Title: The Geek Rock Series
Fandom: The Lone Gunmen
Part 3 of 8
Previous chapters are
here.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing(s): Byers/Susanne, Jimmy/Yves, Byers/OC(s) and subtext-y hints of Jimmy/Byers
In this installment... sex and Chinese food in Missoula, a death occurs under suspicious circumstances, Byers gets arrested, Yves stalks Jimmy (But she's not jealous. Really. She's not. Shut up.), shocking ineptitude with a side of actual conspiracies and law enforcement officers abuse the Patriot Act toward their own ends.
3. Run-Around
Summary: "I've still got this dream that you just can't shake."
I still got this dream that you just can't shake
I love you to the point you can no longer take
Well, all right okay
So be that way
I hope and pray
That there's something left to say
He had the white picket fence dream again.
Two days after meeting with Hassan Naser and discovering that Federal Detainee #10013 was not, in fact, Susanne, he woke up shuddering and sweat-soaked, the taste of sand and ashes in his mouth.
He hadn't had that particular dream in almost three years.
He hadn't dreamed it since a few months after Las Vegas, since Susanne had given him a ring and an almost-promise. More to the point, he hadn't dreamed it since they started sleeping together.
The reality of them had been better, more vital and more complicated than the dream version. It had hurt more too, but, more importantly, it had satisfied him. It had given him something to strive for, something to lose, for the first time in years.
The reality of Susanne wasn't sweet. She was never going to wear a sundress and wait for him by the maple tree in the backyard. She was harder, smarter and sadder than the version of her he'd dreamed about for ten years, and he loved her for it.
She had a grim sense of humor, and the right side of her mouth quirked oddly when she laughed. She was focused and determined, she could be cold and hard, but he lived for the little glimpses of something softer and warmer underneath. He liked the idea that he was the only one who got to see those flashes of the woman she used to be.
He didn't want to start dreaming about her again. He didn't want to start remembering her as a metaphor.
They were never going to have that perfect life together, and the truth was he wasn't sure he even wanted it anymore. He wasn't sure that life could deliver what it promised. Slowly, over these past few years, he'd stopped believing there really was a better way.
New York had been the final blow, the crisis moment, the tipping point. He was really going to have to start dealing with that, but he couldn't think about New York in any kind of detail, not yet. It was still too painful in ways that were about more than just Susanne. So, instead, he thought about the time before that.
They should never have seen each other again, and both of them knew it. Surprisingly, meeting had been Susanne's idea, not his. He would have walked away, never seen her again, never spoken her name again, if it meant she stayed safe. He would have given her a life without him if it meant she could be happy.
He didn't think too much about what it meant that she hadn't done the same for him.
Once she asked him to, of course, he'd come running. She would call and he would drop everything to meet her, in a succession of bad motels in Tempe, Lodi, Charlotte and a half-dozen other cities.
In May, four months almost to the day before New York, he flew into Spokane, Washington, rented a car at the airport and headed east on I-90. Lake Coeur d'Alene fell away on either side of the interstate as he headed toward the Fourth of July Pass, its deep, glacial waters glinting in the sun. The passes were mostly clear, the melt well on its way to the Columbia or the Snake rivers.
He was enthralled and a little intimidated by the sheer scale of the American West. He'd grown up in Northern Virginia and gone to college in Maryland, places that, while occasionally quietly beautiful (at least once you got away from the rampant suburban sprawl) weren't exactly known for their dramatic geography.
The first time he'd ever seen so-called 'real' mountains, he got a little dizzy. Driving through the Idaho panhandle and into Montana was no different. I-90 was braced by peaks and cliffs and places where the road seemed to drop away into nothingness. He found himself taking his eyes off the road, looking out at the rocky riverbanks and giant western hemlocks.
Montana's 'big sky' was more than just a clever tourism slogan. The city of Missoula had been settled in a broad valley, the grasses on the surrounding hills already turning golden-brown despite the fact that it was still the middle of spring. The sky hung low and wide over the valley, ice blue and looking so close he almost felt he could reach out the driver's side window and touch the clouds.
He followed the blue 'lodging' signs to a Comfort Inn just off the interstate. The motel had to have been at least twenty-five years old and was surrounded by gas stations on almost every side. The desk clerk inside greeted him cheerfully, though. The lobby area looked shabby but clean, the smell of singed coffee wafting from the bulk urns in the lounge.
“I have a reservation for this evening for Novac,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” the desk clerk said, tapping keys on her circa-Windows 95 computer. She couldn't have been much more than eighteen. “Your wife left you a key. She got here earlier this afternoon.”
“That's perfect. Thank you,” he said, smiling.
She returned the smile. People were so open and trusting in this part of the country. It almost made him feel a little guilty.
“Sure thing, Mr. Novac. Enjoy your stay.”
The lights were off in Room 117, save a small lamp on the night table. Susanne was sitting on the bed, the ugly motel comforter already turned down. She was barefoot, her face freshly scrubbed and her hair slightly longer than the last time he'd seen her. She started to her feet as he opened the door.
“John-” She flung herself at him, practically knocking the wind from him. The door slammed shut behind them and he dropped his bag to the floor.
“Hey.” He brought his arms around her and pulled her close. She was trembling slightly. “Hey.”
“I missed you,” she said, reaching up and kissing him hard.
Caught off guard, he lost his balance and they fell back against the door. She had his coat and tie off before he'd even caught his breath.
“I guess so,” he said, when she finally let him up for air.
She didn't reply, just kissed him again and started unbuttoning her blouse. She took his hands in hers, pulling him with her. They left a messy trail of clothing between the door and the bed.
It had been months since they'd seen each other. But, even still, he hadn't anticipated this kind of reception.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Don't talk.” She kissed him again. “Not yet.”
It didn't really take much convincing to get him to shut up.
The sex was raw and hurried, a little desperate and over far too quickly. Susanne didn't seem to mind, though. She shuddered underneath him, arching her back and calling his name softly.
