* * *
Chapter 14
* * *

Gin Ling Way
Chinatown
February 28, 1999
7:48 pm

For one breath-stealing moment, the only sounds on the festive Chinatown street
were the screams of pain emanating from the dying detective. Galvanized by the
sight of flames sweeping up Hernandez's body, Mulder lurched forward, only to be
restrained by Scully's strong grip on his arm. The gun barrels pointed at them
emphasized the menace in the gruff, amplified voice that came roaring towards
them. It cut through the fading shrieks and the crackling of the fire.

"This is the L.A.P.D. Put your hands over your heads and move in front of the
vehicle. Do it! Now!"

Fighting the urge to scream at the police to help Hernandez or to run forward
and smother the flames himself, Mulder gritted his teeth and followed a
maddeningly measured series of orders until he and the others were face down on
the ground, arms outstretched. By then, Hernandez was consumed, a huddled pyre
of hand-tailored suit and fatal ambition. Several policemen leaped forward with
fire extinguishers, but it was too late. Smoke hung in the damp night air, a
toxic cloud, the smell indescribable. Even the heavy dousing of foam covering
the body couldn't suppress the miserable mix of burnt wool, burnt hair, burnt
flesh.

Mulder strained to keep his chin off the gritty asphalt, wishing he could turn
away and bury his nose in Scully's hair. He didn't dare look at her, conscious
of the final order that he and his companions should lie still. There was a
rattle beside him, and it took him a moment to realize the sound came from
Dorothy's pearls ticking against the street. She's shaking, he thought, and
despite the danger, chanced a sideways glance. To his surprise, far from the
fear he expected to see, her eyes burned with anger.

He huffed out an oath as a burly policeman put a knee between his shoulder
blades. He'd been so concerned with Scully and Dorothy, he hadn't realized
they'd been surrounded. "FBI," he heard Scully choke out, and he attempted to do
the same, but just pulling air into his lungs was a struggle. A rough search
uncovered his weapon. Someone yelled, "Gun!" and the weight on his back
increased, then was joined by more on his legs, arms and feet, and finally
across the back of his neck.

"Shit," he tried to protest, and got a mouthful of oily gravel for his trouble.
Deciding to take the path of least resistance, he went limp, let the gorilla on
his back cuff him, and waited for somebody in the pile to find his ID.

It didn't take long. One authoritative bark cut through the babble of harsh
voices surrounding them. "Let 'em up. Looks like they might be feds."

Mulder felt the weight on his back shift and finally give way, much too
reluctantly for his taste. He helped Dorothy to her feet while Scully retrieved
their I.D.s.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, F.B.I.," he heard her say. He suppressed an urge to
join in as she continued with some barking of her own, demanding to speak to
someone in charge.

"Are you okay?" he asked Dorothy.

She shot him an irritated glance that suddenly crumpled into confusion and pain.
"My suit," she murmured, brushing ineffectively at the black streaks on the fine
white wool. Her makeshift sling showed a large, ugly grease stain. "And my
hands..." Mulder gently turned her hands over, taking special care with the
already injured one. Her palms, like his own, were smeared with dirt. She had a
small abrasion on the heel of one hand.

"Scully?" He turned to find her next to him, peering at Dorothy's hands.
Concentrating on this small injury was a welcome distraction from the horror of
the smoldering corpse just ten yards away.

"Why don't you wait here for Sergeant Tuan, Mulder? He's the ranking officer on
scene." She gestured toward the owner of the sturdy voice that had liberated
them, now bellowing orders from the center of the street. "I'll take Mrs.
Bahnsen to a place where she can rest and I can bandage her hand. Can you help
us, Officer?" She turned back to the small group of men clustered behind them.

"Right this way, Agent." One solicitous policeman broke away from the pack to
help Scully retrieve Dorothy's fur coat and shepherd her to a quiet haven in the
back of a squad car.

Mulder's gaze drifted back to the hive of activity surrounding Hernandez. What
the hell had happened tonight? He rubbed his eyes, dry and irritated from smoke.
Getting proof of spontaneous human combustion was a fine goal in theory, but the
reality was more than he'd bargained for. He fought down a wave of nausea as the
cool night wind shifted and the horrific smells rolled over him again. His hands
dropped to cover his nose, then hastily dropped back to his sides as he realized
Scully and the burly man in charge were approaching.

"Agent Mulder? Sergeant Tuan, L.A.P.D.," the man introduced himself.

"Sergeant," Scully asked, "can you tell us why we were being followed?"

"Hernandez radioed that he was tailing a fleeing arson suspect." Tuan looked
them both up and down. "He didn't relay any other details."

"A suspect?" Scully said sharply. "Not a witness?"

