His throat dried instantly, but he did as he was bidden. He wasn’t afraid, just wary.
He lowered his head slowly to keep his neck from cramping.
The hand didn’t move, nor did it relax its grip.
“Well?” he asked mildly.
Mint; he smelled an aftershave or cologne with a faint touch of mint, and the warmth of the sun on someone’s clothes, as if he’d walked a long way to reach him. The hand was strong, but he couldn’t see it without turning his head.
“Mr. Mulder.” A smooth voice, not very deep.
He nodded. He was patient. Not often, however; both his temper and his temperament never had liked short leashes. He tried to adjust his shoulder, but the fingers wouldn’t let him.
“Louisiana,” the voice said, fading slightly, telling him the man had turned his head. “It’s not what you hope, but you shouldn’t ignore it.”
“Mind if I ask who you are?” Still mild, still calm.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I ask if—”
“Yes.”
The grip tightened, pinching a nerve that made Mulder’s eyes close briefly. He nodded, once. He understood—keep your mouth shut, ask no questions, pay attention.
Voices approached outside — children, for a change sounding respectful, not rowdy.
A car’s horn blared.
“The fact, Mr. Mulder, that your Section has been reactivated does not mean there still aren’t those who would like to make sure you stay out of their way. Permanently.” A shift of cloth, and the voice was closer, a harsh whisper in his left ear. “You’re still not protected, Mr. Mulder, but you’re not in chains, either. Remember that. You’ll have to.”
The grip tightened again, abruptly, just as the voices entered the memorial and turned to echoes. His eyes instantly filled with tears, and his knees buckled as he cried out softly. A lunge with his arm couldn’t prevent his forehead from slamming against the pedestal as he went down. By the time his vision cleared, no more than a few seconds, he was kneeling, head down, and when he looked to his right, grimacing, the only person he saw was a little girl with an ice cream cone, braids, and a vivid blue jumper.
“Are you okay, Mister?” she asked, licking at the cone.
He touched his shoulder gingerly, swallowed a curse, and managed a nod while taking several deep breaths.
A woman appeared behind the girl, gently easing her away. “Sir, do you need help?”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Just felt a little dizzy, that’s all.” Bracing one hand against the pedestal got him to his feet. The woman and the girl, and about a dozen others, backed away warily as he moved. “Thanks,” he said to the woman.
She nodded politely.
He stepped outside.
The breeze attacked his forelock, and he swiped at it absently. His shoulder stung, but he barely noticed it. What he did notice was the breath of ice across the back of his neck.
Whoever the man was, there had been no threats, but there had been no promises either.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt that tiny rush of excitement that told him the hunt was on again.
Not the hunt for the bad guys.
The hunt for the truth.
THREE
Corporal Frank Ulman was tired of lying in bed. His back was sore, his ass was sore, his legs were sore. The only thing that wasn’t sore was his head, and he figured that would fall off if he had to count the holes in the ceiling one more time.
It was, no question about it, a lousy way to spend a Saturday night.
What made it worse was the fact that he was here because he had been stupid. Really stupid. All he had wanted last night was a quiet drink, pick up someone for the evening because his regular girl had to work, and wake up the next day without a hangover. No big deal. So he had wrangled a pass from the sarge, no sweat, put on his civies, and hitched a ride into Marville with a couple of half-bald Warrant Officers who spent the whole time bitching about the way the DoD couldn’t make up its mind whether to close Dix down or not.
They had dropped him off at Barney’s Tavern.
He went in and had his drink, passed a few words with the muscle-bound bartender, watched a couple of innings of Phillies baseball on the TV, and listened while the curiously noisy crowd gabbed about old Grady getting his throat slashed the weekend before.
It was a shame. He had kind of liked the old fart, had bought him a drink now and then, and enjoyed listening to his stories. Grady had called him “Sal,” because, he said, Frankie looked like some old actor or something named Sal Mineo. After the first couple of times, Frankie hadn’t bothered to correct him. If the old guy thought he looked like a movie star, it was no skin off his nose.
Now that Grady was dead, so was Sal.
Too bad.
Another drink, another inning, and he made his first mistake: He tried to pick up a woman sitting by herself at a table near the back. Not bad looking in the tavern’s twilight, but he wasn’t about to be fussy. Angie wasn’t here, and he was. Just like always. It was a mistake because the bitch didn’t want to be picked up, said so loudly when he persisted, and finally suggested that he perform a certain number of mind-boggling, and definitely unnatural, sexual acts upon himself on his way home to his momma.
His second mistake was dropping a twenty on the table in front of her and telling her to either put up or shut up, and don’t forget the change.
His third mistake was not listening to that muscle-bound bartender, who told him to get his sorry ass out of his bar before the roof fell in.
Corporal Ulman, with too many boilermakers and a hell of an attitude under his belt, called the bartender a fag.
The next thing he knew he was in Walson, the Air Force hospital on post, getting stitched under the chin, getting a cast on his left arm, and getting a facefull of the sarge, who had been waiting for him when the cops brought him in.
Bed rest was the order, take these pills, stay out of trouble, don’t come back.
All day he stared at the barracks ceiling, his left arm throbbing in a sling, his face a road map of yellow and purple bruises.
Nobody felt sorry for him.
The sarge had told him that when he got up the next day, he was going to be busted. Again.
So he figured he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to lose when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited for the dizziness to pass. He had to get out. Walk around a little. Get some fresh air. Maybe find a card game and tell a few stories of his own. Anything but count those damn holes again.
Clumsily he dressed in boots and fatigues, made it as far as the door before he felt the first ache, deep in his jawbone. It almost sent him back, but now it was a matter of pride. A busted arm, a few bruises, what kind of a soldier would he be if he let something like that keep him on his back?
He checked the second floor corridor and saw no one, heard nothing. Why should he? Everyone else was having a good time, bumping around Marville, Browns Mills, drinking themselves blind, getting laid, catching a flick.
The thought made him angry.
One goddamn lucky punch, one lousy mistake, and here he was, practically a cripple. And he wouldn’t put it past one of the guys to call Angie and tell her everything.
Son of a bitch.
What he needed, he decided then, wasn’t a card game, it was a drink. Something to calm him down, something to ease the pain.
He knew just where to get it.
Five minutes later, after slipping a cheap and slim flashlight into his hip pocket and dry-swallowing one of the pain pills the doc had given him, he was in and out of Howie Jacker’s room, two pints of Southern Comfort tucked into his shirt. The jerk never learned to lock his locker, his loss, Frankie’s gain.