Title: Prison of Innocents (1 of 20) Author: jrfpatton Feedback: jrfpatton@hotmail.com Archive: At your pleasure. Just keep these headers with it. OK for awards consideration too. Rating: R, V=3 Classification: X, A, MSR Spoilers: through "Orison" in season seven only. Author's Notes at the end. Disclaimer - These characters are owned by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox. Summary: Mulder returns from an assignment to find a disoriented Scully pleading to a felony. Her imprisonment leads the agents on the torturous trail of ghostly robbers and forces them to confront demons that have always separated them. Prison of Innocents The hair on the back of Charlie Duncan's neck stood straight up. Something colder than air conditioning caused him to shiver. The security guard rose slowly from the table he'd been using to study for college finals and looked down the long corridor of First National Bank of Virginia at his partner. Andy Paige was on his feet too. Oh hell! Charlie thought he had lucked into an easy part-time job - the best one since he became a temporary security guard. It had been such an easy gig he'd started studying on the job. Easy until now. He took a quick look around hoping to God he saw nothing to be alarmed about. High arched ceilings, early 19th century marble columns that braced and graced wide corridors, walls that seemed to do nothing more than support a rotating art exhibit - First National Bank of Virginia spared no expense for its customers and staff. All this ambiance and college money too. He'd been thrilled. They paid him to walk the floors of the bank every hour from midnight to six a.m., listen for noises - never anything more than his own breathing or his partner's incessant smoker's cough -- and spend the rest of the night learning managerial economics. Another sudden gust of cold air on his neck and shoulders had him ducking as though he were under attack. Still he saw nothing. The bank was dark, silent. Okay, he thought with a snort, the air conditioner must be working overtime like his imagination. He started to return to his book when he heard a noise. To his alarm, Andy Paige had drawn his weapon. "Stop!" Charlie shouted, pulling his own weapon. He looked around frantically for what had surprised Andy. Charlie heard a shot. He thought he fired too then heard the report from a second gun. The young man's knees gave way, but he didn't feel anything even when he hit the floor. His blood soaked into the blue carpet in the hall and he began to burn deep in his chest. Charlie wondered where all the shots came from. Andy Paige stepped around him on his way to the vault. His lips moved but the voice didn't sound like Andy, "Damn fools! He got away from me." The young man on the bank floor tried to breathe. It was so hard. An angel watched Charlie. He saw her eyes and knew he was dying. He wasn't afraid. An angel had come to help him, why should he be afraid? The angel glanced in Andy's direction as he disappeared into the vault, and knelt. Everything felt unreal to Charlie and tainted by red-hot blaze radiating from his chest. The angel put her hands out to touch his right arm, but Charlie didn't feel it. He looked into those beautifully kind eyes that seemed shrouded by mist and fog -- and blacked out. Someone was still in the bank when he came around. The fire in his chest had cooled down and Charlie could feel a presence without opening his eyes. "He on his way out." It sounded like a black woman. The air made a distinctive wheeze. "If he die you die too? Don't go in him then." The young man heard nothing until the woman's voice said, "Why you hate being away? You think yer body so bee-utiful?" Charlie opened one eye painfully to see Andy in a grotesque dance with the air. "Free air," the voice from Andy's body said. "I loves it. Smells different." No one else was around. Andy aimed at a small waste can by a nearby desk and kicked it down the carpet. The tinny clang of the small can echoed off the walls as it hit another desk. "Damn!" said Andy. He looked at his foot with a painful grimace. Charlie knew his angel was ashamed of Andy -- of something in Andy. He felt sorry for own angel, she seemed so sad. He wanted to reach out and tell her she was wonderful, thank her for helping him, for being with him. He didn't know where to find her, but she seemed so close. "Yer weakening me," said the voice in Andy. The voice had a hint of panic. "I got to take them bonds outside -- then I let the boy go." The cold settled over Charlie. Just before darkness closed in again, it occurred to Charlie that his great part-time job just got shot to hell. ***** FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder fidgeted at the airline check-in gate. Tentatively he moved one foot out of line, then glanced over to see if his partner was still watching. Special Agent Dana Scully stood next to the desk in the boarding area with her arms folded and his duffel bag at her