He lay there for a few minutes afterward, a little stunned, until he felt her sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Are you all right?”
She went over to where her suitcase was thrown open and fished out a cotton tank top.
“I'm fine,” she said, pulling it over her head. She leaned down, grabbed his discarded boxers and put those on, too. His stomach did an entirely pleasant somersault.
“I'm just fine,” she said again, coming back over to lie down beside him. He reached up and put an arm around her. “I'm just glad I have-” someone, anyone... “you,” she finished, leaning her head against his shoulder and not looking him in the eye.
He loved her and she needed him. That was how this thing worked; it had been from the beginning. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than the alternative. It was better than a decade of nothing but dreaming. He'd accepted the slightly unequal nature of their relationship -- or, at least, he thought he had. But that didn't explain why he was lying there, next to a content and sleeping Susanne, staring at the ceiling and wondering why he felt so unsettled.
He got out of bed, trying not to wake her. She didn't even seem to notice he'd gone, just turned onto her side and hugged the pillow with both arms.
The shower in the tiny bathroom was cramped, he kept knocking aside the plastic curtain whenever he moved and spraying water onto the floor. The water was so hard he actually felt dirtier for having washed with it, a residue of hotel soap, salt and metal stayed on his skin even after he toweled off.
Susanne was awake when he emerged from the bathroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, the Yellow Pages open in front of her and the phone resting in its cradle on the nightstand. She looked up and the expression on her face when she saw him went a long way toward banishing his moodiness.
“I ordered Chinese,” she said, smiling at him, and suddenly all was right in the world again.
*
Strolling through the main campus at Georgetown, Frohike began to wonder if he'd missed his calling as a professor.
The Potomac was, in his opinion, one of the uglier rivers in the country. The water was flat and a dirty grey-brown, with a permanent haze of humidity hovering just above the tree-line on either bank. But the students still treated it like Daytona Beach. Swimsuit-clad girls rode jet-skis across the water. The women's crew team rowed past, in navy blue shorts that showed off their tanned legs.
“Coeds,” Frohike said with a grin. Byers just sighed, almost inaudibly. “Aw, come on, buddy. Are you trying to tell me that all these lovely twenty-somethings don't make you feel young again?”
“If I were ever to find myself involved with a much younger woman,” Byers said seriously, “she would have to be fairly exceptional.” He had this faraway look in his eye and Frohike imagined that he was probably remembering a younger Susanne Modeski, a girl-genius who'd gotten her PhD from Cornell at the tender age of twenty-three. “Lovely and twenty-something isn't enough for me. It wasn't even when I was twenty-something.”
“So, okay. Susanne? Sure. But the former Mrs. Byers? She was exceptional, too?”
“Yes,” he replied, and didn't elaborate.
Frohike was learning to hate the history building like you wouldn't believe. Reg Moncrieff seemed like a good guy; he was certainly an enthusiastic one. He'd provided them with a whole lot of information, more, maybe, than they actually needed. That was part of the problem. They'd spent the better part of two days sorting through all the data he'd given them, highlighting important passages and possible patterns.
That was the reality of what they did. For every computer hack and high-tech B-&-E job they pulled, there were a couple hundred hours of digging through de-classified papers, sifting through abandoned web pages and running from expert to expert gathering information under false pretenses.
Not exactly the stuff of Hollywood blockbusters.
Plus, this time, he had a hunch the story was going nowhere. Byers, though, seemed reluctant to give it up, probably for some reason he wouldn't share with rest of the group. That seemed to be pretty much par for the course these days.
Moncrieff's office was locked, but his research assistant was there, struggling down the hall toward them with an armload of books and dressed in a plaid skirt and knee-socks she must have stolen from Alicia Silverstone circa-1995. Or, more likely these days, Marcia Brady circa-1975. Papers were fluttering out of the messenger bag she had slung across one shoulder. A fat volume of essays slid off the top of the stack and hit the floor.
“Here let me get that for you,” Frohike said, bending down to retrieve the book.
“Thank you!” she replied, leaning out from behind the books to smile gratefully at whoever had rescued her. She stopped, mid-smile. “Oh, it's you guys. What are you doing here?”
“We need your boss to shed some light on some of the info he gave us.” He held out a hand to hold her books while she unlocked the office door. She ignored him.
“Oh, yeah? Good luck with that.” She struggled with the keys, balancing the books on one hip, flipping the key ring onto her index finger and jamming the key into the lock.
"You changed your hair, Kate," Byers said, because he was that kind of guy.
One distracted hand went to her hair, causing the books to shift dangerously, and Kate actually smiled at him. "You're the first person to notice."
"It's very nice," he said, and held the door for her.
She went over to the desk and put down her huge stack of books. "Reg should be right back. Did you want coffee or anything?"
“Sure.” Frohike watched her fiddle with an ancient Mr. Coffee. “You don't like us much, do you?”
“It isn't that.” She looked up, then over at Byers. “It's like I said before, John, I just worry about Reg. And, frankly? I've been reading your paper for over a year now. I'm not convinced that you guys are on the right track.”
“What makes you say that?”
She poured the coffee and looked sidelong at Frohike. “Your cover story this month implied that the CIA faked the USS Cole bombing.”
“Hey, you have no idea the kind of elaborate schemes our government gets up to-”
“You'll have to excuse my incredulity, but I have a hard time buying that our government -- the same government that can't do anything about its out-of-control pork barrel spending, overcome intra-agency squabbling long enough to protect us from terrorists or even appear to find its own ass with both hands most of the time -- is organized enough to pull off something like that.”
He and Byers exchanged a look. Byers smiled tightly and said, “But that's the beauty of it. Where better to hide a conspiracy than behind a facade of ineptitude?”
“That's one hell of a facade, then,” she said, bringing three coffee cups over to the desk. “Are you sure it isn't the other way around? That the government lets these conspiracy stories and urban legends grow legs, just to distract people from their shocking ineptitude? You've got to admit, alien abductions and CIA assassinations make for a much sexier story than cronyism and ineffectual legislation.”
