One Little Indian
by Cadillac Red
Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner, et al belong to 1013 Productions and I and will make no money from their use.
Spoilers: Some references to X-files mythology episodes.
Setting: Late in the third season. Not a part of the Danville Universe.
Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash.
Author's Note: This was inspired by Xanthe's story "Tenses." I thought the idea that Mulder and Skinner had met before they worked at the FBI was intriguing and decided to see if I could come up with my own version of this scenario.
Summary: AD Skinner and Special Agent Mulder find being stuck in Maine brings back memories they'd both rather forget.
Bangor Airport
Bangor, Maine
Thursday evening
Special Agent Dana Scully stood alone at the window, looking out into a pea soup fog that enveloped the runways. It was impossible to see the air traffic control tower at the far end of the airport and the runway lights were barely visible on this end of the stretch that planes should be landing on. They faded off into oblivion about a few dozen feet out.
"We've been sitting here for hours, Scully," her partner grumbled, startling her from as he walked up from behind. "Every other potential passenger has gone off to find shelter somewhere. But as long as there's a ghost of a chance the plane might go, he wants to stay here. Because it would be a shame to charge the government an extra night's lodging unnecessarily."
Scully pressed her lips together in response. They'd been there to resolve a long open case and AD Skinner had come for the final meeting with the local authorities. The FBI was proud of the work they'd done to solve a decades old mystery and Skinner was sent, she was certain, to make sure it all ended on a high note. Mulder, in his usual way, had done outstanding work and still managed to piss off the locals in the law enforcement community as well as a highly respected member of the state government.
She could see Skinner sitting in the waiting area, his briefcase open on his lap. He had been working for the four hours they'd been waiting, stopping only to have a sandwich and a cup of coffee a couple of hours earlier.
"He does seem to be rather eager to get the heck out of Maine, doesn't he, Mulder?" she mused. "I wonder why. This case worked out perfectly, a gold star for the Bureau. You'd think we deserved a nice Maine lobster dinner at least--"
Mulder didn't respond. He'd gotten lost in thought at the beginning of her statement and hadn't heard the rest. He'd been surprised, and a little upended that Skinner had come to Maine himself. The Bureau Chief from the Bangor field office, or even one from Boston, would have sufficed. Neither of them exercised the same level of authority over Mulder as Skinner but he would have stepped back into line if either of them had appeared on site. Well, at least he would have stepped closer to the line.
"Mulder?" she called. "Are you listening to me?"
He shook off his reverie and turned back to her. "What did you say--" only to be interrupted by an announcement on the loudspeaker.
"May I have your attention, please. Due to heavy fog, the airport has been closed by authority of the FAA. No further flights will depart tonight. We're sorry for any inconvenience this may cause. . . ."
Mulder lost no time making his feelings known. "Well, that's just great! We wasted all this time and now we're staying overnight anyway," he griped. He quit immediately as he caught sight of AD Skinner approaching, hoping against hope that the man hadn't overheard his complaint.
"Well, that settles it. We're here for the night," Skinner said matter-of-factly. It was clear he was ignoring Mulder's outburst. "The woman at the desk just told me there's a motel about a mile and half east of here."
He kept walking toward the small airport's exit, expecting the two agents to follow. Which they did. There was one lone taxi left standing outside and they got in. Skinner asked for the Indian River Motor Lodge and they were there in less than five minutes.
But the harried desk clerk who greeted them had further bad news. There were only two rooms left, the passengers who'd fled the airport earlier had grabbed up all but those two. "One has two beds, though," he offered helpfully.
"Well, is there another motel nearby?" Mulder interrupted him impatiently.
"Not too close, no," the man answered truthfully. "But the others I've been in touch with are booked also. I could make some calls--"
"Yes, please do," Skinner said.
"That'd be fine," Mulder echoed at the same moment.
The clerk thought the request was a little strange given the hour but he began making phone calls immediately. Not another room was to be had within 20 miles, it seemed. He shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry. Don't know what else to tell you. One room with a queen-size bed. One room with two full-size beds." It seemed like a workable situation to the desk clerk.
There was a moment of silence, then Skinner spoke up. "That'll have to do then. Agent Scully will take the first one. And we'll take the second." He handed his credit card to the clerk and signed for both rooms. The man at the desk handed Scully her key, then gave Mulder and Skinner one each.
Their room was on the second floor, and Scully's was on the first so they parted at the lobby, with plans to meet at 7 a.m. Skinner and Mulder boarded the elevator and the AD stabbed at the number 2. The elevator jerked and slowly rose the one flight, sounding like the potential of actually reaching that destination was a toss-up. Their room was at the end of the hallway. Skinner opened the door and flipped on the light. He walked in and stopped between the two beds.
