Title: Nobody's Fool 1/3 Author: Trajan Dunn Summary: Doggett enters a Heart of Darkness he might never escape. Keywords: Doggett. Spoilers: Assume anything and everything. Loosely follows "Chemin de Fer," but can stand alone. Warning: Rated NC-17 for psychotic violence, perversity, and other probable offenses. Adults only, please. Disclaimer: All X-Files characters are owned by their respective production houses, including 10-13, Chris Carter, Fox, etc. I'm just borrowing them for a while; no money is changing hands. Archive: Anywhere you like, but keep author's name, rating, and disclaimer attached. Comments to: trajan@optonline.net. For all the stories, visit www.trajanswarehouse.net. Nursing his fourth beer, John Doggett swiveled on his stool to survey the patrons of the noisy little bistro. It had once been a favorite haunt for picking up nubile young college girls, but since his run-in with Scully it was slowly losing its appeal. Right now his jeans felt tight and his and sense of frustration was mounting. He took a deep draught from the bottle and thought about Scully and the last time he was here. He'd gone out the back alley to think, and she came after him. There was nothing to do then but grab her and kiss her. It was not so much lust as the need to test the limits of their partnership; to find out, for all her bluster, just how committed she was to making it work. Damn if she didn't accept his kiss without much of a fight. He wasn't so callow as to believe there was any real feeling there, but he respected her understanding of human nature. Her own, as well as his. It was not something he'd expected to find in her, as wrapped up in her own problems as she was. It wasn't easy, but he'd achieved a detente with his partner, and their working relationship was now satisfactory if somewhat impersonal. "You want another?" Jimmy asked from behind the bar. "Nah, I'm calling it a night," Doggett replied, pushing away the empty longneck and adding a few bills to the pile of change lying on the scarred wooden bar. He looked once more at the blonde he'd considered earlier, and frowned. They were all just bit players in his life, one much like another, beddable and forgettable. Lately his career path with the X-Files division was making him feel like a bit player himself, and he didn't like it one bit. The street was quiet and his old Japanese motorcycle was where he left it. He filled his lungs with cold night air and tried to remember why he'd quit smoking cigarettes. Martha Carver's earnest face sprang to mind as he settled onto the torn vinyl saddle and slipped the full-face helmet over his head. He kicked the bike into neutral and hit the starter, then ran through the safety checks without thinking. The 2-stroke engine rumbled easily to life and the thrumming between his legs did nothing to assuage his restlessness. Martha Carver made him stop smoking. The psychiatrist knew first-hand the ugliness that lived in the deepest part of his soul, that neither time more medication nor the memory of Miriam's uncomplicated love had been able to completely erase. And he damned fate and Agent Scully for bringing it to the surface again. *** "It says here that the hostage situation in Stoughton was contained with no loss of life," Assistant Director Skinner droned, eyes skimming the report in his hands. "You're both to be congratulated," he said, closing the folder, "and it will be so noted in your records. That was a powder keg that could have blown up at the slightest provocation." Doggett stared straight past Skinner's shoulder, remembering the reckless thrill of walking straight into the viper's lair. "Agent Doggett deserves the credit, Sir," Scully said stiffly. "He went in unarmed. If not for his actions..." "I read your report," Skinner countered. "That's all for now." He took his glasses off and polished the lenses, eyes following Scully as she left the room. "Is there something else, Agent Doggett?" "Ah, no sir," Doggett hesitated. "You sure? You need a couple of days off?" "No," Doggett replied. "All right, then," Skinner said and turned to his paperwork. Doggett made sure the door to the inner office closed behind him before pulling on his suddenly too-tight collar. Skinner's secretary caught him at it and gave him he could only interpret as nod of weary sympathy. Pretty little thing, he decided. He wondered briefly if Skinner was putting it to her, and then shook his head in disgust. The basement office was hot. Scully was already ensconced behind her desk--no, Mulder's desk, she continued to remind him--and her nose was buried in paperwork. "Why did you do it, Agent Doggett?" she said without looking up. "What were you thinking?" He shrugged off his jacket and sat down. "There wasn't much choice, was there? It was a standoff. Brady had a gun, he was holding hostages, and he was out of his mind." Scully looked up. "No, YOU were out of your mind. The first thing you learn is that appeasing a madman is a clear path to disaster." "If that SWAT team had gone in we would have lost the hostages. And Brady." "He might have killed you." "But he didn't. And everyone lived. Including Brady." His palms were growing damp and suddenly he didn't want to be here, in this stifling basement office with a partner who even now would not use his given name. He picked up his jacket and headed for the door. "I have to go out," he said, and left before Scully could press him for details. *** He pulled the nondescript gray fleet sedan into a parking space in front of the Carver Clinic and turned off the engine. Nobody knew he had resumed his sessions. He trusted Martha Carver enough to bring Scully here when his partner was on the verge of a breakdown, but Scully knew nothing. She'd seen the welts on his back, but there was nothing to connect those injuries to the Carver Clinic. Nothing at all. Martha Carver had kept his record clean and he owed her. He left the car and forced himself to go inside to the reception desk. "John," the elderly psychiatrist smiled, taking off her reading glasses and looking up from the receptionist's appointment book. "Right on time. Come on in." Doggett followed Martha Carver into her office and took up a position at the end of the sofa. "It's been a long time, John," she began. "Since Lebanon, I mean." She