Frohike grimaced. “I'm thinking it's actually probably a little bit from Column A, and a little from Column B.”
“Shocking ineptitude with a side of actual conspiracies?” She shrugged. “That you might actually get me to buy.”
Byers frowned, taking a seat on the edge of the desk and invading her personal bubble a little more than was strictly necessary. “We're just trying to wake people up to how vulnerable they truly are, to get them to look at the world in a different way.”
“Think about all the things you take for granted,” Frohike said. “Like traveling. Every time you take a plane or a train somewhere, you're on camera. Your bags get searched. Anyone with access can see where you're using your credit card and how much you spend. You stay at a hotel... you're completely available to anyone who wants to watch. Housekeeping is in and out of your room. Most hotels have transparent security surveillance now. And that doesn't even take into account all the ubiquitous things around you; things that could easily be vessels for secret surveillance.”
She moved away from Byers, sitting down behind the desk and sliding her glasses off. Byers was right. She'd cut her hair. Frohike never would have noticed on his own, not in a million years.
“What? You mean like a pay phone or a Gideon Bible or something?” she said, and Frohike experienced a moment of intense deja vu.
He was still shaking it off when Byers replied, “Yes, exactly like that.”
“But what about the people who actually read those Bibles?”
“Kiddo,” Frohike said, “do you know anyone who's ever actually read one of those things?”
“You mean like in a non-ironic way?” She grinned at him. “But if you mean, do I know people who've opened one up? Yes, I do. No electronic devices that I could see. Though, granted, it was Spring Break and there was tequila and a game of 'I Never' involved, so...”
“Nice to see kids these days taking their educations seriously. How the hell did you even manage to get in to graduate school?”
"You'd be surprised," she said, looking amused. "I got my undergraduate degree at a state school that was generally more well-known for its sixty year Rose Bowl dry spell and the fact that it topped Playboy's list of the twenty all-time party schools than it was for academic achievement." She paused thoughtfully. "Also for producing journalists and cheese."
"Cheese?" Byers echoed.
"Cheese, journalists. Who can tell the difference, really?" Frohike said, finally cracking a smile. She was growing on him.
“I was a journalism major, actually, until I did a summer internship at a twenty-four hour cable news network that shall not be named. I came back home, switched into the history department and minored in mass comm and propaganda studies.” She took a sip of coffee. “So I do get what you're saying. I'm just not prepared to go as far as you have. I'm not even prepared to go as far as Reg does.”
“Not yet,” Byers said quietly. “But if you'd seen the things we have...”
“Then? Maybe.” She gave Byers a shrewd look, the kind that meant she already had his number. Admittedly, figuring Byers out wasn't that hard -- particularly, for some reason, for the female of the species. “Or maybe I'll just hope it never comes to that.”
“I wouldn't go tempting fate like that, if I were you,” Frohike quipped.
Byers, though, was scrutinizing the kid with an expression on his face that reminded Frohike of something, he just couldn't quite figure out what.
“Tell me there's coffee,” Reg Moncrieff said, pushing the door open. He, too, was weighed down by a large stack of heavy books, his glasses askew and an impressive cowlick of dark hair sticking up on the back of his head. Between the cowlick, the spectacles and his ill-fitting corduroy jacket, he looked vaguely like one of the Lost Boys from Peter Pan.
“There's coffee,” Kate replied smoothly, standing up to fetch him a cup, “and you have visitors.”
“Do I?” He pushed his glasses back into place. “Oh, so I do. Hello.”
Kate handed him a fresh cup of coffee, and Frohike couldn't help noticing that she squeezed Moncrieff's wrist slightly with her free hand when she handed it to him.
“Where have you been all morning, Reg? The dean's been calling.”
“I'll just bet he has,” Moncrieff said with a smile. “I declined an invitation to lunch with the university president.”
“Reg...”
“I politely declined.” He squinted at Kate through his glasses. “Maybe you should go. You clean up well.”
She rolled her eyes. “With a smooth line like that, how can I say no? Let me know when and where and I'll go.”
“Come on into my office,” Moncrieff said, taking a drink from his cup and gesturing toward the door.
“Why exactly did you tell the dean you couldn't make lunch?” Kate asked, refilling her coffee mug and following him into his office. “Just so we have our stories straight...”
“I'm the middle of writing up a review of Donald Lewis' article on Cold War-era efforts by the KGB to produce EMP weapons powerful enough to influence weather patterns in specific target areas.”
Kate snorted. “That's not classified government information. That's the plot of a James Bond movie.”
“You keep believing that, kid,” Frohike said.
She just laughed and he found himself wondering vaguely if, in twenty years or so, there would be a generation of college kids who looked back at the War on Terror the way kids today saw the Cold War, regarding it as some sort of amusing kitsch: the province of campy spy movies and overwrought t.v. shows starring Keifer Sutherland.
He actually kind of hoped there would be.
She made a couple notes on a yellow legal pad, then said, “All right. I think I'll leave you boys alone to talk about grassy knolls and Soviet superweapons.”
“Call Greenpeace for me, will you?” Moncrieff called after her. “They have a whole archive of Soviet-era watchdog files...”
She waved an assent and closed the door behind her.
“So,” Moncrieff said pleasantly, gesturing them both to seats, “what can I do for you now?”
Frohike exchanged a look with Byers, and began, “So, the thing is... we're not finding much to go on with this case of yours...”
“Actually,” Byers interrupted, “we were wondering if it might be possible for us to speak directly with your friend at the INS.”
Oh, really? Well, that was the first Frohike had heard of that plan.
“I'm sure he'd be happy to meet with you, but I don't really know what help he'll be.”
“I need to know more about that picture he gave you. The one from New Mexico.”
New Mexico? A tiny but insistent alarm bell went off in the back of Frohike's mind. If this was about Susanne (and, face it, what wasn't with Byers) they were potentially in very big trouble. No amount of convincing was going to keep him from following this story through to the end -- or until he got himself killed, whichever came first.
