Chapter 4-The Burn

“I thought about
Leaving-but I couldn’t even get outta bed
Hitchin’—but I couldn’t get a ride outta town
Now anyone who really wanted me to be down
Come round."

The call came at the end of the week. He’d woken late, feeling scratchy and out of sorts, and chalked it up to the heat. He wished briefly that he’d installed an air conditioner, but settled for a cool shower that he lingered in until it was nearly a cold shower. He was still feeling irritable as he ate lunch, cleaned up the kitchen, and took a cup of coffee out onto the porch.

Storm clouds were hanging above him like pianos, dark and threatening. He figured they would have to break soon, if the humidity and occasional flashes of lightning were any indication.

When thunder grumbled, he grumbled right back at it, then laughed at himself.

The heat, his mood and the soporific drone of life going on around him, from the far off sounds of lawnmowers and dogs barking to the closer buzz of insects in the yard and the radio on the porch—all these combined to simultaneously annoy the hell out of him and make him feel too lazy to do anything about it.

He finished the Michael Nava thriller he’d started just two days before, had a stray thought of iced tea, and wiped sweat from his brow.

Sitting back on the swing, he pulled off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and tipped his head back.

The humid air was difficult to pull into his lungs. He was reminded of his lover’s kisses as the wet heated air passed his lips, and he closed his eyes with a sad smile, letting ideas best left un-thought filter through his mind.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

When the clap of thunder came, Skinner startled half out of his uneasy doze with a grunt. His eyelids felt like they had weights attached to them, and he could feel slick perspiration dotting his brow and trickling down his neck. His mouth tasted sticky and vile and he coughed dryly as he tried to regain full consciousness.

Another booming thunderclap and the last vestiges of a nightmare faded. He almost tumbled back down into sleep when the first cold drops of rain splashed down on him and the phone—his ever-silent phone—began to ring.

“Shit!” Instantly wide-awake, he scrabbled madly for the receiver, fumbled it, nearly dropped it; thunder roared, a slash of lightning gave everything an elfish glow, and the skies suddenly opened up.

Skinner clutched the phone to his chest greedily and backed towards the door, his eyes wide and staring. The rain had formed a gray sheet that was nearly impenetrable, and he probably would have been hard pressed to see a marching band in the yard by that point, never mind camouflaged surveillance. But he didn’t look away even as he reached behind him for the door latch, got it open on the second try, and nearly tumbled backwards into the house. 

Slamming the door so hard that he heard the jamb crack, he rushed into the living room, fell onto the couch and put the phone to his ear, thumbing the ‘talk’ switch and cutting off the ringing.

“Yeah!” he barked into the phone, wondering why he felt suddenly like throwing up and realizing that he hadn’t felt terror like this since Vietnam.

He knew Mulder was dead.

“Big guy!”

He recognized Melvin’s voice immediately, and his stomach did another slow roll.

“You’ve got to get here! Like, yesterday, man!”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” He shut his eyes against the tears that threatened.

“Hell, no! Look, I can’t talk—you know that! Just get your ass up here—check the clam addy in about a minute—our virgin hacker’s got all the details for ya.”

He heard a muffled complaint that had to be Langly, and then Frohike again:

“Just get it and go—we’ll be here!”

“Fox—“ he tried.

“And for God’s sake, don’t bring the cavalry along for the ride, okay?”

Skinner was already moving to the kitchen, the shimmering prisms of tears in his eyes being replaced by something cold and made of black steel.

“I’m on it!” he snapped.

“Hey, big guy,” Frohike soothed, “I know you are.”

Skinner didn’t have time to be soothed.

“On the way,” he said and hung up. He dropped the handset into the sink and grabbed the pasta canister.

Then it was back to the living room, to the computer; finding the email address, finding the information, wrapped in a code that any first time Dungeons and Dragons player could crack, but that all the snoops in all the governments didn’t have a hope of figuring out.

“Nice, Ringo,” he muttered, translating something like ‘sword of wounding’ into something like ‘car wreck’. “I owe ya one.”

Five minutes of hasty scribbling, two minutes of typing and one CD virus later, his computer was nothing more than an expensive paperweight, and he was in the bedroom, laughing bitterly at himself for having a kit already packed.

He changed out of his sweat and rain dampened shirt and pants, knew he didn’t have time for a shower, wished he did, and pulled on worn 501s and a dark green polo shirt. He glanced around the room, knew he was leaving lots of DNA samples behind but nothing else, hoisted the bag over one shoulder, and headed for the door.

In the front closet, he found his gun, a light jacket and a moment to take a deep breath and remind himself aloud: “Don’t panic; Frohike would have said something.”

He shrugged on the jacket and wondered what the hell Mulder and Scully had been doing in Bismarck, North Dakota. He checked the safety on his gun, stowed it in an accessible pocket and wondered how the Gunmen had found them.  He took a good look around the room and wondered if he’d ever see it again.

He took Joey Ramone with him.

He knew he’d be made as soon as he got into the truck, but it couldn’t be helped—he’d parked it so long that any cause for driving was bound to fall under suspicion. But he had an idea or two, and thought that even if they caught him somehow, he’d lead them a merry chase before he was finished.

The rain was still sheeting down, and he was grateful for the camouflage, no matter how slim it might be.

He drove around the neighborhood for a few minutes, gritting his teeth and regretting the lost time, but he needed to see if they were on to him. 

He was both pleased and dismayed to notice the same non-descript car following him round the same block three times, always just far enough back. He recognized the pattern from his own days in the field.

