out, not understanding her reasoning. He studied her face wanting to understand.

She averted her gaze to watch Langly scribbling in his notebook. There was no reason she should have to explain herself to Jimmy Bond. It was none of his business.

“Why is a phone call different, Yves?” he gently pressed.

“The letter was a grievous error,” Yves said finally. “I intended to warn her but all I did was place her in greater danger.”

“But she’s safe now,” Jimmy insisted, “Frohike told her not to tell anyone where she was."

“I can’t risk it.” Her face hardened. “Besides, once I'm gone, it will be a moot point. Frohike was correct when he said I was using Monica.”

Jimmy winced at the callousness in her tone. He remembered what Monica said about their background. “Monica told me about your dad.”

“Mr. Bond, I don’t see how any of this is your business.” Yves’ voice was tight, angry...defensive.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy said quickly, sensing she wouldn’t tolerate the conversation much longer. “I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that…the two of you have a lot in common. Your dad betrayed both of you. When her dad told her about you, she was deeply hurt but in spite all that, she used her inheritance to find you. She accepted you as her sister, inviting you into her life and in the process alienating her brother. He refuses to speak to her.”

“I’m well aware of how the story goes,” Yves retorted but there was no rancor in her voice.

“My point is,” said Jimmy quickly, “she didn’t have to do all that but she did. I think no matter how this thing with the Professor plays out, it wouldn’t change the fact that you are Monica’s sister, her family.” He paused letting his words sink in. Whatever she did next, it was up to her. He just hoped she would give Monica a chance.

“I’ve gotta go give Frohike his car keys,” he said. "He forgot I still have them." He headed for the door to leave her with her thoughts. "Think about it. It's just a phone call. I’m sure you won't regret it."

Yves watched him go then opened her hand and smoothed out the piece of paper. She explored her emotions, surprised to discover the resentment and anger she had harbored since Frohike had first found her in England had completely disappeared.

He was right, she decided. While Monica had proved to be a convenient cover, in spending time with her, Yves had found her to be family. She did need to talk to Monica and tell her something.

She owed her that much at least.

Chapter 14

Byers settled in a chair, the files of his latest case spread out on the table in front of him. He'd just opened the first folder and begun to read when someone started pounding on his door. He glanced toward it before shifting his gaze to the clock on the wall.

“Who can that be?” he wondered, “It’s nearly 8 o’clock.”

The pounding continued. Figuring that it must be important for someone to disturb him at home at that hour, Byers hurried to the door, unlocked it and opened it. He was surprised to find Melvin Frohike in his front step looking bruised, bloodied and generally disheveled.

“Beating up another suspect?” Even as he heard himself say it, Byers knew it was uncalled for. The man just rubbed him the wrong way.

“Shut up, Byers," Frohike snapped shocking Byers further. “Just shut up and listen to me for a moment. I’m too tired and I hurt too much to put up with your petty and bitter attacks on me tonight.” He rubbed his face with his hands and said quietly, “I need your help.”

John nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of that statement but the man’s physical state stopped him. He couldn’t believe himself when he stepped aside. “Come in.”

He led Frohike to his living room. Their progress was slow as Frohike was limping badly on his right leg. Byers waited for him to sit in a chair near the fire. “Tell me what happened?”

Frohike sighed, settling farther into the chair. “It’s a long story. I just ask that you refrain from commenting until I finish.” Frohike waited until Byers sat down in a chair opposite him before launching into his story, leaving nothing out.

As he told it, he knew, to someone who had not been involved in it from the beginning, that it must sound like something out of a dime store novel: missing scientists, beautiful mysterious women, spies, FBI moles, and a secret decoding machine. Not to mention explosions, car chases and gun battles.

He watched Byers reactions as he talked, hoping for some sign that the District Attorney believed him but Byers showed no emotion. For part of the story, Byers didn't look at Frohike but sat staring into the fire. Frohike wasn't sure if it was because he couldn't stand the sight of him or he was just listening intently and visualizing the events as they were related.

When Frohike finished, Byers sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful.

“What do you need from me?” Byers asked finally.

“You have connections in the F.B.I. You've worked closely with them in the past. There must be people there you trust. That's what I need now. Someone who will help these two, keep them safe.”

Byers' eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline. "And you want me to help you with this? After everything that's happened the last couple of years, you think I'm the one to come to?"

Frohike's ire rose; it tasted like vinegar in the back of his throat. "Look, yes or no. I know what you think of me but it's not my neck on the line here. It's theirs. Can you help them?"

Shaking his head, Byers said, "It's not that. I just can't believe you'd trust me."

"Trust, yes. Want to be chums with…" Frohike left that last statement hanging. He felt he'd already gone too far and he really did need the man's help.

Unfazed by the implied insult, Byers nodded, obviously deep in thought. “I know someone. He’s a straight arrow.”

Byers couldn't help but notice the look of immense relief on the private investigator's face. "Thank you," said Frohike. “Can you get in touch with him tonight?

“I think so."

"There's one other thing of a more personal nature," said Frohike, "and I wouldn't ask it but …"

"Go ahead and ask."

"As I said, the professor was the closest to the explosion. His clothes got pretty torn up. The doctor cut off what was left of them. Do you have an old pair of pants and a shirt he can use?"

Without saying a word, the DA got up and left the room. In a couple of minutes, he returned with some neatly folded clothes in his hands. "These should work," he said, setting them on a table near Frohike's elbow.

Frohike stood up leaning heavily on the arms of the chair to push himself upright. “Where are you going?” Byers asked.

“I’ve got to get back. Harlow is jittery enough that, if the doctor gives the professor a clean bill of health, she might take off with him. As exhausted as she is…" Frohike looked away, "one mistake and they're both dead.” He picked up the clothes. "Thanks for these."

“She isn't the only one exhausted,” Byers pointed out. “You look like you're ready to fall over.”

“I’ll catch some sleep while I wait for the slow wheels of justice to turn. “ Frohike said with a half-hearted grin. “I should be well rested by then.”

"Where can I find you?” Byers asked as they made their way to the door.

"I've got them stashed at the morgue for the time being but we can't stay there for long without bringing attention to ourselves."

Byers nodded.

Byers locked up after the detective then returned to the library. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out an address book. He knew exactly who he needed to call.

* * * * *

“….get some rest. It’ll help your recovery and besides you’re clearly exhausted.”

Yves faced Dana Scully meeting the doctor’s perturbed expression with her own steely resolve. Ever since Melvin Frohike had left to meet someone he claimed could help them, Scully had been making persistent suggestions that she should get some sleep.

It should have raised her suspicions of a possible trap but Yves sensed nothing of the kind from the woman. Or maybe she was just too damn tired to see clearly. Her eyes felt grainy, her lids heavy and the exhaustion Dana Scully spoke of fitted Yves like a cloak on a damp London night.

“Someone needs to keep guard,” Yves replied stubbornly.

Jimmy, who had been messing with his camera yet obviously listening to the conversation, spoke up then. “I could stand guard.”

Yves flicked her gaze at Jimmy, assessing him. “Oh? And what happens if Morris Fletcher and his thugs show up? How will you defend yourself or the Professor? Shoot them with your camera,” she asked with harsh sarcasm.

Once again Yves sensed she handled the situation with him the wrong way. His face flushed pink as much from embarrassment as anger. He set his camera on the table and got a bullish look in his face. Before he could reply, Yves cut him off.

“That was out of line,” she said in way of apology. “But if you want to help, by all means; stand guard.” She took her gun from her pocket and handed it butt first to Jimmy. Not surprisingly he stared at it warily as if it was a venomous viper but from the look on his face, he was seriously contemplating her question. “Just be prepared to shoot to kill,” she continued, stressing the point. “Can you do that?”

He flinched slightly at her question. “I think…” he worried his bottom lip then said uncomfortably, quietly. “Maybe.” A beat later he said, guiltily. “No.”

“Great,” Langly groaned from the chair where he was sitting with notebooks spread out on his lap. “I’m a dead man.”

“No one needs to handle your gun but you,” Scully announced coolly. “Jimmy told me that you and Mel shot out your assailants' tire. There’s no way they can know you are here.”

Yves shot Jimmy a furious glare before replying just as coolly. “Fletcher is an intelligent man. I’m sure he suspects one or more of us had been hurt in the explosion. All he needs to do is check Frohike’s known associates. It’s only a matter of time before he learns the local M.E. is a personal friend.”

Scully’s lips curled in an ‘aha’ smile. “Mel and I met only three days ago in connection with another of his cases. No one would link us to anything beyond a fleeting, professional relationship.” She could see the younger woman assimilating that information, trying to organize an objection.

Dana wondered when Yves had last slept. From the dark circles under the other woman’s eyes she judged maybe 48 hours, possibly longer. While she had no doubt of Yves’ abilities with a gun, sleep deprivation could hinder her mental and physical responses.

“I need to know the Professor is safe,” Yves finally said as if answering some internal argument. “I’ll sleep when he sleeps.”

“So, I’ll sleep,” Langly said, “I’m pretty tired myself.”

“You will not,” Scully said. “Not for another twelve hours minimum.” She needed to convince Yves to sleep and keep the Professor awake. It was a daunting task, one she would normally be up to but she had never been in a situation like this before. She glanced at Jimmy, hoping he could help but he returned her gaze, his own concern in his eyes.

“I’ll stand guard.”

Dana whirled around, startled to see Frohike standing at the door. Jimmy and Langly were equally surprised while to Scully's chagrin, Yves merely looked at him. She had obviously noted his return earlier.

Scully's surprise swiftly turned to relief at knowing he was okay. Or was he, she wondered, studying him. His face was drawn and gray with the same dark circles under his eyes that Yves had. And he was still favoring his wounded leg. He had to be in a great deal of pain.

“You’re just as exhausted as she is,” Dana protested. “I’m sure Jimmy and I can look out for the professor. If there are any problems, we’ll wake you both.”

“And what if you’re not given that chance?” Yves demanded. “We would never know anything is happening.”

“Then we take turns,” Frohike decided. “I’ll take the first watch and wake you up in a few hours.”

“There’s a couch in my office,” Scully supplied, using her soothing doctor's voice. “It’s comfortable and, as you know, not far from the autopsy room.”

“Come on, Yves.” Langly’s voice piped up. Concern for his protector was evident on his face. “With all these people here, it’s safe. I’m safe. And besides Doohike –“

“Frohike,” growled Frohike.

“– Frohike’s got a gun and Jimbo says he’s a good shot.”

Yves rubbed the side of her temple as if trying to remember something. “What about your friend? Will he help us?”

“Yes,” Frohike said. “He’ll come straight here as soon as he gets in touch with his contact in the F.B.I. Right now there’s nothing to do but wait. You might as well get some sleep.”

She studied Frohike’s face. “I have your word you’ll wake me if anything happens?”

Frohike met her gaze. “It’s your game, Sugar. I’m just riding shotgun.”

Yves grimaced. Scully thought she was going to argue but then her shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she acquiesced, “but only a few hours.”

One down and one to go, Dana thought as Yves strode out of the room.

“She’s one tough cookie.” Frohike muttered.

Dana regarded him a moment, feeling a momentary kinship with the younger woman. "You have to be to survive in a male dominated profession.” She turned her attention to Langly. “Professor, give Mel the chair.”

“What?” Langly looked stunned. “Why?”

“Because,” Dana said, sensing a fight ahead, “Mel needs to get off his bad leg and the chair won’t agitate it.”

“But I almost died! I have a concussion and have to stay awake,” he whined.

“Don’t worry,” Jimmy said cheerfully to the scientist. “I’ll make sure you stay awake.”

“Good thinking,” Dana said, “Why don’t you boys make some coffee and perhaps raid the vending machines in the employee lounge for something to eat?” She figured it would give her enough time for what she needed to do.

“What am I? An errand boy? I’m a highly regarded scientist – ”

“Sure thing Dr. Scully,” Jimmy interrupted Langly’s tirade. “Come on, Professor.”

"Jimmy, wait," commanded Frohike. "I got Caesar there some clothes." He inclined his head toward the professor who was still wrapped in a blanket. "I left them in the trunk of my car."

"No problem." Holding out his hand, Jimmy caught Frohike's keys. He then grabbed Langly by the arm to drag him out of the morgue.

“Awww man, why do we have to be the ones to leave? They just want to be alone to…wait. Did he say clothes? It’s about damn time. This blanket isn’t the warmest and there is this draft…"

Langly’s voice faded, leaving Dana and Mel in blessed quiet.

“I want you to sit down and relax,” she said, “Doctor's orders.” She slid her arm around his waist. He didn’t protest but allowed her guide him to the chair. She noted his limp was more pronounced even though he tried to hide it: Mr. Tough Guy. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at the thought. “The Professor was right, you know,” she murmured in his ear. She helped him sit then said, “I do want to be alone with you.”

He gazed up at her. “Why Dr. Scully,” he said in mock surprise, “how devious of you. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

“My sleeves?” She raised one eyebrow as if perplexed by his comment. She slipped off her lab coat to reveal a white silk, sleeveless shell underneath. “As you can see I have no sleeves.” She dropped her lab coat on the desk then perched on the edge and crossed her legs, giving him an excellent view of well-toned and shapely calves.

“I just thought we could talk, get to know each other better.” She paused for a couple of seconds then added. “It will be less awkward when I kiss you later.”

He ripped his appreciative gaze from her legs to her face so fast Dana worried he might have strained his neck. His smile though made her glad she was holding onto the desk with both hands for support. “Tell me all about yourself, Red,” he drawled, “because I don’t want anything to be awkward between us.”

Dana could feel her heartbeat accelerate and she had to remind herself this little conversation wasn’t for pleasure.

At least not entirely.

“Tell me more about your time in medical school,” Frohike said after a moment’s thought, “I bet a lot of idiots must have been threatened by your decision to become a doctor. They couldn’t have made it easy for you.”

Dana could see he was genuinely interested and it warmed her. “They didn’t,” she said then clarified, “My professors as well as other students did everything they could to make life hell for me. And in between, they would suggest I find a career more fitting my gender.

"After a few months their harassment was wearing me down but I refused to quit. I think it was part stubbornness and part because being a doctor was all I all I ever wanted to be. Then I met Sally McKenzie.”

As he listened, Mel asked a few questions or commented on other men’s intelligence but after a while, he simply settled back to listen. Scully continued her story speaking in dulcet tones and watching him closely.

It was ten minutes later when Dana was sure he had fallen asleep. With a satisfied smile, she stood up and gently placed her lab coat over him. She touched his face lightly, letting her hand drift down his cheek. He was so careworn but in sleep, most of the lines in his face eased and while he didn’t exactly look young or untroubled, he did at least for the moment look content.

The sound of Jimmy and Professor Langly’s voices in the hallway made her spin around and hurry out to meet them. “Shhh,” she told the boys, whose arms were full of coffee cups and sandwiches. “Mel is asleep.” Jimmy, towering over her, had no trouble seeing over her head to note that she was correct. “Let’s go to the admittance bay until he and Yves wake up,” said Dr. Scully pointing out the way she wanted them to go.

“But my notes are in there,” Langly protested. “I need my notes.”

He started to go around her but Dana moved to block him. “I’ll get them. Stay here,” she ordered.

“And the Enigma,” he added, “It’s those two brown box with the straps.”

“And my camera,” Jimmy threw in.

With an exasperated sigh, Dana went in, scooped up the notebooks and tucking them under one arm, she put the camera strap over her head. She took one box in each hand, discovering they heavier than they looked. She glanced one last time at Mel. Thankfully, he was sleeping soundly, gentle snores emanating from him.

As quietly as possible, she left the morgue then guided both men down the hall.

* * * * *

“Look, it’s not that difficult a concept to grasp,” Langly said, frustration evident in his voice. He should give up attempting to explain the Enigma to Jimmy. Even Yves, whom Langly grudgingly considered pretty smart, got a glazed look in her eyes the few times he tried to instruct her on the intricacies of code breaking. So why the hell should he expect Bond to grasp the concept?

Because it kept him from dwelling on his pounding headache, which he had vocally complained about earlier and gotten no sympathy. It felt as if someone had dropped a damn anvil on him. Well, that and the fact people were trying to kill him and had nearly succeeded in doing so.

He shuddered involuntarily, remembering the scorching heat of the blast before everything had gone dark. Don’t think about it, he commanded himself. Think about your work. It was safe, comforting. It made him forget all the other stuff for a bit and if in order to do that he had to find a way to simplify his explanation so Jimmy could understand…so be it.

“Come on,” he snapped. He led Jimmy to the admissions desk where Dr. Scully sat reading a copy of ‘Life’ magazine while the Tommy Dorsey Band played on the radio.

She looked up from the magazine. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, resisting the urge to utter the truly smart ass remark that sprang to mind.

It wasn’t the Doc’s fault he was in this mess and besides she was indirectly responsible for the one good thing to happen to him tonight. He nearly cracked a smile at the memory of Sally McKenzie standing over him like an Angel, the sharp morgue lights glinting off her vibrant red hair.

She had the surest, lightest touch. It had almost made his agonizing pain bearable. And she smelled heavenly of apples and spice.

He knew his reaction to Sally McKenzie was illogical. After all the stress and pain of the past few weeks, it was natural to be attracted to her because she had fixed him up. And she hadn’t dismissed his complaints. But he remembered her cool touch on his forehead, how good it felt and he couldn't dismiss his feelings as a knee jerk reaction to stress.

But what did it matter anyway? If he survived the next few days he was heading to England for who knows how long? He’d probably never see her again and, if he did, she probably wouldn’t remember him anyway.

The Doc went back to her LIFE magazine, and the irony of that not being lost on Langly, he grabbed the Enigma off the desk and returned to his corner so he wouldn’t have to listen to Tommy Dorsey.

He set the wooden case on the counter and opened the top to reveal the machine. Jimmy stepped up to see inside, an expression of resigned patience on his face.

“See, it only weighs 26 pounds, battery included, and goes anywhere. The Germans have thousands of them.” Langly spun one of the dials. “It turns plain-text messages into gobbledygook. Then the gobbledygook is translated into Morse code. At the receiving end, there's another Enigma machine to turn it back into the original message. Press the same key any number of times –“ Langly proceeded to do so, “…it will always come out different.”

“How?” Jimmy asked, puzzled.

Langly glanced at the machine with admiration, wondering how anyone wouldn’t find this fascinating. He flipped down the front plate of the wooden case to reveal rows of plug receptacles with a letter printed above each one.

“The machine has 150 million million million ways of doing it according to how you set these three rotors and how you connect these plugs.” As Langly spoke, he pointed out to various parts of the machine. “The current passes from the keyboard to the lights by way of the rotors and plugs. Every time you press a key, it changes the path of the current. Press the same key ten times it comes out ten different ways on the light board. You never know which letters will light up.” He grinned. "It's brilliant…really brilliant."

Langly looked at Jimmy expectantly. The man just stared at the rotors for a few more seconds before saying in a tone that told Langly he had actually been listening and not off in dreamland. “So, even if the Allies figure out the code being used, the Germans just change the positions of the rotors and the Allies have to start all over?”

“You got it. And the only way to figure out the encryption is to listen to coded messages and to try to find letters in common and cross reference them with other messages like weather reports which contain known information.”

