DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All other concepts or ideas herein are mine. RATING: NC-17 SPOILERS: Through US season 7 ARCHIVE: ONLY ON THE AUTHOR'S OWN WEBSITE (http://rowan_d.tripod.com/elizabethr.html) UNTIL STORY IS COMPLETED. This way I can mess with the early parts as later parts develop... WATER'S EDGE by Elizabeth Rowandale (aka Elizabeth Boyd-Tran) Copyright (c) 2001 CHAPTER 7a *I know you had an ear infection when you were a little boy. A bad one. And ever since then, you were more sensitive to loud sounds in that ear. It used to really bother you when you had to wear an earpiece on a stakeout. You always wanted it in the good ear. But the thing is, Mulder, I can't remember which ear it was that bothered you. I can't fucking remember which ear. And it's driving me crazy.* Scully hated wearing an ear piece. The loss of hearing on the one side always threw her off balance. She had a thing about control. And she always felt the ear piece compromised her control. But, of course, she could see the necessity of it. So she wore it when she had to. And today was one of those times. Scully tugged at her earlobe, shifting the tiny receiver to a more comfortable position in her ear canal. "You reading us?" she said softly. Beside her, Michaels half glanced her direction, reacting to the sound of her voice, then quickly realized she wasn't addressing him. "Loud and clear Agent Scully." Detective McCall's voice crackled into her ear. "Whenever you're ready." "I guess it's now or never. Are we ready?" Her last words were aimed toward Michaels. "Got your back," he said, holding out an arm to usher her forward. "You better." This was probably going to be easy. At 7am this brilliant and chill Saturday morning, Scully had gotten a call from the Vernon, VA police department. An anonymous call had come in to them from a young woman claiming to have information about the recent series of murders. But she had refused to speak over the phone. She had insisted upon meeting whomever was in charge of the case at a location of her own specification. Generally not a good idea. But at least the woman hadn't specified anything about not bringing back-up. So it was now 10:30am and Scully and Michaels were standing on the second floor of a deserted warehouse in the older section of Vernon, wired for sound and monitored by the flock of local cops parked on the street below. "Think this is the local rave site?" Michaels asked, pointing toward a dusting of debris along the lower floor. Sunglasses, scarves, crumpled paper cups, beer cans. Scully nodded. "Highly likely. Let's just hope our informant isn't a regular attendee." "Could be. Might be the reason she picked the place. Familiarity..." They were walking along a narrow balcony overlooking an enormous room. To their left, a rusted iron railing. To their right, a concrete wall with occasional open doors revealing small offices. Or at least they must have once been offices. Now they were nothing but dark and molded storage bins. Scully and Michaels were roughly twenty feet from a blind corner in the pathway where the balcony ended and an enclosed hallway turned off to their right. Without speaking, they had begun to spread the distance between them. Their hands had slipped toward their weapons, and they were falling into formation for the standard split and cover turn. "Whoa--" With Gannon's one sharp word, Scully's legs were planted at the regulation 45 degree angle and her weapon was up. "Federal Agents! Stay right there!" Her sharp voice echoed in the cavernous space. From the hallway, a sole figure had emerged, and now she stood, hands raised, looking nervously between Michaels and Scully. She was a young woman, presumably the one who had made this morning's call. She could have been a teenager, it was difficult to tell. Her mousy hair was tousled and unkempt. Her clothes were layered and mismatched, chosen for warmth and practicality with no thought of design. "Status?" Detective McCall said into Scully's ear. But this wasn't the time to respond. "Identify yourself," Scully said firmly, her grip on her weapon unwavering. The young woman shifted her weight from one tattered gym shoe to the other, keeping her hands aloft. "I called the police this morning. You're from the police, right? You're not going to arrest me, are you? I didn't do anything, I was just..." Scully shook her head. "We're not going to arrest you unless you give us reason to, and we have no intention of hurting you. What we do need to do, is make sure that you have no intention of hurting us. Now, if you'll agree to it, my partner will put down his weapon, then he will come toward you and pat you down to be certain you aren't carrying any concealed weapons." The young woman's brow furrowed, and she eyed Michaels warily. As a gesture of good faith, Michaels relinquished the aim of his weapon, letting the gun fall innocuously into his open palm. The woman gave a terse little nod of assent. Michaels slowly and methodically returned his weapon to its holster and stepped forward. Scully stood firm, flexing her fingers around the butt of her weapon, breath steady and eyes locked on the target. "Steady as she goes, Agent Scully," came the annoying drawl in her ear. "Not a lot of weapons on the street in this town." Scully blocked out the white noise. Michaels was finished patting down the young woman. He had pulled a pack of Morleys from the pocket of her denim jacket and was dangling it before her. "You sure you're old enough for these?" he asked, teasing her, working