feet. When she raised one eyebrow slightly to show she was indeed monitoring his progress toward the airline ticket clerk, he flashed an innocent half-smile. His foot returned to its original position and he shifted his weight to make sure the morning newspaper under his arm was secure. "Seattle?" said the clerk. "Salmon capitol of the world. I'm fishing for Big Foot myself," Mulder said affably. "Have a nice flight," said the clerk, pressing on to the next customer. "Big Foot?" said Scully. She kicked his duffel bag with her toe. "There haven't been any sightings in the northeastern woods," said her partner. " But I might get lucky." "That's the kind of positive attitude we like to see at the FBI," Scully said. Mulder tapped the newspaper. "It's safe for you to go to work, a federal judge says the FBI's not at fault for Waco. Ever feel you're out there alone, Scully?" She answered with pursed lips and a scowl."We should be looking for the phantom bank robber. It says the guard who robbed the bank two weeks ago had a ghostly accomplice," Mulder said, thrusting the front-page at her. "The wounded night guard said-'" Scully took the paper, folded it, and handed it back without looking. "It will be over before you get back." "I feel like I'm being sent to summer camp so my parents can run around the house naked," he said. "That's a terrible thought," she said. "Summer camp?" "The other part," she said. "Did you pack insect repellant?" "Insects?" Mulder pulled his mouth down in disgust. "It's only for a month. Nice cool weather instead of a hot Washington summer-." "No phones, no television, no radio, no newspaper, no e-mail, no take-out Chinese-" "That's undoubtedly why they call it survival training," she said. "They say the forest is beautiful. All those junipers, true cedars, hemlock-" "I'll poison myself. They'll have to send me home," he said. "Why aren't you going?" Scully rubbed her lips. "They pulled your number." "Women get drafted." "Mulder, your flight's boarding." He turned around to discover he was the only passenger standing in the waiting area. The tunnel into the aircraft gaped at Mulder like a black hole. He shuddered, "Why aren't you going?" he said again, this time in a wistful whisper. "You won't have to shave for a month," she said by way of encouragement. Mulder took a strand of her hair between his thumb and finger absently, then leaned close to give her his best sad eyed look. "You'll miss me." That was very true, Scully admitted. She was finding it hard to let him go for some reason. Unable to resist, she kissed his cheek and gave him a quick pat on the arm. The power of suggestion made her believe she could already smell pine on him. "Wrap up your toothpaste and hang it from a tree branch," she said. "Otherwise you'll attract bears." "Bears!" He held her at arm's length and their eyes locked. She could feel her pulse quicken as it always did when he looked at her like that. "I don't want to attract- bears," he said. Then he did something impulsive, but she thought later, very Mulder. He kissed her. She responded to him before she had time or presence of mind to do anything else. "They're closing the door," she said, shaking inside from surprise and the unbidden warmth. What had been so natural now felt awkward, not a part of who they said they were. "Why would bears want my toothpaste?" Mulder said as she herded him toward the gate. "It's a generic brand." She folded her arms across her chest, but her chuckle followed him down the tunnel. ******** Still smiling to herself Scully drove back to J. Edgar Hoover building in heavy traffic. Her uneasy feeling of the early morning had lifted with Mulder's plane. Like most mornings that began with air travel, she awakened with a vague feeling that something bad was about to happen. Instead, she thought as two fingers tapped her lips, something good happened. Something probably good. Mulder fought this last minute training session. He'd even gone to Skinner and returned fuming. She knew he hated to take one minute from the X-Files, although he admitted they had nothing pending right now something might come up. Safe bet. Personally, she was sorry she hadn't been chosen. Although she normally preferred vacations near water, right now the northwest woods sounded so free, open, fresh and -- she slammed on the brakes to avoid a car --uncluttered. Even survival training would seem like a vacation. As a person who prized quiet and the natural order of things, she would appreciate a deep woods experience more than Mulder, who needed chaos to breathe. Traffic came to a complete stop. She strained to look over the car in front to see what was holding things up. It appeared to be an accident. Where were the police? Never a cop when you need one. Now she had to turn right and she was too far to the left. Beside her the cell phone chirped. "Scully." "Hey, that tape you sent-" "Frohike?" He sounded worried. "That tape-" "What tape?" "The one you sent last