He brooded over this latest development all the way through their conversation with Moncrieff and back to the car. When Susanne had disappeared again after 9/11, without even so much as a 'Dear John' (pardon the pun), he'd secretly been relieved. He liked her, he even felt sorry for her most of the time, but the truth was the woman meant nothing but trouble. Usually trouble for Byers, of the very personal variety.
And for some reason, trouble of the personal variety made him think of the weird vibe he'd noticed between Dr. Moncrieff and Kate.
“So, do you think she's sleeping with him?” he said, breaking the silence. His words echoed around the parking garage, louder than he'd expected them to be.
“What?” Byers said, clearly surprised and probably a little offended. “Who?”
“Kate and the good professor.”
Byers gave him a look.
Frohike shrugged. “I got that sense.”
“Even if it were true, I'm not sure why it would be any of our business...”
“I like being aware of all the variables. It's plausible, too. It would hardly be the first time a professor took a more than scholarly interest in one of his students. And all that mother hen business about not trusting us...? I'd say that's highly indicative.”
“I don't think it's like that,” Byers said, frowning.
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
He shrugged. “I just have a feeling.”
“Oh, yeah. 'Cause your instincts about women are stellar.”
Byers made a face. “Just get in the car, Frohike.”
*
On the way back from his first meeting with Jenna Clifford, Byers had driven past Meg's house. It wasn't that he was checking up on her exactly, he'd just felt a sudden, insistent urge to make sure she was all right. She'd been fine, of course, but that hadn't stopped him from cruising by occasionally during the following week or so. Somehow he couldn't quite shake the vaguely guilty feeling that by involving her, however slightly, in whatever was going on with Yves, he'd put her in danger.
Besides, her house wasn't that far out of the way.
He dropped Frohike off at the office, making a vague excuse that Frohike clearly didn't buy for a minute, and headed toward Meg's neighborhood. After the divorce, they'd both ended up in Takoma Park -- but in very different parts of town. Meg had moved there first, largely because she'd initially been the one to move out. In Byers' case... Well, he probably wouldn't have picked the town himself, but Langly and Frohike had already been living there.
Meg lived in one of Takoma Park's historic districts. The houses were nicely appointed, well kept up and affordable. At that time of day, her neighborhood was quiet. Most people were still at work, and since the area trended toward singles and younger couples, there weren't a whole lot of kids around. The houses stood silent for the most part, with their tiny patches of lawn and flowers in their window boxes, nothing out of place - except, of course, for the dark blue sedan with government plates parked at the end of the street.
He parked the van hastily on the next block over, jumped out and started to run. He cut through a
well-groomed backyard, a neighbor's cocker spaniel yelping excitedly at him as he vaulted over the fence into Meg's yard. He ducked around the side of the house, found the spare key just where he'd expected it to be and let himself in the kitchen door.
“Meg?” he called. “Meg, are you here?”
He ran through the living room and into the back hallway, calling her name. He'd opened the door to the bedroom, noticing incongruously that the only thing she seemed to have kept from their old house was the 800 thread count Calvin Klein duvet set his mother had given her as a shower present, when the front door opened.
He froze.
Meg was on her cell phone as she walked in. He heard her voice, but couldn't quite make out the words. He heard the jingle of keys as she dumped them onto the table in the front hallway.
Her voice became more distinct as she walked into the kitchen. “I wish I could, Jack, but not tonight. I have to be in court first thing tomorrow and-”
She stopped abruptly. Byers eased the bedroom door open a crack and chanced a look out. Meg was staring at something just beyond the kitchen window.
“Oh, tell me he isn't out there,” she said softly. Then, recovering, she said into the phone, “Oh, nothing. It's nothing. Remind me to tell you about it sometime. By then hopefully it will be a funny story.”
There was a sharp knock at the door. Meg sighed heavily.
“There's, uh, someone at the door. I have to go- I know. Me, too,” she said, and hung up.
The front door creaked open and he heard her say, “Oh. I was expecting somebody else.”
Byers shifted positions behind the bedroom door, trying to get a view of whoever Meg was talking to. When he finally managed it, his worst suspicions were confirmed: two men in dark suits stood on the front steps.
"Megan Halliday?" One of them flashed a badge. "We'd like to ask you some questions about your husband."
"I'm not married," Meg said mildly, surprisingly cool-headed under the circumstances.
The agent flipped open a notebook and frowned at it. "Excuse me. Your ex-husband. One John F. Byers. Have you seen him recently, Miss Halliday?"
"We're friendly enough. We have lunch together about once a month."
"And when was the last time you actually saw him?"
"What is this about, Agent...? I don't believe I caught your name."
“I'm Agent Lloyd, and this is Agent Shelby. We're with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“That much I'd guessed,” Meg said dryly.
“So you're telling us that you haven't seen Mr. Byers recently?”
“I didn't say that. I didn't say anything, actually, and I don't have to. Unless, of course, you're going to arrest me?”
Agent Lloyd frowned. "I feel it necessary to remind you that this is a matter of national security."
“If I see John, I'll make sure he knows you're looking for him.” She smiled and firmly shut the door on them, then turned and leaned against it, closing her eyes and appearing to be trying to gather herself together. He considered walking out into the living room and letting her know he was there. He reached for the doorknob and it squeaked slightly. Meg's eyes flew open.
"You can come out now," she said. "I know you're here, John. I saw your van outside."
He emerged from the bedroom. The van was, in fact, clearly visible from the kitchen window. "Hi, Meg."
"I'm not even going to ask how you got in." She paused. "Actually, on second thought, I'm totally going to ask. How did you get in here?"
"You still leave a spare key under the citronella turtle. I checked because I thought it was worth a try."
“Oh. I guess I’m going to have to stop doing that.”
He felt a momentary flash of annoyance. “It’s not like I’m going to stalk you or anything.”
“I didn’t mean it like that…” She shook her head. “Come on into the living room.”