“I keep wondering how long before the United States wakes up and realizes we can’t continue doing nothing in the name of neutrality,” Langly continued angrily. He stood up and started pacing. “It’s not our war? Yet the government is going behind our backs to help the Allies thinking no one will figure it out. It scares me to think what will take before the U.S. becomes officially involved. It’s why I was going to England in the first place. I want to help the Allies decipher the code so they can stop the Germans before something catastrophic happens to drag the United States into the war.”

He was ranting and knew it but he couldn’t help it. It had been bottled up inside of him for so long. “I think I was close,” he muttered.

“Close to what?” Jimmy eyed him anxiously. “Professor?”

“To finding a formula that could help break the encryption,” he said. He slammed his fist against the wall. It wasn’t very hard and it barely even made a sound but it hurt all the same. He swept a hand through his long blonde hair fighting the ache in his chest. “Three months of work gone,” he muttered, “destroyed in seconds.”

“God, I wish I was at Bletchley Park already," he continued. "Then I’d have some of the greatest minds in cryptography to work with, to bounce ideas off of. Instead I’m reduced to hiding out in warehouses and morgues, scratching out equations in borrowed notebooks and on chalkboards.”

“Chalkboards?” Jimmy’s brow furrowed. “I saw a bunch of equations and stuff on the chalkboard in your lab. Is that the stuff you lost?”

“Yeah,” Langly sighed, resigned. “I thought for sure when I got to England I’d have something solid we could use.”

“Professor!” Jimmy said, getting excited. “The chalkboard wasn’t erased real well.”

“So? Yves had it destroyed. It can’t help me now.”

“I took pictures of the chalkboard!”

Langly stared at Jimmy, understanding why he was practically bursting with excitement. “You…have…pictures,” he said slowly, “of my equations.”

“Yes!”

“Jimmy? Professor? Everything okay?” Dr. Scully asked, rising from the admission desk.

“I’ll say!” Langly grinned, feeling as if he had been given a reprieve. “He has pictures of my equations.” He turned to look at Jimmy. “Where are they?”

“My apartment.”

“We have to go there right now!”

“Wait one minute,” Scully ordered, looking confused and worried. “Why do you need to go to Jimmy’s apartment?”

“All my notes were destroyed in the explosion,” Langly said impatiently. “But he,” he jerked a thumb at Jimmy, “took pictures of them. They’re in his apartment. We have to go and get them.”

“How does Jimmy have pictures of your work,” Dana asked, “I thought Mel and Jimmy found you and Yves at the beach house?”

“We did,” Jimmy said.

Langly barely listened as Jimmy explained how he had gone to the lab only to find it deserted, except for the poorly erased chalkboard. He was exuberant with the possibility he wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

“We have to get those pictures,” Langly inserted when Jimmy finished.

The doctor held up a hand, palm outward. Judging from her expression she was going to say something he was not going to like.

“I agree it’s plausible the photos might be helpful,” Dana said, “but you are not leaving the morgue….”

“Why the hell not,” Langly demanded. He was sick of people telling him what he could and couldn’t do.

“…without talking to Mel or Yves first,” she finished.

“So, let’s go talk to them, already.”

“They need their rest and I have no intention of waking them prematurely.” Dana said. She gazed at him. “And neither will you or Jimmy. These pictures can wait until they awaken on their own.”

Jimmy nodded. “Doctor Scully is right, Professor,” he said. “We shouldn’t go anywhere without Yves or Frohike. We can wait a little while longer and that way you’ll be safe.”

Langly uttered a heavy sigh knowing he couldn’t win this argument. “Fine. We’ll wait but if Yves isn’t awake in an hour…”

A disturbance at the outer admittance bay doors kept him from finishing his thought. The low rumble of a vehicle's engine could be heard in the driveway.

Fear tangled inside the professor like a fly caught in a spider’s web. “Oh God!” he managed. He looked at Jimmy and Scully and saw his fear in their faces. Suddenly he wanted Yves here snapping orders at him and standing between him and danger.

Hell, right now he’d even take that abrasive P.I.

Dr. Scully took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as if calming herself. “It's probably just a delivery,” she said in a calm, crisp, take charge voice, “but until I’m sure I want both of you to hide.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Jimmy objected.

“No,” Scully said. “Your job is to keep an eye on the Professor. Now go!”

Langly’s heart felt like it was about to crash through his chest. “Where?”

“The employee lounge,” Scully said automatically. “There’s a phone in there. I’ll call when it’s all clear.”

The buzz of the doorbell sounded ominous in the room.

“What if it’s them,” Jimmy asked, upset. He didn’t want to leave Scully to face these people alone.

Scully glanced at the door for a moment then returned her gaze to Jimmy. “If I don’t call you within five minutes get to either Mel or Yves. But not until those five minutes are up. Understand?”

“Yeah, sure,” Langly said, already backing toward the hallway. He waited until Jimmy reluctantly agreed then the two of them hurried out.

Once they reached the employee lunch room, Jimmy took a position by the door while Langly stood next to the phone willing it to ring.

Langly counted two minutes fifty seconds, anxiety building in his guts, filling him.

This was insane. They should have gone straight to Yves and told her someone was at the door. Instead they deferred to the Doc. Yeah…they could all be killed any second but at least Yves and Frohike would get a couple extra minutes of sleep.

He knew he could become so overly engrossed in his work that he tuned everything out but he had seen how exhausted Yves had become: the dark shadows under her eyes, always having to be alert to possible danger. The only time she had remotely relaxed since Jimmy and that reporter, Spender, had come to the warehouse was that first night in the beach house.

And it was his fault the two newspapermen had come in the first place. So he was going to wait and count off the seconds.

The sound of the phone shattered the silence. He nearly jumped out of his skin before snatching the receiver off the cradle.

“It’s clear,” Dr. Scully said. He nearly went weak with relief and gripped the receiver tighter. “I would have called earlier but the police need a work up done as soon as possible. Could you make a pot if strong coffee, please?”

Langly hung up. “She has to do an autopsy," he said to Jimmy who was watching him, "and wants you to make some coffee.”

The tension drained from Jimmy's body and he nodded as if happy for something constructive to do. “There’s coffee left in the pot,” he said, walking over to the coffee maker. “It’s still hot. I’ll bring her that and then make some fresh.”

“Good idea,” Langly said.

Once Jimmy finished making the coffee the way the Doc apparently liked it, strong enough to peal paint, he glanced at Langly. “You coming?”

“She’s doing an autopsy,” Langly said, feeling his stomach clench at the mere thought of dead bodies. “No way I’m gonna see that. I’m staying here.”

“You could wait in the hallway,” Jimmy suggested.

“Nope.” Langly shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere near that.” He sat down obstinately in one of the black metal chairs to make it clear that there was no way he was going anywhere near the morgue.

Jimmy stood at the entrance, the doctor’s coffee in hand, and looking like he didn’t relish the idea of leaving him alone.

Langly would have felt bad for the kid but he refused to be dragged all over Washington D.C. like some little girl’s rag doll. “Look,” he said impatiently, “Just take the Doc her coffee. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jimmy considered this then nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

Langly rolled his eyes. “I feel safer already,” he muttered sarcastically.

Once he left, Langly stood up, unable to remain still. He needed to pace, to move. Not surprisingly his thoughts returned to Jimmy’s admission that he had pictures of the destroyed equations.

He wanted those equations, no… he needed those equations but he had promised the Doc he would wait until Yves woke up. He had also promised to let Yves wake on her own.

Oh God, she would kill him if she knew what he wanted to do. He was pretty sure Yves would not consider those pictures an acceptable risk, especially not this close to the rendezvous time. This meant that if he was going to get those photos, he had to do it before she woke up, before the Doc realized that something was amiss.

He could only see two problems with his plan. One, he didn’t know where Jimmy Bond lived, and two, he had to convince the guy to take him there.

By the way, where was he? How long did it take to deliver a cup of coffee? Langly just couldn’t see the man hanging around the morgue, watching the doc work. A little nervous but not unduly concerned, he stepped out of the break room. Jimmy had probably just talked a bit with the Doc and was now heading back.

He rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks when he saw Jimmy Bond. What the hell was he doing skulking outside the door to Dr. Scully's office?

Oh God. Had the Doc ordered him to wake Yves?

But why the hesitancy if she had? Why not just knock?

Langly grew suspicious, feeling just a bit protective of his protector. He really didn’t know Jimmy Bond. The guy could be some crazy who preyed on defenseless women. Just the other day there was an article in the paper about some guy who had sexually abused and murdered a little girl. Although Yves wasn’t a little girl and nowhere near defenseless – he picked up his pace.

“Hey,” Langly whispered as loud as he dared. “What are you doing?”

Jimmy whirled around, guilt written all over his face. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just…looking for you.”

“In the Doc’s office? Sure you were.” Langly stressed the disbelief and sarcasm in his voice, letting the guy know he wasn’t fooled. His heart pounding crazily in his chest he realized he just might've made a mistake especially if the guy was a psycho.

While he was only a few inches taller, Jimmy was about fifty pounds heavier and one of those athletic types that could probably bench press him without breaking a sweat.

If it was possible, Jimmy looked even guiltier, a faint scarlet flush crawling up his face.

“What were you doing?” Langly asked, crossing his arms. His bravado growing at Jimmy's obvious discomfort.

“I...” Jimmy looked at the door then back at him. “I was just going to...” The rest was lost in incoherent mumbling.

“Going to what…?” Langly demanded.

“Check on her!” Jimmy exclaimed in a harsh whisper. “I was going to check on Yves.” He glanced quickly at the door as if afraid she might have heard him.

Langly shook his head, confused by this admission. “Why?”

The scarlet that had started to fade from Jimmy’s face, returned and suddenly Langly understood.

Jimmy was sweet on Yves.

Langly smiled, feeling incredibly pleased. He mentally rubbed his hands together like a villain in the movies. He knew exactly how to convince Jimmy Bond to go along with his plan.

Chapter 15

Frohike jerked awake, confused and disoriented, his heart hammering in his chest. It was just a dream but that knowledge didn’t help the layer of unease that had settled over him in the dark.

It was dark. Why was it dark?

He searched his memory; afraid all he would remember was passing out after an alcoholic binge. But his mouth lacked that foul morning after taste and he was sitting up which meant he had dozed off in a chair. He could also smell Dana’s perfume.

Where was she? And where were the others? His questions were met by a silence he didn’t like. He sat up, feeling pain from a crick in his neck. He rolled his neck around, hearing the joints crack. How long had he been asleep? The crick meant he had been out far longer than he thought.

He reached up and snapped on the lamp next to him. He blinked at the sudden light and saw his spare hat on the table where he had dropped it. He also noticed a lab coat spread over him like a blanket. He remembered Dana taking it off as they talked. She must have covered him with it when he fell asleep.

But why hadn’t she woken him? She knew he had promised Yves he would stay awake and keep an eye on things so she would take a much-needed rest.

Apparently Dana had thought he needed one too.

He checked the clock high on the wall in the corner. It was going on midnight. He’d been asleep for hours.

“Damn it,” he muttered. She should never have let him sleep. And where were they anyway? That uneasy feeling grew and he pushed the lab coat off of himself and stood up quickly. He inhaled sharply as his stitches pulled against his skin, sending a shooting pain up and down his leg. He held onto the chair and waited for the pain to subside. Once it had settled into a dull throb, he grabbed his hat and went in search of the others.

He checked Dana’s office first since it was closest. He opened the door slowly, letting in a crack of light from the hall. On the couch, Yves murmured restlessly in her sleep.

Frohike wondered if she suffered unsettling dreams as well.

He considered waking her but decided not to disturb her. Not unless he had too. He quietly closed the door.

There were several other doors. One, Dana had mentioned, was a general storage room used by cleaning staff. He tested the door out of habit. It was locked. The rest were either locked or opened easily but he found those rooms to be empty.

His only other option was the admittance bay at the end of the hall.

He found Dana at the desk reading file folders and looking freshly scrubbed. He wrinkled his nose. There was the faint chemical smell in the air that had been absent before. “Dana,” he said softly so as not to startle her.

She looked up, setting the files on the desk. “Mel,” she said studying his face. She must have sensed his mood because he heard no regret in her voice, “You needed to rest. I won’t apologize for letting you sleep.”

It was obvious he wouldn’t win this fight with her and it was a moot point anyway. Besides he did feel more alert. He wrinkled his nose instead, tossing his hat on the desk. “What is that odor?” He complained. “It smells awful.”

Dana frowned, sniffed her clothing and sighed. “It’s ammonia. The police brought in a body earlier. They needed a work up right away.” She sniffed her sleeve again and shook her head. “I must be getting immune to the smell.”

Mel glanced around the bay and chuckled. “Where have Laurel and Hardy gotten too?”

Dana stared at him as if he was a medical experiment gone wrong. “Who?”

“Jimmy and the Professor,” Mel explained.

Dana smiled at the reference. “It’s an appropriate comparison,” she said, picking up the file again. She made a few notations as she talked. “They didn’t want to witness an autopsy so they didn’t come back. I have to admit, the quiet has been relaxing.”

“Dana, what do you mean by they didn’t come back?”

Dana looked up from her report. “When the ambulance arrived with the body, I was worried it might be a trick or something by the people after you. So I sent the boys away.”

Frohike’s blood turned to ice. “Why didn’t you wake me? God, Dana, if –“

“Mel,” she said, standing up and touching his shoulder. “I had no doubt it was a delivery but I was cautious and sent the boys off with instructions to go to you if they didn’t hear from me in five minutes. The professor is safe,” she added.

“If that had been Fletcher or one of his goons –“

“It wasn’t,” Dana assured him.

“That’s not the point!” Mel retorted, fear for her and anger battling inside him. “They tried to kill us by blowing up a house. They shot at us during a high-speed chase in the dark. Who knows what they are capable of?”

“We met only a couple of days ago. This is the last place anyone would think to look,” said Dana.

“We don’t know that!” Frohike’s voice rose. “I can only guess at what information they have on us. I do know they have connections inside the F.B.I but not how far that goes or whether or not they've infiltrated any other government agencies.” He took a step away from her. “I shouldn’t have brought them here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dana said, “of course you should have. You were seriously hurt. All of you were.”

“Dana.” Frohike’s voice cracked with emotion. “I can’t lose you. I can’t lose another person I care about.”

Dana stared at him shocked for a moment then went to him, pulling him into an embrace. “You won’t lose me, Mel,” she said softly, saddened for all the losses in his life, yet pleased to hear him admit that he cared about her.

He clutched her as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go and buried his face in the curve of her neck. She stroked his hair. “You should know that when I set my mind to something, I get what I want and…" her voice lowered, "…what I want is you.”

“Dana,” Mel finally said after an interminably, awkward silence. Dana’s heart felt as if it were going to seize on her. Her mother always said she was too outspoken, that she needed to be more demure. He pulled back a little and touched her face with a lingering caress that she felt down to her toes. He gazed into her eyes. “I want you too,” he said softly, his lips lifting in a smile, “but not when you smell to high heaven of ammonia”

They both laughed and parted. “I do need to change clothes,” she said ruefully, “but I lent my extra set to Yves.”

He glanced at the admittance bay doors. “Don’t tell me they’re outside.”

“Who?” Dana asked. The man could certainly be perplexing at times.

“Laurel and Hardy,” he reminded her.

She looked at him puzzled. Hadn’t they already gone over this? “They’re in the lunch room, most likely eating every last bit of food they can find.”

That uneasy fear clutched at Frohike again. “Dana, this is important but when was the last time you saw them?”

She was about to ask him a question but the look in his eyes made her check the clock on the wall. “I saw them 42 minutes ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s standard procedure to note the time on the preliminary paperwork as well as the autopsy,” she said. “Jimmy had just brought me a cup of coffee and mentioned the Professor was unsettled by the autopsy and they were going to stay in the lunch room.”

“They aren’t there,” said Frohike. “Are you sure no one else came by?”

“No one,” Dana answered. “It’s been a quiet night.”

“What about other entrances? Could someone have gotten in another way?”

“Mel, I’m sure they are here somewhere. They have to be.”

“How many,” he insisted.

Dana sighed, indicating the bay doors. “These doors are unlocked 24 hours a day but there are three other entrances that are locked at 6 p.m. You can go out but…” Dana’s words trailed off as she thought of something. “They didn’t,” she whispered, almost to herself. “They couldn’t have. I expressly told them to wait for you and Yves.”

“They couldn’t have…what?” Frohike demanded. “Why did you tell them to wait?"

Dana looked apologetically at Mel. “Somehow they figured out Jimmy had pictures of some equations Langly thought were destroyed. Langly wanted to go get them. I told them it was too dangerous and they should wait for you or Yves to wake up.”

Mel stared at her then spun around and ran out the admitting door, cold air biting at his skin. It was as he feared. His car was gone. God dammit! How had they gotten his keys? And then he remembered. Jimmy had never given them back to him.

He hadn’t thought the two men would take off on their own.

“They must have left while I was performing the autopsy,” Scully said quietly from his side.

He glanced at her. She had her arms wrapped around herself against the cool air, rubbing her bare skin. Her expression was inscrutable but he knew she blamed herself for their stupid stunt.

If the bad guys didn’t kill them, he would gladly do it.

“I need to borrow your car, Dana.”

“I’ll get the keys.”

They went back inside.

He grabbed his hat off the desk and put it on. “Did they say where they were going?” he asked as she removed her car key from her key ring.

Dana nodded. “Jimmy said the pictures where at his apartment.”

“That’s not too far from here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He started for the door.

“Mel, is there anything I can do to help?”

“This isn't your fault, Dana,” he said. “But there is something you can do for me.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it to her. “It’s Jimmy’s number. Call him. Tell him to sit tight and don’t move until I get there.”

“What about Yves? Should I tell her what happened?”

“No.” God, no! She’d probably make good on her promise to give him a new breathing passage. And then she would get angry. He smiled at Dana and joked, “We’ll make them tell her as punishment for taking off.”

“Be careful,” she said, a frown creasing her lovely face

Mel tipped his hat low on his head and drawled, “Always, Dollface.”

He turned to leave but not before he saw a smile crack her worried veneer.

* * * * *

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Jimmy whispered half-heartedly. “Maybe we should go back to the morgue and wait for Yves and Frohike.”

Langly slanted an impatient look at him. “I’ve gone through too much to give up now. Yves too,” he added in a softer voice. “After everything she’s done for me - for us. If I can ease some of the pressure she’s under by getting these pictures, then it’ll be worth it. Besides, we’re here already.”

Jimmy sighed and unlocked his door. “Just keep your voice down,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping inside. “I don’t want to wake my neighbors.”

He flipped the switch, filling the room with light. Langly brushed passed him. “Jeez,” he muttered, “what a dump.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” said Jimmy defensively, his eyes automatically taking in his apartment. Ok, sure. His furniture was slightly beaten up and consisted of a couch, coffee table, a small desk and an old radio on a table in the corner. It was all he could afford just then but at least it was his own.

The only thing he’d really splurged money on was a half dozen photographs on the wall. They were his own work, candid photographs taken of people around the city.

Langly made a noncommittal noise, his comment already forgotten, his thoughts elsewhere. “So where are my pictures?”

“In my files.” Jimmy went over to the desk, pulled open the bottom drawer and flipped through a number of manila folders until he came to one labeled ‘bills’. After his photos of Yves and Langly had been stolen, he decided not to take any chances. He grabbed the file and slipped the pictures out. “Here they are,” said Jimmy, offering them to the Professor.