"No, definitely a suspect, Agent. We don't put this sort of show on the road for
witnesses." He turned to look at Dorothy, and Mulder followed his gaze to the
unexpected sight of the woman speaking intently into a cell phone. As they
watched, she closed the phone with a snap and passed a weary hand over her eyes
before leaning her head against the car's back seat.

"How much do you know about your... witness, agents?" The sergeant turned back
to them, his expression suspicious. "I met Hernandez a couple times. He was an
ambitious sonofabitch, but he was also a damned good cop."

"I think in this case his ambitions got the best of him," Mulder replied mildly.
"Sorry to speak ill of your colleague, Sergeant, but he was on the wrong track
here. Mrs. Bahnsen is a witness in an ongoing federal investigation." He could
practically hear Scully's eyes roll.

The sergeant turned to her. "You have something to add, Agent Scully?"

Scully replied smoothly, "Not at all, Sergeant. And I'd like to examine the
body, if I could. It might help us in this--" She turned to look at Mulder.
"Ongoing investigation."

"I'm not sure what good that would do." Tuan frowned. "I mean, he was
investigating a suspicious fire today, right? He must have gotten some sort of
accelerant on his clothes, and something lit him up. Cigarette, maybe. Or he
caught a spark from something inside the car. Hell, it could even have been a
firecracker. This place is littered with live firecrackers this time of year.
Spring Festival, you know? New Year." Tuan twisted around again to stare at the
body.

"Sergeant, I am a medical doctor as well as--"

Before Scully could finish her practiced protest, Tuan turned back. "Yeah, yeah,
okay, take a look. I guess it couldn't hurt if you guys want to make your own
observations. Save me some interdepartmental paperwork. I don't know what good
it's going to do you. I'm sure the coroner's office will sort it out eventually.
I mean, jeez, no one just bursts into flames."

Scully's gaze met Mulder's, both aware that contradicting this assumption would
be useless. Mulder watched her follow the sergeant toward Hernandez's body. He
shot a covert look at Dorothy, but she had not changed position since finishing
her phone call.

"Agent Mulder!"

Mulder jerked around to find a square, brown face inches from his own, set in an
implacable scowl. The medals covering the man's broad chest threw off
reflections from the pulsing emergency lights, making Mulder squint. The brass,
literally, had arrived.

"Deputy Chief Shackleford, L.A.P.D., Agent. Start from the top."

The chief's impassive reception to Mulder's bland "ongoing federal
investigation" speech gave way to a rumbling growl. "Okay, Agent Mulder, that
may be how you want to play it. Now here's how it looks to me. I have a dead
detective. And you and your partner, and your mystery witness, and your
investigation, whatever the hell that might be, are connected to that death. Now
Hernandez not only was an excellent detective, he was a well-connected one. And
I'm good and goddamned if my department's investigation into his death is going
to get snarled up, no matter how much fancy federal red tape you throw at us.
You got that? You're on notice, Agent. I will get to the bottom of this."

Mulder's heart sank. So much for collecting Dorothy and hustling out of town
before their lack of a 302 caught up with them. He winced as he and the chief
were suddenly bathed in the glare of a television crew's lights. Cameras that
had been fixed on the corpse at the center of hastily set-up police barricades
were now flitting around to cover the rest of the scene. To Mulder's surprise,
the chief's demeanor transformed, going from palpable irritation to grave
concern. He turned and walked toward the camera.

"Fernando," the chief greeted a well-coifed man holding a microphone. "Where
would you like me?" The chief and the reporter arranged themselves with the
emergency vehicle lights dancing over the body in the background.

"Welcome to Hollywood," Scully muttered as she came up to stand beside Mulder.

He smirked. "Funny, I was thinking it felt just like D.C." His mood sobered as
he looked down and took in her exhausted eyes and grimy appearance. "Anything?"
His gaze flicked behind her to what was left of Hernandez.

She shook her head.

"Let's get Dorothy and get out of here." The taste of smoke was still in his
mouth, making his voice rough. He coughed. "How is she, by the way?"

"Angry." Scully gave Dorothy's just-visible profile a sharp look. "She's pretty
tough, Mulder. The officer who escorted us to the car got the dressing down of
his life. She told him off for making her lie on the ground and gave him the
name and address of her dry cleaner so he could pick up her suit and have it
cleaned at department expense. It's strange, she--" Scully bit her lip.

"What?"

"She didn't say anything about Hernandez. She looked at the body as we went by,
but she doesn't seem... I don't know, Mulder. Don't you think there's
something... odd about her?"

"Scully, she was attacked in her own home by the guy. She's lost an old friend
to what was probably murder, and we just rousted her out of her house and
dragged her across town in a police chase. It's probably a relief for her to
focus on a dirty suit." He watched a troubled expression settle over her face.
"What else?"

"Mulder, didn't you notice something unusual about her when you visited her the
first time?"