He followed and sat beside her on the sofa. “I’m sorry for just walking in, but I saw those two agents snooping around and wanted to make sure you were- Well, I decided it would just be easier to wait inside.”
“Why are they looking for you?”
“I don’t know.” He looked over at her: her expression registered disbelief. “I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know because you haven’t done anything wrong? Or you don’t know because it could be one of any number of illegal things?”
“There are things it could be, yes. And it’s not as though it would be the first time I’ve been questioned, either.”
“There was a time,” Meg said, not looking at him,” when the prospect of a parking ticket made you nervous.”
“Times change,” he said simply, staring down at his hands, knowing there was no way to make her understand.
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, but he could feel her watching him. After a minute, she said, “Why are you here, anyway? Did you need another favor?”
“No, I came by because I was worried.”
“Worried about what?” She sounded exasperated. He knew that tone well. “That I might die of boredom here in my safe, well-lit, middle class neighborhood?”
“I just thought-” He paused. “I worried about my coming here the other day, asking for your help. I was afraid that I'd exposed you, put you at risk-”
“That's a load of crap,” she said shortly. “I know who you are, what sort of things you get yourself involved in, and I still wanted you back in my life. So quit playing the martyr already.”
“Meg-”
“I'm serious,” she said. “If I didn't want you around, I'd have kicked you out as soon as I realized you'd broken into my house. Or, better yet, I would have turned you over to those FBI agents. Because, did I mention? You broke into my house.”
“Well, I didn't actually break in since I used the key...” he began. Then, at a look from her, he amended, “But I appreciate the sentiment. Look, I know you think I'm crazy, but I do have good reason for worrying about your welfare.”
“I'm not the one with the FBI after me.”
“You have to trust me on this. This isn't the first time we've been surveilled, and if they're watching us, then they're probably watching everyone we know. Please, just promise you'll be careful.”
“Go home, John,” she said, standing up.
He stood as well. “Fine. I'm going. But promise me.”
“All right, all right.”
There was a long, awkward moment while she waited expectantly for him to take his leave.
Instead, he said. “So, what's going on with you and this Jack guy?”
She pushed him toward the door.
“Out. Now.”
*
Frohike liked to imagine that nothing could surprise him anymore and, mostly, he was right. But then there were days... Like today, just for example. It was a Thursday, and he seemed to remember a wise man somewhere once saying that nobody ever got the hang of Thursdays.
“My hand to God, Jimmy,” he was saying, after having to talk down a particularly cranky Langly -- cranky because Jimmy had woken them, in Langly's words, 'near the crack of dawn', “I wonder sometimes what goes through that head of yours.”
“It's nine-thirty,” Jimmy pointed out, not appearing fazed in the least. “Most normal people are at work by now.”
If he was going to wake them up, the least he could have done was bring coffee. Good coffee. A pot of Folgers was slowly burning on their ancient, industrial-sized machine, giving off a less than pleasant aroma.
“Byers called me at seven.” He shrugged. “I just assumed.”
“Yeah, well, Byers is crazy,” Langly said, hefting the coffee pot.
Frohike turned back to Jimmy. “You were up at seven?”
“I'd been at the gym since six-thirty.” He managed to sound ever-so-slightly superior about the fact, too.
“Sorry, kid. We don't get in much treadmill time around here. We were up all night trying to find a back door into the archives of this biotech start-up that's suing small farmers whose crops have gotten cross-pollinated with their patented, designer wheat.”
“Why are you even telling him?” Langly said, handing over a cup of coffee.
“Were you able to do it?” Jimmy asked.
“No.” And that was the other reason for all the bad moods that morning.
“That's too bad,” Jimmy said. “Farmers have it rough, especially these days. I worked on a farm a couple summers when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, me too,” Langly said bitterly.
“It sucks.”
“Yes, it does.”
“My dad said it would build character.”
“My dad owned the damned farm.”
Jimmy made appropriately sympathetic noises, and Langly ceased hostilities long enough to exchange stories about how much they'd both hated milking cows and de-tassling corn.
“My dad finally let me quit after Derek lost a finger in the combine,” Jimmy said. “It's hard to catch a football with only nine fingers, and a scholarship was pretty much the only way I was going to be able to afford college.”
“I didn't get to quit until I turned eighteen and moved the hell out,” Langly grumbled. “Maybe I should've learned to catch a damn ball.”
Jimmy glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, I've got to get going soon.”
“You dropped by just to wake us up and then leave?”
Jimmy shrugged. “Byers told me to stop by after the gym.”
No doubt to make sure they got up before ten, Frohike thought uncharitably, and, of course, the kid fell for it.
“Fox Sports is here doing a bunch of pre-season tapings for their Classic College Football halftime shows. They're only here in DC for a couple days and my agent got me a gig.”
“On Fox?” Langly said. “Rupert Murdoch's insidious propaganda machine?”
“It's only Fox Sports,” Jimmy replied reasonably. “And they're giving me money, not the other way around.”
“Sure. Blood money.”
“Ease up, Langly,” Frohike said, stirring creamer into his coffee. So much for the warm fuzzies of shared farmhand horror stories.
“Anyway,” Jimmy said, “you guys are more than welcome to come to the taping. It seems slow here and it might be fun...”
“A bunch of meatheads congratulating each other on kicking a tiny ball through a big goalpost? Count me out.”
Jimmy's face fell just perceptibly. Langly could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.
“Sure, kid,” Frohike said, a little annoyed at having to be the nice one. Where the hell was Byers, anyway? “I'll go with you. I'm more of a basketball fan myself, but I watch a Redskins game every now and again.”
“Great. I'm meeting my agent at eleven-thirty, so there should be time for you to grab a quick shower and get ready.”
“I am ready.”
“Oh.” Jimmy blinked. “Well, let's go then.”
When Jimmy mentioned meeting his agent at the studio, Frohike had pictured someone vaguely resembling Jay Mohr in Jerry Maguire. In reality, though, Maile Carballo turned out to be in her late twenties and built like a professional beach volleyball player.