sat at the far end of the sofa, remembering her patient's aversion to direct eye contact. "It's hot in here," he said, tugging at his collar. He felt hot all the time now. "I'm fine, but feel free to make yourself comfortable," she replied. Doggett took off his jacket and laid it over a chair, and yanked on his tie until his collar was open. "We didn't have a chance to talk the last time you were here, when you brought your partner in for consultation." "She's doing great," he said. "I'm please to hear it." His silence made it clear he had mixed feeling about opening up the past. "I saw your back, John. I know what happened. Now you have to tell me." He rubbed his chin and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. In his imagination his back still burned. "I think I'm being sidelined," he said. "In what way?" Dr. Carver's voice was as gentle as he remembered, but he still didn't have the courage to look at her. "I was pulled off the fast track to some backwater assignment. I think my CO is setting me up to fail, and I don't know why." "CO?" she said. "Deputy Director," he corrected. "Thing is, I haven't done anything wrong. My record is spotless." "You feel helpless, then." She'd hit it on the nose. "Yes." "Like when you were in Lebanon, watching that young girl being brutalized?" "YES, dammit!" He leaned back and closed his eyes and the images tore through his mind. "My partner...she was out of control, out of my control. There was nothing I could do. She knew it, too, that I was powerless to do anything." "You don't like feeling powerless," the soft voice said. "No. I don't." "You didn't break when your wife died. Why now, John? Why did you seek out that beating?" He shook his head, unwilling to confront it, but the old woman would not let it go. She pushed and pushed until it finally came out amid an inchoate flood of words. "I'm tired of feeling guilty because I'm still alive!" he fairly shouted. "You do dangerous work, John. There are alternatives." He turned on her, angry at her presumption. "What alternatives? Sit behind a desk all day? Become an accountant? A beat cop? Bag groceries? I'm very good at what I do. Very good." "Then maybe you should consider changing partners. Or reassignment." His shoulders sagged. "I've already been down that road, and it leads nowhere." He smiled weakly. "I suppose I'll just have to muddle through, just like everybody else." "I'd like to give you a prescription," she said, crossing to her desk. "Something you've had before." "Thanks, Doc." Doggett glanced at the script and put it in his pocket, and retrieved his jacket. "You make another appointment," she admonished. "We're not through yet, not by a long shot." He stopped long enough to schedule an appointment he had no intention of keeping and returned to his car. If he put in a few hours on paperwork at the office Scully would have nothing to complain about. *** He trudged through the small lobby of his apartment house to the mailboxes, past Olga Mironov and her ever-present broom. "Mr. Doggett," the old woman said, "you work too hard." "You and me both," he replied as he flipped through the bills and junk mail. "You come to dinner tonight," she said, smiling. "Chicken, cabbage, and I made a nice borscht." "No thanks, Olga, not tonight. I have something I have to do." Olga resumed her sweeping, staring at the floor to hide her disappointment. "Some other time then, Mr. Doggett," she mumbled. "Yeah. Some other time." Doggett moved up the stairs unmindful of the old woman staring after him. She was harmless, he thought, and he enjoyed the occasional home-cooked meal. Olga and her crusty husband provided the occasional welcome diversion into another world, and he appreciated their generosity. But he was too restless, too unfocused to be good company tonight. He glanced at the portrait of his beloved Miriam while he hung his coat in the closet by the door. This is what it's come to, Miriam, he thought. He changed into a pair of comfortable jeans and washed up, and broke out a beer and opened his mail. He even opened the envelopes addressed to "occupant" these days, hoping to find something to capture his imagination, some small treasure that others might overlook. He stuffed the bills into a drawer and tossed the rest of the useless paper into the trash, and spent an indeterminate amount of time listening to the news while staring at a blank expense report. When he finally glanced at his watch it was after ten. Time he got going. He was nearly to the first floor landing when he heard the muffled shouts and the distant slam of a door. The sounds were coming from Olga and Boris's basement apartment. He stopped and drew his gun, and slowly descended until he was in the basement. Boris kept the place clean, and there was no debris underfoot to broadcast his footfalls. He approached the Mironov's door and the sounds became clearer. It was a robbery, pure and simple, and the elderly superintendent and his wife were an easy target. He waited by the door, listening carefully. There were at least two of them, but there was something wrong with their speech patterns. If they were hopped up on drugs anything could happen. Suddenly there was dull thud and Olga screamed. He was out of options. Doggett kicked in the door and charged in, targeting a young man with long greasy hair who was going through Boris's wallet. "Drop it," Doggett shouted, but one of the men pointed a Saturday Night Special at Olga's head. "Make me," he said with an insane giggle. "You two done?" he called out to his companions, who had stuffed pillowcases with whatever they could find. "Let's go." He took possession of the cheap gun and hauled Olga to her feet and thrust her toward the door. "No," the old woman said, "my heart..." "Let her go," Doggett said levelly. "She's just a little insurance. At her age she ain't gonna last much longer anyway." He laughed hysterically at his own joke, and pulled Olga along roughly. "Take me," Doggett said, and held his arms out, gun pointed at the ceiling. "I can move faster. Better insurance." "Gimme your gun," the burglar said. "No! Mr. Doggett, don't do it!" Doggett tried to ignore the desperation in Boris's voice. "Shut up you asshole!" the thug screamed, jamming the Saturday Night Special against Olga's