"Unusual how?"

"How young she looks. How... And she seems quite strong for a woman of her age,
don't you think?"

"She's not that young, Scully. She's--"

"Mulder, she must be in her late seventies or early eighties. And she doesn't
look a day over fifty."

"Why would that make her suspicious? Besides, this is California. Plastic
surgery."

"No. No, trust me, Mulder. She hasn't had any. Maybe it's the good life, or
maybe it's good genes, but you don't get skin like that from plastic surgery."
She shook her head. "I don't know, I just... I don't know. She's not what I
expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... vulnerable. I know what Dales told you, but I'm not so sure
she's the one who needs protecting here."

"Scully..." He studied her face curiously. She seemed troubled by her
suspicions, but sure enough of them to stick to her guns. "Scully, do you think
Hernandez was right, that she might be a suspect in all this? Even if she were,
that still didn't give him the right to attack her. You felt the damage he did
to her wrist with your own hands. Besides, Dales said--"

"Dales hasn't seen her in almost fifty years, Mulder. People change."

Deja vu hit him like a brick between the shoulder blades. "I think Dales would
know enough about the character of someone he worked closely with to know--"

"I know, Mulder." She stopped him with a touch of her hand on his. "I know what
you're saying. I just think we need to look at what's been happening here,
instead of relying on someone's memory. Especially when that memory may be
clouded by personal feelings."

He opened his mouth for an angry reply, then shut it abruptly. The memory of
finding C.G.B. Spender comfortably ensconced in Diana's apartment rolled over
him in a wave of soggy regret. After a long silence, he said, neutrally, "The
evidence points just as strongly to her being a victim or target in all this as
it does to her being some sort of suspect."

She held his gaze steadily. "Yes, you're right. We need more information. I just
think we should be careful who we trust. The consequences of making a wrong move
in this case are pretty lethal, Mulder, and from what Hernandez had on that tape
we know that someone may be setting you up for something. That's worth keeping
in mind."

He took in her concern, untempered with judgment, and felt they had turned a
corner somehow. "All right," he agreed softly.

"Agent Mulder? Agent Scully? A word please."

They turned to find a stone-faced man flashing a familiar badge. "Special Agent
Franklin, F.B.I. liaison to the L.A.P.D."

Mulder decided that this very long day had just reached its inevitable
conclusion.

"I've heard Chief Shackleford's version of events." Franklin's appraisal was
grim. "Now I'd like to hear the truth."

Mulder did his best as Special Agent Franklin stood at parade rest and listened
to Mulder's tale, the story by now burnished to a sheen.

"Well," Franklin said, in a voice that had lost none of its menace, and might
even have gained a bit more, "I think a meeting with S.A.C. Helms is in order,
don't you agree, Agents? Ten a.m., federal building." He looked from Mulder to
Scully. "I assume you can find your way."

"Have you got any new information for me, Franklin?" Sergeant Tuan was back.

Franklin's head barely turned in acknowledgement. "Sergeant, as I told Chief
Shackleford and as I'm sure you're aware, the FBI will take care of all matters
involving our agents and any ongoing federal investigation." With a forbidding
final look at Mulder and Scully, Franklin ducked under the police lines, climbed
back into his government-issue Ford, and drove past the thinning crowd at
exactly the speed limit.

Mulder's shoulders slumped. If they couldn't figure a way out of the line of
bureaucratic fire, this was going to be their shortest re-instatement back to
the X-Files ever. He felt an unexpected but welcome squeeze on his arm.

"Come on, Mulder," Scully said. "We'll deal with that later. Let's get Dorothy
and go back to the hotel."

He gave her a grateful look. On their way to the squad car they paused as
Hernandez's body was trundled into the back of the coroner's wagon. Just as the
attendants reached out to close the doors, a red L.A.F.D. utility truck roared
down the street. It came to a screeching halt at the barricade.

A steely-eyed blonde, perhaps an inch taller than Mulder, bounded out of the
truck. Like all the others still on the scene, Mulder was transfixed. The
woman's long, black raincoat billow behind her as she scrambled up into the
ambulance and kneeled beside the gurney. She paused for a moment and then, over
the attendants' protests, pulled down the zipper on the body bag. Her body
slumped, then stilled as she seemed to gather control. Even at a gritty whisper,
her voice carried clearly to Mulder.

"Elias, you stupid SOB, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" She
stood, staring down at the body bag for a long moment, and it seemed to Mulder
that all the furious activity in the area had quieted in anticipation.

Finally, the woman turned away from the body. As she leaped down from the
ambulance, the sound of her boots hitting the asphalt echoed through the cold
night air. The fury in her eyes caused several of the men in the surrounding
group to step back. "Okay," she snarled. "Which one of you bastards is Fox
Mulder?"

