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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.