temple. "Just shut the fuck up!" "It's okay, Boris," Doggett said calmly. He laid his pistol on the floor and kicked it over to the thug. The man released Olga as he reached down for the second weapon and Doggett saw the main chance. He pushed Olga out of the way and dove for the man's midsection, slamming him into the floor as he tore the cheap gun out of the man's hand. He knocked him out with one good punch, called out to Boris to watch him, and went after the other two, who were already halfway up the stairs to the front door and freedom. Pounding up the stairs, he threw himself at the fleeing men, tangling their feet to match their tangled, drug-addled minds. It was almost too easy, he thought as he manhandled them back down to the Mironov's apartment. Boris handed him his weapon and kept the crook's cheap handgun pointed at the burglars. Doggett leaned over, hands on his knees, as he caught his breath. He didn't want to see the emotion in Boris's eyes as he set his shaking wife down on the sofa, murmuring Slavic reassurances. He didn't want to wait for the police. He didn't want to answer questions tonight, and he didn't want the Mironov's thanks. The police were prompt and the officers were young and properly awed by his credentials. Less than fifteen minutes later he was following the handcuffed criminals out the front door. *** It was nearly midnight by the time he guided his motorcycle through the twisting streets by the waterfront, looking for absolution in the only way he knew how. He'd laid down his weapon twice this week. Two times he'd looked death in the eye and been rebuffed. He wasn't stupid or deranged; he knew what he was doing and he didn't care. He saw the flickering neon sign above the rough bar and parked the bike out of sight of the front door. The place drew a mixed clientele of longshoremen, drifters, and petty criminals, but he wasn't her to make a bust. There was something here he needed, something he could get nowhere else. He unzipped his leather jacket in the close heat of the smoky bar and found a chair close to the parading strippers. He ordered a beer and leaned back, staring at the aging whores. No beauty queens here, he realized, but beauty wasn't what he was looking for. He was reaching for a second beer when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. "I have what you asked for," a woman's voice said. He looked over his shoulder at her, and then stood. She shrank back and he was not surprised. She knew what he was. He followed her now to a small back room, and opened the door. He glanced at her and she shook her head. "Pay me now," she said. "I don't want to be here when you leave." Doggett handed over the agreed upon price and went into the room, closing the door behind her. He could hear the click of her heels as she hurried away, and he locked the door. A young girl sat in the corner, on a thin mattress on the floor. She pushed her lush dark hair away from her face and stared at him warily with big brown eyes. She couldn't have been more than fifteen. Doggett stared back, his jaw working as memories of Lebanon fought to the surface of his conscious mind. He didn't know this girl's name but it didn't matter: she died over ten years ago in a field of yellow earth surrounded by the scent of cedars. It was enough that she had hatred in her eyes. There was nothing to say; they both knew what was going to happen. Doggett removed his leather jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door, and removed the magazine from his gun before laying it on the rickety little table against the wall. He kept his eyes glued to hers, although he was no longer in this room. He heard his buddies joking on patrol, and smelled the faint scent of cedar. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, and stood silently, waiting for the inevitable. Her eyes followed his every move, and when it was time she stood up. Her fingers flexed with the desire to rip the man's flesh from his bones. That he was not her father was irrelevant. He deserved everything she was going to him. She up to the far end of the shelf and pulled down the coiled leather, and his voice insinuated itself into her head. "Yasmine!" "No, Father!" She cowered in her narrow bed, knowing he wouldn't stop. He never stopped. Never! She gripped the handle of the braided whip with familiar ease, caressing it like her father forced her to caress him. Suddenly she shrieked, and the long leather weapon lashed out at the faceless man in front of her. Once more Doggett was tied against a sweet-smelling tree in a foreign land, stripped to the waist and sweating in the midday sun as a soldier striped his torso with his lash. The girl's hysterical cries drove spikes into his brain and he pressed his face to the rough bark to stifle his impotent pleas on her behalf. Yasmine had no pity for the nameless man. She raised her arm, letting the leather fly again and again, and with each sharp crack she moved one step closer to peace. Doggett staggered under the force of her blows, and sagged against the wall even as he had sagged against the tree. His skin was on fire, and his face contorted with the pain. "I will kill you," the girl mumbled as she wielded the whip with mechanical precision. "Kill you." He was in her bed now, covering her with his heavy body, prying her jaw open to force his tongue into her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks as he pried her legs apart. Against the tree, Doggett was fading into unconsciousness. He wouldn't remember how he got to the army hospital. But he would never forget the girl's dying cries. He fought against the images, pushing himself from the wall and turning to face his assailant. She was crying freely, and the whip descended again, cracking against his ribs. He reached out and caught the braided leather. "Enough," he said calmly. He remembered he was in the back room of a waterfront bar. The girl's eyes were closed, and she yanked hard on the whip, unwilling to stop. "Kill you," she repeated in a demented mantra. "No," he said quietly, holding firmly to the whip. "Enough. It's over." She stumbled back and fell onto the mattress, and curled into the corner once more. She didn't bother to wipe away the tears that wouldn't stop flowing, and her small fist still clutched an