her. "Old enough to die for my country," she said. "Old enough to kill myself if I want to." Michaels just smiled and tossed the Morleys back to her as he turned to walk toward Scully. Michaels gave Scully a small nod to lower her weapon, which she did. She almost kept hold of it, kept it at her side. Something was nagging at the back of her neck ever since the young woman had come into sight, something felt off here in this dusty and sunstreaked warehouse on this brisk Saturday morning. The heavy, cold metal in her hand was calming, steadying. But she caught the young woman's eyes tracking her gun hand, and it wasn't worth the compromise of trust. She holstered her weapon, snap still open. "What's your name?" Scully prompted. "You don't need my name," the young woman said, her tone almost reproachful. She was still edgy. The removal of the weapons hadn't brought her down much. "Fine. You said you had some information for us," Scully said, making no move to step closer. At this the young woman's eyebrow twitched, and she glanced over her shoulder. "Expecting someone?" "They're always watching," the woman said softly. "Who's watching?" Gannon spoke before Scully could form the same words. The young woman looked from Michaels to Scully and back. "The men." Then her gaze turned pointedly toward Scully again, pinning her with an intensity that made Scully straighten her spine defensively. "Bet she knows. She knows they watch." Michaels glanced over his shoulder, but Scully kept her gaze locked on the young woman. "You said you had some information for us regarding one of our current cases." Scully spoke evenly, determinedly directing the conversation. And her thoughts. The woman's brow furrowed. She shook her head as though listening to her internal thought process. "I did. I wanted to help them. But you...I didn't know you'd be here. I don't think I should talk to you. You could put me in danger. I know them...I know how to ditch them. But you...they could have followed you here..." She was looking around again, more fervent in her efforts. Michaels was looking to Scully for a clue, but she wasn't playing the game. "No one followed me here, Miss. I am a Federal Agent. I'm trained to see these things." The young woman scoffed, losing a bit of her nervousness in the distraction. "You know nothing. Your instructors can't teach you what you need to know." Scully held the woman's gaze for a long beat, her own eyes narrowed in critique. Michaels was playing it quiet, taking everything in. Scully took the moment to soak up more details of the young woman's appearance. Her hands were dirty, chapped and weather beaten. They hadn't seen a moisturizing soap or a bottle of lotion in a very long time. Her hair was tangled and unevenly trimmed where it sprang from beneath her thin knitted cap. She was living on the street. On the run, perhaps. Maybe high on something, maybe released too soon from rehab. Or therapy. Or worse. "We're wasting our time," Scully said, tongue moistening the corner of her mouth. "Thank you for your time, Miss. Call us if anything comes to mind," the rote instructions were a thinly guised insult. It was so easy to be a bitch these days. She felt the slight flinch from Michaels, always the patient diplomat. He stepped in. "Miss, the Bureau does appreciate your attempt to help us in solving a crime. And we do understand your concern in stepping forward. But if you're concerned purely for your personal safety, there are measures that can be taken, to..." Scully could see the words rushing right past the woman's head without a single syllable sticking, and she didn't have the patience to stay around for the protocol. This case was too big and the clues too far apart to waste a moment on the wrong path. Scully turned on her heel. Michaels was still talking. "..so we would appreciate anything you could give us in the way of--" When everything suddenly wasn't so trivial anymore. "YOU CAN'T LEAVE!!!" The woman's scream echoed like a gun shot through the concrete cavern. And in the moment of shock during which Scully and Gannon pulled their weapons, the young woman took a giant step backward, hauled something large and red from inside the opening to the hallway, and swung it toward them. "What the *fuck*!?" shouted Michaels. The amber liquid from the container streamed over him, drenching his clothes and narrowly missing his eyes. Scully caught only the edge of the splash, but the unmistakable scent hit both of them. Gasoline. Instant Weapons Freeze. "You know who I am now, so you must DIE!!" The woman, now seeming more like a 15 year old girl in her broad gestures and gleaming expression, screeched at them like a bird. "Talk to me, talk to me. What's goin' on in there??" McCall in her ear again. Not a good time to mention the back-up. Scully was still holding her weapon on the woman, though sickeningly aware of the risks of actually firing it. Michaels was down on one knee, right hand still halfway aiming his weapon, left hand wiping at his eyes. "Just put the bucket down," Scully said firmly. "No one is going to hurt you. We can all still walk away from this." Without ever meeting Scully's stare, the young woman cautiously lowered the gasoline container and set it on the concrete at her feet. "That's good," Scully said gently. "Good. That was a smart choice. Now I want you to--" "QUIET!!" In one fluid movement, the young woman slipped two fingers into the pocket of her soiled and rumpled shirt and emerged with a small olive green square. A matchbook. Dammit, this day just kept