***

Gin Ling Way
Chinatown
February 28, 1999
9:03 pm

"You're insane." The latest arrival on this surreal scene paced along the
barricade. Six long strides, turn, six back. Repeat.

O'Connell the arson investigator wasn't quite what Scully had imagined.

"Elias on the take? Yeah, right. And I'm Queen of the fucking Rose Parade. Tell
me something, Mulder." O'Connell made a right turn and stalked toward Mulder,
her eyes liquid blue wells of fury. "What the hell gives you the right to come
in here, stick your nose where it doesn't belong, and drag his name through the
mud?"

"Inspector O'Connell, we aren't accusing Detective Hernandez of anything."
Scully made a deliberate effort to control her voice, presenting an oasis of
calm between Mulder's mute dismay and O'Connell's anger. "We are simply trying
to understand the facts of this case. I'm sure you can appreciate that."

O'Connell had apparently been given quite a skewed portrait of Mulder and their
initial confrontation had rocketed from acrimony to defensiveness on both sides.
Ten minutes later, they were finally making progress toward discussing the case,
and Scully was determined to keep them talking. They not only needed information
badly, their conversation had distracted O'Connell while the ambulance pulled
away. Mulder had acknowledged Scully's actions with a grateful look, and she
hoped O'Connell would feel the same as soon as she regained control of her
emotions. Scully fully sympathized with the distraught investigator, grieving
the loss of her friend and colleague. The situation was too horribly familiar
not to.

"You're all the same." O'Connell's voice had turned weary. "Jealous. Just
because someone has money it doesn't mean they can't get a charge out of doing
the job. Or even doing some good in this fucked-up world."

"Has money?" Mulder's surprise made his response sound harsh. Scully winced at
his next question. "So what was this, a hobby?"

O'Connell gave him a dismissive look and turned to Scully. "His family is
loaded. They were one of the original landowners here, way before California was
part of the U.S. and they almost disowned him after he joined the department.
Everyone knew Elias was ambitious, but nobody really knew why. He liked the job.
Hell, he loved the job. And he was damned good at it." Her eyes flicked from
Scully back to Mulder as if daring him to comment further. Getting no response,
she continued, professional mask back in place. "Right, what else do you know
about this case?"

Scully looked at Mulder and agreed with the decision she read in his eyes. "We
think this started with the fire at Sew-Quick," Scully began.

"Obviously," O'Connell snapped. "Anything else?"

"We know that someone is pretty interested in that building," Mulder added.
"That person was there yesterday while I was investigating the scene. He was
trying like hell to break into the office on the third floor--"

"What office?" O'Connell looked confused.

"The office," Mulder replied. "In the corner. The one with the heavy-duty lock
on the door."

O'Connell shook her head. "Agent Mulder, as I'm pretty sure you can imagine, I
went over every inch of that building after the fire. There is no office on the
third floor. There was an alcove for the shop manager, but it was open, just a
doorway, no door."

"Well it's got one now," Mulder said. "Come to think of it, the door did look
pretty new..." He gave Scully a doubtful look.

"Shit." O'Connell rubbed her eyes, demeanor changing suddenly from interest to
exhaustion. "This is insane. I'm going to have to go back there, but I have to
see Elias's parents tonight. Shit." She thumped her fist against her thigh for
emphasis, then looked back at Mulder and Scully. "What else?"

"The owners of Sew-Quick are covering up for someone," Mulder continued, "but
even they don't seem to know who that is. And--" Scully unobtrusively tugged on
his coat sleeve and he looked down at her, acknowledging her silent warning.
Mentioning Krycek at this point would be more trouble than it was worth.

"And they seemed to know I was investigating the case," he finished lamely, "but
I don't know why."

"They knew you were investigating?"

"It was in the conversation Hernandez recorded at--" Mulder broke off at
O'Connell's puzzled look. "Didn't he tell you about that? He told me earlier
this afternoon."

She shook her head, her expression inscrutable. "You got any more stuff I don't
know about?"

"There was another suspicious fire death tonight, in Pasadena," Scully offered.

"Yeah, that I know, at Cal Tech. One vic, a Professor Hiyama. Pasadena Fire and
Rescue tipped me off. I was there tonight."

Scully glanced up at Mulder. "So were we," she said neutrally.

O'Connell gave her a sharp look. "Why?"

"We thought it was coincidence at the time," Scully said. "We were... doing some
research."

"On Hiyama?"

"On..." Scully bit her lip and looked at Mulder, who folded his arms. His
expression seemed to say, 'It's your theory. And good luck.' She gave Mulder a
pursed-lip glare, then turned back to O'Connell. "On mitochondria," she said.
"We believe we may have found a cause for these burning deaths."