Langly snatched it from his hands and sat down on the couch, laying the photos on the coffee table.

"I'm going to go change," Jimmy told the professor. Langly said nothing as he studied the photos.

When Jimmy returned, he found Langly still squinting at the photos, trying to make out the tiny equations. After a minute he noticed the other man and slumped back against the couch. “I can’t make anything out without my glasses,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Do you have a magnifying glass and a pencil?”

Jimmy retrieved the items from the desk.

“Thanks,” Langly said absently.

Jimmy watched him for a few minutes as he alternately peered through the magnifying glass then scratched out notes on the back of the photos, before he became anxious to get back. He glanced at the clock. With horror he realized they had been gone far longer than he'd figured. If Dr. Scully hadn’t noticed their absence by now…she would very soon.

And then she’d probably wake Frohike.

“Professor, we’ve got to get going,” Jimmy said.

"In a minute,” he murmured, hunched over a picture, “I just want to see if I can recreate this one part. I'm so close."

“Professor, please.” Jimmy insisted, “You can do that when we get back to the morgue. I really think….”

Jimmy’s ringing phone interrupted him, sounding strangely ominous.

Jimmy stared at the instrument. Who would be calling him so late?

It had to be Frohike.

Jimmy could only imagine how furious the older man was. He wondered if Yves knew about their absence.

The phone rang again.

“You gonna answer that?” Langly asked, irritated by the noise.

Jimmy stepped toward the phone, knowing he was going to have to face Frohike’s wrath sooner or later. He glanced at Langly who seemed to have the same thought.

The professor set the magnifying glass down. “Maybe we should go.”

“Good idea.” Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. He had never wanted to leave his apartment so badly.

Langly quickly stood up, clutching the photos in his hand.

The ringing stopped.

In the abrupt silence, they heard a muffled, scratching noise. They turned together to stare at the door. The doorknob turned slightly until it caught on the lock. It was released as whoever was out in the hall tried again.

Jimmy held his breath hoping the intruder would get discouraged and leave. But he wasn't that lucky.

A loud thump was followed by the sound of splintering wood as the door burst open. Two men filled the doorway, the light from the hall obscuring their features until they moved inside.

One of the them, a barrel-chested man with thinning hair and a smarmy smile chuckled. “Professor Langly,” he said sounding supremely satisfied, “I presume.”

“Oh jeezus,” Langly’s voice quaked from behind Jimmy in a low, terrified voice. “It’s that Fletcher guy.”

“Stay behind me,” Jimmy whispered as he moved protectively in front of the Professor. Even as he said it, he drew a blank as to how to accomplish this. He wished he had a weapon, anything to fend off these two invaders.

He hadn't been prepared to shoot to kill when Yves asked him. He still wasn't but there was something he could do.

Fletcher’s smile widened. “Take him,” he snapped to his companion, a huge man who had the appearance of a battle scarred rottweilier.

The rottweilier flicked a dismissive glance at Jimmy before lunging at Langly. The professor uttered a startled sound and leapt backwards, crashing against the wall. A stunned expression filled his face and he clutched his side where the pain from his new stitches reminded him how deadly this situation could be.

Jimmy didn’t think; he just acted. He bent low and slammed into the big man. Using his own strength and speed, Jimmy tackled him to the floor, hard. The rottweilier made a sound like ‘uhh’ and then gasped for breath, the wind having been knocked out of him.

“Run, Professor!” Jimmy shouted.

Langly hesitated only a second. He darted toward the door, his heart pounding insanely hard in his chest. He kept his gaze glued on the door and freedom but out of the corner of his eye he saw Morris Fletcher reaching out to nab him.

And go down, sprawling on the floor.

“Let go of me you buffoon!” Fletcher yelled at Jimmy who was laying half off the goon, and clutching Fletcher’s leg in a death grip.

“GO!” Jimmy yelled. “Professor!” He breathed a momentary sigh of relief as he saw Langly run out of the apartment.

The rottweilier groaned, started to move.

Until then, Jimmy’s only thoughts were to make sure the Professor escaped but now he worried about his own safety. He released Fletcher's leg and rolled away from the goon. He scrambled to his feet, noting two things: Fletcher didn’t appear concerned and the rottweilier was on his knees, an acidic glare on his stony face.

Jimmy dashed for the door but skidded to a stop even before he stepped out into the hallway, horrified to see the Professor being led back into the apartment by another man who had a firm grip on his upper arm and a gun to his temple.

“I think you lost something,” the man said in a snide tone to Fletcher.

Fletcher merely got to his feet and brushed nonexistent dirt off his suit. “And you seem to have found it, Alex.” His gaze skimmed to Jimmy. “Any more heroics from you,” Fletcher said, “and the Professor will have an unfortunate accident.”

"Don't hurt him," pleaded Jimmy. "He didn't do anything to you.”

“No, he didn’t” Fletcher agreed.

“Then why do all this? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You can’t possibly be that naïve,” Fletcher sneered. He glanced at Jimmy and chuckled. “Or maybe you are. The answer of course is money with the added bonus of revenge.” He sent an assessing gaze on Langly. “How does it feel to be bait?”

“It stinks,” Langly shot back.

“Take him to the car,” Fletcher ordered. Krycek looked as if he were going to say something but instead pushed Langly ahead of him.

“No!” Jimmy shouted, taking a step after them.

The thug grabbed his arm, yanking it behind his back and up. The thug grinned when Jimmy cried out in pain and fury. “What about him?” Rottweilier asked Fletcher.

Fletcher smirked making Jimmy shiver. “He can deliver a couple of messages for me.”

Jimmy strained against the vice like grip that confined him. “I’m not your errand boy,” he growled. The rottweilier twisted his arm hard, sending arrows of pain slicing through him.

“Temper, temper,” Fletcher said, chuckling, his grin spreading wider over his face. “Has anyone told you that you really should work on that?” The humor faded from his expression. “Not only will you deliver a message to that P.I. Frohike but one to that harlot…"

“Harlow,” Jimmy said without thinking. “Her name is Harlow.”

The fist to his gut was like a cannonball. Jimmy’s breath whooshed from him. He doubled over, gasping for air.

“The boss don’t like being interrupted,” the rottweilier advised then leaned in close and as Jimmy struggled to breath whispered menacingly in his ear. "Not a very nice feeling is it: not being able to catch your breath. I could make that permanent."

All the while, the rottweilier never let up the pressure on his shoulder and Jimmy wondered though the black haze of pain if the thug would break his arm for the sheer hell of it. The thug jerked hum upright, nearly ripping Jimmy’s arm from his socket.

“As I was saying,” Fletcher continued, all trace of his previous humor missing. “You will also pass on a message to Harlow.”

“What is it?” Jimmy asked, subdued now. The anger was still there, simmering somewhere inside him but the fear was thick and deep like quicksand; if he said the wrong thing or moved the wrong way, he was good as dead.

“Co-operation,” Fletcher said, nodding his head in approval. “That’s more like it.” He took several steps toward Jimmy. “We’re going to have a nice little chat, you and me. Afterwards Lenny here will discuss a few things with you. Just to make sure you understand the score.”

That horrible smile spread across Fletcher's face again.

Chapter 16

Sunday, September 29, 1940 - 12:08 a.m.

What the hell were they thinking? The question played over and over in Frohike’s mind as he stepped inside the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. He could understand the professor's desire to recover his precious equations but at the risk of his life? What good was he to anyone if he got himself killed?

And Jimmy. What was his excuse? He knew how dangerous this whole situation was but he didn't have the drive or the need to get back something that had been hard won and would be difficult to recreate.

He leaned heavily against the railing in the rear of the elevator, his bad leg throbbing from the constant exertion. The first thing he intended to do when he found Jimmy and Langly was to knock their heads together. Then he would take them back to the morgue and let Yves draw and quarter them at her leisure.

That was, if someone hadn’t beaten him to it.

The elevator door slid open. He stepped out to see a middle aged woman standing in just inside her apartment holding the door halfway open. She had curlers in her hair was clutching her chenille robe tightly at her throat. Frohike doubted the fear on her face was because of his sudden appearance.

"There was a terrible ruckus,” the woman said when she saw Frohike. “It woke me from a sound sleep.” She made a disapproving noise but her expression softened. “I haven’t heard anything for five minutes or so. Who knows what they did to that young man. That’s when I called you.”

Frohike realized the woman assumed he was a cop. He decided not to enlighten her. “Thank you for calling,” he said, “I’ll check it out.”

The woman slipped back inside, closing the door behind her. He heard the sound of a deadbolt sliding home.

Frohike turned his attention to Jimmy’s apartment, noting the damage to the front door. An uneasy feeling curled around his stomach and his hand slid inside his jacket and withdrew his gun.

He moved toward the partially open door. The lights were on. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and saw Jimmy lying face down on the floor near a worn out couch. Dead? Unconcious? Frohike couldn’t tell.

He stepped cautiously inside, scanning the rest of the apartment. It was small and open offering few hiding places. He quickly checked the bedroom and the bathroom.

A groan snapped his attention back to the prone photographer bringing him to the injured man's side. Frohike saw his hand move.

Relief moved through Frohike like a gust of cool wind. He crouched down, ignoring the protests of his throbbing leg.

“Jimmy,” he whispered, waiting for some indication of just how badly hurt the young man was. "Can you get up?"

"Yeah, I think so." Jimmy groaned again and started to get to his feet. Frohike helped him up then led him to the couch. Once he sat down Frohike noted his beaten and bruised face. The kid’s right eye was blackened, his bottom lip split and bloody. There were several other cuts on his face as well.

"Where's the professor?" Frohike asked, afraid he already knew the answer but needed to confirm it.

"They took him. I tried to stop them but….” Jimmy sighed heavily leaning back on the couch.

Nothing Frohike could say at that point would express his disgust, anger or distress at this development. There would be time for that later. "Can you get up?" he asked Jimmy. "We gotta get out of here before the cops arrive."

Jimmy nodded then stood up shakily, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs.

Frohike offered an arm for support but Jimmy waved him off. "I can walk…but I have to tell you…"

"We don't have time for apologies now,” Frohike said, his tone curt. “We have to get back and let Yves know what happened. I think you should be the one to tell her about the incredibly stupid stunt you pulled tonight.”

Jimmy didn’t respond. He just watched as Frohike opened the door and checked the hallway. “It’s clear. Come on before the police arrive and we have to try to explain this.”

“Frohike,” Jimmy said quietly, “I have to tell you…” he winced from his split lip. “They gave me a message…”

"Damn it!” Frohike said. “I hear police sirens. We can’t use the elevator; we’ll run into them for sure. Where are the stairs?”

“At the end of the hall,” Jimmy indicated the proper direction.

Frohike opened the door to the stairwell. His leg quaked under him at the thought of descending three flights of stairs. Why the hell did the kid have to live on the third floor?

“I gotta tell you about the message,” Jimmy insisted.

“Tell me in the car,” Frohike snapped. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

Heat and light: she was first aware of these two things. The lamp was so bright, it kicked off enough heat that her face felt like she had spent too much time in the sun. There were also voices but she could distinguish nothing more than silhouettes that moved around beyond the circle of light in which she existed.

There was also pain. First, in her bound wrists, then from a needle that was shoved none too gently into her arm. Then there were voices again, becoming more and more insistent. She was uncertain if she responded to them or not. She hoped not.

The voices grew louder; the silhouettes moved closer until one separated itself from the rest and became distinct. His features were large, his hairline was receding and his smile made Yves' insides twist in revulsion.

Yves snapped awake but lay still, her harsh breathing the only sound in the darkness.

She had never dreamed before that night when one small error in judgment had thrust her into three days of prolonged hell. The first time she had the dream, she realized she could either dwell on the memory and question her abilities or she could acknowledge the mistake, learn from the experience and move on.

She chose the latter.

She dropped her feet to the floor and sat upright. She stretched out to turn on the light. Her shoulder protested vehemently as the stitches pulled at her skin. She gritted her teeth against the pain and flipped the switch.

Wondering how long she’d been asleep, she checked her watch, surprised to discover she had been asleep for a little more than three hours. She needed to check on the Professor and return the favor by relieving Frohike.

After a brisk walk to the autopsy room, she was, at first, dismayed to find it empty. But after a moment remembered that the Professor had an aversion to such things and had undoubtedly insisted they wait elsewhere.

She thought about where they would be. The lunchroom would be ideal but she dismissed it since Langly obviously would be with Frohike. She had seen the way the private detective and Dr. Scully related. There was more going on between them than a professional relationship. He, and by default Professor Langly, would be where the doctor was.

And although she'd just met the Medical Examiner, she could tell Scully was a conscientious professional who, despite harboring fugitives, would be doing her job.

She found Scully in the admittance bay, sitting at a desk. There was something about the doctor that put Yves immediately on edge, her instincts humming. “What happened?” Yves demanded.

Scully turned at the question, not quite surprised to see Yves. She stood up. “It's all right, Yves. Mel went to get them.”

“Get them?” Uneasiness clenched her stomach. “What happened,” she repeated coldly. “Where is the Professor?”

Dr. Scully knew it wouldn't do any good to lie to Yves. The professor, Jimmy and Mel were all obviously absent from the morgue. "They snuck out when Mel and I weren't looking." Yves didn't need to know that this had occurred while Frohike was asleep. "Don't worry, Mel will bring them back."

"They snuck out?” Yves’ eyes widened in disbelief causing adrenaline to bullet through her system. “What on earth possessed them to do that?"

"Jimmy said he had photos of some of the professor's equations. The professor insisted he needed them," Dana said.

Yves narrowed her eyes. "Mr. Bond told me all his photos had been stolen from the newspaper." Had the man lied to her? Did he have the pictures of her and the Professor in his possession all along? If so then why rebuff her advances when most men would have continued the charade, revealing his deception afterwards?

"He said these were at his apartment." Scully replied, drawing Yves back toward the conversation. “Apparently he had forgotten about some pictures he had taken when he returned to the professor's lab to talk to you.” Dana shook her head. "I thought I talked them out of rushing off. They said they'd wait for you to wake up but apparently I misjudged the professor's persistence." She left the apology for that mistake unspoken. She figured it was assumed.

“The fools!” It was said mostly to herself. They had come to the morgue because it was the only place they could figuratively lick their wounds and figure out what to do next. She knew how focused the Professor could get on his work. And now Professor Langly was out there gallivanting about with Jimmy Bond heedless of the danger.

She resisted the urge to run out the door after him. It would be a useless thing to do. She didn’t have a car, having left her Roadster at the beach. She could easily hot wire an unattended automobile but there was still the other problem.

She slanted a gaze at Scully. “Where does Mr. Bond live?”

Scully shrugged. “I don’t know. All I have is his phone number. Mel asked me to call him and tell them to stay where they were until he got there.” Scully hesitated briefly before revealing the rest. “There hasn’t been an answer.”

Yves muttered an oath under her breath. She should have…what could she have done except stay awake and watch him? But she had needed those few hours of rest. Without it she wouldn’t have been any good to the Professor.

However, that knowledge didn’t offer any reassurance.

“Where are you going?” Scully asked as Yves headed for the admittance bay doors.

“Out,” Yves said. “I need some air.” She couldn't just stand around waiting for Frohike to return. But she didn’t say this aloud.

She wrenched the door open to see two men standing there: one was tall and broad; the other was slim and had the appearance of an accountant. They stared at each other for the space of a heartbeat and then both Yves and the taller man drew their weapons, leveling them at each other.

Yves cast a quick speculative glance at the accountant, most likely a hired gun sent by Fletcher. Except, he felt completely wrong for the part with his soft, cherubic face whose expression was that of someone who had just been startled awake.

But she had long since learned not to trust such innocent appearances. And she couldn’t dismiss the sharp intelligence behind a set of blue eyes that had seen too much. The ‘accountant’, she decided, bore watching.

“Drop the gun,” the large man ordered.

She flicked her gaze toward the second man. There was no question in her mind of how dangerous he was. "I wondered how long it would take for you to find us..." She paused, her tone one of icy contempt, "…Agent Doggett."

Scully held her breath, watching as Yves and the man she called Agent Doggett continued to train their weapons on each other. The air between the two crackled with tension.

"Miss Harlow," the other man said, "Melvin Frohike asked me for help. Agent Doggett is here at my request."

"We've met before. He's a mole and a traitor," said Yves not taking her eyes off Doggett's face. "And who the hell are you, anyway?"

Scully stepped forward. "His name is John Byers. He's the District Attorney."

Byers crossed the threshold into the building, so he could face both antagonists. "Please, put your weapons away and let's talk like rational human beings."

When neither of them moved, he tried again. "Agent Doggett?"

"What's going on?" a voice asked from outside.

Doggett saw surprise flash across Yves’ face as she took several slow steps backwards. The tension easing a bit from her stance made him turn half way so he could keep an eye on Harlow and still see who the new player was.

“You!" Doggett said in an accusing voice.

Frohike stepped into the light that spilled out of the admittance bay. "Byers?" he said, ignoring the FBI agent. "Is this the best you can do?"

"Agent Doggett is a friend of mine. I can vouch for his integrity," the D.A. insisted.

Trying hard not to limp, Frohike walked up to Yves to stand beside her. "You might trust him," stated Frohike, "but both times I've met him, I had to seriously question his motives. I believe the lady has had the same experience with your friend there."

“Miss Harlow would have fared better if she had stayed around to talk,” Doggett said.

“And let you frame me for the murder of a Federal Agent?” Yves said, her voice low and dangerous. “I think not.”

Agent Doggett stared at her, frowning. “I understand your reasoning, Miss Harlow. The situation at the park was a set up to retrieve your package but not by me.”

Yves still hadn’t lowered her weapon and Frohike made no effort to convince her. “Prove it,” she said.

Doggett considered this for a moment and then holstered his weapon, cautiously moving further into the room being careful to keep his hands in view. "Since the park, I kept going over my conversations with your boss and the one with you. Something about the nature of the ‘package’ you mentioned just didn’t make sense. And then I talked to Mr. Byers. When he filled me in on the details concerning some fugitives hiding in the morgue, it hit me that it must be you. You weren’t trying to deliver confidential documents like the Bureau thought but this scientist."

“Congratulations,” Yves said none too patiently. "I made of point of not mentioning what the package was. It was none of your business and I wasn't about to compromise his safety."

Doggett frowned. "I'd say his safety is more than a little compromised now. The D.A. said someone tried more than once tonight to kill all of you." He waited for some reaction from Yves. The tension in her shoulders eased and he saw that she was wavering.

"You've been running for too long," he continued. "Let me help you. That's all I'm asking."

Yves searched Agent Doggett’s face and saw sincerity in his eyes. Taking a chance, she eased her stance and lowered her weapon. “Looks like you have your chance, Agent Doggett.” She turned to Frohike. “Could you let the Professor know it’s safe to come in?”

From Frohike’s expression, she knew something was very wrong.

“What?” She demanded though deep down she knew the answer. “Where is the Professor?”

“They took him,” a voice said softly. Jimmy shuffled inside, one arm wrapped around his middle. “I’m sorry, Yves,” he said, pain etched in his bruised face. “I tried to stop them.”

Dr. Scully moved to Jimmy's side trying to assess his condition. ‘What happened?” she directed this question at Frohike.