night. Scully, it-." "I didn't send a tape." She signaled to get into the right lane. The blue Corvette in that lane inched forward, refusing to let her in. Bastard, she thought. "What's the matter with you - putting funny stuff in your brownies?" Frohike said. "I don't know what you're talking about." Scully said, smiling at the woman in the red mini-van who allowed her to pull over one lane. "I'm trying to tell you there's nothing on it. It's blank. A blank white sheet of paper wrapped over a blank tape." "So we're talking about a blank tape that I don't remember sending you?" Scully said. "Maybe it was Mulder. Is he there?" "I just put him on the plane. I'm late for work." "I don't like it," Frohike said. Scully could picture his eyes and jowls drop his face into a serious expression. "I've been late before. They get over it." "Whatever was on that tape was very important," Frohike said. Scully's eyes fastened onto the driver of a green sedan in the next lane. He looked slow, inattentive. The perfect victim. "Can we do this later?" Scully pressed the accelerator and darted in front of a green sedan in hopes of getting in the correct lane to make a right turn two blocks later. The sedan's horn blared. "I deserved that," she muttered to the driver behind her. "What?" Frohike said. "I'm a little busy here," she said. She tossed the phone down and just barely got into the right turn lane in time. Her turn signal clicked, the garage gate groaned mechanically, then clanged open. As she pulled into the parking garage Scully thought with some envy that in a few hours Mulder would hear the chirp of crickets, the chatter of squirrels, the distinctive whip of wind through tree leaves. He would smell evergreens, earth, wood flowers. She would inhale carbon monoxide fumes. She had to shave her legs every day. He would grow a beard and his face would be scratchy to touch. She decided not to dwell on that part. Her fresh-air fantasies now completely evaporated, Scully stepped into the underground garage aroma of car exhaust and motor oil. The garage was hot and muggy; her clothes began to stick to her almost at once. After she locked the car she didn't notice the smell anymore, she was thinking about the work waiting for her in the basement and realized she had no clear idea of what to do. Her purposeful steps slowed. She scowled in confusion as she opened the glass doors that connected the garage and the Hoover building. The hallways in front of the parking garage contained a labyrinth of closets, storage areas, vacant offices and one water fountain. It all smelled like paper -- the odor of woods after being subjected to a bureaucracy. Framed photos of law enforcement officers and gold or wooden award plaques hung along the walls, so familiar to Scully now she scarcely took note of them anymore. As she leaned down to take a drink from the fountain she focused on one serious photo of a rotund man in a brown suit. Agents were certainly robust in those days. "Agent Arnold Calvin. Killed in the line of duty, 1948. One of two killed that month. FBI agents have always been prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for duty. You're late, Agent Scully. Come in. Did you have an errand?" Water dripped from her mouth but she felt all her saliva dry up. "Yes sir." Her feet moved. "I understand you like tea. I have some special tea brewing for you. Sit here. This reclines. Put up your feet if you like." Scully blinked a few times; she felt a little dizzy, uncertain, and her stomach was upset. She had a funny taste in her mouth. She shook herself from daydreaming, straightened her jacket and glanced about the hallway. Few people appeared in either direction. She frowned and consulted her watch. It was off. At least she hoped it was wrong. Exactly how late was she? Surely Mulder's plane hadn't been that far off schedule. *********************** Scully was hiding something, Mulder thought as he watched Washington grow smaller beneath him. She was the worst liar he'd ever met and for the last week she'd refused to look him in the eye, avoided close situations where he could quiz her and actually seemed relieved when he drew this wilderness-survival assignment at the last minute. She was preoccupied and, in typical Scully fashion, threw up a wall that he couldn't penetrate. She even snapped at him twice last week. He had gone over and over recent events for what he had said - or not said - that might have sent her to the barricades. Maybe it wasn't him. A case? No. Whatever it was, something was on her mind, something that made her anxious and secretive. Something that she didn't want him to know or share. That hurt. Yesterday everything shifted. She came into the office as though the problem resolved itself overnight. He looked into the depth of her eyes: blue and clear. No ripples. He had stared in bewilderment. She cocked her head. Then her face glowed with understanding. "Stop looking stricken. It's only a