"Mito-- what? What the fuck is that? An accelerant? There was no accelerant
connected with these cases. Wait-- Mitochondria? The things in cells?" She
looked from one agent to the other. "Oh, crap. Are you two here because of some
government science freak show gone wrong? Is that what's going on?"

Pray it's not, Scully thought. Because if you think mitochondria are a freak
show, the 'government' can easily top it.

Mulder's voice was grave. "We have no evidence of that. Right now all we have
are thirty unconnected deaths."

The temperature was dropping rapidly, and their breath was becoming visible.
Scully shivered and shoved her hands in her overcoat pockets. She gave a small
shake of her head when Mulder turned to look at her. They needed to finish this.

"And then we have Detective Hernandez," Mulder continued, turning back to
O'Connell. "Who may have had the most information of all. But he's not talking.
He never did any talking." He faced down O'Connell's scowl with an impassive
look. "Sorry, Inspector, but it seems like Hernandez is the only one who knew
what was going on here, which is one of the reasons we were suspicious of him.
So what exactly did he know, and was it something that got him killed?"

"I don't know," O'Connell said, defensively. "We thought we had a lead, but it
didn't pan out."

"What was that?" Scully asked.

"Elias got a tip. He was working with INS and found someone who knew someone who
worked at Sew-Quick. We never knew if the guy was a relative, a coyote, or what.
He was illegal. Elias only met him once, and then he couldn't find him again."

Mulder leaned in closer. "Did he get a name? Was it someone who knew Ortega?"

O'Connell shifted back a half-step. "The shop manager? No, This guy didn't know
anything about who was in charge, ownership, anything like that. He just knew
some of the workers. In fact..." she gave a soft snort, "we thought maybe we'd
stumbled into a drug ring, but since the tox screens on the vics were negative,
that--"

"Wait a minute," Scully interrupted. "You thought Sew-Quick was a cover for
drugs? Manufacture? Distribution?"

"Not exactly." O'Connell pulled her long hair back from her face and twisted it
up into a knot that immediately began to slide back down. "We knew the workers
were taking something, or were being given something. The informant said that
Ortega was giving them vitamins, or something he was calling vitamins. They'd
get a shot every day."

"Ouch," murmured Mulder. "That must have made it a popular place to work."

"Bingo," O'Connell replied, to Scully's surprise. "That's just it. The workers
loved it. It made them feel great. One of them told this guy she loved working
there. "Me pone tan feliz que me dan ganas de bailar todo el dia,' she said. 'It
makes me so happy I feel like dancing all day.'"

"Oh, my God," Scully gasped. She looked up at the two startled gazes trained on
her.

"What is it, Scully?"

"Nothing-- I... It just sounds so exploitative," Scully answered guardedly.

"So at the very least," O'Connell continued, giving Scully a puzzled look, "we
thought we had some illegal drug thing going on. Speed, most likely. But like I
said, the tox screens on the bodies came up negative. In fact, none of those
women were taking so much as aspirin. No alcohol, no prescription drugs,
nothing. Which, in a group of that size, is pretty damned unusual," she
concluded, on a thoughtful note.

"So that's all you had to go on?" Mulder asked. Scully could feel him watching
her out of the corner of his eye and he sounded distracted. "Uh... Hernandez
said something about meeting someone in the L.A.P.D. White Collar Unit.
Something about getting on to the corporate owners of Sew-Quick. Did he find out
anything?"

O'Connell's voice took on a tremor of anger. "He wouldn't tell me. I was in
meetings this morning, and by the time I talked to him over the phone this
afternoon -- well, there was no talking to him, actually. He was really-- I
don't know. Hyper. Exhilarated. Told me he'd made a connection between someone
important and the sweatshop fire but he wouldn't tell me who. He's... he'd never
done that before. Told me he was going to get a warrant and make an arrest. This
was going to be it, he said. His next promotion was going to arrive with a
bang." She flung her head back suddenly, then turned and walked a short distance
away. When she returned, her expression was composed.

"Inspector," Scully said, "Can you find out who the warrant was for? That should
answer a lot of questions."

"Yeah, but not tonight." O'Connell's reply was terse. "Tonight I've got...
obligations. Look, if the warrant was issued I'll find out who it was for first
thing tomorrow. And then I want to see this new office at the warehouse. Can you
meet me there?"

Mulder pulled a card from his inside jacket pocket. "That's my cell number.
We've got an appointment at ten--" he flashed a look at Scully, "but we'll be
available before that, and any time after noon, I... hope. Call us."

O'Connell took the card and nodded.

"Inspector," Scully asked, as the tall woman turned to leave, "did Detective
Hernandez say anything to you about a... a witness, named Dorothy Bahnsen?"

"Dorothy Bahnsen?" O'Connell said. "Never heard of her."