Yves interrupted Frohike before he could say anything. “Who took the Professor? Was Fletcher there? What did he say?”

“Not now,” Scully snapped. “You can interrogate him after I attend his wounds." She put one arm around his waist. "Mel, help me get him to the autopsy room.”

“Listen to me!” Pain lanced through Jimmy’s chest when he shouted but at least he had every one’s attention. He glanced at the two strangers but since no one else seemed concerned by their presence he continued. “Morris Fletcher was there. He told me to give Yves and Frohike each a message.” He looked at Frohike. “He said you should have played ball when you had the chance but he’s willing to discuss it with you. He said you are to go to your office, that he'd contact you at noon.”

“Play ball?” Byers repeated, glancing at Frohike. “What does that mean?”

Frohike looked disgusted. “He tried to hire me. Gave me some cock and bull story about a missing relative who had come into an inheritance. Only the 'relative' was a former client of mine. I fed him some air then contacted the client. She had never heard of the dead relative or of this Morris Fletcher.” He shot a speculative look at Doggett. “It was Monica Reyes and that’s when she told me she was being followed.”

“Well, that explains a few things,” Doggett said, “but after speaking to Monica you should have looked into this guy Fletcher.”

“I did. I couldn’t find anything on him. It was like he didn’t exist.”

Doggett focused his attention on Jimmy. “This Fletcher, did he do this to you? Was he alone?”

“No. Fletcher stood on the sidelines and watched while he had some other guy beat me up. Said he wanted to make sure I remembered the messages.” Jimmy looked at Yves. She looked so calm but he could feel the anger radiating from her like the sun on a sweltering summer day. Knowing he had failed to protect the Professor, that he had failed her, hurt far worse than all his wounds, even his ribs. “Fletcher told me to tell you…”

“No one else was there?” Doggett pressed, interrupting him.

“Yeah. One other guy,” Jimmy said. “Tall, though not as tall as me with dark hair. Fletcher called him Krycek.”

Doggett swore. Jimmy had just confirmed his own suspicions about Krycek.

“I take it you know this guy,” Frohike needled the man.

“He’s an FBI agent.”

“A corrupt one,” Yves added.

Byers had been listening to the conversation in earnest when he spoke up. “I don’t mean to change the subject,” Byers said. “But I’ve been thinking about what the young man…"

“Jimmy. My name is Jimmy.”

Byers nodded. “…Jimmy said. You mentioned Fletcher had you beaten so you would remember his messages. He never asked any questions? Never asked…where you were hiding?

It took but a few seconds for everyone to comprehend Byers' meaning. Doggett and Yves were the quickest to react. Their guns drawn, they moved toward the door in unison, pausing only when they heard Jimmy answer the District Attorney.

“No, I thought for sure he would ask,” Jimmy said, his own bewilderment showing, “but he didn’t. He just wanted me to give Frohike and Yves the messages.”

Byers looked at Jimmy. “What was Miss Harlow’s message?”

Jimmy shivered, remembering Fletcher’s smug smile. He met Yves’ intense gaze. “He said, 'Checkmate'.”

At Dr. Scully's insistence, the group moved to the autopsy room to talk while she looked Jimmy over with an expert eye.

The others arranged themselves around the room to await her assessment.

"There's one last thing I don't understand," Doggett said as he watched Dana check Jimmy's ribs.

"What's that," asked Frohike from his usual spot in the chair by the desk.

"Why didn't Fletcher just kill the professor and Jimmy after attempting to do that earlier?"

Frohike didn't answer knowing this was not his information to share. Instead he watched Yves waiting for her to answer.

Doggett noted this and shifted his focus to her before he continued. "And why does he want to contact you from Frohike's office? He's got what he was after. Does he just want to gloat or is there something else going on here that you haven't told me?" His eyes followed Yves as she crossed the room to the desk where Frohike was seated.

Yves stood with one hand on the desk but her attention was on Jimmy who was laid out on the autopsy table. "Where is the Enigma?" she asked. She moved to stand next to him so she could see his face. "Tell me you didn't take it with you."

"Enigma?" Doggett said to no one in particular.

“No.” Jimmy flinched as Dr. Scully pressed on his ribs. "We left it in the employee lounge for safe keeping."

Yves strode from the room to fetch it.

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record," Dr. Scully said to Jimmy, “you really should go to the hospital to get those ribs x-rayed."

"Do you think they're broken?" he asked.

"If I had to guess, I'd say 'no' but…"

Jimmy sat up, wincing from the pain this action caused. “Can you just tape them up?”

“I could but it would be best if we knew for sure.” Scully glanced at Frohike for support as she talked. “It seems Mr. Fletcher got what he wanted. I wouldn’t think you’re in danger any longer.”

“Dana has a point, kid. Maybe you should go get checked out, get out of this mess while you can.”

Jimmy felt his heart lodge in his throat. He swung his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the table, his gaze going from Frohike to Scully, pleading. “I can’t. I need to see this through. Please, Dr. Scully, just tape up my ribs. I promise, once this is over I’ll get those X-rays.” He turned to the private detective, swallowing hard. “I screwed up. I need to do something to make this right.”

Frohike and Scully glanced at each other and then Scully nodded. “Ok.” Digging through the medical supplies Dr. Mackenzie had brought her, Dana found a roll of thick bandaging material. While she was applying this to Jimmy's abdomen, Yves returned with the two wooden boxes.

She set them on the desk and opened the larger of the two boxes. "This is…"

"…an Enigma encoding and decoding machine," Agent Doggett said almost reverently. "I've heard rumors of them but I never imaged I'd see one." He and Byers came to stand on each side of Yves to get a closer look.

"Correct," said Yves.

"Where did you get it? HOW did you get it? The Allies have been trying for months to get their hands on one."

"They succeeded. The Poles gave this one to the British government from whom it was stolen. When it was recovered, it was given to me in secret to bring to America to try to entice Professor Langly to join them in their attempts to break the German codes."

Byers, who had been studying the machine closely, stood up straight to address Yves. "What does Fletcher have to do with all this?"

"He's the one who stole it from the British government."

Doggett nodded. "And you stole it back from him." Yves shot him a surprised look. "Checkmate," Doggett explained, "It's rather obvious…he's got your 'king'."

Yves fought the urge to sigh. "And Fletcher wants his back."

"I guess the question at this point," remarked Frohike, "is what do you want to do now?"

“The importance of the Enigma to my country has been stressed to me in no uncertain terms. All other factors…including the Professor…are considered expendable.” She paused for a moment a strained expression on her face. "I find this unacceptable."

"So you figure Fletcher is going to want to trade the professor for the Enigma," Frohike surmised.

"It's the only thing that makes sense otherwise it would be as Agent Doggett suggested: he would have killed both Jimmy and Langly when he found them."

"So the question still remains," said the D.A. "What do you want to do?"

"I intend," Yves stated in a tone that broached no doubt, "to get him back."

A loud buzzing from the admittance bay drew everyone's attention. All eyes turned expectantly to look at the Medical Examiner. "I'll have to get that," she said.

She walked towards the door. "I'll come with you," Frohike stated attempting to rise from his chair.

She paused with her hand on the door. "That won't be necessary. You agreed with me that the danger has passed. At the moment, I believe you're needed here." She nodded toward Yves and the others in the room.

Hearing the buzzer ring again, Dana turned to leave. She didn't look to see if Mel followed her. The general consensus seemed to be that they were safe…at least until they went to Mel’s office to await Fletcher’s call.

Dana found it puzzling. Fletcher could easily have given instructions for the exchange to Jimmy. And why Mel’s office? Dana kept returning to this question. The only answer she could see was that it must be a trap. But still: why Mel’s office when a more secluded spot would make more sense? The longer Dana considered it, the more worried she became. The only thing that helped ease her anxiety was that Mel wouldn’t be alone.

The buzzer rang a third time interrupting her thoughts. This ring was longer and, because of her agitation, sounded more insistent. She stepped up her pace.

Pushing open one of the double doors, she noticed a single gurney in the middle of the room. The shroud-draped corpse that lay on it wasn’t very big. It was most likely a female or an adolescent.

A clipboard had been placed at the body’s feet.

Where was the driver? Scully wondered, scanning the room. Surely he hadn’t left without waiting for the required signature?

On the other side of the partially open outer door, she saw the driver lingering, probably smoking while waiting for her. As soon as he saw her, he re-entered the building.

“Are you the Medical Examiner?” He asked, giving her hard look.

“I am.” Dana replied in her most professional, no nonsense tone. She was used to dealing with men who thought she couldn’t handle her job but there was something else about this man that put her on edge: something she couldn’t place. Then she realized that the man was not wearing the white uniform of an ambulance driver.

He had an athletic build and was easily six feet tall, which made him tower over her. But what made truly Dana nervous was the way he held himself: as if his muscles were tightly coiled and would snap at any second.

Could this be the guy who had beaten up Jimmy Bond?

The man paused beside the gurney, his gaze drawn to the covered figure. Seeing this, Scully's apprehensions about him dissipated. She had spent enough time among the newly deceased to recognize the grief of a man who was suffering the loss of a loved one.

Her feelings of guilt over her initial misgivings of him were a stinging reproach. “Sir,” Scully said sympathetically, stepping toward him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The man didn't seem to hear her at first but then he spoke, his voice soft and filled with anguish. "I didn't want to leave her. I…" his voice trailed off. He closed his eyes for a moment, visibly fighting to stay in control. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the clipboard and, looking at Scully, said in a brisk voice, "The driver insisted you sign this when I told him he could leave."

The situation was getting stranger by the second. Since when did the attendants take orders from family members? Scully took the offered clipboard, clicking into official mode. “Who are you?” she asked studying him through narrowed eyes.

“I'm a police officer." He dug into the pocket of his battered, leather bomber jacket for his badge and identification.

She studied his ID card. “Fox Mulder,” she murmured, startled to discover she recognized his unusual name. "Mel told me about you. I’m Dana Scully."

Mulder returned his badge to his pocket. "He mentioned you, too,” he said. “He said the District finally got an ME with both brains and beauty.” Dana sensed that this anecdote was meant to be humorous but his overriding emotions made the statement seem a flat and desperate attempt at normalcy.

There was an uncomfortable moment between them. His gaze drifted inexorably back to the gurney’s occupant. Dana focused on the information on the form she still needed to sign, grateful for the distraction of work. Under ‘Name of Deceased’ it said ‘Margaret Mary Sinclair’. Why did the name sound familiar? “Are you related to Margaret?”

“Maggie,” he corrected, his face stricken with renewed grief as he stared at the opaque outline where the face would be. “We called her Maggie."

"Mel's Maggie?" Scully asked with a horrifying certainty that she already knew the answer. Mel had casually mentioned his secretary Maggie Sinclair but it had been evident from his tone that he respected and cared deeply about her.

"His Maggie…" Mulder’s voice was barely a whisper.

Dear God in heaven, Dana thought, what would this do to Mel?

"…my Maggie." Mulder's voice, firmer this time, drew Dana from her own thoughts. He reached up and drew the sheet down below Maggie’s chin creating the illusion the woman was simply asleep. “She was worried about Frohike,” Mulder said, feathering his fingers tenderly down her cheek, ignoring the flecks of dried blood.

The choked sob came unexpectedly and Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the edges of the gurney for support.

Scully touched his arm. “Mr. Mulder. Fox. I’m so sor-“

Mulder straightened up and took a step away from the gurney and Scully. Dana saw something in his eyes that wasn’t grief. “Take good care of Maggie,” he said with grim resolve. “I have to find Frohike.”

Common sense warred with compassion. Compassion won out. "He's here," Scully said.

"Here?" Mulder asked his voice tinged with apprehension and disbelief.

“He’s fine,” Scully reassured the man, realizing how her words must have sounded to him. “Or at least as well as can be expected considering the current situation."

“What situation?” Mulder the cop flashed to the forefront.

Scully considered Mulder’s question for a moment then shook her head. “I'm not in a position to elaborate. I’ll take you to Mel and the others.”

Mulder stood firmly in her way, forcing her to stop. “Dr. Scully, what is going on here?”

Chapter 17

Frohike closed his eyes, rubbing the heels of his palms into them. The few hours of stolen sleep had done little to beat back his exhaustion. What he wouldn't give for about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep in his own bed.

“I’m going to track down Alex Krycek!”

Agent Doggett’s sudden determined growl pulled Frohike's attention back to the discussion at hand. He glanced around the room, seeing the intensity on everyone’s faces. They seemed no closer to agreement than when they started.

“Do you think you'd be able to find him?" Jimmy asked. He was still sitting on the edge of the autopsy table. "He's gotta be with that Fletcher guy and the professor, wherever they're hiding."

Byers just shook his head. "I firmly believe we need to wait until we hear from them," he said, trying to be the voice of reason. "We don't want to take a chance of them hurting or killing Professor Langly and if we actively search for him, they may do just that."

Frohike thought he saw Yves flinch at this statement. Throughout the discussion, he’d noticed she watched and listened, but made no suggestions nor offered any opinions. He didn't trust her silence and swore he'd keep an eye on that situation.

He shifted in his chair causing a bolt of pain to shoot up his leg. He gritted his teeth until it subsided. Dammit! He was beginning to feel like an invalid with this bum leg. He strongly suspected the trip down the stairs from Jimmy's apartment had ripped out a few of the stitches. He had no intention of saying anything about it, especially to Dana. She had warned him to stay off his feet to give the wound time to heal. It would just make her worry.

At the thought of the red headed doctor, Mel glanced apprehensively at the door to the hallway willing it to open. She had been gone far too long. If she didn't return in the next three minutes, he was going to go look for her.

To his relief, the door did open at that moment. Dana stepped inside holding the door for the man behind her.

"Mulder?" Frohike said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Mulder demanded.

Byers, Doggett, and Jimmy stopped talking and, along with Yves, turned to stare at the newcomer.

"Mr. Mulder, please," Dr. Scully said standing in front of him, reaching out to him. "You're not thinking straight. You need to calm down and carefully consider what you're saying."

"What's the problem here?" Frohike asked Dana as he rose laboriously from his chair.

"It's all your fault," Mulder declared shaking off Scully's restraining hand. "You couldn't make a phone call, a simple phone call, to let us know where you were!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Frohike said. This behavior was so unlike the Mulder he knew. The man was usually slow to anger and, on most occasions, shook it off quickly.

"I'm talking about Maggie," Mulder said sweeping his arm out in a wide arch causing Dana to move away from him. "When I couldn't find you, I went to Maggie's place to ask if she'd seen you." He moved closer to Frohike as he ranted. "She got worried too and went out to your office hoping you'd be there. Someone got to her: one of your sleazy clients no doubt." He stopped in front of Frohike, towering over him.

"She's hurt?" Frohike asked instantly concerned. "Where is she? Did you take her to the hospital?"

"She's here!"

"What the hell did you bring her here for?" Frohike shouted, not quite matching Mulder's volume.

The look of incredulity of Mulder's face quickly turned to one of rage. "How can you be so goddamn thick?" He grabbed the front of Frohike's jacket. "She's dead and it's all your fault!" Mulder shoved Frohike backwards. He staggered, barely catching himself on the edge of the counter.

Doggett moved quickly to get behind Mulder. The FBI agent grabbed him from under his armpits, locking his hands behind the police officer's head. "Wha…" Mulder squawked in surprise as he was pulled off balance when Doggett backed him away from Frohike.

"You crossed the line there, Buddy," Doggett said right in his ear. "You need to go somewhere and calm down." He released Mulder, spinning him around and, with a strong grip on his upper arm, led him out the door.

Frohike felt everyone’s eyes on him. He pushed himself away from the counter not even registering the pain in his leg.

Dana moved toward him. “Mel…”

“No!” he said, his voice a rough whisper. He stepped away from her. It wasn’t true. He wouldn’t accept it. “No,” he said again louder as if denying it would make it a lie but the sympathy in Dana’s eyes told him otherwise. He turned his back on her. He couldn't accept her pity. He didn't want it nor did he deserve it. "Where is she?" he finally asked.

"She's still in the admittance bay," said Dana softly "Do you want me to take you to her?"

"No," he said. "I need do this alone."

* * * * *

Agent Doggett opened the first unlocked door he found and pushed Mulder inside. He stepped through the door himself, closing it behind him as other man whirled around, his face tense and angry at the rough treatment.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mulder growled, shoving his hand inside his coat to retrieve his badge. Mulder went on without waiting for a reply. “I’m a police officer." Belatedly, he remembered he’d been stripped of his shield and his status when he’d been suspended. The reminder of the loss fueled the turbulent anger and grief inside him. He withdrew his hand and glared at the other man who stood in front of the door like a prison guard, watching him calmly. “Who are you?” he asked again, sounding almost defensive.

Not taking his eyes from Mulder, the man slipped his hand inside his tailored sport coat, withdrawing a slim wallet. “Special Agent John Doggett, FBI,” he answered in that infuriatingly calm voice. “You want to tell me why you attacked Mr. Frohike?”

Realizing his own leather jacket still hung askew, Mulder shrugged it into place. “It’s between me and him.” He had meant for the words to come out dripping with scorn but instead it sounded broken and pained to his own ears. He turned from Agent Doggett, unable to handle the man’s intent gaze. He stalked toward a dark, wooden desk, needing to put distance between himself and the agent.

“Want to talk about it?”

Mulder froze at the words. Somehow he knew the man wasn’t talking about his altercation with Frohike. He released his pent up breath, focusing on a report on top of a stack of files but the words were blurred, indecipherable.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mulder mumbled, fresh pain lancing through his chest. How could he have been so stupid, losing all those years? It had taken him so long to realize how much Maggie had meant to him and now….

He took a shuddering breath and said, “She’s dead.”

He swept the offending report off the stack and watched as papers glided over the desk. The mess he made was so…insufficient. He slammed his closed fist on the wood, the sound reverberating through the room. The pain was the only thing that felt real tonight. “Goddamn Frohike!” he shouted, spinning. “It’s his fault!”

Doggett watched Mulder stride toward him, his face contorted in grief and rage. He wondered if he would be able to keep the distraught man from leaving the room and pounding the private detective to a bloody pulp.

Doggett stood his ground, refusing to let Mulder past him. Fortunately, Mulder didn’t try. Perhaps it was because of his status as an FBI agent. “How is Mr. Frohike responsible when he wasn’t even around?”

"She was at his office looking for him!" Mulder ranted. "Someone attacked her and left her there. If I hadn't gone looking for her, she'd still be lying there…all alone. Who knows how long it would have taken Frohike to sober up enough to go back to his office.” He glared at Doggett, challenging him. “I’m going to kick Frohike’s ass,” Mulder asserted, “then I’m going to hunt down Maggie’s killer.”

“From what I know of Mr. Frohike, he could use a good ass kicking,” Doggett said, hoping to ease some of the tension in the room. “But it won’t solve…Wait a minute,” Doggett interrupted himself. “You found the victim in Mr. Frohike’s office?”

“Her name is…was Maggie,” Mulder corrected but his instincts flared at the question. He studied Doggett. For the first time since he’d found Maggie, his mind wasn’t clouded with grief or rage. “Just what did Frohike stumble into that involves the FBI?”

Doggett moved aside so he was no longer blocking the door. “It’s a long story,” he said, “but if you want to help find Maggie’s killer, we need to talk.”