“Drive casual,” he muttered, paraphrasing one of his lover’s favorite movies as he eased into the heavier traffic heading towards the airport. He began a subtle dodge and weave in and out of traffic. Never speeding or in any other way obvious, as much for the rain-slicked streets and his own safety as for not calling undue attention to himself. He saw the car fall back. One car-length, then two, then catch up a little. That was fine with him. They had to know he was heading to the airport. He didn’t care about that. He just wanted some breathing space between him and them. Enough space that they might not notice some of his actions.

The airport parking entrance loomed ahead in the dark and the rain, and Skinner realized he had put several cars between him and the tail. Relieved that they wouldn’t see him, he turned into the long-term parking lot. He bought a 30 day ticket from a clerk so absorbed in the soccer game on his portable TV that even days later and under the influence of bullying and sodium pentathol, he was unable to identify the man in the Blazer.

Skinner drove to the back of the lot and pulled in next to a station wagon that looked like it had been there for a while. He jumped out of the truck, went around to the back, and got a screwdriver from his tool kit. Glancing around nervously, expecting the world’s nastiest cavalry charge to descend on him any moment, he crouched down behind the station wagon, and neatly and quickly removed the license plate.  Then he did the same on the front of the car.

Keeping his movements quiet and economical, still with a wary eye on the entrance to the lot, he switched the plates on his truck for the ones on the car, tossed the screwdriver into the back seat as he reentered his vehicle, and left the lot as unobtrusively as he’d entered it.

This time he drove boldly to the lot nearest the entrance to the airport. He cruised up and down rows of cars for some time, both to watch for any other cars driving as aimlessly as he was, and in hopes of finding a truck like his own. 

Luck was with him on several levels. The rain began to let up, and weak light aided his search. No other cars seemed to be moving, and, just as he was about to start his search over again from the back of the lot, a tiny sports car pulled out of a spot that it had been obnoxiously and illegally slant parked in, close to the door, and better yet, next to another Blazer. This one was older by a few years, and navy instead of black, but Skinner knew there wouldn’t be a better chance than this.

He wasn’t about to kid himself. The aliens—spies—officials, whatever they were, that were keeping their eye on him were not stupid, and this switch and bait game wasn’t going to fool them for long. He only wanted to delay, knowing that his chance for escape from their scrutiny would come after he was out of the city. And every small move like this bought him a few more minutes.

He parked the truck, and entered the terminal. It was busy, but not overly so, and several of the ticket kiosks were completely devoid of customers. He started with Western Air, strolled casually up to the counter, and, glancing up at the schedule, asked for a one-way ticket to Atlanta. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and paid with his American Express. ‘Don’t leave home on the run from the feds without it,’ he thought with a sour smile as he signed the slip and received his ticket, and instructions on how to get to his plane.

With his Visa, he bought a round trip to L.A. from another airline, added on flight insurance, then promptly sold it for half the price cash to a redheaded girl standing half a dozen places behind him.

At the third airline’s kiosk, he paid the cash he’d just received to a handsome young man to get a one-way ticket to Toronto, Ontario. He stuffed it into his pocket next to the other ticket, took a moment to scope out the terminal, looking for familiar, or suspicious faces, and then went to the washroom. He spent several minutes there, formulating and discarding half a dozen different plans. He washed his face and hands, paced a little, then decided it was safe to go. Or at least as safe as it was going to get.

He used a different exit, and walked almost all the way around the building to get back to the truck. The other Blazer was still parked next to him, and he wondered if he should do another plate switch, then decided that the lot was too open, and that the extra time it might buy him wouldn’t be worth the time it would cost.

He drove away from the airport, caught himself back up in traffic and found a radio station that apparently specialized in the blues. That was just fine by him, and the smoky warm sounds made him a little less apprehensive, and made him think of Mulder.

After what felt like far too long to suit him, he found himself leaving the city behind and he turned onto the highway. Only then did he allow himself to give into his worries, just enough to gun the engine and bring the truck up to something just over the speed limit and just shy of unsafe.

He raced the rain, but never seemed to quite get ahead of it. He didn’t mind. The hypnotic dance of wipers on window soothed him and kept his bleaker thoughts at bay.

He found a gas station along the way when the gas gauge read E, and bought coffee too, but felt no need to stop or rest. His lover’s name was back in his heartbeat, and every delay, even for necessities, caused it to beat louder and stronger.

He made his first stop two states and twenty four hours later, finally realizing that if he didn’t get some sort of rest, he was more than likely going to wind up as nothing more than a grease mark across the highway, or an explosion in some ditch, and that would serve no purpose to anyone. As was his way, fear for himself never really entered into it, more his sense of duty, coupled with his overwhelming love for certain parties involved. This same sense had served him well all his life, even if it had made some of said life damned uncomfortable. He recognized the behavior and had long ago made peace with himself over it.

He wasn’t taking the same route he and Mulder had traveled during that strange summer after Krycek’s death, but when he stepped into the tiny motel room on the outskirts of a small town, he was so forcibly reminded of that time that he almost felt dizzy. As he turned on lights he seemed to see his lover in every corner of the room, on the too short bed, coming out of the tiny bathroom, lounging in the only chair in the room.

He sat heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands. He stayed that way for many minutes.

After a long time, he got up, wiped his eyes and headed for the bathroom.

He took a shower, regretted not having more than crappy motel soap to use to wash away the road grime, could have easily fallen asleep as the water sluiced over him, and found himself barely capable of setting the alarm before tumbling naked and exhausted into bed.