***

10 a.m. FBI Headquarters J. Edgar Hoover's Office

Surreal didn't even begin to describe it, not that Dales had had much time to
process how he could possibly be looking at himself in Hoover's reception area.
He didn't need to look behind him to know Spender was standing there looking
insufferably smug and definitely not surprised.  Dales took another step into
the hallway just as Dorothy looked back over her shoulder.  She squinted at him,
puzzled, and then her head snapped back to the man beside her, the man she'd
thought was Dales.  Her shriek seemed to startle him because he promptly
metamorphosed into an ugly, blunt-faced goon who released his hold on her as she
doubled over and pulled away.  Screaming the whole way, she backed towards the
stairwell at the end of the hall, finally turning and running.  Dales could hear
her heels clattering down the stairs.  No one followed her.  Instead, the goon
advanced toward him.

"What the--"  Dales backed up.  A shove from Spender propelled him forward but
he twisted away from the goon and braced himself against the wall, ready to
attack.   He was expecting a punch when everyone froze.  Hoover emerged from his
office with Cohn peering over his shoulder.

"Gentlemen," Hoover hissed.  "Have you forgotten the meaning of the word
discreet?  What is going on?"

Spender spoke first.  "We were bringing you the girl when she saw them both."
He nodded his head in the direction of Dales and the goon.  "It is unfortunate
but not irreparable.  We can send someone for her."

"Forget the girl.  She's not important.  Get in here."  Hoover glanced at the
small crowd that had gathered at the noise and gestured at Cohn before
retreating into his office, Spender behind him.

Cohn stepped forward.  "Everything's fine, people.  Just a slight
misunderstanding.  Go back to your work."

Their audience murmured away and Dales was left staring at the two men in the
hallway.  Cohn said something to the goon who launched himself towards Dales.
Dales landed a punch on the side of his head and while the goon was off balance,
spun towards Cohn who stood there with his hands fluttering.  Dales grabbed him,
shoved him towards the goon and ran for the stairs.  He pounded down after
Dorothy, cursing the injuries that slowed him. At the bottom of the stairwell he
flung himself past the steel door that opened into the bullpen.  Out of breath,
he stopped short in the middle of the room. No Dorothy, but several agents
looked up at him. He slowed down and tried to act casual. Damn it. The interview
rooms off to the side were empty. He tried the file room next. Dorothy wasn't
there but another file clerk was, bending down to pick up files scattered across
the floor.

"Have you seen Dorothy?"

"Are you kidding? Don't I have enough to do without her throwing files all over
God's green earth? If you see her--"

"Thanks," he said as he turned, banging his shoulder into the jamb on his way
out. She had to have left the building. He headed for the nearest exit.

He scanned the street in both directions. No sign of her and no sign of that
goon. The idea that maybe they were waiting for her at her house seized him.
God, he hoped she wasn't that stupid. Sending up a prayer that he was following
her lead, he turned left, toward the bus stop. At the intersection, he noticed
people looking back over their shoulders, and following their stares, saw
Dorothy charging down the sidewalk.

"Dorothy!"

She looked over her shoulder and even from across the street, her panic was
unmistakable. She clutched the file folders closer to her breast, put her head
down, and barreled away from Dales.

"Dorothy!"

Summoning up a last surge of energy, Dales crossed the street at an angle,
cutting her off. She spun into an alley. He slowed his steps and looked behind
him, hoping they hadn't attracted too much attention. The people walking by now
looked more intent on getting to work than getting involved in what looked to be
a domestic dispute, and paid Dales no attention. He took a deep breath and,
following her into the alley, trusted the commotion hadn't attracted the
attention of any of Hoover's men.

Dorothy had leaned her forehead against the brick wall of the building. Without
opening her eyes, she whispered, "Go away."

"Dorothy."

"No. Please. I can't take anymore."

He moved towards her, slowly so as not to startle her, and touched her elbow.
"Dorothy. It's okay. It's me."

"Arthur," she gasped, her voice muffled against his wool suit coat as she threw
herself at him. He could feel the bone-deep shudders racking her body. He
wrapped his arms around her, rested his head on her hair, and tried to pretend
that he wasn't as scared as she was.

"Shh, shh. Dorothy. It's okay, it'll be okay," he lied into her hair. What the
hell was that thing? Could it take on any shape, be anybody? How could you trust
your eyes with something like that in the world? He had an insane urge to tuck
Dorothy under his arm and run for the border. As if space aliens respected
international boundaries.

Damn it.

Suddenly she launched herself out of his arms and across the alley, to stand
behind an overflowing trashcan.

"Who are you?" Her knuckles were white against the files she clutched like a
shield.

"Dorothy, it's me. Arthur."

"Prove it."

"Dorothy, we don’t have time for this...." He flinched at her scowl, and raked a
hand through his hair. "Okay, um, your aunt's name is Eliza. You think it's
funny that my parents even named their fish Arthur."