* * * * *

The walk down the hallway seemed interminably long giving Frohike time to think of all the clients he'd brought to this place. Finally, he understood how it felt: the hope beyond reason that there had been some ridiculous mistake, that the person who lay dead just down this hallway was a stranger.

But he couldn't even allow himself the luxury of that delusion. Mulder had been far too upset to be wrong. And Mulder had known Maggie for a lot longer than Frohike had.

He paused with his hand on one of the double doors, steeling himself for what he'd find inside. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and went in.

She was lying in the center of the room, a shroud covering most of her body leaving only her face exposed. She looked so young, so free of the usual worries of everyday life, but death had that impact on a body.

Frohike slowly approached the gurney.

He stood for a few moments staring down at her, letting the reality of her death sink in

"Oh, Maggie," he said finally, reaching out to touch her hair and gently tucking a blond strand behind one ear. "You didn't deserve this." The words caught in his throat, which ached from unshed tears. "I would have done anything to keep this from happening to you."

He pulled the sheet back a little farther to take her cold hand in his. He held it to his chest over his heart wishing he could restore its warmth and life with his own.

"You didn't deserve this," he repeated. Images of her flashed through his mind: the way she'd look up at him over her reading glasses, how her blond hair never seemed to stay out of her face no matter how often she tied it back, the way she said 'thank you' with her soft southern accent that always made you feel like you'd truly done something wonderful for her.

A sob caught in his throat but he spoke to her again wanting to let her know even now, in death, how much she'd meant to him.

"You saved my life, did you know that?" He touched her cheek with his free hand not wanting to think about the spots of blood he saw there. "Without your help, I never could have found my way back from the dark hole my life had become." His tears slipped unnoticed down his cheeks.

"I always wondered why you stayed with me when you could have worked anywhere for a lot more money than I could ever hope to pay you." He sighed.

"I should have encouraged you to look for something better…something safer but I was selfish. I left you in that crappy office to deal with people that you had no business being alone with."

He touched her face again being careful not to smudge her makeup. She seldom wore more than lipstick. When he had taken her hand, he had noticed she was wearing a fancy blue dress. She must have been planning on going out for the evening when Mulder contacted her.

"I'm so sorry, Maggie," he said, his words coming out as barely more than a whisper. "I owe you so much and I always thought that some day I'd be able to repay you." Frohike gently tucked Maggie's hand back under the sheet. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his face.

"Mulder was right," he continued after a moment. "This is all my fault. I should have called you and let you know that everything was okay."

"It's not your fault," Byers said from behind Frohike. "How could you have known this would happen?"

Frohike turned to glare at this man who had tormented him for so long, wondering how much he'd heard.

"Back off, Byers," he said. The flash of anger in his eyes would have been enough to drive away a less determined man.

Byers took a step closer to him. "You need to let us help you. No one should have to try to deal with what you're going through alone."

"What would you know?" growled Frohike.

"Unfortunately, I do know." Byers paused wondering how much of his own tragedy he should share. Other than Carla, he had never told another living soul about Susanne. With Carla, it was like an emotional cleansing, a renewal of life for him. And now it seemed right to share it with Frohike even though, until just recently, he had despised the man.

“Five years ago, my fiancée was murdered," said Byers. "She was shot and left for dead for the few dollars in her purse. I learned later that she died alone in some godforsaken dark alley.” Byers stopped, the horrifying images his words conjured shook him and he needed time to gather himself.

"I thought I'd never forgive myself," he said after a moment, his voice husky with emotion. "I just knew there had to be something I could have done to protect her. It took a while but I finally channeled the energy I was using for self-flagellation into something constructive."

Frohike remained silent, his eyes never leaving Maggie's face. Byers moved closer and closer to him as he talked hoping the other man was listening.

"We need you, Melvin," Byers insisted. "Maggie was a good woman and her death is a horrible tragedy." Byers put a hand on Frohike's shoulder. "Don't dishonor her by giving up now."

Frohike turned his head slightly in Byers' direction but didn't pull away. "You knew Maggie?" he asked.

"I talked to her on the phone when I'd call your office to arrange times you had to testify," said Byers removing his hand. He came around to stand next to Frohike and looked down on Maggie's face. "She was always gracious and professional. Her voice was so soothing. No matter how much you infuriated me, talking to her would improve my mood." He shifted his gaze to Frohike. "It's why I usually left messages instead of asking to talk to you."

“She had that affect on people,” Frohike agreed.

"Do you have any idea who could have done this to her?" Byers asked.

Getting used to the idea of Maggie's was death had been enough to occupy Frohike's mind. But now this question needed to be considered. "I have to talk to Mulder," he said, "but I do have some strong suspicions."

* * * * *

Mulder’s mind raced as he and Doggett strode down the hall toward the admittance bay. The information Doggett had revealed in the ME’s office was something out of a spy novel, a work of fiction but after a barrage of questions which the agent patiently answered, the officer was finally convinced. Now Mulder had one more question: a question only Frohike could answer.

The ME, Dr. Scully, was outside the admittance bay ostensibly reviewing a file on a clipboard but Mulder didn’t miss the quick, anxious glance she cast toward the door before turning her attention to him and Doggett. She straightened to her full stature, which wasn't much more than five feet, and composed her expression to one that combined sympathy and wariness.

Mulder wasn’t about to accept any more placating sympathy but, considering his attack on Frohike, he understood and accepted the caution he saw in her eyes.

“Officer Mulder…" she started.

“I’m just going to talk to Frohike,” Mulder said. The ME raised one eyebrow in a challenging manner. This made Mulder realize he would not want to come up against her in a serious discussion unless he was well versed in the subject manner.

He nodded toward the FBI agent. “Agent Doggett explained to me what’s been going on around here.”

Scully studied him for a moment longer then stepped aside, joining Doggett by the wall. Mulder started to enter the admittance bay but turned and looked at Scully’s calm expression that didn’t quite hide her concern for Frohike. In the short time he’d known Dr. Scully, Mulder understood Mel’s attraction to the ME. “He’s a tough nut,” Mulder told her. “He’ll come around.”

Without waiting to see her reaction, Mulder pushed the door open, his gut tightening at the now familiar sight of Maggie lying on the gurney. He crossed the room to take the place next to Frohike to stand vigil over a woman they both loved, barely noticing the District Attorney silently leave the room.

Mulder broke the silence first. "Someone needs to let her family know."

"I'll make sure they're informed," Frohike said.

There was another extended silence and then Mulder said, "I don't know what I'm going to do without her."

"I know, Buddy." Frohike said. "I feel the same way.”

No you don’t, Mulder thought, flicking a glance at his friend. Before he could say anything Frohike said, “What I can’t figure out is why she was all dressed up. She never mentioned…”

The words spilled from Mulder before he could stop them. “We were going out to dinner. We had a long talk and….” He faltered unable to continue.

“She was giving you a second chance,” Frohike correctly surmised, glancing sidelong at the younger man. Maggie and Mulder had struggled through so much heartache and just when it looked as if they worked through the last of the barriers, Maggie got killed.

Sometimes life kicked you in the teeth and stood back laughing while you choked on your own blood.

But another thought dragged Frohike’s attention back to the room and his secretary. “If you two were going out to dinner, why was she at the office alone?” There was no judgment in his voice. It was a simple question but Mulder still flinched.

“She was worried about you so we split up to look for you. I went to your house while she went to the office. We were going to go to the restaurant from there but…” He closed his eyes against the vision of her cooling, lifeless body lying on the floor behind Frohike's desk. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff. “I need to know if her death is linked to whatever this is that you’re involved in.”

"I believe it is.” Frohike remembered Jimmy’s message from Fletcher. It was obvious that he wanted Frohike to find Maggie's body at his office.

A murderous look flashed across Mulder's face. “Then I’m a part of this.”

* * * * *

Jimmy felt as if he had gone a round with Joe Louis and, from his colorful reflection in the stainless steel tray he had scooped up off the table, he looked it. Gingerly, he touched a particularly nasty looking cut on his cheek. He should probably clean it, make sure it didn’t get infected. Dr. Scully must have something lying around that he could put on it.

Thinking about the doctor made him wonder what was happening in the admittance bay. He would have gone with the others but he hadn’t known Maggie and didn’t want to intrude on Frohike's grief.

But, he thought guiltily, being alone in the autopsy room unnerved him. Well, he wasn’t entirely alone. Yves was near but she didn’t seem inclined toward conversation. When everyone else had headed down the hall, Yves had taken up a position at the entrance of the room. She remained leaning against the doorframe, her gaze toward the corridor, her thoughts elsewhere.

Jimmy sighed, set the tray down next to him and decided to find some ointment for his cut. At least it would give him something to do and hopefully settle his restlessness. He slid off the cold, metal autopsy table and inhaled sharply when his ribs protested the movement.

“I thought Dr. Scully told you to refrain from unnecessary movement.”

Jimmy glanced up, surprised to see Yves striding toward him. Apparently, she didn’t miss a thing. He gestured at his face. “I was going to get something to put on my cuts.”

“Sit,” Yves ordered. She waited until he did so then went over to bank of cabinets that filled one wall of the room. Rummaging inside them, she found a clear bottle and a several cotton balls. She returned, dropped all but one cotton ball next to him then twisted off the cap.

“What is that?” Jimmy asked, eyeing the bottle curiously.

“Rubbing alcohol.” Yves pressed the cotton ball to the edge and slowly tipped the bottle. “It should disinfect those cuts nicely.”

“I can – OW!” he protested, pulling away.

Yves shook her head in exasperation. “I barely touched you.”

“It stings,” he defended himself. He didn’t miss the sarcastic “Men!” that she muttered under her breath. When she touched the damp cotton ball to his cheek again, Jimmy held resolutely still, refusing to flinch despite the burn of alcohol on the deep cut.

Thankfully, the other cuts weren’t as bad and didn’t hurt as much. She didn’t speak, just concentrated on cleaning his wounds. He didn’t mind the silence though since it gave him a chance to watch her.

He had never met a woman like her. He'd seen beautiful women before but her strength and courage set her apart from the others. Jimmy also had to admit he envied her a bit, too. How did she remain so calm and cool while he felt as if his doubts and fears had become a second layer of skin?

Maybe it was something they taught secret agents?

“Stupid.”

That one word jarred Jimmy from his thoughts. “What? Who…?”

Yves indicated his face with the cotton ball. “Why, after everything that happened would you and the Professor even consider taking off without informing me?”

“I…" Jimmy swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat caused by her obvious anger. “I wanted to tell you but the Professor convinced me not to.”

He would have left it at that but Yves arched an eyebrow and waited for him to explain further. “He told me how much you’ve done for him and that he wanted to do something to repay you. And the only thing he could do was help your country by cracking the Enigma. To do that, he needed his notes.”

“You honestly believe that’s why he did it?” Scorn dripped from her words.

“You don’t?” he asked.

“The professor wanted his notes and so he regaled you with a distressing tale of woe to convince you to do something utterly stupid."

“What we did was dumb,” Jimmy admitted after a moment. He wouldn’t apologize for his part though, because if he did, he’d also be apologizing for the reason he did it. He met her intense gaze and said softly, “I still believe his reasons for doing it.”

She seemed perplexed by this admission. “You’re a fool,” she finally said, breaking eye contact and returning to her task.

An uneasy silence settled between them and, wanting to break the tension, Jimmy said ruefully. “I guess tackling that guy wasn’t such a good idea.”

Yves paused to stare at him in disbelief. “You tackled a hired thug? What in God’s name possessed you to do that?”

Her tone put him on the defensive. “I was trying to give the Professor time to get away. It worked too. He escaped even when Fletcher made a lame attempt to stop him. Only…”

“Fletcher had Krycek in the hall as a precaution,” Yves finished.

“Yeah.” Jimmy felt his face heat in embarrassment. “I guess that explains why Fletcher just looked amused.”

Yves tossed the cotton ball in the trash then took another, dampening it. “This is good news, Mr. Bond.”

“What’s good news? And please, call me Jimmy.”

She considered him for a moment. “Jimmy,” she acquiesced. A pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She ignored it, continuing to cleanse a cut above his eye as she talked. “Your beating was driven as much by ego as emotion…"

“He was furious,” Jimmy said, subdued. He remembered after the beating how the man had crouched down next to him and whispered, "You’re lucky the man only paid me to mark you up."

He winced again but not from the alcohol on his raw skin.

“Which suggests to me Fletcher hired a local talent. Not a professional.” Yves continued. “He won’t want someone he can’t trust in on the exchange thus I’m confident we’ll only have to contend with Fletcher and Krycek.”

Jimmy nodded as another silence fell between them and Yves continued to clean his cuts.

Fishing around for another subject, Jimmy asked, “So, how did you get into the spy business?” Yves arched an eyebrow at him as if debating the sincerity of the question. “I mean it’s not like you answer an ad in the classifieds or anything."

Yves chuckled. “No, it’s nothing that random. I was recruited because of my father.”

“You’re father? But I thought your mom cut off all ties with your dad. How…"

“Leave it alone, Jimmy,” Yves interrupted, her voice tight.

Jimmy stared at her a second, startled by the vehemence behind her words, then nodded. He tried another tack. “I bet they trained you to fight so you didn’t end up looking like a box of Crayola crayons.”

“Actually,” she said, giving Jimmy a sly smile. “I was trained to duck.”

Jimmy chuckled. “Ow!” he exclaimed, pressing a finger to his spit lip. He was relieved to see it hadn’t started bleeding again. “It’s weird,” he said, “but that Fletcher guy actually looked uncomfortable when that thug was beating me up.”

Yves pursed her lips into a frown. “Morris Fletcher is inherently a conman. He normally prefers a more subtle method of achieving his goals.” That was until she played his game, exploited his weakness and won.

Her reference of methods and achieving goals reminded Jimmy of something he had been thinking a lot about. “Yves? That night when you thought I had the pictures of you and the Professor –“ he swallowed hard and continued. He didn’t want to know the answer but a part of him needed to know. “Would you have…if I had the pictures…how far would you have gone to get them back?”

Yves met his gaze, her expression giving nothing away. Then slowly, precisely, she dropped the cotton ball in the trash and capped the alcohol, giving the top a decisive twist before setting it down on the counter.

“I would have done whatever I needed to get them back,” she said in a matter of fact tone.

She could tell by his expression that she had managed to shock him with that vague insinuation. As she watched him, she noted that, while he struggled with her statement, there was no judgment in his eyes.

He was so unlike other men, yet he readily believed that insinuation. The slight disappointment she felt bothered her and she quickly brushed it aside.

Jimmy stared at Yves, struggling to understand her. He had been raised to believe that intimacy between two people was something special and should be cherished. What kind of woman used sex as a means to an end? He didn’t understand it but he had never been in her position. While he figured it was easier for a man, a part of him wondered if he had the courage to do whatever it took to get the job done, no matter the personal cost.

She moved closer to him, reaching out to him. He was so lost in his train of thought it didn’t register. At least not right away.

He grabbed her wrist before she could insert a needle into his arm.

“What are you doing?” He demanded, his heart thumping in his chest like a brass drum. What was in that syringe?

“I’m doing what I need to do to save the Professor,” Yves said calmly then added, “It’s just a mild sedative, Jimmy. You’ll wake up in an hour with nothing more than a headache.”

“Just a mild…” He gaped at her in horrified disbelief. “You just expect me to let you inject me with that? You can’t be serious! I don’t…” he paused, eyes growing wide. “You’re going to meet Fletcher by yourself!” With his stunned pronouncement, his grip on her wrist loosened.

All she had to do was shake him off and inject him.

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated, taking in his numerous cuts, bruises and deepening black eye. He watched her intently as she reached up with her free hand and gently touched a cut along his cheek, not really surprised he let her.

It was odd, this desire for him to understand.

“Because innocent people have been hurt,” she said her voice heavy with regret.

“You’ve been hurt too, Yves,” Jimmy reminded her. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Yves thought about how he had followed her as she ran back toward the beach house and the bomb they all knew was about to explode. She remembered at the time wondering whether he was completely daft or very brave. She now knew he was the latter and it was the kind of bravery that made a person act regardless of the consequences to himself.

She thought of Maggie whose only motivation was worry over Frohike's safety. And now she was lying in the morgue. Her resolve hardened. “The Professor is my responsibility,” she murmured.

“Let me help you,” Jimmy insisted. “I want to help you.

“I know.” She smiled up at him, earning a sweetly earnest smile in return. She drew her hand from his, saying, “But this is between no one but Fletcher and me.”

“Think again, Sugar.”

Startled, Yves palmed the needle and turned but not before she saw the disappointment in Jimmy’s face. Frohike stood at the door, his face grim. Behind him stood Agent Doggett, Byers, Mulder and Dr. Scully.

Frohike entered the room. “This thing involves all of us and I have every intention of making sure Fletcher and Agent Krycek,” he said the name with deep contempt, “pay for what they did. If you don’t like it…that's just too damn bad.”

Chapter 18

Frohike sat at Maggie’s desk, sifting through the papers scattered across its surface. Maggie was meticulously organized and this mess made Frohike even more aware that she would never grace his office again.

Yves stood with her hand on the doorknob of his inner office, watching him, waiting.

I should do it, Frohike thought. It was his office but he just couldn’t face seeing Maggie's drying blood on the floor. In his mind's eye, he could envision her lying there alone and defenseless. At some point, he was going to have to go back into that room.

But not now.

He averted his gaze, his mouth suddenly parched. He thought of the bottle of amber liquid hidden in the bottom drawer of his desk. It was a powerful craving but the reality of the crime scene in the other room held him rooted to his spot at Maggie's desk.

He heard his office door open and then Yves heels click softly on the floor as she entered. He could tell she made a full circuit of the room, checking it out.

After only a few moments, Yves stepped back into the room, firmly closing the door behind her.

She didn't say anything to Frohike about what she'd found in there and he didn't ask. If there was something he needed to know, he figured she'd tell him.

They settled into an uncomfortable silence. Yves leaned against the wall in a corner of the room where she could easily see the door, the desk where Frohike waited and the window to the street below. She occasionally flexed her injured shoulder, raising her elbow and moving it back and forth, testing her range of motion. She would also clench and unclench her fingers to assess their strength and reliability. She'd needed to know her limitations for what lay ahead.

Frohike had offered her the only decent seat in the room but she refused it. He needed it more than she did. She could have sat on the bench by the door but she felt more alert, more in control of the situation in this position.

Sitting back in Maggie's chair, Frohike pulled his hat down over his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. The picture of calm he presented in no way reflected his true state of mind but he had learned after years of long stake outs and uncertain outcomes to these jobs that it was a good idea to conserve his energy whenever possible.

They remained this way for some time, silently waiting. Yves cast occasional glances the clock on the wall marking the minutes as they slowly passed.

Twelve o'clock came and went but the call didn't come. The minutes continued to tick by.

Frohike scowled at his watch then back at the phone on the desk in front of him, which stubbornly refused to ring. He checked his watch again. "He said noon, right?" Frohike wanted nothing more than to end this whole nightmare.

"Yes," Yves said succinctly.

"It's five minutes past," the detective said in disgust. "He's late."

"He's holding all the cards at this point," Yves noted. "I don't believe he cares if he's a bit late."

"If you're holding someone for ransom you should damn well care!" Frohike stated emphatically.