month," she had said. Amusement warmed her smile. He was so relieved to have her back he almost wiggled like a puppy. Mulder opened the newspaper, stared at the front page without seeing, and finally turned the page. Only a month. He hated woods and trees. He hated being cut off from everything. And he hated -- he didn't want to think it, but the truth was right there on his lips - he hated leaving Scully. He rubbed his mouth. She was too surprised to punch him and, in fact, unless it was wishful thinking, he detected some enthusiasm on her part. He couldn't imagine why he'd kissed her like that at the gate. Maybe it was the hide and seek she'd been playing. Maybe it was his realization that a month without Scully was 30 days without true vision or sound. Maybe it was the look, the I'll-miss-you-look. Mulder flicked his tongue over his lips to see if any taste of her remained. He missed her already and the ground she stood on was still visible beneath him. He groaned, squirmed in his seat, moved the newspaper over his lap and straightened his tie. Nobody was looking. Good thing. ************** Henry J. Donaldson, assistant attorney general of the United States, served at the pleasure of the Attorney General. She wasn't very pleased right then. He scurried out of her office and down the hall with her sharp reprimands ringing in his ears. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't an investigator and those he relied on had failed him. That wasn't enough to satisfy the gargoyle, however. Donaldson fumed his way down the corridor. His pointed nose, wavy gray hair and thin frame, not to mention the furtive way he scurried in and out of the AG's office, earned him the nickname Squirrel among the law clerks. Donaldson would have been mortified if he'd known. He considered himself a sophisticated bon vivant, a decorated war hero, dapper dresser, and intellectual giant whose wit captivated his interns and clerks. His wife and son adored him, his lover waited on him, and the young blonde man in the third floor research office went down on him at least once a week. His appeal was lost on the Attorney General, however. She only wanted results. Henry Donaldson was short on results. His biggest and most confidential assignment, given him personally by the Attorney General at his request, lay sprawled across the front page of "The Washington Post" and a dozen major dailies. Now the AG wanted to know why he was no closer to explaining the ghostly robbery that appear on the front pages. And if he couldn't handle this foray into criminal matters would he like to return to tax and security fraud? Revisit Treasury Department legal matters? Look into insider trader schemes? Donaldson had no desire to retrace his career path. Fortunately, the media didn't know that the bank robbery carried the same MO as a major securities heist five states west just two months ago, a brokerage house robbery in New York four months earlier and God knows what else. A California bond company lost millions in bearer bonds a year ago and a clerk was killed. In New York a trader died of a heart attack after a robbery there. Each case contained similar facts: office workers or security guards - all solid citizens -- caught flat-footed late at night stealing from employers. None of proceeds had surfaced. In each case the authorities had a suspect and in each case the suspect claimed to be possessed. Rational explanations for all the robberies abounded -arrests made, convictions in one case, plea bargain in another. Until this bank robbery cast a pall over it all. All the same MO -- except there was a living witness this time as well as the suspect who claimed to be possessed by a black woman. Furthermore, the witness swore an angel comforted him during this ordeal. He even had the police artist sketch the face for him. What Donaldson had in his file was a pastel drawing that could be every fine-boned woman with dark hair between 35 and 45 years old in the United States. Henry Donaldson knew that face. The first time he saw that picture he had to fight back tears. He felt like he had cramps and nearly doubled over from the pain of longing. The whole world had suddenly gone mad. He took a deep breath to calm himself, to push back anything inside him that was weak and soft. The pressure was too much for his feminine side. He was losing his grip. Correction: he had lost it. That was the source of his current dilemma. He couldn't do the things he had done 30 years - no, even five years ago. Age, distraction, high living and divided attentions cost him his power of concentration and his ability to focus. That was the real problem. Thank God he had always possessed a compartmentalized mind. He always had the ability to shut things off in little boxes until he needed them. He was a natural. Now things were rapidly spinning out of control. Donaldson wanted a Hershey bar and a shot of scotch, not necessarily in that order. He had a hunch about these