“Whoa,” Frohike said.
“Be nice,” Jimmy whispered and went to greet her.
“Hey, Jimmy.” She smiled fondly at him. “How are you?”
“I'm all right. I'm ready to get this over with, though.”
“Hello, there,” Frohike said.
“Uh-huh,” she said, looking right past him and back to Jimmy. “They're nearly all set, so we'll get you into your mic whenever you're ready.” She frowned at his shirt. “I told you to wear blue.”
“I didn't have a clean blue shirt.”
She sighed. “You look nice in blue, Jimmy. You look younger, innocent, sympathetic. Like someone whose tragic yet compelling life story a major network would pay for the movie rights to. Listen to me next time. Come on. Let's get you into make-up.”
“Not so much this time, okay?” But he allowed himself to be propelled toward a make-up chair.
Frohike watched -- not too obviously, he thought -- as Maile walked over to confer with one of the producers.
“She played volleyball for University of Hawai'i, first team all-WAC three years running, broke all sorts of records.” Jimmy grinned as the make-up artist dusted powder across his nose. “She could squash you like a bug, so behave yourself.”
“Yeah. Sure thing.” The girl was way out of Frohike's league, anyway. It didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the view, though. “Hey, she seems to like you, Jimmy. You ever, uh-”
“Maile doesn't get involved with her clients. Besides, you know it is possible for a man and a woman to be friends without sex getting in the way.”
Ah, Frohike thought, the innocence of youth. Or, maybe, you could just afford to be pickier when the girls were lining up to have your little future football stars.
Instead, Frohike just shrugged. “She seems like your type is all.”
Jimmy looked unusually thoughtful. Scary.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know: dark, exotic-looking, a little ruthless, able to squash a man like a bug...”
Jimmy opened his mouth to offer a response, but then Maile came back over with bottled water and a crisply-folded blue shirt.
“Change,” she commanded, handing him the shirt. He took it meekly. The make-up girl removed his smock, and he shrugged out of his white and grey striped oxford and put on the blue one.
“What's with the bodyguard?” Maile said, finally seeming to notice Frohike's presence.
“This is Melvin Frohike.”
No reaction.
“Aw, come on. I've told you about Frohike. From the paper?”
“Oh, hunting and fishing. Right.” She looked him over once, then promptly lost interest again. “The questions will be mostly about the '92 game, especially that last touchdown pass, and how you and Novacek were co-captains that year. Tell the story about the speech you two gave before the game, reporters love that one. And they may ask about what you're doing these days. Make sure to mention your charity work.” She paused. “You good?”
“I'm good,” he said, standing up.
“By the way, ESPN is in pre-production on a scripted NFL drama series. I'm in talks to get you, Bill and a couple of the other guys small guest spots, so I'll keep you posted.”
“Maile, I can't act...”
“Neither can most of the people on the WB's fall line-up,” she said briskly, twisting the cap off the bottle of water and handing it to him. “There's a specific episode they want you for, but I'll understand if you'd rather not do that one. I'll FedEx you the script this week and you can tell me what you think...”
“Ms. Carballo? Mr. Bond?” one of the clipboard-hugging associate producers was motioning at them. “We're ready.”
“Go on, Jimmy,” she said, winking at him. “Break a leg. At least it won't be skiing this time.”
“Oh, you're hilarious,” he said and headed over to the set to greet the sportscaster behind the desk.
The reporter shook Jimmy's hand and offered him a seat. They chatted for a few minutes before shooting got underway. Frohike made himself scarce as the set got quiet and the director called for action.
“All right,” the reporter said. “Welcome back to FSN Classic College Football. We've been watching the 1992 Nebraska-Iowa State game. Talk about a classic upset. Here in the studio with us today we have former Cyclone wide receiver Jimmy Bond, who caught that game-winning touchdown pass in overtime...”
Frohike had to admit, Jimmy made for a good interview. He was engaging and friendly, told stories with enthusiasm, looked like everybody's All-American. The camera loved him. No wonder his agent wanted him on regular t.v.
“You were quite the promising talent for the Giants until the playoffs in '97...” the reporter was saying.
Jimmy's expression changed just slightly, but he spouted off some innocuous answer about learning a lot from the coach and offensive line being 'just like family.'
The reporter frowned slightly too, but moved on to another question.
Meanwhile, Maile looked livid, she grabbed the associate producer by the arm and hauled him out of range of the microphones.
“He can't ask about that,” she said. “That was part of the deal. No questions about '97. It's been talked to death...”
“All right, all right,” the producer muttered. “We'll edit the question out, if you want. Your boy fielded it well, though. Besides, you can't blame the guy for trying. It was a big deal story."
“A big deal story that my client expressly said he won't discuss with the media out of respect for the other players involved. If any of your people do something like that again, I'll pull all my guys, got it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”
She stalked back over to the craft services table where Frohike had stationed himself.
“What was that all about?”
“Reporters,” she said angrily. “Ambulance-chasing vultures, the whole lot of them.” She paused. “Well, present company excepted, I guess.”
“If it bleeds, it leads,” he said. “I've published a sensational story or two in my day.” He looked over at her. “What happened in '97?”
“That's a question you ought to be asking Jimmy,” she said, and didn't speak again until the interview was finished.
*
Langly was, without a doubt, one of the most talented programmers of his generation.
Or, at least, he had been. Once upon a time.
He'd never been particularly ambitious. He had trouble getting motivated to work on projects that didn't interest him. He had problems (big surprise) with authority. He was a good programmer, but a crappy employee. In short, he just didn't play well with others.
Even before he met Byers and Frohike, he hadn't been all that interested in getting in on the proverbial 'ground floor' of any of the late-80s software start-ups his fellow wunderkinds had made their fortunes launching. It wasn't that he hadn't had offers. He'd had plenty; he just hadn't accepted any of them. If he had, and this was the part he couldn't seem to stop thinking about these days, he might have cashed in some stock options, made a few mill and kept them in printer's fees and cheesesteaks for the rest of their lives.