"I have no control over this man," Yves said bristling at his unwarranted outburst.

"But you're the only one who's really had any dealings with him and the only one who knows anything about him."

"You had your chance when he came in here," Yves shot back. "You could have done a more thorough investigation of him but you just gave up when it became too difficult."

"It's not like I had the time when I was spending the bulk of it protecting your sister and searching for your sorry ass."

"Monica was perfectly safe until you got involved. I made sure she knew nothing."

"And knowing nothing only made her worry," Frohike said, raising his voice. "Did you think after all the money and time she spent to find you in the first place that she would simply forget you existed? And besides, if it wasn't for her asking me to find you again, you and the professor would both be dead."

"I had the situation under control. We were perfectly safe until you showed up with Fletcher and his crony tailing you."

Frohike shook his head. "No…" he insisted. "No, we were not there long enough for him to set that bomb. It was there when we arrived. He found you earlier, using the same information we had. If the boy reporter and I hadn't shown up when we did, by now you would be nothing but bits of charcoal scattered all up and down that beach."

"You think too highly of yourself, Melvin. You should have just left us alone."

"You're right about that. I should have left you to fend for yourself and told Monica to forget about you." He retorted angrily. "If I had," he continued his voice heavy with grief, "Maggie wouldn't have died a senseless death. She would have been safe at home, with the rest of her life ahead of her and not lying in cold locker in the morgue."

The ringing phone interrupted his tirade. They looked at each other; both knowing instinctively it was Fletcher. Mel snatched up the instrument. “Frohike,” he barked.

“No wonder your business is doing so poorly,” Fletcher mocked. “Perhaps you should hire someone with proper etiquette to answer your phone.” The man chuckled, his words pricking Frohike like rusted needles under his skin. “Oh, wait. You did. Such a lovely lady. There was a true southern hospitality about her….”

Frohike gritted his teeth against the profanity that threatened to spill from him. He would not give this bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much he was getting to him.

“…but I understand she recently left your employ.”

“Goddamn you Fletcher,” Frohike shouted jumping up from his seat, the injury to his leg completely forgotten, “when I get my hands on you…” Yves ripped the phone from his hand, leaving Fletcher’s laughter echoing in his ear. “…I’m going to tear your head from your shoulders!”

Yves held up her hand, shaking her head at him before focusing on the phone. “I want Professor Langly returned unharmed, Fletcher.” Behind her, Frohike started to pace, throwing furious glances at her.

Fletcher merely chuckled. “What? No warm greeting for an old friend? No reminisces of old times? Sweetheart, I’m hurt. Simply hurt.” She imagined him clutching his chest as he spoke. The man simply loved the theatrics. When she didn’t respond, there was a heavy, exaggerated sigh. “Fine, fine. Since you are there I will assume you got my message. I hope the errand boy didn’t mess it up.”

“I got the message verbatim,” she said coldly.

“Excellent! I made him repeat it several time just in case. His attention span…” His light mocking tone changed to one as serious as a firefight. “I want the Enigma and you want the professor…”

“….unharmed,” Yves qualified.

“Of course unharmed, sweetheart,” Fletcher said, the mocking tone back. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Your recent actions speak for themselves.”

“The boy tried to be a hero. I only pointed out the error of his thinking.”

“How honorable.” Yves’ voice dripped with sarcasm. “What about the woman? What errors did you point out when you murdered her?”

“That, my dear, was my associate. I didn’t do anything but compliment her on her loyalty to her boss. You have that in common with her.” When Yves didn’t reply to the obvious taunt, Fletcher said, “I so enjoy our verbal foreplay. Perhaps …”

“The exchange, Fletcher,” Yves snapped.

Fletcher chuckled. “I knew you missed our time together.” When he spoke again all amusement disappeared from his voice. “Tonight at 9:30. Come to 204 Fells Point Rd. Leave Toto in Kansas or else the professor takes swimming lessons in the Potomac.”

“Well?” Frohike demanded as Yves placed the receiver on the hook.

Yves leveled her gaze on Frohike. “The meeting is set for dawn,” she lied. “We need to go back and talk to the others to come up with a viable plan.”

* * * * *

The senior Spender snubbed out his cigarette as his phone rang. He'd been expecting this call but he waited until the fourth ring before picking it up.

"Yes," he said.

"This is Fletcher. I've set up the exchange."

"Good," said CB Spender. "Were you able to gather any interesting information?"

"They're ready to kill each other," Fletcher chuckled. "I left them stewing for a while and all they did was argue."

Spender nodded to himself. This was a good sign. That their adversaries were at each other's throat did not bode well for their continued cooperation.

"And here's the best part," Fletcher went on. "She lied to him."

"What do you mean?" Spender asked.

"Miss Harlow lied to the private detective. She gave him incorrect information about the exchange. She told him it was in the morning." He started laughing out right. "That arrogant little minx plans on meeting me by herself."

Spender tapped his next cigarette on the desktop. "Don't get too cocky, Fletcher. I don't want any more mistakes. You're damned lucky the cops didn't find your hidden microphone in that office when they came to remove the secretary's body."

"That wasn't my fault," Fletcher said quickly. "Who the hell comes to work on a Sunday? That office was supposed to be empty. We couldn't take the chance of someone finding our bug."

"Killing her only brought the police," said Spender in a calm voice that sounded much more threatening than if he'd shown his anger.

"How were we supposed to know someone was meeting her there? The private dick was supposed to find the body when he came in to wait for the call."

"I'm tired of your excuses, Fletcher," said Spender allowing some irritation to be heard with this statement. "If you make any more mistakes, I will have no choice but to take appropriate actions."

There was silence on the line. Spender flipped open his lighter with an audible click and lit his cigarette. He pulled the smoke deep into his lungs as he waited for Fletcher to respond.

"We can't go wrong at this point," Fletcher finally insisted almost as if he were trying to convince himself. "Miss Harlow's overconfidence will guarantee that."

"It's not her overconfidence I'm worried about," said Spender blowing smoke at the receiver. "Take Krycek with you."

Fletcher started to protest but cut himself off. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll do that."

"I want that Enigma, Fletcher. You have no room for errors." With this, he hung up the phone.

* * * * *

Fletcher waited patiently. Harlow would be on time, of that he was certain. She wanted her professor back, even though she knew there would be hell to pay for losing the Enigma again. He chuckled to himself. He'd read her perfectly. It's what he did best: reading people, finding their weaknesses and exploiting them for his own gain.

And Harlow's weakness was this idiot professor. Fletcher glanced over to where he had the man tied to a support beam, his mouth taped shut to stop his incessant whining and complaining.

Unfortunately for her, she'd sworn to protect this guy just as she'd sworn to bring the Enigma back to England. Fletcher smiled to himself. She was about to fail on both counts.

"Krycek," he called to his companion. "Check if she’s here yet and make sure no one followed her.

"Keep an eye on him," Krycek said, meaning the professor. "And whatever you do, don't take his gag off or I really will shoot him this time." With this the FBI agent left the building.

Outside, he scrutinized the deepest shadows in the darkness around the warehouse. He wouldn’t put it past Harlow to arrive early. Even now she could be watching, preparing to make her move against them.

It was something he would do.

After a few minutes, he relaxed, almost disappointed when he glimpsed no unusual movements or sensed no unseen eyes on him. He hated the waiting game of undercover operations, preferring those brief surges of action. He considered making a circuit of the perimeter, not only to make sure everything was secure but also to expend some of his excess energy when he saw the telltale sight of headlights.

He glanced at his watch. One thing he could say for the Brits: they were always punctual. He waited, watching as the slow moving car turned the corner, tires crunching the gravel in the expansive lot.

As it drove under the lone streetlight outside the door, Krycek noted that the car looked familiar. When it drew closer, he recognized the damage he'd caused to it: the bullets holes along the sides and the shattered back window.

The Ford Fordor stopped about 20 feet from him. He couldn't make out the driver through the glare on the windshield.

"Agent Krycek, I presume?" the woman asked in a voice full of contempt as she stepped out of the driver's seat.

A bit taken aback that she knew who he was, he neither confirmed nor denied it. "Where is the Enigma?" he demanded, drawing out his gun.

Harlow shook her head. "You're not getting it until I know the professor is safe."

Krycek ignored her, moving around to where he could see the inside the car, all the while keeping his gun trained on the MI-6 agent. Satisfied no one was hiding in the backseat, he said, "Hands on the car."

"If you think I'm going to allow you to pat me down, you're seriously mistaken. I have no weapon." She held open her jacket. The tight outfit she was wearing made it obvious that she wasn't lying. But Krycek was never a person to take someone like Harlow on her word.

He held his hand out. "Give me the jacket." She complied. "Now turn around." She did so, slowly. Noting that she had no gun hidden on her person, he patted the pockets of her jacket before tossing it back to her.

"If you're satisfied," said Yves, "I'd like to see the professor now."

Krycek indicated the warehouse with his weapon. "He's inside," he said. "Get the machine and follow me."

"Back off so I can get it out of the trunk," Yves insisted shutting the driver's side door.

Krycek did as he was commanded but stayed close enough that he could see the interior of the trunk as Yves keyed it open. The space was big enough for someone to hide in but it was empty except for a smallish wooden box with a leather handle.

Yves picked it up with one hand and slammed the lid of the trunk with the other never once taking her eyes off Krycek. "Lead the way," she said.

Krycek only grinned wolfishly. “Ladies first.”

Harlow raised one dark eyebrow but walked ahead of him, stopping at the heavy metal door. Krycek watched as she shifted the box from one hand to another then glanced back at him, a smirk gracing her expression. “Apparently, Mr. Krycek, your manners haven’t fled completely along with your allegiance to your country.”

Anger burned in Krycek's guts at her words but he tempered his emotions knowing she was baiting him in an attempt to catch him off guard. He holstered his gun but continued to wait for Yves to enter the building ahead of him. She finally did but once inside, neatly sidestepped so he could enter and walk along next to her.

Deeper in the warehouse, Fletcher could hear Yves talking as they entered the building. He noticed the professor perk up at the sound of his protector's voice. Fletcher snickered, walking over to the bound and gagged man.

"Your bodyguard is here," he said to Langly. "We'll see if she really did come to save your life or if it's just to sell you out. I keep telling you, that Enigma is more important to her than you are."

The tape over his mouth prevented Professor Langly from responding but his nostrils flared in mixture of fear and defiance.

Yves stopped when she saw Fletcher and Langly. Krycek came around her to stand closer to their kidnap victim. She studied the professor. He looked emotionally beaten and ashamed yet in his eyes she saw desperate hope.

"Let him go," Yves demanded.

"Not until I see the goods," Fletcher replied.

Setting the box down on the floor and crouching beside it, Yves unlatched the front cover. In his eagerness, Fletcher took a step towards her.

"Stay where you are," Yves warned her hand going automatically to her side where her gun was usually concealed. Fletcher stopped, his fingers twitching as if he could barely wait to get his hands on the prize.

Refocusing her attention on the wooden box, Yves lifted the cover to reveal the Enigma inside. She stood up next to it and nodded to Fletcher to let him know he could take a closer look.

Wisely staying just out of Yves' reach, Fletcher examined the machine. The self-satisfied expression on his face changed to one of anger almost immediately. Eyes flashing, he rounded on Yves. "What the hell are you playing at?"

Krycek moved closer to Langly, unnecessarily grabbing his long hair and jerking his head sideways causing him to make a pained sound that was muffled by his gag.

Yves forced herself to ignore the professor's distress. "What do you mean, Fletcher? I brought the Enigma as promised."

"You know perfectly well this isn't everything. Where's the other box with the rest of the gears? It's worthless without them."

"They're my insurance," Yves stated calmly. "I'll tell you where they are when you release Professor Langly."

"My associate doesn't take too kindly to ultimatums," said Fletcher. Krycek didn’t disappoint, delivering a swift belly punch to the scientist.

Langly doubled over, his shoulders straining against his bonds, a strangled hiss escaping from behind the tape. The F.B.I. agent shoved Langly back against the post, forcing the scientist's head up. Langly’s eyes were wide with fear, confusion and anger.

Krycek glanced at Yves, a feral grin on his face. He was baiting her, of that Yves was positive; trying to unbalance her; to get her to act rashly and retaliate. It would give him the excuse he needed to kill her and the Professor for they were the only ones who knew he had betrayed the country he had sworn to protect. They were all that stood between him and a lifetime in jail. Whatever Fletcher's plans were, Krycek didn’t intend to leave any witnesses behind.

Yves had to keep her composure for the Professor’s sake as well as her own so she tapped down the anger radiating through her; responding only with a cold glare.

“The other box.” Fletcher repeated. “Where is it?”

“At least let me talk to the Professor first.” Yves leveled her gaze at her nemesis. She was done with his cat and mouse games, the innuendos and the faux suggestion of intimacy between them. This was business stripped to its essentials.

Fletcher nodded in accord. “Alex.”

One word and Krycek ripped the tape off the professors’ mouth. The scientist inhaled air greedily through his mouth then coughed.

"Professor? Are you all right?" Yves could see the whining complaints bubble up within the man but his abduction and abuse had cemented the reality of the situation where all of Yves’ previous warnings had failed.

Langly nodded then, as if remembering he was free to speak, said, “I’m ok. Just a little bruised.” The last was said with a furious glare toward Krycek.

“Now that you’ve chatted,” Fletcher stated, “I want the missing gears.”

"They're in the car under the passenger's seat."

"Alex, would you please go get them," Fletcher said not taking his eyes off Yves.

Krycek narrowed his eyes at Fletcher; tired of being regulated to errand boy for this man. If he didn’t fear a reprisal from Spender, Alex wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate Fletcher when this job was over. “You're sure you can handle these two?" he sneered.

"Just get the box," Fletcher snapped.

Biting back his next comment, Krycek stalked out to the car. His only consolation was that this would all soon be over and he would have the personal satisfaction of eliminating the irritants that both Harlow and the professor had become.

He let the warehouse door slam behind him. Giving less than a cursory glance around the area where the car was parked, Krycek approached the vehicle and opened the front door on the far side of the car.

Digging around under the front passenger seat, he found nothing. The meager light from the one streetlight in this area did little to assist in his search. Considering the possibility the Harlow had lied, he decided to try from the back seat

Krycek stood but was stopped dead in his tracks by the feel of the cold metal of a gun barrel being pressed to the back of his neck. "Don't move, Krycek," a familiar voice commanded.

Alex froze, assessing the situation. "Well, well, Agent Doggett. Fancy meeting you here." He tried to turn to face the other agent.

"Don't turn around," growled Doggett. "I'd hate to shoot you. Explaining your death to our superiors would be difficult. The paperwork alone could take days." Doggett reached under Krycek's jacket to remove the other man's pistol. He tossed it beneath the car then bent to get the smaller gun that he knew Krycek kept strapped to his ankle.

He barely got it out of its holster before Krycek spun around, knocking him backwards and onto the gravel. Doggett dropped Krycek's extra gun as he fell. Alex heard it hit the road and frantically searched for it while Doggett tried to regain his feet.

Still on his knees, Doggett reached out to grab the other man who gave up hope of finding his gun and took off running. On his feet and quickly catching up, Doggett yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot." In truth he didn't want to shoot his fellow agent. A dead Krycek really would be a lot harder to explain than a live one. He needed the man to confess to his dealings with Nazi sympathizers.

But Krycek had no intention of just giving himself up. He knew his actions in this situation could be considered treasonous and he didn't want to suffer the consequences. He also knew Doggett could outrun him. They'd trained together enough for this to be obvious. Putting on an extra burst of speed, he rounded the corner of the warehouse.

Coming to the end of the building, Doggett skidded to a stop. The only streetlights on this side of the warehouse were far away in the main parking lot but he should have been able to see and hear someone running away from him. He heard nothing. He couldn’t see much either.

Gun in hand; he stepped cautiously forward, warily eyeing the crates and wooden pallets stacked against the wall to his right. Since he could see so little, he strained to listen for any sound of the man who he was certain was hiding there.

Beyond the piled debris, there was a loading dock. The door was recessed and Doggett couldn't be sure if it was open or not. He had to consider the possibility that Krycek had managed to get back inside the building. If this were true, Yves and the professor would be in even far greater danger.

His muscles tense and his senses crackling, Doggett inched forward. Every tiny sound, every shift of shadow demanded his attention. Each second required several life or death decisions. With his gun at eye level held at the extent of his arms and his finger on the trigger, he turned his back to the feeble light from the parking lot.

A slight noise off to his left drew his attention, making him wonder for less than a split second if he'd misjudged, that his quarry had gone the other way. In that moment of indecision, Krycek exploded with a roar out of his hiding place among the crates, once again knocking Doggett to the ground.

Chapter 19

Fletcher grinned at Harlow as he covered her with his gun. They both knew his experience with firearms was limited: he was a conman; his personal weapon of choice was his ability to twist a situation to his control by using his nemesises’ desires against them but the gun was loaded and Harlow was unarmed.

But it didn’t make her any less dangerous, Fletcher reminded himself. The gun and the Professor, he flicked his gaze to the bound scientist, were his insurance policies until Krycek returned with the box of gears.

And speaking of the F.B.I. agent, where was he? Fletcher glanced toward the door almost willing the man to appear with gears in hand. He wanted this fiasco with Harlow over and done with.

“I can’t feel my hands.”

Fletcher smirked at his captives, turning his gaze on the longhaired man. “My apologies, Professor,” he said with a false empathy in his voice. “What are your plans once I allow you to leave? A long bath?” Fletcher wrinkled his nose. The man definitely needed one. “A hot meal? Or maybe…” His grin widening, thinking of how the man had spent the previous night tied up. “… a good night's sleep in a soft bed?”

Langly glanced at Yves who nodded her head slightly. “Yeah,” Langly muttered, “All of that but not necessarily in that order.”

“You might want to reconsider that.” Fletcher tapped his nose and laughed. He enjoyed goading the man. He made it so easy. “Hey!” he yelled when he noticed Yves inching away from him. She was probably trying to get the drop on him while he was busy with Langly. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart.”

Yves merely smiled contemptuously. “I have no idea to what you are referring, Fletcher.”

She took another step to the side and he turned with her, keeping her in his line of sight, ignoring about his bound captive. She was up to something. He just wasn’t sure what and that made him nervous.

“You’re getting paranoid.” She made a show of holding her arms out, palms up. “I’m unarmed as you can see.”

And he could see. Her black clothes molded to her body; accentuating every curve. There was no room for a weapon, not even a knife.

“You have the gun, the professor,” she continued smoothly with just a touch of annoyance in her voice, “and now the Enigma.” She grimaced, her next words bitter. “You’ve won our little competition.”

Fletcher laughed, delighted. Harlow had just admitted defeat; that he had trumped her. He heard soft footsteps entering the warehouse. Finally! Krycek had returned with the rest of his prize.

“I wish I could be there when you explain to your superiors how you lost the Enigma…again,” Fletcher said, letting his satisfaction ooze through his words. “Tie her up, Alex.”

“I don’t think so, bub,” a hauntingly familiar voice said.

Whirling in surprise, Fletcher came face to face with the last person on earth he expected to see at that point. "You!" he squawked at the man in the trench coat and fedora who stepped out of the shadows.

Moving quickly, Yves neatly disarmed Fletcher who, in his shock, offered no resistance.

