"Because they wanted me to invalidate your work," Scully interrupted, "your investigations into the paranormal. But I think this goes deeper than that…"
"This isn't about you, Scully." Mulder stared at her intensely, almost pleadingly. "They're doing this to me."
" They're not doing this, Mulder." Scully looked away, avoiding his gaze. "I left behind a career in medicine because I thought I might make a difference at the FBI. When they recruited me, they told me that women made up nine percent of the Bureau. I felt that was not an impediment, but an opportunity to distin-guish myself.
"But it hasn't turned out that way. And now, even if I were to be transferred to Omaha, or Wichita, or some other field office where I'm sure I could rise—it just doesn't hold the inter-est for me it once did.
Not after what I've seen and done."
She fell silent, and stared at her hands. Beside her Mulder sat in disbelief.
"You're… quitting?"
For a moment Scully said nothing. Finally she shrugged. "There's really no reason left for me to stay anymore…"
She turned" then, gazing at Mulder with frank blue eyes. "Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart's still in it, too."
Behind them the door to the hearing room creaked open. Mulder looked up, his expression still stunned as he saw Walter Skinner standing in the corridor, gesturing to him.
"Agent Mulder. You're up."
Scully looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Good luck."
He turned to her, waiting to see if there would be more, giving her the chance to change her mind, to offer a better explanation, any-thing. But Scully said nothing else. At last Mulder stood, his stunned expression giving way to something like despair, and followed Skinner into the office. Scully watched him go. Before he reached the door, she called his name. When Mulder turned, she picked up the jacket he'd forgotten on the chair. He walked over, and she handed it to him.
Only after the door shut behind him did she let her resolve fade, and gave voice to a sigh that was almost like a sob.
CHAPTER 4
CASEY'S BAR
SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, D.C.
Casey's never got much of a crowd on a week-night. A few regulars, government employ-ees who wandered over from the Mall to knock back a few before catching the last Metro back to Falls Church or Silver Spring or Bethesda. Mulder had been here since late afternoon, and the bartender was wondering if he was ever going to leave.
"I'd say this just about exceeds your mini-mum daily requirement," she said, pouring a jolt of tequila into a shot glass in front of him. She smiled, brushing back a strand of faded blonde hair, and replaced the bottle.
In front of her, Fox Mulder sat by himself on a stool. He stared at the sticky rings on the bar's dark wood surface, the dull light gilding the edges of four empty shot glasses. When the bartender placed the full glass in front of him he spun it thoughtfully, licking his finger where a drop of tequila had spilled, before tossing back the shot. When he put it back down, he drunkenly knocked over the other glasses.
"Gotta train for this kind of heavy lifting," she went on, eyeing him with some concern— this guy definitely did not seem like he'd been practicing much before tonight.
Mulder tilted his head as though consider-ing her advice, then motioned for another shot. She retrieved the empty glasses, intrigued by his brooding silence.
"Poopy day?" she ventured.
"Yup." Mulder's voice sounded thick and out of practice.
"A woman?" He shook his head. "Work?"
Mulder nodded and the barmaid looked sympathetic, but that changed when he pointed to the tequila bottle again.
"You sure?" she asked. He stared fixedly at the bottle, and she reluctantly poured another shot.
Mulder drank it, shuddering a little as the liquor scored his throat. Then he banged the glass on the bar, half-turned on his stool, and closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. When he opened them an instant later he saw another man staring at him from the end of the bar. An older man, early sixties perhaps, with a broad, weathered face and wearing an old Brooks Brothers summer suit, crumpled linen and the same color as the few gray hairs at the man's temples. Mulder stared at him blearily and incuriously, then turned back to the bar.
"Another."
She poured it, then began gathering the empty shots and placing them in a plastic basin. "What do you do?"
"What do I do?" Mulder looked up at her and nodded. "I'm a key figure in an ongoing government charade. An annoyance to my superiors. A joke among my peers. They call me 'Spooky.' Spooky Mulder…"
Whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was a kid. Who now chases little green men with a badge and a gun, shouting to the heav-ens and anyone else who'll listen that the fix is in…
The bartender's sympathetic expression was fading. What a freak, her restrained silence implied.
"That our government's hip to the truth and a part of the conspiracy. That the sky is falling, and when it hits it's gonna be the shit storm of all time."
He finished and flashed her a bitter smile. She stared back at him, then quickly pulled back the shot she'd just poured.
"I think that just about does it, Spooky." She dumped the tequila in the sink and began writing up a check.
"Does what?"
"Looks like eighty-six is your lucky num-ber."
Mulder looked at her sadly. Nobody believed him. "One is the loneliest number."
She shook her head and decisively placed the check in front of him. "Too bad. Closing time for you."
Mulder shrugged impassively and slid off the stool. He tottered a little, and instinctively glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. But the bartender had already turned away, and the older man at the other end of the rail was gone. Mulder took a step toward the front door, remembered the check, and turned. He dropped a small wad of bills on the bar counter and walked unsteadily toward the back of the room, where a dim, narrow hallway led to the bathrooms. A piece of paper was thumbtacked to the men's room door.
OUT OF ORDER.
"Shit," muttered Mulder.
He rattled the door to the adjoining women's room—an irritated voice responded.
"Sorry," Mulder said hastily. Gathering what was left of his wits, he turned and stum-bled back down the corridor, to where a fire door opened out onto the alley, and went out-side.
A row of Dumpsters reared up against a crumbling brick wall. Mulder found a space between two of them and unzipped his fly. Moments later he started as a voice came from behind him.
"That official FBI business?"
"What?"
"Bet the Bureau's accusing you of doing the same thing in Dallas."
Mulder stiffened drunkenly as a figure emerged from the shadows: the same older man in the rumpled linen suit who'd been observing him inside the bar. The stranger gave him a crooked smile and eased himself unthreateningly into a space a few yards from where Mulder stood.
"How's that?" asked Mulder cautiously.
"Standing around holding your yank while bombs are exploding."
The stranger laughed as Mulder turned and eyed him. "Do I know you?"
"No. But I've been watching your career for a good while. Back when you were just a promising young agent. Before that…"
"You follow me out here for a reason?"
"Yeah. I did." The man turned so that his back was to Mulder and unzipped his own pants. "My name's Kurtzweil. Dr. Alvin Kurtzweil."
Mulder frowned, trying to ignore the intru-sion. He zipped himself up and turned around, ready to leave.
"Old friend of your father's." Kurtzweil looked over his shoulder and smiled at Mulder's bewil-dered expression. "Back at the Department of State. We were what you might call fellow travel-ers, but his disenchantment outlasted mine." Kurtzweil waited, as though giving Mulder the chance to let this all sink in.