Their current financial situation was, as far as he was concerned, all on him.
He'd worked off and on, at a tidy hourly consulting rate, throughout the boom during the nineties. But there hadn't been a whole lot of call for his services since the debacle at FPS, a situation he was trying desperately to change.
Luckily, he still had Phoebe.
Using the mightily generous severance package she'd gotten from FPS... Hush money, Langly had called it the last time he'd been out in California. But mostly because, as Phoebe rightly pointed out, he was just pissed that they hadn't offered him any. Using that money, Phoebe set up her own independent game design company. She was currently making quite a name for herself and her team, designing immersive, intensely plot-driven games, heavily influenced by film noir and Japanese anime. Their first three offerings had debuted to critical accolades and more-than-respectable sales.
She'd invited him out to San Mateo the previous year to check the place out, saying that he was one of the only guys at FPS who'd ever treated her like an actual person. He thought she was maybe overstating the case a little. No one had ever accused him of being a sensitive guy, or even a nice one most of the time. But he'd always liked her and he needed the work.
The staff at Robot Cowboy Games was different than any other high tech outfit Langly had ever seen. Young, hip, disproportionately female, most of them had grown up in a world where Bill Gates was emperor of all he surveyed, comic books were 'ironic' and geeky garage bands went platinum. In other words, to the children of the 1990s, not only did geekiness pay off, it had a certain cache.
Phoebe gave him the grand tour, through workstations manned by pierced skater kids and Bettie Page wannabes.
“So what do you think?” she said, reaching into a mini-fridge and tossing him a lemonade.
“I think you've got a good thing going here,” he said, leaning against a table littered with concept art and character design sketches. “You should be proud.”
“I'm looking for good programmers to keep on retainer. Your work is great, Langly. We can do contract-only stuff if you want, no commitments, nothing that would get in the way of your other work. I'm willing to pay well to keep good people on staff.”
He took a drink of his lemonade. “No psycho ninja babes this time, right?”
“I promise, there's almost no chance of that.”
“Almost?”
“Never say never, Langly.”
“I'm glad to see someone got a laugh out of that disaster-”
“Hey,” she said, “if I don't laugh about it, it'll just keep being too freaky to deal with. Okay?”
Of course he'd wound up accepting her offer and spent most of the summer of 2001 working on the game engine for a supernatural detective game about a string of cult murders in 1940s San Francisco. The game was due out in time for the upcoming Christmas. He'd already reserved a copy for Frohike. It would be right up his alley.
Phoebe called that morning at what must have been an insanely early hour Pacific Time. That made two mornings in a row he'd been woken up before ten.
“I've got another project for you if you have the time,” she said. “We're having some trouble with the AI on our new strategy game.”
“Sure,” he said, cradling the phone against his shoulder as he rescued a Wi-Fi card from Jimmy's efforts at tidying up.
“Great. I'll send you the project specs and the code. We're having a status meeting Friday at 10 our time. We can video conference you in, if that works for you, and you can tell us what you found.”
“Okay. Talk to you then.”
He hung up, turned to replace the phone and nearly knocked into Jimmy and a can of Endust.
“Hey, Langly,” he said, brightly. “What's up? Was that call about a new story?”
“No. I'm trying to generate some revenue so we don't have to-” Langly stopped, reconsidering before he said something he'd regret. A first, Frohike would probably have said had he been there. “Uh, it's just some work I do on the side.”
Frohike was out talking to a lawyer for the USDA about their GMO wheat story, and Byers... Well, who the hell knew where Byers kept running off to these days. Normally, Langly tried to spend as little time alone with Jimmy as possible. It wasn't that Jimmy was a bad guy -- guys like him usually weren't, at least not on purpose. It was just that they didn't have a clue how obnoxious they could be. People had been telling them how freaking great they were since the day it became obvious they could throw a ball farther and harder than everyone else, so how could they possibly know? Guys like Jimmy were Clark fucking Kent, the letterman's jacket-wearing king of the prom, every father's favorite son. He really couldn't stand it; it just got under his skin.
So, yeah, maybe Langly still had some issues to work through. What else was new?
“Don’t touch that!” he said, and Jimmy jumped nearly a foot into the air.
“Sorry.”
The phone ran suddenly, and Jimmy jumped again, looking at Langly like maybe he thought that was Jimmy's fault, too. Langly sighed, switched on the tape and picked up the phone.
“Lone Gunman.”
“Langly?” It was Byers, but he wasn’t calling from his cell phone. It was a 703 number.
“Byers, where the hell've you been? We've barely seen you all week...”
"Look, I don't have much time, so you have to listen.” Byers sounded uncharacteristically shaken. “I need you to try and pull together some emergency cash,” he paused, “and call Meg."
"Your ex? Why?"
"Because I think I'm going to need a lawyer."
Aw, shit, Langly thought.
“What happened, man?”
“The FBI brought me in for questioning. I haven't been formally charged with anything but... Well, it doesn't look good. I think the only reason they allowed me a phone call is because I mentioned Skinner's name.”
“They say what they want you for?”
“Not yet. But they've been looking for me. It's safe to assume they're watching the rest of you, too.”
“Okay. Tell me where you're being held and the names of the agents in charge of the case. Oh, and what's the ex's phone number?”
Byers gave him the info and hung up. Jimmy was hovering right at Langly's elbow as he replaced the phone in the cradle.
“Byers is in trouble?” Jimmy said, looking truly worried.
“You'd better believe it,” Langly said.
“I want to help. What can I do?”
“Not much, probably,” Langly grumbled, but mostly to himself. “Yeah, there’s something you can do. Go find Frohike. He can go down there and try to talk to the Feds... and if all else fails, he can call Scully.”
“Uh,” Jimmy looked hesitant, “why Frohike?”
“Because believe it or not, he's the respectable one.”
“He is?”