invisible whip. Doggett gritted his teeth against the searing pain, savoring every sensation. He deserved this, and more. For letting that girl die in Lebanon. For letting Skinner fall through the roof of that burning building. For his inability to save Scully from her own recklessness. For the death of his wife and unborn child. For not having the sense to know when to die. He buttoned his shirt over the welts and tucked the tails into his jeans, ignoring the blood that was staining the cotton. The heavy leather jacket went on next, and he welcomed the pain. He reloaded his weapon and slipped it into his jacket and studied the girl from the door. He almost envied the purity of her madness. -------------------- To be continued. Title: Nobody's Fool 2/3 Author: Trajan Dunn Doggett spent the weekend nursing his injuries and thinking about the young girl who had inflicted them. He not proud of what he'd done, but he understood the reasons why he needed to do it. But now it was coming down to a question of simple survival. Between his dead-end job and his unruly passions he didn't know what to do to escape the trap that was closing in around him. And the basement office was still too hot. "Good morning, Agent Doggett," Scully said as she came in. She was always too chipper by half on Mondays, and Doggett forced his face into its familiar neutral mask. "Good morning," he said evenly. He had his head buried in his computer and she came around behind him to observe. "Child abuse reports?" she asked. "I saw something the Friday night that put a bug in my head." Scully hung up her coat and settled into her--no, Mulder's--chair. "Doughnut?" she asked, pushing the brown paper bag toward him. He looked up for a moment. "No thanks," he said, noting how she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at his refusal. "I want to follow up on this," he said. "It's not our area of expertise," she said dubiously. "Violent Crimes should be handling it. Or better yet, the local police and family court." Doggett shook his head. "Not this one. I want to check it out." "I'm coming." "I don't think you should," he said slowly, grasping for a solid reason to deny her when he'd chastised her himself for going off alone. She was already putting on her coat. "If it involves child abuse, you might do better with a woman along. It could be much less threatening to the victim." *** They spent most of the morning running down the cases he'd culled from city records. It proved fruitless, and Scully was losing patience with Doggett's methods. It was late afternoon when he drove them to the seedy waterfront bar and parked far away enough to be inconspicuous but close enough to have a good view of the front door. "What are we looking for?" Scully asked, settling in for a long stretch. "Woman, about 45, maybe older. She had a young girl with her, maybe 15, but definitely underage." "In there?" Scully asked. "Woman's a hooker. The girl was not her daughter." "And how do you know all this?" "I was here Friday night." Scully digested that fact. "What makes you think the girl was in danger?" "I don't know," he lied. "But I'm sure she is." "That's quite a leap for a man who doesn't believe in hunches." "Now I never said I didn't believe in hunches, Agent Scully." "You just don't believe..." she started. "I don't know what I believe anymore," he said in an attempt to direct the conversation elsewhere. "I just want to find that woman." Scully took the hint, and watched, half bored, as seedy patrons trickled in and the activity grew livelier. She occasionally spared a glance at Doggett, who was more fidgety than he should be. Something was eating at him, something he didn't want to tell her. "That's her," Doggett said, swinging out of the car and moving quickly across the street. Scully followed a few steps behind, and he motioned her to keep back and cover him. Against her better judgment, she did so. "You," the woman said wearily as he intercepted her at her car. "What do you want now? Haven't you had enough?" She spat at his feet. "Tell me about the girl," he said. "Sick pervert," she hissed. "I did what you asked. Now go away!" She started to turn but Doggett put a hand on her arm. "Someone's hurting her," he said. "She needs help." "From someone like you?" the woman sneered. "I didn't touch her and you know it." "Theirs is no girl. Nobody needs help. Now go away. I'll ruin you if you don't." This time the woman turned and Doggett let her go. He found his waiting partner and they walked back to the car. Scully had noticed more than the woman's animated disdain. Doggett hadn't identified himself, and the woman wasn't at all surprised to see him. She might even have recognized him. Scully slammed the passenger door and latched her seat belt. "So. You come here often, sailor?" she said. "Occasionally," he admitted, trusting her not to press the point. "What now?" "Nothing. I'll take you to your car." "You're not going to do anything rash?" He smiled. "I never do anything rash. You know that, Agent Scully." He was quiet during the trip back to the Hoover Building parking lot, and she was reluctant to leave him to his own devices. Something about this "case" was not right. "You want to get some dinner?" she asked. He leaned forward against the steering wheel, taking the pressure off his back even as he increased the painful tension of the seat belt against his shoulder. "Not tonight," he said. "I'm tired." She got out of the car and leaned on the open window frame. "Promise me you'll call me before you do anything." He nodded but she sensed duplicity. "Promise me," she repeated. "I promise. Now go home, Agent Scully." *** Doggett felt hot and sticky in his clothes, and he went back to his apartment to clean up before resuming his stakeout of the bar. There was plenty of time; the woman would be there until closing. He'd follow her then. His rooms felt blessedly cool after the warmth of the car. He supposed he was the only one who felt the stifling heat, just like he was the only one who caught the scent of cedar on the air. He studiously avoided Miriam's portrait, and went into the bedroom to peel off his clothes. His shirt was glued to his skin where the welts had bled, and eventually he simple tore it off, heedless of the pain. His shirts were cheap