Her expression remained wary. He inched closer to her, but when she shifted to
keep the trashcan between them, he froze. "I kissed you and you didn't hit me.
For God's sake, Dorothy!"

"Arthur?"

He breathed a sigh of relief. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Arthur, what are we going to do?" she asked, edging towards him around the can.

"I'm not sure, but we have to leave."

"Where are we going to go?  I almost ran back to my aunt's house, and then I
remembered what you said in the diner about putting her at risk." She paused.
"That was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes, of course," he said, though now that she mentioned it, he had no idea if
the thing had imitated him on other occasions.

Her eyes closed briefly before she looked up at him tearfully. "I panicked,
Arthur, I just panicked. I was going to go to my aunt's house, I was but I can't
and I didn't know where to go so I grabbed our files and they could have just--.
Goddamn it." She stamped her foot and spun to face the wall.

Her uncharacteristic cursing startled him. He reached for her but she turned
first, dry-eyed and fierce. His outstretched hand landed on her shoulder, which
he started to rub. Her chin dropped towards her chest.

"Take a deep breath, Dorothy. We'll figure out what to do. It's okay."

"Arthur, stop that." Dorothy twisted out from under his hand. "I'm fine."
Pushing her hair back from her face with one hand, she took a deep breath.

Dales watched her pull herself together and ached to put his arms around her.
Beautiful and devastated and fierce and the most intelligent woman he'd ever
met. So this is what it's like, he thought, falling a little more in love, even
in the midst of this madness. Given the circumstances, it wasn't so much falling
as a slow-motion stumble off a cliff: If his instincts about what they should do
were right, he'd never see her again.

"Dorothy--. Wait," he said, looking around the alley. "We can't talk about this
here. Hang on a minute."

He walked to the end of the alley and peered out, not seeing anything more
alarming than bureaucrats scurrying to work. He flagged down a cab and motioned
to Dorothy to join him.

"Arthur--"

"Shh. Not now. Trust me."

He gave the cabby the address of a motel just down from the Greyhound Bus
station. Dorothy started to speak but at his look, turned her head and stared
out the window, fingering her files. They arrived and Dales went in to arrange
for a room, emerging from the manager's office to take Dorothy's arm and head
down the long row of doors. He unlocked the door and held it open for her.

"Well, Arthur," Dorothy said with a small smile, turning slowly in a circle to
take in the dingy room, "you do take me to the finest places. My Aunt Eliza
would be so proud." She put the files on the small table near the window and sat
in the chair.

Dales leaned against the dresser. "Sorry, I just couldn't think of anywhere else
we could hide without them finding us." He picked at a string on his suit coat
and then jerked his head up. Time to get to work. "They've always been one step
ahead of us, but maybe they don't know how much you know."

"Arthur, be serious. Why else would they bring me in to talk to Mr. Hoover?"

That thing could mimic him so perfectly that even Dorothy didn't know the
difference. Dales' head pounded, like someone had taken a nail gun to his skull.
This couldn't be happening. He closed his eyes to rub the bridge of his nose.
"Maybe they were just trying to learn more about me."

"About you."

Startled by her flat tone, he looked up to find her on her feet. "What?"

"Are you insane?" She stomped her foot. "I know what you're trying to do. Hasn't
it occurred to you that they absolutely know that we were working together? That
maybe they aren't stupid enough to discount me just because I wear a skirt?"

"Actually, I'm hoping that's exactly how stupid they are. Do you have any
relatives besides your aunt? In Montana, maybe, or on a remote island
somewhere?"

Her eyes narrowed and he braced himself for the explosion, but then her face
suddenly gentled. "I know you want to think it's all about you, Arthur, but it
seems to me we're well beyond that now. Partners in crime, that's how they see
us. You can't protect me by tucking me away like a fragile china doll."

In the long list of stupid things he'd done in his life, he did not want to
include getting her hurt or worse, killed. There was nowhere to run that they
wouldn't be found and he couldn't imagine the two of them on the run for the
next fifty years.  He couldn't do that to her. There had to be a way to convince
them that she had nothing to do with any of this.

He startled as she grabbed her files off the table with both hands. "We need to
fight fire with fire.  We can use these," she said.

A small, hopelessly optimistic part of him hoped that she'd come up with
something while the rest of him prepared for battle. And the first, most
wrenching skirmish would be to convince her to leave and let him deal with them.
She'd already made that much clear. Short of scaring her off, though, he
couldn't figure out a way to get through to her.

"I grabbed as many as I could. It's evidence, Arthur. Why are they so afraid of
us? Because they think we have information."

"What are you talking about?" Her intense expression alarmed him. She had to be
plotting something that would put her right in the middle of everything. Damn
it. Think, Arthur.