Frohike sneered keeping his gun aimed at the center of Fletcher's chest. Reaching into his coat with his free hand, he pulled out a set of handcuffs. "Here you go, Sugar," he said tossing them to Yves.

"How did you…who told…when?" Fletcher blubbered as Yves bound his hands behind his back. He'd been so certain, so confident of his assessment of the situation.

"You're such an arrogant bastard," said Frohike, distain dripping from his words. "We knew there had to be a reason for you to be in my office on a Saturday night." The picture of Maggie's still form lying on the gurney in the morgue popped into his head. He closed his eyes against that image but this only made it clearer.

Frohike felt the same uncontrollable rage that had caused him to beat that child murderer unconscious. Once again, it threatened to overcome his common sense, his reason. His heart began to race as adrenaline pumped through his body. His breathing grew deeper and quicker. He could feel his finger tightening unbidden on the trigger of his gun. It would be so easy, so quick. He would rid the world of not only a conman but a traitor and a murderer. Would anyone really blame him?

Noting the tension in his body, Yves knew that Frohike was fighting his own battle at the moment but she kept her primary focus on Fletcher. "I found your hidden microphone shortly after we got to his office," she told him. Flashing him a rare genuine smile, she asked, "Did you honestly think I wouldn't check: that I would be so stupid as to walk into a situation knowing you'd been there first without taking some precautions." She cast another quick glance at the private detective hoping that it would not be necessary to forcibly disarm him. If he didn't relax soon, she knew the outcome would not be pretty.

Fletcher could feel it, too. Frohike stared at him, unblinking, his head cocked to one side keeping Fletcher in his sights. "Tell him to put the gun down," he begged Yves. "You've got me cuffed. What can I do now? Look at him! He's crazy!"

"Can you blame him?" was all Yves said in response.

Frohike was only marginally aware of this conversation. The urge to shoot the man was almost too strong to ignore. Jail would probably be inevitable this time. His newfound amiable relationship with the DA would not make any difference. He knew like he knew his own hat size that Byers wouldn’t hesitate to toss his ass in jail for shooting an unarmed man.

Then somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard a voice: soft and indistinct at first but growing louder and more insistent with each passing moment. "Mel, please." He blinked, raising his head a bit. "Come back to me." He closed his eyes again. This time it wasn't Maggie's dead body he saw but Dana's concerned face as he remembered it from their last parting. "There's still so much I don't know about you and so much that I want to tell you." He'd reassured her that they had the upper hand, that Fletcher's planned ambush would be turned against him. "Promise me you'll come back alive." He had laughed a little at her concern but she was not satisfied until he promised.

And a promise made to a lady was not to be taken lightly.

Yves watched as Frohike lowered his gun and saw the tension begin to drain from his body. Dropping his gun arm to his side, he stood up a bit straighter.

"HEY!" Langly yelled to get their attention. "Remember me, the kidnap victim? Can I get some help with these ropes or are you all just going to stand around chitchatting all day?"

"Just a minute, Professor," Yves said in a reassuring voice. "Are you all right?" she asked Frohike whose breathing was beginning to return to normal.

"I got him," the private detective said holstering his gun to step up beside Fletcher. He grabbed the man by the arm. "If he even twitches, I'll shoot him in the foot." He snorted at Fletcher's gasp. "Don't worry," Frohike reassured him as Yves went to untie Langly. "It won't kill you but your dancing days would be over."

Fletcher said nothing. He still harbored some small hope of escaping. Krycek was out there somewhere, probably hiding, waiting for his chance to strike.

* * * * *

John Byers brought a cup of tea to the lady ME. She sat calmly in a high wing-backed chair near the fire in Byers' living room. He noticed how often she would glance toward the front window.

"Thank you," she said absently as he took a seat in the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace. They sat in silence for a while, Byers casting occasional glances at Scully, her elbows on the arms of the chair with her fingers wrapped around the teacup, which was held near her face. Although she hadn't taken a sip, she breathed in the aromatic steam rising from the cup. She appeared to be intently watching the flames but Byers knew her thoughts were miles away with their missing friends.

"He asked you to stay here with me, didn't he?" she finally said.

"Yes, he did," Byers admitted, not needing to ask who 'he' was. When she said nothing in response he continued. "He was relieved when you agreed to come here with us." They had moved everyone to Byers' house once it became obvious they could no longer continue to occupy the morgue.

"He didn't think it would be safe for me to go home." Scully suppressed a sigh as she set her teacup in its saucer on the small table next to her. "And with the day shift arriving at 5 a.m., I couldn't stay at work either. It's my day off and the assistant ME knows I attend Mass early on Sunday mornings."

Yet another passing car's headlights lit the sheer curtains of the front window. Leaning forward slightly in her chair, Dana's eyes followed the light across the curtains. When it became obvious that the vehicle was headed farther down the street, she settled back into the cushions of the chair.

"It was nice of you to let everyone come here," she continued, hoping the conversation would help the time pass more quickly.

Byers shrugged. "It was the only place that made sense," he said. "Frohike told me that Miss Harlow's house had been torn apart by the FBI and whoever else is after that Enigma machine. They obviously know where Jimmy lives as well as Mel's office so we would have to assume they know where he lives also."

Dana nodded. "It's very comfortable here. Mel and Yves really needed the sleep. Both of them were nearly dead on their feet and with the injuries they sustained…" She had insisted on examining their assorted wounds and found it necessary to do some restitching on the deep cut in Frohike's leg. But Yves' shoulder was healing nicely. Dana was also pleased to note that none of them showed any sign of growing infection.

But these three patients were not the one she was the most worried about. "I hope they bring the professor back here before Yves takes him off to England. I seriously doubt she'll take him to a hospital as I suggested."

"I think you're right," Byers said. "She's operating in this country without the government's knowledge and their official stance of noninvolvement with the war in Europe makes it impossible for them to be of any real assistance. Agent Doggett told me his superiors were more interested in why an MI 6 agent was in Washington DC then in what she needed help with."

"I figured as much," Dana said thoughtfully. "That's probably why she kept insisting on making the exchange on her own." She paused for a moment remembering the argument between Frohike and Yves over that assertion. The corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile. "But Mel is even more stubborn than she is."

Byers chuckled. "He is pig headed, isn't he?"

Dana's smile deepened. "He can be persistent." She picked up her teacup and took a sip. "I was relieved in many ways when she finally relented and told the others the truth about when and where the exchange was set to take place." She paused again, setting her cup back down. "I just wish…"

* * * * *

Doggett was down: pinned to the unyielding ground by Krycek. The rogue agent knew his only chance was to get Doggett’s gun and turn it against him. If he lost this fight, his freedom and his life would be over.

Doggett’s arm was going numb: both from the pressure from Krycek and his own death grip on his weapon.

Gravel bit painfully into his wrist.

His chest heaving and heart thundering in his ears, Doggett pressed his feet flat against the ground and bucked but Krycek held his ground, his own ragged breaths matching his opponents.

For one terrifying moment Doggett believed he could actually lose this battle: that his life would end with a single bullet from his own gun.

And Krycek would walk away from it all with no one the wiser.

That knowledge infuriated Doggett and he struggled more frantically. Keeping a desperate grip on the gun, he strained to push his other arm up in a frantic bid to shake off his assailant.

It became a wrestling match neither man could afford to lose.

Doggett knew if he was going to shake Krycek off he would need both of his hands. It meant releasing his grip on the gun. He would have only a few precious seconds to take control.

But then Krycek went flying as a blur slammed into the agent. It was Mulder. Doggett scrambled to his feet as the two men landed in a crushing heap mere inches from him. Doggett trained his gun on them, ignoring the pain arcing through his wrist. The fleeting thought that his wrist might be sprained was pushed aside as he focused on the two men stirring on the ground.

“Don’t try anything, Krycek” Doggett shouted as Mulder got to his knees.

Mulder fisted the back of Krycek's jacket then stood, yanking the agent to his feet. Krycek moaned, clutching his abdomen. The police officer jerked the other man around to face him and that’s when Doggett saw the intense hatred in Mulder’s eyes. The memory of Maggie’s still, cold body was driving him. Doggett knew he needed to defuse the situation or the officer would be facing far graver charges then conduct unbecoming.

“Mulder.” Doggett kept his voice firm, authoritative. “I have him covered." When the Mulder didn't respond, he tried again only louder. "MULDER!"

"I heard you the first time," Mulder barked in response.

"Then cuff him and let's take him in. He’s going to prison for a long time.”

Emotions warred within Mulder but the cop side won out. Without taking his gaze from Krycek, he snagged his handcuffs out of his back pocket and roughly dragged the suspect's arms behind him causing the injured agent to curse under his breath.

Krycek gasped. "My ribs are broken, you stinking son of a whore!" he said through gritted teeth.

Mulder stared at him a moment then relented, binding the man’s hands in front of him. He leaned toward Krycek and hissed so only the rogue agent could hear, “You’re lucky it's only your ribs that are broken.”

Their captive between them, Doggett and Mulder led Krycek around the corner to Frohike’s car. There, waiting for them, was Jimmy Bond. The young photographer watched them a moment before raising his camera to take a picture.

Krycek ducked his head as the flash went off.

While Doggett helped Krycek into the car, Jimmy asked Mulder, "But where are Yves, Frohike and the professor?"

"They must be in the warehouse," Doggett surmised. "Did you see anything around the other side of the building?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No, nothing. It was really quiet back there."

"And Krycek here," Doggett hitched a thumb at the man in the backseat, "came out of the warehouse to look for that extra box." He glanced at the other two men, his worry evident in his face. Something must have gone wrong.

Quickly, scanning the area around his feet, Doggett backed up to try to see beneath the vehicle.

"What are you looking for?" Mulder asked.

"Keep an eye on him," Doggett said meaning Krycek. He got down on his knees and reached under the car feeling around for something the other two couldn't see. "Got it," he proclaimed.

Standing up, he showed them what he'd found. It was a pistol. "It's his," Doggett said meaning Krycek. "We'll need it as evidence," he said. "It might be the murder weapon." Mulder nodded not needing to hear anymore.

Doggett handed the weapon to Jimmy. "You stay and make sure our friend here doesn't decide to go for a little walk. Mulder and I will go see how the others are doing."

A creaking sound made them spin around and Mulder leveled his weapon at the warehouse door. It opened further and Frohike stepped out cautiously, his own gun drawn. Seeing the assembled group, he nodded, giving them a thumbs-up then turned and spoke to someone still inside the warehouse.

Frohike stepped back as Yves emerged, leading Fletcher out. Langly brought up the rear, clutching the Enigma in a vise like grip.

Fletcher was shoved unceremoniously into the back seat of the car. He and Krycek exchanged a look but neither said anything.

Jimmy let out a whoop of delight startling the others. “We did it,” he exclaimed. “We got the bad guys!”

Yves frowned. “Not quite.”

Noting Jimmy’s puzzled expression, Frohike added, “Someone was pulling their strings," he said pointing to the men in car. "And that mystery person is still out there.”

Langly sent a fearful look toward Yves but it was Doggett who spoke. “We’ll question them at headquarters." His expression darkened, his voice confident. "I'm sure I can get one of them to spill the information.”

“Please keep me informed,” Yves said. She had a vested interest in making sure the mystery person got what he deserved but at that moment her main concern was the professor's safety.

Doggett nodded, reaching into his pocket. "Mulder," he said holding out his keys, "Do you mind?"

The police officer held out one hand neatly catching the tossed keys. He trotted off without a word. While they waited, Jimmy gladly handed Krycek's gun back to Doggett.

Mulder returned in less than five minutes with Doggett's car. After transferring the suspects into the back seat of the other vehicle, he and Doggett headed out to book and interrogate their two suspects.

The rest of them watched the retreating taillights for a few moments almost stunned that the whole ordeal was nearly over. Yves planned to take the professor out of the country within the next 24 hours. He would be safe at Bletchley Park where security was tight. There he could continue his work on the Enigma with other scientists and help end the Nazi threat.

“Let's get you under a roof,” Yves said, guiding her charge towards Frohike's car.

When Jimmy called her name, she stopped and turned, as did the professor. The bright light of a flashbulb lit the entire area. "I’m blind," Langly complained, blinking his eyes to rid himself of the spots obscuring his vision. “First I get kidnapped and beaten up and now I’m blinded.”

Yves paused. “Mr. Bond, do I need to remind you that you will not be able to publish those photographs?”

She started to turn away when Jimmy called out. “Guess you’ll just have to steal them then.”

Yves stared at him for a moment but when he grinned and shrugged, she laughed softly, shaking her head. “Perhaps I will,” she murmured, opening the car door for Langly to climb in. She slid into the back seat next to him.

Frohike got into the front finding the keys in the ignition where Yves had left them.

Jimmy snapped another photo of the three of them in the car before Frohike growled at him, "Enough already! Get in or I'm leaving you behind."

Running around to the passenger side, Jimmy jumped into the front seat. "Let's go then," he said.

Chapter 20

The grandfather clock in Byers' front hall clunked and whirred to life to announce the hour. Despite being fully aware of the time, Dana Scully silently counted the ten chimes. "I had hoped we would have heard something by now," she said.

"Agent Doggett said not to worry until at least 11 p.m." Byers explained.

"What did he say to do at that point?"

"He wants me to contact Police Chief Skinner, then the FBI." Although he didn't say it, this was the main reason Byers had not accompanied the others on the exchange. If the whole business blew up in their faces, someone with some clout would know what had gone down and could help the authorities sort the whole thing out.

They lapsed into silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. After a minute or so, Byers asked, "How long have you known Mr. Frohike?"

Fully understanding that he was trying to change the subject to something less worrisome, Dana said, "Only a few days. We met when he came in to identify poor little Molly Jenning's body. He wanted to make sure it was her before bringing her parents in. He said he didn't see any sense in putting them through that torture unless it was absolutely necessary."

Byers nodded suppressing a grin at the admiration in her voice. Although he had wondered at first what an intelligent woman like Dana Scully could see in an old toad like Frohike, he was beginning to understand that his long standing animosity towards the man had blinded him to the private investigator's better qualities.

"It couldn't have been easy for him either," said Byers. "I know he has a daughter the same age."

Dana nodded. "The little girls were friends."

"I know. Carla told me," he said softly.

"Carla?"

"Carla Mason. She's a reporter for the DC Gazette. Have you seen her reports on Molly's kidnapping and murder?"

"Yes," replied Dana. "She's good. She gets her facts straight. That's refreshing from a medical examiner's point of view."

"It's the same for us in the DA's office," said Byers. "But I think her talent goes beyond just getting the facts straight. She is a truly gifted writer. She has an ability to make her readers understand what the people in her stories are experiencing, what they're feeling. She's an amazing woman."

This last comment made Dana look over at her companion. He was staring at a spot halfway between his chair and the fireplace enjoying some memory he wasn't sharing with her. Dana strongly suspected that Byers admired more than just the reporter's writing ability.

"You know Miss Mason personally?" asked Scully.

"We've met a couple of time." Realizing he'd said far more than he intended, Byers quickly shifted the focus of the conversation. "Did Frohike ever mention that we first met when he was a beat cop? I was still in private practice at the time."

The DA did not seem comfortable talking about himself but had no problem asking Dana about her personal life. It must be the lawyer side of him, she surmised, always asking questions, trying to get to the truth. Either that or he was working incredibly hard to keep her distracted. She couldn't fault him for that.

"He told me that he and Police Chief Skinner were partners back then."

"They were," Byers confirmed. "They both made detective at the same time, too. Shortly after that Skinner started rising quickly through the ranks. It's too bad…" Not wanting to discuss parts of Frohike's past that Dana may not be aware of, Byers stopped himself.

"I know there are some aspects of Mel's past that he's not proud of," said Scully. "But he's a good man who cares about the people he's trying to help. Sometimes I think that's part of the problem; he just cares too deeply." Gazing once again at the fire, she continued only much more softly than before. "I've never met anyone like him."

Experiencing a fleeting moment of jealousy, the DA realized that Frohike had a staunch ally in Dana Scully. Byers hadn't had that since Susanne died: a good woman who believed in him. One who would stand by him through all hardships, worries, trials and tribulations. But then unasked, Carla's words came back to him. "You’re a good man, John. One of the best I’ve ever met." The genuine concern in her eyes at that statement had surprised him and, on some level, had also pleased him.

Before Byers could further consider Carla's words, he heard another car turn the corner onto his street. But this one did not pass on by as the others had; this one slowed to a stop in front of his house.

He glanced at Dr. Scully. She had heard it, too. With both hands on the saucer of her teacup she remained unmoving in her chair. The flickering firelight showed the hope on her face but along with that hope, Byers noted a touch of fear. What if it wasn't them? What if it was the police or the FBI coming to tell them that everything had gone horribly wrong?

Hearing voices outside, Byers got up and went to open the front door. Dana did not accompany him, choosing instead to wait by the fire. Swinging the door wide, Byers stepped out onto the porch.

He was relieved to see Frohike's car, looking no more damaged than it had when Yves had driven off in it. Jimmy was already standing at the curb, offering Yves a hand out of the back seat. Frohike slammed the door on the driver's side looking none the worse for wear. He could only guess that the man with the long blond hair was the professor. When he bent over to retrieve the Enigma machine from inside the car, Byers knew he had guessed correctly.

"You couldn't bring a different car," Professor Langly complained. "It was freezing in that back seat without the rear window."

"You didn't seem to mind the last time you were in my car," Frohike stated, limping toward the house. His leg was bothering him again. He'd been running on pure adrenaline back at the warehouse and hadn't felt it at all.

Langly came around the car shifting the heavy Enigma to his other hand. "I was unconscious the last time I was in your rolling death trap," he pointed out.

"I don't know why I bothered to save your sorry ass," Frohike growled as he continued toward the house.

"You didn't save my ass; Yves did."

At this comment, he spun on the other man. Langly had to stop short in front of him. "She had help," he declared poking the scientist in the chest to emphasize his point. "And not just from me. Both Doggett and Mulder risked their lives, too,"

"Yeah, but without Yves you guys couldn't have pulled it off."

"Gentlemen," Yves said in a mild tone that broached no argument, "can we please move this conversation inside. You're going to wake Mr. Byers' neighbors." She pointed to where the DA was patiently waiting. "And there are others who await information as to the outcome of this misadventure who deserve to know that we have all survived unharmed."

A look of guilt flashed across Frohike's face. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he strode much more quickly towards the porch and climbed the stairs. Byers wisely stepped out of the way to let him pass.

"Dana!" Frohike called as he limped quickly into the living room.

She rose from her chair, her face painted with relief. She looked so beautiful with the fire behind her, the light from the flames making her red hair glow. "I'm here," she said as he moved across the room to join her. "I'm so happy to see you. Is everyone else all right?"

Without speaking, he took her in his arms and held her close. She returned his warm embrace, deeply breathing in the smell of him, relishing the feel of his arms around her body. The first time they had held each other like this, her thoughts had been only for him and her concern for all the loss he had experienced in his life. But this time, she was allowing him to comfort her. His embrace felt right, as if she'd always belonged in his arms, as if he'd held her this way everyday of her life.

"I was so worried," she said after those few moments of self-indulgence.

"I'm sorry we didn't call to tell you everything was all right," Frohike said releasing her enough to see her face. "We just wanted to get back here as soon as possible."