and easy to come by, and he balled this one up and threw it in the trashcan without a second thought. He stepped into the cold shower and let the water do its soothing work. Minutes later he stood before the mirror, examining the girl's handiwork on his pale skin. She'd done a viciously effective job. His back was a web of angry marks, and she'd managed to cut his ribs and chest as well. He opened the medicine cabinet and fumbled for the salve Dr. Carver had given him the last time. The little tube was almost empty, and he dabbed what was left the wounds on his chest and shoulders. He pulled on his jeans and padded into the kitchen. As usual, his refrigerator was bare save for a few beers. He popped one open and sprawled on his sofa. Miriam's picture caught his eye, and he closed his eyes and remembered how it had been, when they'd been so in love that every day the world seemed fresh and new. These rooms were her rooms, and he could still see her prancing across the living room, her belly big with his child, laughing at his jokes and nagging him about dinner... The doorbell rang and he snapped out of the dream. "Yeah, wait a minute," he called, and went into the bedroom and found a shirt. He opened the door to Olga Mironov, and he immediately stepped into the hall. "Is something wrong, Olga? Are you all right? Boris?" It wasn't easy for her to climb stairs and he had a fifth floor walk-up. "No, I am fine," she said, catching her breath with wheezy gasps. She held out the pot she was carrying. "For you. You don't like to come for dinner anymore, but I...we wanted to do something for you, after what you did..." Her heartfelt emotion embarrassed him, and he took the heavy pot. "You didn't have to do this, Olga," he said gently. "It's my job, you know." "You could have been killed. I thought you were going to die, and I wanted to die, too." Her rheumy eyes were moist and he did not know what to do. "Thank you, Olga," he said, and kissed her gently on the cheek. "But I'll tell you a secret. I appear to be bulletproof." She shook her white head. "Don't say that, Mr. Doggett. Don't ever say that! You do everything you can to stay alive!" "I will, Olga." He kissed her cheek again. "Thank you. Do you need any help getting back downstairs?" he asked, but she was already on her way. Olga Mironov did now like what was happening to her favorite tenant. He'd had so much bad luck. He didn't hide his unhappiness with his job. And he should be spending time with that pretty redheaded partner of his, not running off to bars and bringing those terrible girls back here. The incident in the basement had terrified her. She once knew another young man who believed he was invincible, too. He'd pitted his horse and his sword against Hitler's Leopard tanks, and on that day she lost her son. She didn't want Mr. Doggett to end up the same way. *** Doggett uncovered the pot in the kitchen and was pleased to find enough stuffed cabbage to feed an army. He put the pot on to boil and before he realized it he'd downed four of the savory, succulent rolls. In the beginning he'd been kind to Olga out of pity, and because Miriam had liked her. But now he suspected she really did like him for who he was, not the protection he could provide. The thought made him uncomfortable. No one had really cared for him that way since Miriam. He hadn't let anyone get close enough to care. He didn't want to go out again, but he thought about the girl and forced himself up. She was out there somewhere, and he would make sure she got the help she needed. The weight of the heavy leather jacket aggravated his already inflamed skin, and spurred his resolve. He picked up his gun and credentials and was rolling the dark fleet sedan up to the bar by closing time. He stayed with the car, not wanting to reveal himself, and when she emerged he put it in gear he followed. She drove an old Dodge through neighborhoods he barely knew existed, to a street of row houses that had seen better days. He parked within sight and waited. He kept his eyes open until the sun came up and the kids emerged dressed for school, books in backpacks over their shoulders, jostling and laughing on their way to the bus stop. He examined each face, but could not find the girl. He stayed until well after the last child was gone, then waited some more. But there was nothing to keep him here, and he finally drove home to put on a suit before going to the office. Scully raised an eyebrow at him when he walked in after ten. She said nothing when he took in a great yawn, and he didn't hear any complaints when he nodded off at his desk around noon. She could be a lot of things, Scully thought, but she wasn't stupid. Doggett had violated his promise and gone on a stakeout last night without her. She should be angry, but all she could muster was faint irritation. Something was driving him, something that he didn't want her to know. Over the past few months she'd caught glimpses of Doggett that startled her preconceived notions of who and what he was. He was not expressive, like Mulder, but he was powerfully protective. He spouted "by the book" rhetoric but he had no qualms about breaking the rules when it suited him to do so. Lord knows she'd heaped more abuse on him than any man deserved, and he'd taken it with grace. He'd pulled her out of danger, kept her moving when she couldn't go on, and saved her and Skinner from burning to death. If he wanted to sleep, she damn well wasn't going to stop him. She was scheduled to consult on an autopsy at the City Morgue that afternoon, and she penned a short note to that effect, letting him know she didn't expect to be back. She collected her coat and briefcase, and placed the note beside his hand. He did not look peaceful in his sleep, and without thinking she stroked his spiky hair, as if to soothe a frightened little boy. His hair felt softer than it looked, and she wondered if Agent Doggett was not also softer than he looked. *** Scully peeled off the surgical gloves and shut off the voice-activated recorder. She hated doing autopsies on children, and this one was more unsettling than most. The unidentified girl was no more than fourteen, and had been repeatedly raped before being beaten to death. She'd been found a few blocks from the bar they'd staked out, and no one in the area seemed to be able to identify her. She'd run her photo against the DC school records and come up empty. But she matched the description Doggett had given her of the girl they were looking for. He would have to come down take a look for verification. He looked drawn but alert when he arrived near four. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the aluminum pallet. "Is this her? The girl you saw?" Doggett stared at what must have once been a beautiful face, now horribly disfigured from the beatings. Past and present flashed through his memory until he was not sure where he was. "Doggett? Are you okay?" Her calm voice and the touch of her hand on his arm grounded him. "No," he said. "You're not all right?" "No, it's not her. Not the girl I saw." "Are you sure?" He nodded. "Yes." He turned away from the body and left the cold room. Scully found him right outside the door, leaning against the dingy, institutional green wall. "She was found near that bar," Scully told him. "She's not the one," Doggett insisted. "Well, no one can ID her, and I'm coming up nil on cross matching against school and hospital records. There was one thing, though." "What was that?" "I found particles under her fingernails and on her clothes that the lab identified as cedar leaves." "What?" "My reaction, too. Cedars don't grow in this area. In fact, the variety of cedar we found grows in only one place on the planet." "Lebanon," Doggett said with certainty. "How did you know that?" Scully asked. "I'm not sure," Doggett said. "Do you believe in revenge from beyond the grave?" Scully's eyebrow shot up. "That's an unusual question, coming from you. But I think we should be looking elsewhere. This is not the first case like this that's come through here." "What do you mean?" "Five cases, all young girls, all fitting this general description have shown up over the last 16 years. None were identified." "Were cedar leaves found on the bodies?" "If so, it wasn't reported. And the city cremated the bodies." He thought deep and hard about what he was about to reveal. It could cost him his job, his career, and his future. "I think I know how to catch whoever's doing this," he said. "I'm going back to that bar tonight. Here's what I want you to do." -------------- To be continued. Title: Nobody's Fool 3/3 Author: Trajan Dunn Doggett was still unsure about what he'd done even as he prepared to go out to the waterfront bar. There was no doubt in his mind that Scully would be repulsed by what she would learn about her straight-arrow partner, but he no longer felt he had a choice. He needed to put an end to whatever horror that girl was going through. Scully met him a block from the bar as he'd asked; he wasn't sure he'd be in any shape to handle his bike when the time came. "Whatever happens, don't interrupt. Wait until they leave, and don't let her out of your sight. I'll follow you if I can." She looked worried. "What do you mean, 'if you can?'" "Please," he urged. "Just do as I ask. I'll be all right. But don't interfere, no matter what." She shook her head, and he grabbed her shoulders. "Promise me," he demanded, and she nodded. He got back on his bike and guided it into the shadows in the alley beside the club. Scully watched him go in, and waited. His emotions were dangerously close to the surface in anticipation of what was to come. His professional career was about to end but if it also meant and end to the perverse demons that drove him to this, then so be it. His body grew hot as he paced the dim, noisy bar, and self-destructive desire permeated his thoughts. If the girl truly meant to kill him he would not stop her this time. It was way past the time for someone else to be the last man standing. The woman tapped him on the shoulder, and he followed her past the strippers lazily strutting across the bar to the little room in the back. She held out her hand and he filled it with money, and then entered the realm of imagination. The girl was there, exactly as he'd left her, cowering in the corner on the tattered mattress. Once again he went through the ritual, stripping off his jacket and shirt and unloading his gun. By the time he stood in center of the room his nostrils were filled with the scent of cedar and he could taste the cigarette that dangled from his lips that fateful day. Then the gunfire, and diving into the brush as he swung his own rifle up. Surrounded! Fear, and sweat pouring down and stinging his eyes as they were herded into a circle under the watchful eyes of the soldiers. The screams! A girl, a young girl, too young to understand and too brutalized to fight. His own objections as he broke toward her, and the rifle butt that nearly cracked his skull. The fragrant bark was against his skin and the rude lash descended. The soldier with the whip laughed like a hyena as he beat him, and suddenly his face resolved clearly in his mind, the brutal ugly face of a sadistic killer. It was the face he'd been unable to remember for over a decade. Pain now, as the girl wielded the braided whip against his torn skin. He staggered with the cleansing agony, and she heeded his unspoken plea for more. Scully looked at her watch for the nth time. She could no longer contain her curiosity or her concern. The girl had to be in there; otherwise Doggett would have already emerged. She felt for the security of her weapon, and set aside her promise and went inside. She kept her head down and her eyes up, scanning for signs that anything might be amiss. She made her way toward the back, where Doggett had said he would be, and moved quietly to each thin door. She heard the sounds of sex through the first three; those did not interest her. But the sharp crack of what could only be a whip resounded from the last room I the short corridor. His back. Suddenly Scully remembered that glimpse of Doggett's healing back. He hadn't offered any explanations then and she hadn't pressed him. No, it couldn't be... "Hello?" She rapped on the door. "Anybody in there?" She rapped more loudly, loath to intrude but afraid not to. "Open up. I need to come inside." "Kill you," the girl murmured as the whip descended with flaying force. "No more. Kill you forever," she repeated. Doggett tried to smile. The promise of release was so close! He had fallen onto the thin mattress, and no longer even connected the pain to the young girl beside him. The hands holding the whip now belonged to Miriam, and Skinner, and Scully. Mulder took his turn, too, goading him with his failures. Scully was frightened. She threw her weight against the flimsy door and it sprang inward. She swung her weapon in an arc, frantically looking for the aggressor, but Doggett was alone. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. He was a mass of bloody welts and she wasn't sure if he was conscious. She opened her cell phone as she knelt beside him but he took hold of her wrist. "No," he said, opening his eyes. "No police. No hospital. I'm all right." He didn't flinch from the horror and disgust he saw in his partner's eyes as he struggled to his feet. "I told you to follow her," he said, shame coloring his face as he came to his senses. "There was nobody here," she said. "You were alone." "That's impossible," he replied, reaching for his shirt with some difficulty. When she moved to help him he shook her off angrily. "No! I told you, I'm all right." "Then where is she?" Scully demanded. "Did she do this to you?" Her voice rose with her fear. "Did you LET her do this to you?" she nearly shouted. "Yes," he said quietly, dragging on his jacket and reloading his gun. "Why? For God's sake, Doggett, why?" He shook his head. "Not now. We have to find her, or more girls will die." Scully didn't understand how he knew, but there was nothing to do but follow him. They went back to her car and he directed them to the woman's row house. He stared at the light in a second floor window. "She's there," he said with certainty. "We don't have reasonable cause," Scully cautioned, but Doggett was already moving toward the house. "I don't need any," he said. "Agent Doggett," she hissed. "We don't have a warrant. We don't have reasonable cause." Just then they heard a muffled shout, and the tumble of heavy furniture. Doggett craned his head back to look into the window but the scuffle was just a shadow against the drawn curtains. "It's him," he said, and knocked on the door. "Open up!" he called, fishing out his badge. "FBI," he shouted, and suddenly the door opened. He pushed past a wide-eyed young boy and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the source of the cries. He opened the bedroom the door to find a heavyset man atop a terrified young girl. The rest of the household had woken to the intrusion, and now they were gathering in the hall as Scully reached the landing with her weapon drawn. "Doggett, no!" she shouted amid the crying children and shouting adults. But Doggett recognized the man, and as he dragged the man off of the terrified girl he knew what he was going to do. He balled his fists and let them fly into the half-dressed man's face. The man shouted invectives in a language he recognized, laughing as he fended off the blows. But Doggett was back in the cedar forest, and the former soldier didn't have a chance. Doggett was out of control, and Scully feared for the man's life. He wasn't responding to her shouts, and the woman behind her was imploring her in broken English to spare her husband's life. "Doggett!" she tried one more time, angling to get between them. Finally she cocked the hammer of her gun and pointed it at him. "Get off him or I'll shoot," she warned. Doggett halted, fist pulled back to strike, and got up. "He's the one," he said, not understanding why she couldn't see it. "Don't you see? HE'S THE ONE!" Scully saw the glint of a blade at the same time the heavyset man lunged, and her shot rang out dangerously close to her partner's head. The woman in the doorway let out a blood-curdling scream as her husband fell, and Doggett sank to his knees. It was over. Scully instructed the family to call the police, and went to the young girl who was cowering under the window. "It's all right now," she said gently. "He won't hurt you again." The girl turned her soft brown eyes on Scully, and climbed into her arms and cried. Scully stroked the heavy curtain of dark hair, and looked over her shoulder. Doggett had pulled the blanket off the bed and covered the body, and was standing immobile in the center of the room, studying the girl. "It's not her," he said in answer to his partner's unasked question. "It's not her." By the time the police and a family services team arrived Scully had the situation under control. Reporters, hungry as always for a story, were already on the scene, but she managed to get Doggett past them unnoticed. She put him in the passenger seat and started driving, not sure where to go. "You need to see a doctor," she said, glancing at the haunted face lolling against the headrest. "No doctors. I'm all right." "I'll take you home, then," she said. "My bike," he rasped. "I have to get my bike." She shook her head. "Not tonight you don't." He didn't reply, and she looked over to find that his eyes were closed. She kept one hand on the wheel and pressed the other to his neck, and some of the tension went out of her when she found it to be strong and steady. She parked in front of his rooming house and woke him. He refused her helping hand and pulled himself to his feet, only to stagger back against the car. "Come on," she said, draping his arm over her shoulder. He didn't resist this time and she managed to get him into the small lobby. But he was heavy, and they made a lot of noise as she struggled to get him up the stairs. "Hey, what's going on there?" a gruff voice called, and she stopped. "Special Agent Dana Scully," she said, "assisting a fellow agent." "Mr. Doggett?" Boris said. "What happened?" He trotted up the stairs beside her. "Let me help you." Together they hauled Doggett the up the five flights to his home, and laid him out on his bed. Boris recognized Scully and didn't bother her with questions, but neither did he retire. "He'll be all right," Scully said tightly. "I'm a doctor. Why don't you go back to bed?" she said, taking off her coat. Boris nodded. "Thank you for bringing him back. Olga was worried." Scully frowned. "About what?" "There was an armed robbery in our apartment the other day. Mr.Doggett risked his life for us. He could have been killed. Olga, my wife...she worries about him." "You just tell her everything's all right." Boris