“Well, actually, Byers is the respectable one. But under the circumstances, Frohike is our next best bet.”
Jimmy still seemed vaguely unconvinced, but did as he was told without another word.
Langly picked up the phone again and dialed Meg Halliday's work number. The Legal Aid receptionist seemed less than inclined to put his call through at first, until he mentioned that he was calling on behalf of one of Meg's clients. Well, a potential client, anyway.
After three rings, a not-entirely-unfamiliar voice said, “Megan Halliday.”
“Uh, hi there. This is Richard Langly. I'm a friend of Byers'. I don't know whether you remember or not.”
“I remember.” There was a slight coolness in her tone.
Langly swallowed. His mouth suddenly seemed dry for some reason. “He, uh, wanted me to call you because he's run into a little legal trouble and wondered if you could h-”
“The FBI picked him up, didn't they?” she said briskly, totally disrupting his flow of thought.
“Uh, wha-? Yeah. How did you know about that?”
She ignored him. “Where is he being held?” Then after he told her, she said, “The soonest I can be there is in a couple hours or so. One of you should meet me, just in case. But don't, under any circumstances, actually talk to anyone official. Understand?”
“Yeah, sure.” He paused. “Hey, uh, thanks for helping out and all.”
“Just don't make me regret it,” she said, and hung up with a decided click.
*
Frohike had only met Byers' ex-wife a handful of times over the years. But on the few occasions he had, he reflected, she'd mostly been wearing the same look she had on her face now. Back then that look had usually been directed at Byers or, on rare occasions, all three of them. This time, however, it seemed to be reserved for the two F.B.I. agents who'd brought Byers in.
As Frohike approached, Meg was arguing heatedly with a U.S. Attorney, while the two agents and a quiet man in a dark suit (who had the stink of the NSA all over him) looked on impassively. This had clearly been going on for awhile. Meg looked tired, her suit rumpled and creased, as though they'd kept her waiting in the reception area for a few hours. It had taken Frohike awhile to get there, too, but he'd expected her to have already been in to see Byers by the time he showed up.
"Either set a date to arraign my client, or release him," she was saying. Frohike decided to keep a discreet distance and try to look as though he wasn't listening.
"Actually, Ms. Halliday, under provision of the Patriot Act we can hold your husband- I mean, client," the son of a bitch actually smirked at her," indefinitely on suspicion of terrorism."
"Terrorism?" Meg said, looking appalled. "You can't be serious."
"Mr. Byers is suspected of providing material support to enemies of the United States." The attorney handed her a file. "I can assure you that everything is in order."
Meg flipped through the documents. "'Providing expert advice or assistance to enemies of the state'? You're kidding me, right? He publishes a newsletter."
"A newsletter that outlines, in a great detail, weaknesses in this country's infrastructure. The publication in question is filled with anti-government propaganda and incitement." He paused. "Mr. Byers is also a known associate of one Hayat al-Jafari, alias Lois Runtz, alias Yves Harlow."
"And Ms. al-Jafari is a terrorist?"
The F.B.I. agents exchanged a look. "Not that we can prove. Yet. But she is a person of interest."
"What exactly has she done?"
"That relates to a separate, on-going investigation. We're not at liberty to discuss that."
“If you've brought my client in to question him about this woman, you'd better start discussing it.”
One of the agents held open the door to what must have been an interrogation room. “As I said, Ms. Halliday, we're not at liberty. There are about a dozen things we could question your client about. Ms. Al-Jafari's whereabouts and current activities are most definitely on the list, but that's all you need to know at this point.”
They disappeared briefly into the room. Frohike scanned the corridor, making note of where the exits were in case they wound up having to make a hasty exit. He wound up taking a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs in the reception area. After a few minutes, several agents and the attorney came out, presumably leaving Meg alone to talk with Byers. About twenty minutes later, Meg came out of the room herself.
“I assume you have everything you need?” the first agent said, showing her to the reception area.
“For now.” Despite the fact that the agent had a good eight inches on her, she somehow managed to convey the sense that she was looking down at him -- and didn't like what she saw. “I'll be back in the morning. I expect to find my client in good shape, Agent Lloyd.”
“This is America, Ms. Halliday. We don't torture prisoners.”
“Of course you don't.”
Lloyd took off and Meg walked into the waiting area. Frohike jumped to his feet, setting down the copy of Jane he'd been flipping absently through. It had Keira Knightley on the cover, so sue him.
“Meg!”
She stopped and turned to look at him. “Oh, there you are. I'd wondered.”
“How's Byers?”
She took off toward the door and he jogged to catch up with her.
“He's doing well enough, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“That he's in very, very deep trouble.” She pushed the door open and headed out into the parking lot. "Look, Mr. Langly-"
"I'm Frohike," he cut in. "Melvin, if that's easier for you to remember."
"This is bullshit, Melvin," she said. "They're just looking for an excuse to hold him until they can find out what he knows."
"Knows about what?"
She gave him a look that actually made him flinch. "Whatever it is you three have gotten yourselves into this time."
“Except for once we haven't done anything.” She looked sharply at him again. He raised both hands in surrender. “Swear to God.”
“What's this about then? This al-Jafari woman they mentioned... who is she, Melvin?”
“Isn't that the question of the year?” he muttered. “We know her as Yves Harlow. She's a hacker, an occasional source of information. I know she has some sort of ties to Malta, Cypress, possibly Egypt... but a terrorist? No way.”
Meg sighed. “It doesn't matter. If she's under investigation...”
“Her passport's British,” he offered. “At least the one I saw was. I have no idea if it was really genuine or not. But if it was a fake, it was a damned good one.”
“Okay. Thank you, Melvin. That's good to know.” She sighed again and dug her keys from her bag. “I'll call as soon as I know something else.”
“Shouldn't we... I don't know... be collecting bail money or something?”
“They aren't going to let him out on bail,” she said, walking away from him and heading to her car.
"Where are you going?" he called after her.
"To call a judge, and possibly the ACLU."
Continued
here.