"Everyone is all right then?" she asked again.

Frohike smiled saying, "Everyone who matters."

"You got the professor back in one piece?" Frohike nodded. "And the Enigma?"

"I'm fine and the Enigma is right here," said a voice from behind them accompanied by the loud thud of something heavy being set down on a side table.

Scully stepped out of Frohike's arms to go to Langly. Taking him by the hand, she led him into the brighter light near a floor lamp. "How are you? Did they hurt you?" she asked carefully studying his face.

"I said I was fine," he responded a little bemused by her concern.

"I'll be the judge of that," she said. "Sit here." Scully pointed to a straight-backed chair under the light.

"Do what the doctor says," Yves commanded from the doorway. Byers was standing right behind her.

Langly dropped a bit grudgingly into the chair but allowed Scully to re-examine the head injuries he had sustained in the explosion. "Your head looks good. That lump's not as big as it was. How does it feel?"

"It was okay until you started pressing on it," the professor complained gingerly reaching up to touch it himself.

Ignoring his whining, Scully said, "All right, stand up. I want to check your stitches." She put a hand under his elbow to encourage him to rise. When he did, she began to unbutton his shirt. "Hey, I hardly even know you," he said pushing her fingers away.

Yves was now standing next to Langly. "If you don't want the doctor to take your shirt off, you need to do it yourself but you will let her examine you."

"Stand up, sit down, take off your shirt. You know I'm getting really tired of being pushed around!"

"Be quiet now and let Dr. Scully get a good look at you."

Byers returned to his chair by the fire. Frohike had taken up residence in the one recently vacated by Dana. "My god, does he ever stop complaining?" Byers asked Frohike in a low voice.

"This may hurt a bit," Scully told Langly as she quickly removed the bandage that was taped over his rib cage.

"OW!" he whined. "That smarts!"

Frohike snorted in response to Byers' question. "Only when he's unconscious."

Monday, September 30, 1940

“…and then the house exploded in a giant fireball!” Realizing his voice had risen, Jimmy glanced around the bullpen, taking in the constant hum of noise. Reassured he hadn’t attracted any undue attention, he turned his attention back to Carla. Lowering his voice, he continued. “That’s when we saw the bad guys coming so we piled into the car. After a crazy chase through the neighbor's property we made it to the highway. That’s when they started shooting at us and…”

“Who were they?” Carla had been patient while Jimmy regaled her with his story but his omission of pertinent facts made her reporter instincts flare. There was more to the story than just missing pictures.

Jimmy hesitated. Yves and Doggett had both cautioned him that certain details had to remain secret for national security. “I can’t say.”

“Why were they chasing you?”

“I can’t say.”

“Does this have anything to do with Professor Richard Langly and your mystery woman?”

“I can’t say.”

Carla tapped her ever-present pencil on the desk and raised an eyebrow at the young photographer. Exasperated and slightly amused by his evasiveness, she tried another question.

“Is there anything you….Jimmy?”

But Jimmy’s attention was riveted by the arrival of two men. While visitors were hardly a rarity at the newspaper, Carla was intrigued. Instinct immediately tagged the men as cops. One was tall and burly suggesting the man was athletic while the other one was slimmer. She watched as the men strode right up to Jeffery Spender who was standing outside the publisher's office berating an intern who had the misfortune of wandering into his path.

The big cop spoke first. “Jeffery Spender,” he said in a no nonsense tone.

Spender the Lesser turned from the intern, taking in the other two men, his irritation quickly turning to caution. “I’m Jeffery Spender.”

The intern seized that moment to flee.

"I’m Agent Doggett with the F.B.I. This is Agent Pendrell.” Doggett flipped open his wallet, letting Spender peruse his ID. He was taking longer then needed and Carla knew he was stalling for time. Interesting.

Agent Doggett returned his wallet to his breast pocket as he continued speaking “Jeffery Spender, you’re under arrest –“

Spender’s eyes widened as Agent Pendrell pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them over the man’s wrists. “What is this travesty? My father is the publisher of this paper and he will make sure…

“Do you know where your father, C.B. Spender, is?” Pendrell interrupted.

“He’s on a business trip;” Jeffery snapped in a haughty tone, “an extended business trip.”

He glared at the two agents as if he had won some private game but Doggett’s next words shattered Jeffery’s superior attitude. “Looks like your father hung you out to dry.”

Jeffery looked stricken as Doggett said smoothly, “You’re under arrest as an accessory after the fact in the death of Margaret Sinclair, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, treasonous acts against the United States…”

Agent Doggett continued a litany of impressive charges as he and his partner herded the flustered newspaperman through the bullpen. Employees watched in stunned silence. As the trio walked passed, Carla saw a brief, meaningful glance pass between Agent Doggett and Jimmy. The photographer’s face spread into a pleased grin.

Carla’s mind was racing, already compiling a mental list of contacts: the police, the District Attorney's office, the F.B.I., any possible witnesses. Picking up her phone, she glanced at Jimmy, catching his eye. "Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell me about this?" she asked as she started to dial.

Jimmy offered her an embarrassed grin. “The good guys won?”

* * * * *

Monica Reyes paused just inside the front entrance of the first class reception area of the Queen Mary. The ocean liner was far more opulent than she had expected. She walked slowly through the room noting each detail: the highly polished veneer columns with the brass handrails that encircled them; the copper lined inset ceiling that reflected back the light of the chandelier in its center; and the enormous fresh flower arrangement that graced a heavy, round wooden table in the middle of the lobby.

Frohike turned to find his companion when he realized she was no longer by his side. "We haven't got a lot of time, Monica," he said to get her attention.

Monica looked at him and smiled. "Sorry," she said as she began to walk at a more normal speed. Then she laughed. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" Frohike asked.

"I'm working for the wrong government."

Frohike smiled, chuckling under his breath. "Yeah, I traveled in steerage when I went over."

They paused at the entrance to a long hallway lined with numbered doors and brass handrails down both sides. The end of the hall was so far away, perspective made it look too small for humans to pass through.

Though neither spoke it, they both had the same question in mind. "This is the right spot," said Frohike. He pointed to a plague on the wall listing the suite numbers on this deck and down this particular hallway.

They found the one they were looking for about halfway down the corridor. Standing side by side before the cabin's entrance, Frohike knocked.

The response was almost immediate. "Come in! Come in!" Professor Langly greeted them, throwing the door wide. "Monica, it's nice to see you again!" He stepped back giving them space to pass.

"I'm pleased I got a chance to see you before you left," Monica replied.

"Well, we couldn't exactly leave without saying good-bye now, could we?"

"You're in a good mood," Frohike noted taking in the scientist's red satin smoking jacket. His long, blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and he had somehow acquired a replacement for the glasses he'd lost in the explosion.

Langly closed the door, a big grin on his face. "Welcome to my humble abode," he declared making a sweeping motion with his right arm taking in the entire room.

The cabin was large, well appointed and full of friends. John Doggett, who had been deep in conversation with Jimmy Bond and D.A. Byers, set down the glass of champagne he'd been drinking to cross the room to join them. "Miss Reyes, I was hoping you'd come."

Monica watched him calmly, not allowing her emotions to show on her face. Mel had told her everything the man had done to help her sister and the professor but she still had no real desire to talk to him. She had agreed to come to this farewell celebration for her sister's sake, a chance to say good-bye for what could be an incredibly long time considering how the war in Europe was progressing.

"I wanted to apologize for frightening you and for my harsh words at your sister's house the other day," said the FBI agent. He extended his hand as a peace offering.

"You didn't frighten me; you infuriated me. There's a huge difference," she asserted, pointedly ignoring his hand.

Frohike ducked around them knowing full well that Monica could take care of herself in this situation. He smiled privately once he was clear of them. Doggett had asked him about Monica while they were waiting at Byers' house before it was time to leave for the exchange. He strongly suspected that Doggett's interest was more personal than professional in nature.

"Good afternoon, Mel," Byers said as Frohike came to stand next to him.

Jimmy grinned broadly at his friend. "Hey, Frohike," he said by way of greeting. "Let me get the waiter guy to give you some champagne." He raised an arm signaling the man with the tray of half full champagne flutes.

"No, thanks," said Frohike waving the waiter off. "I'm trying to steer clear of the sauce for a while."

Jimmy didn't hear this response as his and all other eyes in the room were drawn to the door of one of the suite's bedrooms. Yves had just stepped out, resplendent in a long red satin dress that matched Langly's smoking jacket, a choker of rubies encircling her throat. Her hair was arranged in a Veronica Lake style, her nails painted to match her gown.

Langly stepped up beside her and, taking one of her hands loosely in his, he brought it to his lips and kissed it before drawing her farther in to the room. He announced, "May I present my lovely wife, Mrs. Stewart Funston." He laughed out loud. "That's me… Stewart Funston." he said scanning the faces of those assembled to ascertain whether or not they shared his amusement.

Jimmy's face crumbled. "But… you said your name was Rich..."

Grabbing the big guy's arm, Frohike yanked him downward so he could talk right in his ear. "It's their cover," he whispered, glancing at the waiter who seemed oblivious to this exchange as he arranged canapés on a tray. "They're supposed to be married."

"Oh!" Jimmy mouthed, his relief evident.

Yves turned her back on their guests, and patting Langly on the cheek, she said amiably. "They all know your name, dear. Now, why don't you go mingle like a good host?" She turned from him then. "Monica," she said with obvious pleasure, hugging her half sister, "Thank you so much for coming. I was afraid we'd have to go home before we could see you again."

Yves' veiled berating did nothing to dampen Langly's mood. He strutted through the suite holding a champagne glass between three fingers and his thumb, his pinky extended. His free hand was stuffed in the pocket of his jacket.

Byers had to fight to keep from laughing at the man's idea of wealthy people's mannerisms. He was distracted from these thoughts by a question from Frohike. "Have you seen Dana? She said she was coming."

Byers quickly surveyed the room. "She must still be out on the balcony with Officer Mulder. They went out there to talk privately quite a while ago." He pointed to glass doorway set in a large window that ran the length of the outer wall.

Crossing the room, Frohike stood off to one side, his hand on the heavy curtains framing the window to observe the couple on the balcony. Mulder was standing with his back to Frohike looking out across the water of the harbor. Scully was at his side, her hand over his on the rail. She was speaking to him, soft words the private investigator could not hear.

Frohike experienced a jolt of jealousy before common sense took over. Dana knew how much Maggie meant to Mulder and upon closer examination, this had to be what they were deep in conversation about. Mulder's shoulders were forward; his back was slumped as he leaned heavily on the guard railing. Dana's face in profile showed her compassion as she leaned closer to him to offer what emotional support she could give.

When Mulder turned a tear stained face to look down at Scully, Frohike knew he was right. He felt a wave of guilt for even considering the possibility that his long time friend might be trying to steal his girl.

Backing away from the window, Frohike left them to decide when they were ready to rejoin the party.

The rest of the company had divided into two groups. Yves, Monica and Doggett were talking near the door. Langly, Jimmy and Byers had settled into the couch and chairs that were arranged for easy conversation.

Choosing to sit with the other three men, Frohike selected a spot where he could see the whole room. He wanted to find out how Agent Doggett was faring with the ladies as well as be aware of the instant Dana came back into the suite. It had been less than a day since he'd talked to her but that seemed far too long all ready.

"This is the last cruise for the Queen Mary," Langly was saying. "After this she's sailing to Australia to be fitted out as a troop carrier for the British army."

"Wow," said Jimmy. "Aren't you worried you might get torpedoed on the trip across the Atlantic to England?"

Langly's brow creased with concern and he lost his haughty demeanor. "I wasn't until you mentioned it." He started to get up to ask Yves about it but Frohike pulled him back into his chair.

"I'm certain the cruise line has taken all contingencies into consideration," he said. "If there was any real danger, you wouldn't be here right now."

Langly sat back in his chair but didn't relax completely. "You're sure about that?"

"Yes," Byers said to back up Frohike's assessment of the situation. "The captain is probably in contact with authorities on both continents at all times."

Laughter from the other group drew Frohike's attention from Langly's fit of paranoia. Yves was smiling but Monica was laughing out right at something John Doggett was talking about. Frohike was pleased to see that Monica had apparently forgiven the agent for his earlier treatment of her. Maybe the fact that her sister seemed to trust him completely had something to do with her change of heart.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," the waiter said in his clipped British accent. "I'm sorry, sir," he said bending to speak directly to Langly where he sat in an overstuffed chair, "but we're nearly out of champagne. Will you be requiring any more?"

"Yes," said Langly once again putting on airs. "Go get some and bring back plenty this time. I don't want my friends to go thirsty."

"Very well, sir," he said straightening up. "I've left some filled glasses on the bar."

"Thank you, Jeeves," Langly said with a wave of his hand. "That will be all."

As the waiter exited the cabin, Jimmy asked, "His name is Jeeves?"

"I have no idea," Langly laughed. "But it sure sounded good, didn't it."

Jimmy leaned in closer to Langly and whispered, "Hey, now that he's gone, do we still have to pretend?"

Langly shook his head. "Yves said that when we're alone here, we can talk freely."

"Oh, man, you're not going to believe this," said Jimmy excitedly. "But Agent Doggett came out to my office to arrest my boss!" He studied their faces hoping to see that they found this to be as incredible as he did. He was disappointed to see nothing but nods from the other three men. "You all knew?"

"Agent Doggett told me," Byers said. "And I called Frohike to let him know."

"Yeah, and I was there when Doggett told Yves," Langly added.

Jimmy was crestfallen, feeling left out of the loop. "So, you all knew and no one bothered to call me."

Byers reached over and patted his knee. "We all figured you'd have a front row seat. Did he go quietly?"

Seeing that he did have information to share that the others didn't already know, Jimmy was once again excited. "No, he wasn't there. His son… you know, Frohike, Jeffrey Spender… the guy you came out to the newspaper to talk to…" Jimmy waited to make sure Mel knew who he was talking about, "…they took him away instead. I'm not sure why. Maybe he had something to do with it."

"Isn't he the guy who was with you when you came to the warehouse?" asked Langly.

"Yeah, that's him."

"So, you're telling me I nearly handed everything over to the wrong side by making one ill planned phone call?"

"Yes, you did," Yves said coming over to join the conversation. "But then, if you hadn't, we would not have discovered that Mr. Spender and his son were both Nazi sympathizers working for the SS."

"And that it was your publisher who paid Morris Fletcher to attempt to regain the stolen Enigma for the German government," Doggett added. He shook his head. "Fletcher turned on the man so fast, it made my head spin. He led us to documents proving the elder Spender's involvement. Too bad they didn't tell us where he's hiding."

"So, you never got him?" Frohike asked.

"Not yet, but we're still looking," said Doggett with determination. He seemed to be about to say more when he was interrupted.

"Frohike, I can't believe they let you on the ship!" Mulder exclaimed firmly closing the door to the balcony behind him once Scully had stepped back into the room. Mel grinned at his friend's attempt at normal smart-ass chatter.

Scully stood beside Mulder but her smile was only for Frohike.

"Yeah, well, they let you on, didn't they?" Frohike flung back rising from his chair. He stood in front of his friend placing a hand on his shoulder. "How you holding up, buddy?"

"I'm good," Mulder replied much too quickly. "Hey, where's that guy with the free champagne?" he asked even as he turned to find the waiter.

"He's gone," said Frohike. "But he knew you'd be thirsty and left some on the bar." He pointed to the tray full of glasses that sat bubbling endlessly.

"It's going to take him a while before he can talk about it freely," Dana said as the police officer moved off.

"He's tougher than he looks," said Frohike as Scully wound her arm through his and drew him nearer the windows out of earshot where they could speak discreetly.

"Apparently, Agent Doggett has suggested that Mulder might find a new home with the FBI if he's tired of wasting his time with the DC police department."

"The FBI, huh? What did he say about that?" Mel asked as he watched Yves introduce Monica to Mulder and the DA.

"He's interested. He figures it will be a step up from beat cop."

"Mulder always did want to be a detective," Frohike noted. "He's got the talent and the desire but he's always rubbed people the wrong way. Hopefully he'll do better with the feds."

Dana paused, studying Mel's face. "And how about you? How are you doing?"

"There's no need to worry about me."

"Well, I beg to differ," she said stepping closer to him. "Maggie wasn't just your secretary. She was a close personal friend and a confidant."

"Dana, don't," said Mel in a low voice. "I can't think about this now. We can talk about it later."

Caressing his cheek with one hand, she moved in even closer until their bodies were almost touching. "Is that a promise?" she asked softly.

He gazed into her blue eyes, his emotions caught somewhere between heartache for the loss of one of his dearest friends and joy of having her so close to him and the feel of her hand on his skin. Joy now, he decided, because he knew that grief would be with him for a while. But now, he had someone he could talk to, someone who would willingly listen and help him find forgiveness of himself for his part in Maggie's death.

Curling one arm around her waist, he pulled her to him, their bodies touching in full. "You have my word," he said.

"Maybe it's not only your word I'm looking for," Dana said, a smile barely touching the corners of her mouth, her eyes half closing.

"And what other guarantee do you require?" Frohike asked sensing where this discussion was headed.

"Hmm," Dana said almost dreamily. "How about something a bit more personal?"

Their faces were nearly touching already. Frohike only needed to tip his head slightly to one side. Completely forgetting they were not alone in the room, he closed that last tiny distance that separated their lips.

She whole-heartedly accepted his kiss pulling him closer than he thought possible. Her body was soft and yielding in his arms. He fleetingly worried that he might be crushing her but he could feel her arms wrapped just as tightly around him.

A loud clearing of someone's throat brought them back to reality. They turned to see all eyes on them: so much for discretion.

"Geez, you don't waste any time, do you?" Mulder joked. "Didn't you two just meet a couple of days ago?"

"Yes," Frohike admitted, his arms still around his lady doctor, "but more has happened in those few days than most people experience in their entire lifetimes."

There were general comments of agreement as they all turned back to their own conversations leaving Frohike and Scully once again in privacy. He studied her face for a moment his mind slipping back over the events of the last few days.

So much had changed: some things for the worse but more for the better. Although he hadn't admitted it to himself until that moment, he had found love again in a place and at a time he'd least expected it. He and his friends, both old and new, had succeeded in defeating Nazi sympathizers bent on assisting the Axis powers in the European conflict. Not to mention the fact that he had captured a serial child molester and killer and that the man had confessed to his crimes and would spend the rest of his life in jail.

"All ashore that's going ashore!" called a voice from the hallway. The speaker moved off, repeating his warning.

"I guess that means us," said Jimmy with a touch of regret in his voice.

"Yes," confirmed Yves. "All good things do come to an end eventually."

Yet no one made a move to leave. Even though the last few days had been stressful and horrifying, the events had formed lasting bonds between them. They had learned to trust each other completely, risking their lives for each other. You just don't walk away from that without a backward glance.

Frohike suddenly felt the passage of time much too keenly. He'd wasted so much of his life dwelling on regrets instead of living in the present and being thankful for what he had.

"What are you thinking about?" Dana asked him after watching him in silence for a few moments.

Frohike smiled. "I'm thinking that I need a vacation," he said drawing her closer. "What do you say we just forget to get off the ship?"

"It is a very large ship," Dana admitted returning his smile. "A person could easily get lost…"