"Proof." Dorothy held the files out at arms length. "These files. As long as we
have these, they won't dare bother us. And I made sure to grab the one about the
warehouse fire."

He groaned. "Dorothy, they won't bother us -- they'll blow our damn heads off
and take the files. Or torch the place. A piece of paper can't protect us."

She reached out to touch his arm. "It will if they know we've made copies."

"It won’t work." Not for long, anyway, and it would put her at so much risk. How
could he make her understand? His choices boiled down to a life with her on the
run or a life on the run knowing she was safe somewhere. Not much of a choice.

"It will. Come on." She tugged at his sleeve and pulled him to the door.

"Stop." He yanked his arm free and used it to block the door. He closed his
eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. If he couldn't make this
painless, at least he could make it quick.

"Knock it off, Dorothy."

She gaped at him, and some idiotic part of his brain hoped she'd see through his
act.

"This charade has gone on long enough. You're not an investigator. It's time for
you to grow up and leave this to the professionals."

"What?" She stiffened, and hissed like a scalded cat. "That is absolutely not
true. I've contributed as much to our work as you have. You've even said as
much!"

"I was humoring you. Those guys are serious. It's too dangerous for the likes of
you."

"The likes of me? Arthur, what are you talking about?"

"You have two eyes. You saw it, same as me." He loomed over her, trying to use
his size to intimidate her. She stepped back, but only one step. "That guy can
look like anybody. What are you going to do when he walks up to you looking
exactly like your aunt? He will, you know."

"Exactly what we did today. Run. And you ran too, Arthur, so don't try to
pretend you're the tough guy all of a sudden. I saw you after the warehouse."

He winced, and backed down a little. "That's what I'm talking about. You saw
what they did to me and that was before we knew anything. What do you think
they'll stop at now?"

"We can stop them. The files. It's all in the files." She shook the files at
him.

"We could fill a warehouse with files. We have nothing. No real proof, and no
allies. Dorothy, for God's sake, what makes you think it won't be you on that
table next time? You know what they did to those women!"

"I can protect myself, and I'll have you. Don't you see?"

Dales wanted to scream.

He could still smell those burned bodies in the warehouse. She had no idea. Time
to finish this. He rearranged himself into something more casual, offhand.

"Look, we had a good time, but I wasn't serious. You know, a cute girl, some
spare time. But that's over now."

"Arthur! I can't believe you of all people--" She narrowed her eyes at him and
he held his breath. Sure enough, her face softened and she shuffled her files
into one hand in order to put the other on his chest. "Arthur, I know what
you're trying to do and trust me, I--"

He straightened up, careful to keep a contemptuous look on his face. He'd hate
himself later for knowing how to get to her. "Look, Dorothy, I don't know who
you think you're kidding but this won't work. I keep telling you and you keep
ignoring me, but it's a fact that it's not enough to be smart. You have to be
tough; you have to know how to take care of yourself. They're not fooling
around. And neither am I. I have years of training in this. What have you been
training for all this time?" He flipped the back of his hand in her direction.
"Marriage? And you're not even going to manage that, at this rate. Forget it.
Leave town, go stay with a relative, keep your head down and your mouth shut.
Find some nice guy and start having babies. Leave the men's work to men. To me."

Her slap echoed in the room, and his eyes watered a little from the blow.

"You, you, you--"

"Dorothy." She wasn't there to hear him. He turned to look in the mirror above
the dresser, his gaze shifting from the red mark on his cheek to his bleak eyes.
He'd be torturing himself with this for a long time to come.

He found her in the Greyhound Station.  She sat ramrod straight on the wooden
bench, occasionally turning her head this way and that, keeping her wits about
her. Good girl, he thought.  He walked over to her and she looked up.

"Give me your money," she said.

Not exactly what he was expecting, but he handed over all the cash in his
wallet, thankful he'd cashed his paycheck the night before.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Stay here," was all she said, and walked over to the ticket counter.  He
watched as she bought a ticket.  She came back to the bench and sat down,
staring forward and not speaking.  Taking his cue from her, he sat beside her,
studying the floor tiles.  The longer they sat there, the more he thought about
pleading with her to forgive him but he just couldn't do that to her.  He
scanned the bus station, looking for their tormentors but there was no sign of
them.  Periodically he looked over at her but she didn't in any way acknowledge
him.  Only once did she turn towards him, staring at his face like she was
memorizing it.  She met his gaze and her grave eyes stifled anything he might
have said.

When the loudspeaker called out for Los Angeles, she rose from the bench and
headed for the door empty handed but for the files, her chin in the air as if
she'd already sent her minions ahead with her luggage. He'd never loved her
more, and when she turned at the door, he took a step forward.

"Arthur, don't come near me again. I can take care of myself. You'll see."

And then she was gone.

* * *
End Chapter 14
* * *
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