improving. "Michaels, run. Now." "What the--" "RUN." Before the woman could flip open the cover of the matchbook, Michaels had taken in the scope of the situation, pushed to his feet, and staggered behind Scully. But the woman was thinking on her feet. Her hand was back on the gas can in a flash, and she was on the rear swing to soak not only Scully but the path of ground between them. Scully took a chance. In two strides she was into the woman's space, and a swift kick to the jaw loosed her grip on the gas can. The can fell to the ground, a thin drizzle of liquid snaking its way along the floor, back toward Michaels, who was still moaning softly and rubbing his eyes. But Scully's focus was on the matches. She caught the woman's wrist in a vice grip as she was falling back from the force of the kick, and she coaxed the matchbook from trembling fingers before the woman could fully recover. The respite wasn't long, this was one strong lady, and she was about to start fighting back with a vengeance. As the woman made a dive to retrieve the matches, Scully pitched them over the side railing to the warehouse floor. Without a moment's warning, the woman came at her, screaming like a banshee, teeth bared and fingers curled like claws. Scully was knocked off balance and the two of them hit the floor with a painful thud to Scully's spine. She felt the dampness of the gasoline beneath them, and the woman above her was tearing at her hair. Scully's fingers were locked around the woman's throat, holding her back from attempting to bite, when Michaels silhouette appeared above her, and she saw him bring the butt of his weapon down hard on the back of the woman's head. The woman's grip relaxed, she gave a soft whimper of pain, then dropped like a cartoon character, dead weight across Scully's torso. Scully panted for breath for a moment, nauseated by the fumes from the gasoline. "Jesus. Gannon, are you okay? Where the hell is McCall?" With Michaels' help, Scully shoved the woman onto the pavement beside her. She gave a cursory check to the back of the woman's head and felt for her pulse. It was strong and steady. A mild concussion was probably the worst option in her future. Scully got to her feet as she heard the rumble of distant running footsteps. Very helpful now. "Talk to me, Scully," McCall was saying, his uneven words telling her he was one of the runners. "Are you okay in there?" "She's down," Scully said flatly. For good measure, she flipped out her handcuffs and snapped them onto the woman's limp wrists. Gannon caught her gaze, still squinting against the fumes and the traces of gasoline around his eyes. His hair hung in sticky clumps on his forehead. "So," he said calmly, "Taco Bell or Subway?" Scully was surprised when she smiled. ******************* When they got out of the car at the Vernon precinct, Scully grasped her cell phone and walked off toward the trees at the edge of the parking lot. Michaels took the hint and followed the local cops up the steps to the glass doors. At the edge of the asphalt, Scully dialed Daniel's number; she had committed it to memory last night in the time spent staring at the phonebook. The air was warmer here on the edge of town than it had been at the warehouse. Leaves crinkled beneath her boots as she strolled a short distance into the shelter of the trees. Daniel picked up on the third ring. "Hi, it's me," she said, not planning the familiarity. "Dana." A smile in his voice. "How's it going?" "Late, I'm afraid. This morning's errand got...involved. And we've got a few bruises to prove it." Scully shrugged her shoulder. The wrestling match had flared up the nagging ache. "Are you okay?" The concern was instant--and it felt like an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, I'm fine. We'll have some paper work to file, things to finish up here with the local police. And I'll need a little more cleaning up than I was planning on..." She grimaced, looking down at the grease smudge on her trench coat and drowning in the permeating odor of gasoline. "You're sure you're all right?" "I'm fine, Daniel, really. But, uh...can we push that lunch closer to dinner?" "Whatever you like. Shall I pick you up at your place?" "Yeah, that should be fine." "Six?" "Six is good." "You still like Italian?" She smiled despite herself. "Yeah. I love Italian." "You sure you're okay?" "Positive. I'll see you at six." "Six it is." Scully clicked off the phone and dropped it into her pocket. She stood quietly in the clump of trees, eyes closed, listening to the soft wind rustling the leaves and the distant whoosh of trucks along the highway. *"Hey, Scully,..." "Be honest, Scully, doesn't that propane tank bear more than just a slight resemblance to a fat little white Nazi storm trooper?" "Smell that. It's perfume. Eau de ball. God, this brings back a lot of memories..." "Scully, you *have* to believe me. Nobody else on this whole damn planet does or ever will..." "How can you just dismiss the evidence - the tracks in the mud, the shredded skin, a man with the teeth of an animal?" "You've never hit a baseball, have you, Scully?" "We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?"* The wind touched her cheek like a warm caress, cold only on the thin trail of dampness along her skin. Somewhere beneath the traffic fumes and the gasoline and the wet tree bark was the remembered scent of spring. Scully turned on the soft ground and walked back into the precinct. ***** End Chapter 7a (Continued in Chapter 7b...) Feedback makes me write faster.:) bstrbabs@earthlink.net