Isolation, Chapter Four
"No, no, NO!" said the stringy-haired guitarist. "I wanted the
GREEN M&M's removed from the mix. The GREEN ones! Are you color-
blind or something?"
Roger Mintage rolled his eyes at his assistant.
"You want me to go in there and kick some asses?" she asked.
"Nah," Roger replied. "I have a better idea." He spoke into the
intercom. "Sorry folks, we've run out of time. You can check with
Connie to reserve time for next week."
Assorted groans from the musicians in the studio. "Are you sure?"
Connie whispered to Roger, after she was sure the intercom was turned
off again. "I thought we had a couple more hours."
"Someone ran out the clock with his tantrums," Roger replied.
Stringy-hair was shouting something they couldn't hear, though the
gesture he made was easy to interpret.
"In fact, I think these guys need to find someplace else to produce
their first hit," Roger said, flipping a switch. An ear-splitting
sound of feedback could be heard even through the glass. The band
hastily made its retreat from the studio to the hallway, where all
the doors were now shut and locked except the exit. Roger watched on
the video display as the group shuffled out the door, their agent
gesturing futilely behind their backs.
"They're just jerks. I could've handled them. You don't have to be
here for every session."
"Why should I make you deal with them? If they're not worth it for
me, they're not worth your time either. It doesn't matter. We got
all the takes we need. These guys were just wasting time. I'll send
what we got to them, and they can do what they want with it. They're
not coming back here."
"Why not? Isn't their money as good as anyone else's?"
"No one pushes me around," Roger muttered. "I don't care how much
money they have." He took another swig at his Jolt Cola and fiddled
with the sound levels on the program that he had designed himself.
No one knew that he'd done more than produce records for second-rate
musicians, or that some of the software he created was the choice of
most top-shelf recording engineers. He'd already made his mark, even
if only he knew that.
He preferred it that way. He'd only ever needed enough to get by.
Working in an out of the way studio in an industrial section of
Chicago was a good fit. His favorite pizza place was not far away,
and it delivered. He did almost everything on line, and seldom had
to leave the warehouse that held his studio and living quarters.
Connie was his unofficial link with the outside world. He hadn't
asked her to be, and in fact hadn't even hired her. She'd come in
with a thrash-metal group and somehow ended up staying. She started
out just cleaning up after the acts that came through. However, she
showed an aptitude for studio work, ending up doing everything from
scheduling studio time to sound mixing. Roger had let her stay on,
but outside of working hours she went her own way.
He found out after a couple of months that she'd been sleeping in a
rusted-out old van. After a good deal of soul-searching, he gave her
a living space in the warehouse.
They did not spend personal time together. He didn't intrude on her
private space, and expected her not to intrude on his. The only rule
he made was that no one was allowed in the building without his
approval. Connie made a crack about Roger being worse than a dad,
but she agreed.
He'd never had much of a social life, and lately it seemed that
there weren't many hours outside of work. Mintage Sound had gotten
more and more business in the past few years, and Roger was used to
keeping long and strange hours. Being busy beat the alternative.
"Well, if you don't need me for a while, I'm going to go catch some
sleep," Connie said.
Roger watched her walk down the long corridor outside the studio
before going back in. She pushed the button on the freight elevator
and rode up to the next floor where her living quarters were.
She was a funny, feisty little thing. He enjoyed her acid
commentary, and she gave him company he refused to acknowledge he
craved.
His surveillance ended at her door. Although he was cautious and
unused to trusting anyone other than himself, he drew the line at
spying on her in her own space. He'd checked her out before deciding
to let her live in the building; now he had to trust that he'd made
the right decision.
He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, catching his reflection
in the glass of the sound booth. Funny how he always looked like a
stranger to himself: bald pate, scraggly beard and John Lennon
glasses. Quite the mogul, he was. Or maybe a Confederate colonel,
with wire-rimmed glasses and a nanny-goat beard.
He turned away from the monitor and started shutting down the board.
It was too late, or maybe too early, to order a pizza. He'd just
nuke a burrito from the freezer instead. He shut the lights out in
the studio and headed to his own living space.