so-called angels or ghosts -- ever since rumors about the robberies began circulating around Justice. Donaldson had been so shocked by what he found he immediately volunteered to take on the task of resolving the case. He had no intention of letting anyone else uncover connections, however tenuous, between him and the two ghosts in the Virginia bank. He'd be ruined. Exposed. Henry J. Donaldson knew the truth of the statement that some people in your life were never meant to leave you. In his post-luncheon meeting with the AG, Donaldson tried to tell her these cases were just strong coincidences and criminals trying to use the insanity defense. She accepted neither his rational explanations nor the ghostly reports. She wanted something of more substance. So far the attorney general's office had succeeded in keeping most of the information about the crime spree out of the newspapers. That would not last, the AG warned. Donaldson had a plan. It was solid and scary. He outlined it for her. Plans did not impress the AG. Plans are not solutions - her favorite phrase. At least he bought more time, a few months. He convinced her the crimes had a pattern and that pattern would buy them months -- the time they needed to set up a trap. He skirted the details of this trap: the AG wouldn't have believed him if he'd told her anyway. He hardly believed it himself. He thought it was all behind him. Far behind him. Perhaps it could still be. No, he had to stay the course or else all the sacrifices - everything was in vain. God, Donaldson hated the air of superiority around that woman, the AG. Where others saw competency he saw politics and affirmative action at their worst. He stopped outside his office to straighten his French cuffs and make certain his trousers had maintained their perfect crease through this ordeal. Now that he thought about it, he hated a lot of women right then, including but not limited to the treacherous ones he hunted, the tight-assed one who could flush them out, and the weak one who failed to produce for him. Women had taken over his life, Henry Donaldson thought. He despised being under a woman's control. And he wouldn't stand for it. He never had and he never would. He would not be his father and smile while a woman emasculated him. The Attorney General had no idea how badly Donaldson wanted this bank robbing angel in his hot hands. He felt his career, his life, his experience, his training all pointed toward this one defining event in his life. He was equal to the challenge. He took another deep breath. He may have lost a step, but he was smart. He thought ahead, planned. He was still strong. His handmade shirt suddenly felt tight. Donaldson pursed his lips and his green eyes narrowed into slits. Stupid women jeopardized everything he had worked toward. He pictured himself putting his thumbs on the cartilage in this so-called angel's neck, squeezing slowly until her eyes bulged out, the bones crushed and she struggled uselessly for air. He could do that; he'd done it to grown men in the Vietnam War. That had been 30 years ago when he and a Marine named Walter Skinner served in the same combat zone. Skinner served with the grunts in country; Donaldson was a spook. Now they would be in arena together again and, as before, on the same side with different purposes. Donaldson smiled to remember what this day held. His gloom dissipated somewhat. Walter Skinner had an agent under him that Donaldson planned to grill and he couldn't wait to burn her lovely little butt. Her self-assured façade would crack; she would be scared and confused, sick. His spirits lifted and he felt a measure of control return. "Good morning, Mr. Donaldson," said a clerk in his office. "Morning, Miss Ames," he said. "I read your brief on Mann v. Ohio. I have a question about the appropriate role of the police in the search, but otherwise, excellent." The clerk's eyes widened. She started to say something, but he held up his hand. "It's nice to have a bright young person like you working with me. Now, where the heck is that black FBI personnel file? It was just here..." He noticed he needed a manicure. **** Mulder smelled so badly he disgusted himself. He pushed aside the soup of roots and berries his survival team of FBI agents made for dinner. His stomach was in revolt. What he wouldn't give right now for a steak. His feet hurt, his hands were raw from rope burns, and his stomach growled. He wished a bear would venture into the camp. After almost three weeks of nuts and roots, the half dozen men assembled around the campfire would make short work of the largest grizzly. What he wouldn't give to try out Scully's theory, brush his teeth and attract a bear. But he had no toothpaste. All the trainees had been allowed to keep was their dignity and a canteen of water. He couldn't shake an uneasy feeling about Scully. The incident today with an agent from Dallas only reinforced it. As Mulder's life went, the drop had been a minor