But it was after eleven that night before he was able to sit in the Queen’s Inn and stare at the plate of pancakes in front of Hank Webber.
“Please,” Hank said. “Don’t say it’s amazing.”
“It is, but I won’t.”
Scully was at the counter, ordering coffee and tea, and finding out just what the cook would make this late on Saturday night. Mulder waited until her back was turned, then lifted a finger to get Hank’s attention.
“Protest not,” he said. “Don’t insult me with denials. But how many times have you called Douglas since we’ve arrived, to tell him how many times I didn’t follow the book.”
Webber almost choked, but he managed to hold up his fork and say, “Just once.”
“What?”
He looked embarrassed. “I couldn’t. I mean… I like you. And I didn’t see that you were doing anything really wrong.”
Mulder grinned as he stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “Webber, I don’t care — that’s damn amazing.” He looked out the window, but all he saw was the night and the rain. “You know that Douglas is probably a plant, don’t ask me by whom, and he probably won’t be there when we get back. You know you’ll probably be transferred somewhere else once we get back and the paperwork is done.”
“Sure. I figured. But hell, it was fun while it lasted.”
Mulder laughed, a little sadly, because he knew poor old Hank probably wouldn’t be with the Bureau for very long. “Fun” wasn’t exactly the way to describe the way it worked.
“And by the way,” he said, “in all the excitement… thanks.”
Webber waved it away. “Not needed, Mulder. I was just doing what I had to, you know?”
And he blushed.
Scully slid in then, clucked at Webber’s choice of a meal, and fussed with her napkin while she waited for her order. “You do realize, Mulder, don’t you, that that was an incredibly lucky shot. By all rights, you should be dead.”
He knew that. He had especially known that when he had seen the rent across the front of his coat.
The blade had come a lot closer than he’d thought; it had sliced clear through the cloth.
“Don’t ever try that again.”
“Believe me,” he said. “I won’t.”
They ate, then, in companionable, weary silence, interrupted only by a phone call he took at the register. When he returned to the booth, he only said, “They found Tonero’s body. Shot once. He was in Dr. Elkhart’s apartment.”
“And her?” Scully asked.
“Gone. Not a trace.”
“They’ll find her,” Webber said confidently. “After this weekend, half the country’ll be hunting for her. Don’t sweat it, Mulder, the case is closed.”
“I suppose,” Mulder said. He looked out the window, through the rivulets of rain. “I suppose.”
Scully touched his shoulder, light and quick. “Mulder, don’t.”
He didn’t look. “Sure.”
They both knew he was lying.
Because, he thought, looking through his dim reflection to the woodland just beyond, what if they don’t find her.
What if, next year, or the year after, you’re walking down the street or climbing your steps or standing on your porch or you’re waiting for a bus, and an arm comes out of a wall or a tree or…
He stretched a finger toward the glass, watching its reflection stretch toward him.
…a simple pane of glass.
The lights flickered for a moment, and for a moment the reflection vanished.
He rubbed his arm absently, watching the headlights of a car he couldn’t see float past and disappear.
We’ll never know they’re out there—
Armies of living shadows.
Slipping through the night.
Scanning, formatting and basic
proofing by Undead.