He wasn't tired; he hardly slept more than a few hours a night any
more. Maybe he'd go to one of the game sites for a while. There
were still worthy adversaries in the virtual world.
x-x-x
"Something is bothering me," Mulder said later that night. He lay
flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
"You mean, besides the fact that Morris Fletcher is claiming that
the guys are alive?" Scully asked. He could tell she hadn't been
sleeping either. He turned his head to see that she was doing some
staring at the ceiling herself. "Or that he hasn't said who he's
working for?"
"That, too," Mulder admitted. "He hinted around about some black
ops organization. I don't know if he's going rogue or doing their
bidding. How many times have we been there? How many people
claiming affiliation with covert agencies have we been contacted by?"
"More than a few. And that doesn't bother you as much as what?"
"He didn't say why he's willing to help us. I wonder what he wants
in return. He claims his motives are altruistic -- "
"--like saving the world? I hope you're not the only one who cares."
"I'm not. You care, and Skinner cares, and I'm sure that Doggett
and Reyes care, too."
"Why not Morris Fletcher then?" Scully asked, yawning. Mulder
smiled, secretly amused. He could count on Scully falling asleep
just as the conversation was getting interesting.
"Wait 'til you talk to him. I'm betting you'll think the same thing
I do."
"Maybe he just figures that bringing back the Gunmen is his best way
of proving that he's serious. I can't believe that it's true."
"Seeing will be believing. Or, maybe their reaction to magnetite
will be believing. In the meantime, Skinner's checking him out. We
should know more in a day or two."
Scully didn't answer. She had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He
kissed her temple and put his arm around her, and tried to sleep too.
x-x-x
"Order up!" Frank pushed the two plates of hash and eggs under the
heat lamps.
"Thanks, hon," Carla said. She balanced the plates on her arm and
turned away.
"Got any more?" Frank asked, spinning the order carousel.
"That's the last one," Teri peered over the high counter and cracked
her gum. "We're closing up."
"'Bout time, too," Frank said. He began scraping down the flattop
and cleaning up the work area. He smelled like bacon and eggs and
salsa.
"Well, if your huevos rancheros weren't so good, we wouldn't be so
busy," Carla pointed out, bringing the coffee pots from the counter.
"Whose idea was it to offer breakfast all day?" Frank asked. "Not
mine."
"Whose idea was it to take over the diner?" Carla said, imitating
Frank's raspy voice. "Not mine."
"Yeah, yeah," Frank said. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
He wasn't complaining; it was a nice gig. He had to do something
with his time, and it might as well be this.
There wasn't much to this tiny former mining town. They had some
tourist traffic, though for the most part, it was people who'd taken
a wrong turn while looking for Tombstone.
"Ready to lock up?" he asked Teri, who was in charge of the cash
register.
"Yeah." She handed over the canvas deposit bag. Frank took it into
the tiny office and put it in the floor safe.
"When's your next trip to Tucson?" Teri asked. "We're running low
on sugar packets."
"Put 'em on the list. I'll go later this week."
"Hey Teri, I didn't see your boyfriend in here today," Carla said.
"He's not my boyfriend," Teri protested, blushing. "He told me he
likes the food."
"Sure he does. I think he likes more than that," Carla teased.
"Well," Teri said, "he sure asks a lot of questions about Frank."
"Huh?" Frank locked the office door and set the alarm. "Who's
asking after me?"
"Some guy who's been coming in here lately," Carla said. "He saw
you one time and said you looked familiar."
"I've been told I bear a striking resemblance to Clark Gable." He
brushed his graying hair back from his temples.
"Who's that?" asked Teri.
"Never mind," Frank said. "He was before your time. Let's
see...Johnny Depp. Yeah, that's it."
"They look nothing alike," Carla pointed out.
"Don't tell Teri, she'll never know the difference."
"You're cute," Teri said, "but you're no Johnny Depp."
"Yeah, I know," Frank said. "He's taller than I am."
Teri started to point out other ways that Frank didn't resemble
Johnny Depp, but Carla shushed her.
The sun had been down for a while. Even so, there was a lot of
warmth coming up from the pavement as they walked out to the parking
lot. Carla and Teri both lived in Bisbee and so drove in together
most days. He made sure that they usually had the same shift.