scare. Mulder stood atop a cliff with the group leader, tethered to the agent from Dallas who was climbing up a cliff face. The Texan lost his footing, and tumbled down the cliff. Mulder leaned against the rope just as it pulled taut, nearly dragging him off the edge. "Mulder! Don't let me go!" The voice over the cliff sounded hollow, far away -- and very familiar. The rope cut into Mulder and burned his hands as he attempted to pull the Dallas agent over the top. As the man's hands appeared over the edge Mulder leaned down and held out a helping hand. Instead of the burly Dallas agent, the face that appeared over the cliff was Scully's. He grabbed for her with both hands and yanked her up. She was light as a child. "Okay, I'm fine!" the Texan said, panting. He sat up and wiped his brow. "Partner, I sure am glad you were there..." Mulder peered over the edge. No one there but the rest of the team standing several feet below and looking up anxiously. Some shielded their eyes; others shouted "what happened?" None of them was a woman, he noticed. That night with the stars and the small campfire as the only light, Mulder folded his hands behind his head and thought about it. He knew what Scully would say: she was on his mind and he projected her image onto the man. Mulder tried to find a comfortable place in the needle and leaf bed he'd made for himself on the forest floor. The Texan, who snored loud enough to register on a seismograph, settled nearby. Maybe Scully was right. Maybe she worried his subconscious because he knew he'd crossed a dangerous line with her at the airport, an unspoken line. Kisses in stress and on New Year's Eve were not like sweet kisses in airport gateways. That was stupid of him. But unless he mentioned it, Scully would overlook it. She must tire of always being the strong one. Mulder smiled into the blackness of the forest. He was going to mention it. Campfire discussions ignited a new restlessness in Mulder. Two of the married men missed their wives and didn't mind sharing after the first week. One conversation lead to another to fend off boredom. He refused to talk about his partner - he only said he was teamed with a redhaired woman. It seemed a betrayal to say more-- but the men had already begun to kid him. "Man that closed mouth is protecting something real important," the Dallas agent had said and the men around the fire laughed. Mulder liked the Texan, but he didn't care for that laugh. Lying a thousand miles from temptation he admitted he wanted something more from the partnership than she did-than he thought she did. He never asked what she wanted. She never initiated anything between them, but Mulder knew in his soul that all they had to do was reach out and it was all there for them. Lovers, friends, partners. The question in his mind was not if but when. And who. As with most aspects of their lives, it was a contest of wills - who would prove more needy? Who would break first? Who would put the friend and partner at risk to have it all? Any other time his thoughts went to Scully this way his hand went to his crotch. But this time, this time he broke out in a cold sweat of fear. Now that he'd decided to approach her about it, he dreaded it. He could talk to her about spaceships, alien invasions, and mutants while they were knee deep in blood, but he couldn't tell her that he wanted a close encounter of another kind. He could paint vivid pictures of universal destruction, evil and darkness, but didn't know how to show her all that she brought into his world. He could be professional, but not personal -- not that personal, anyway. Maybe this far along in the game he didn't have the right to anything different. For years he'd been so obsessed with finding his sister he had no clear vision of anything beyond the X-Files. She'd accepted that as a condition of their partnership, embraced his mission and, fascinated by what she could not explain, made it her own at huge personal cost. He'd already taken so much from her, maybe asking for something more was obscene. The belly-tightening undercurrent of sexuality that ran beneath the surface of their partnership was one of the staples of his life. Somewhere along the line he'd grown fearful of pushing it beyond talk, beyond a quick touch or a comforting embrace. Initially he thought she'd come to take his work and possibly his life from him. Then he wallowed so deep in self- pity and doubt he could scarcely see her. After that he feared to trespass on her innocence - she seemed to him innocent of the darker forces of nature at work in the world. Life as his partner initiated her quickly and painfully. Now he feared she'd vanish if she knew how he felt. Through the hiking, repelling, fishing and daylight hours of survival training, Mulder had little time to think of anything but the task at hand. At night, looking through the trees at the stars, he thought about food with no fiber, a beer, and a comfortable bed with Scully in it.