took the hint and started for the door. "Wait a minute," Scully called. "There's an all-night drug store near here." "The one on Ashton," he said, watching her scribble furiously on a small pad she took from her coat pocket. "Right. Can you get these items and bring them back right away?" He took the slip of paper she held out. "Of course. I'll be back in twenty minutes." As soon as he left she set to work. His medicine cabinet was empty of all but the most basic personal items, none of which would be of any help. She found a washcloth and a clean towel and filled a metal bowl with warm water, and set them on the nightstand. He was exhausted, but she managed to convince him to sit up so she could remove his jacket. It took longer to peel the blood-soaked shirt from his back, and it was all she could do to keep her face a neutral mask. "Sickening, isn't it," he said. She didn't trust herself to reply. "It's been almost twenty years since I saw that face," he said. "I never thought I'd see it again. Not here." Scully moistened the cloth and began to clean the welts on his back. "I sent Boris out for some antibiotics. He should be back soon." He closed his eyes and let her finish. Soon she spread the clean towel out and pressed him back against it, and proceeded to clean the injuries on his chest. He knocked her hand away at the first touch, but she wouldn't be put off. "Oh hell," he finally said, and lay quiet while she finished. Scully ran for the door as soon as the buzzer sounded, and took the bag from Boris with heartfelt thanks. He'd gotten everything she'd asked for and she uncapped the tube of antibiotic cream as she headed back to the bedroom. He was nearly asleep, but she rolled him onto his side and smeared a handful of the cream onto his back. "It's over, you bastard," he mumbled, and she let him fall back onto the towel. She watched him for a few minutes as his breathing settled into a regular rhythm and he sank into a deep sleep. His face no longer looked haunted; it was if a great weight had been lifted. She gently smeared more antibiotic over the stripes on his ribs and chest, and was startled to see a tear slide from the corner of his eye. "Miriam," he whispered, and Scully withdrew. She left a note on the nightstand, retrieved her coat, and left. *** The next morning Doggett was aching all over, but he felt remarkably buoyant. He found Scully's note, and realized that the greasy salve covering his torso was her doing. A shower helped, and he was thinking about breakfast when he heard the knock. He draped the towel over the ugly stripes on his shoulders and opened the door. Olga stood there with a basket and thermos. "Mr. Doggett, I'm so happy you are well." She thrust the basket and thermos at him awkwardly. "Boris told me what happened. I'm so sorry that helping us caused you so much trouble." He didn't know what Boris had said, and he saw no reason to correct her. When he took her offering and smiled, her entire face lit up. "Come in, Olga," he said, and the old woman shuffled past him. He lifted the cloth covering the basket and found a pile of steaming biscuits and a pot of homemade jam. "Just what I was thinking about," he said, inhaling the yeasty scent. "Sit down, and have breakfast with me." "You sit, Mr. Doggett. I can take care of things. After all, I've kept my Boris alive for all these years." She brought cups and plates butter knives, and set out the simple breakfast on the coffee table. Doggett reached for a steaming cup of strong sweet tea and the towel slipped from his shoulders. He quickly pulled the towel back around him. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, and went into the bedroom to find a shirt. "I never told you about Misha," her soft voice carried from the doorway. She took the shirt from his hand. "Let me see you," she said, examining his injuries with the professional detachment of a field medic. "He would be much older than you if he had lived," she said, reaching for the antibiotic on the nightstand. "He too thought nothing could touch him," she said, and he felt her bony hands smearing the salve onto his back. "But the past always catches up with us, eh? And sometimes trial by fire is the only way out." She held the tube up and he took it from her. "Come down for dinner some night," she said. "And bring your pretty friend with you." He stood there, stunned, as the old woman collected her still-dirty pot from his kitchen sink and left. *** "Skinner wants to see us both upstairs," Scully said as soon as Doggett crossed the threshold of the basement office. "He knows?" "As much as anybody else." Scully took a sip of her coffee and looked up at him. "Thanks," he said. "For backing me up. For last night." "It seems the man you attacked--the man I shot--was a wanted war criminal with a standing extradition orders from the State Department. There is going to be some explaining to do. How did you know?" How could he encapsulate the sum of the life experiences that had led up to that moment? How could he expect her to understand? "Just a hunch," he said. She looked at him for a long time then. He stood fast under her penetrating gaze, aware that he hadn't fooled her for a second. "You'll be interested to know that family services has removed the girl and the other children from the house. He'd been abusing them, as well as his wife, for years." "I'm glad," he said. He shifted uncomfortably in his clothes, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how long it would take for her to betray him. "She wasn't the one, was she," Scully said. He shook his head. "I never saw her before last night." Scully knew then he didn't have the answers Skinner was going to want to hear. But she wasn't going to enjoy his attempts at explanation. Like it or not, he was now part of an X-File himself. "Well, Skinner's waiting," she said. "You go on ahead. I'll be up in a minute." She nodded and left him alone, and he tried to recall the face of the young girl with the dark eyes who'd answered his call for absolution with a whip. Only a vague image remained, as insubstantial now as the hot sun of a day twenty years past. She was gone, and he suspected she wouldn't be back. But he would not forget the color of the yellow earth, or the sweet scent of cedar, or her screams. END.