Frank's place was a small pre-fabricated home behind the diner, well
within walking distance. He drove only when he needed to make a
supply run to Tucson or go to the bank in Sierra Vista. Tonight,
however, there was a second car in the lot. A man leaned against it,
looking up at the sky.
Carla said, "Teri, I didn't know your boyfriend was picking you up
tonight."
"He's not my boyfriend," Teri insisted.
"Never mind," Frank said. "You girls go on home; I'll see what's
going on."
He walked over to the other car. "Sorry, we're closed. Come back
tomorrow."
"I know," said the other man. He was a young man; it wouldn't be a
stretch for him to have a crush on Teri, who was cute as a button.
Right now, though, he was looking at Frank in a way that was very
disconcerting.
"Do I know you?" Frank asked. "Name's Frank. Frank Franklin."
"Gibson Praise," the young man replied, pushing his glasses up onto
the bridge of his nose.
The simple gesture gave Frank pause; it was so familiar, even if the
face was not. He was certain he'd never met this kid before, but
somehow the kid knew him. "Do I know you?" he repeated.
"I -- I don't think we've ever met," Gibson said. "We know some of
the same people, though."
"Yeah, we're all connected, six degrees of separation, I get you."
Even here, away from the wiggier art colony towns in Arizona, you got
a certain number of New-Agers who spouted such nonsense.
"That's not what I mean," the younger man stammered. "Do you know a
guy named Fox Mulder?"
"What the hell kind of name is that?" Frank shook his head. He
probably had a sister named Fawn. "Never heard of him. I'm sure I'd
remember a name like that. He's a friend of yours, you say?"
"Yeah. I'm sure he knows you, too."
Frank was a little sorry he'd let the girls go on home. Not that he
felt he needed backup against this kid. "What's this all about?
I've never met you. The girls said you've been hanging out here and
asking questions about me. I don't know you; I've never laid eyes on
you before today."
"You're right about that. I've only seen pictures of you."
"Sounds kinda hinky to me. What do you want?"
"Let me show you a picture of Mulder," the young man requested. He
reached into his shirt pocket and produced a much-creased photo of a
serious-looking man dressed in a dark suit.
"He looks like a salesman," Frank said, "and I'm not buying."
"Wait --" Gibson pleaded. "If you don't know Mulder, what about a
lady?"
"A lady named Mulder?" Frank shook his head. "I'm trying to tell
you, I don't know anyone named Mulder."
"Let me finish. A lady named Dana Scully. Not very tall. Red
hair. Really pretty."
"Sounds like I'd like to know her," Frank said with a slight leer.
"Have you got a picture of her too?"
Gibson nodded and handed over a snapshot. The woman in it was
dressed in casual clothes, standing next to a car in the desert
somewhere. She was staring at something beyond the camera. Frank
had never seen anyone who looked so sad. He held the picture for a
long time, willing himself to remember. Finally, he handed the photo
back to Gibson.
"Sorry kid." His hand touched Gibson's for a second, and Gibson
started. "What?" he asked Gibson.
"I-I saw something," Gibson said haltingly. "In your head. Just a
flash -- but it's there."
"What the hell?" Frank exclaimed.
"Your name isn't Frank," Gibson said rapidly, as if he might forget
otherwise. "It's Frohike. Melvin Frohike. That's the name Mulder
knows you by."
"I think there's something in your head, kid. I've lived here a
long time. What I did before coming here -- I never knew these
people."
"You lived near Washington, D.C. You and some other guys published
a newspaper. You were friends with Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, who
used to be FBI agents." Gibson stopped to catch his breath, watching
Frank's reaction.
"You watch too much TV, my friend. I never heard such a load of
crap in my life. I've never lived in Washington D.C., never even
been there. I served in the Army, most recently at Fort Huachuca,
just over that way." He gestured to the northwest. "I did my tour,
and I retired. I can prove it to you."
"I have no doubt you can. 'They' made certain of it."
"Oh, go to hell," Frank said, turning away. His normal good humor
had been destroyed by this annoying little punkass. All he wanted to
do now was go home, have a couple of beers, and see if he could find
a good game on the tube.
Something about that kid bothered him, though. Gibson Praise was
sincere. He truly believed what he was saying. It was spooky.
~*~