"Preference, Agent Mulder?" he asked. "Closer to the window, or the bathroom."
Mulder shrugged that it made no difference to him and Skinner dropped his bag and briefcase on the far bed. He took off his suit jacket and tie and hung them on the back of the desk chair. Then he made his way back to the bathroom and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Mulder sat down on the other bed and picked up the remote control for the television. He clicked the 'on' button several times but nothing happened.
"Oh, great," he muttered to himself, getting up to see if the Power button worked. It did and he sat on the end of the bed, pressing the channel button to see what was showing on what turned out to be three stations the set received clearly. There was an old movie on one, a rerun of Colombo on another and the weather on the third. Opting to listen to the weather, and hoping some news followed, he left that station on.
Skinner emerged from the bathroom in a couple of minutes and went to the other bed. Slipping off his shoes, he propped the one pillow against the headboard and sat back against it, stretching his long legs out on the bed. He picked up his briefcase and opened it again. Then he glanced over at his agent, still sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his trench coat.
"Planning to stay, Mulder?" he asked curiously.
"Well . . . um, I was thinking, I'm not very tired. And I don't want to keep you up. Maybe I could go down to the lobby and crash on a sofa or something."
Skinner eyed him warily. "I don't believe there was a sofa in that lobby, Agent," he said evenly. "I think there were two plastic chairs and a side table with literature about local tourist sites. A stool behind the desk. And a rec room off the lobby with video games and a Ping-Pong table."
Mulder winced at the comment. In fact, Skinner was dead right about the furniture in the lobby. And the layout. He knew it but he didn't think the AD would recall it so accurately.
"None of which looked comfortable enough to spend even a few minutes," he continued. "I think you'll be better off here. And you won't keep me up, believe me."
Mulder nodded. Spending the night with Skinner was about the last thing he wanted to do. He respected the man as a boss, most of the time. And he trusted him, often more than Scully did. But the two men had generally maintained their personal distance except when circumstances forced something different and Mulder had good reason to keep it that way. This was not a good idea.
"Maybe I should go down and check with the clerk again," he said as he stood up and headed toward the door. His voice was taut with stress. "Maybe another room opened up. Or he could try some other places a little farther away--"
"It's almost 10 o'clock, Mulder," Skinner said firmly. "We have to leave here by 7 a.m. We don't even have a car. And what's the point of spending half the night wandering around looking for another room? Just--"
"No, sir, I think it would be better--" he blurted out, then realized his voice was rising toward something that sounded like panic. "I mean, I think--"
"Fox," Skinner said in a tone that brought the younger agent up short. "Don't think. Just listen to me. Morning will be here before you know it. Go take a shower and then try to get some sleep, okay?"
Mulder hesitated for a moment, looking as though he were going to put up a fight. Or perhaps run for cover. Then his posture changed and he nodded silently. He pulled off his trench coat and threw it on the bed, grabbed his suitcase and stepped quickly into the bathroom. In a few seconds the shower was going and Skinner found himself staring at the closed door, remembering when he'd said almost the same words to a much younger Fox Mulder.
Camp Passamoquoddy, Maine
June 1974
Walter Skinner watched the crowd of kids and parents disembark from the yellow school bus that had brought them from town. Some had arrived in Perry by plane. Others came by car. All of the adults would spend a few hours, then be free of their sons for the rest of the summer, except for Visitor's weekend in late July.
He shook his head, remembering long, lazy summers during his childhood. Sleep away camp was something for rich kids, not the son of a small-town cop, whose family struggled from paycheck to paycheck. This would be a new and enlightening experience, he suspected.
"How ya doin', Walt?" Jesse Hillard asked, slapping him on the back. Jesse was Walter's college roommate and, as a veteran camp counselor, the one who'd talked him into this summer position. "Ready for the onslaught?"
"I think I can handle anything these kids can deliver," he laughed easily, glancing down at the clipboard in his hand. "I was just reviewing my list and it looks like I got one extra kid all of a sudden."
"Yeah, I've been meaning to tell you. We were booked solid but someone called a favor in and got Quince to add one kid at the last minute," Jesse said. "Not the usual policy but his father's somebody at the State Department or something. Kid with a funny name."
"Yeah, I have it here," Walter said, checking the clipboard again. Then he looked up and grinned. "Fox . . . Mulder. What were his parents thinking?"
He and Jesse laughed together easily. They'd roomed together at college for the past two years. Jess had graduated in May with his Phys. Ed. degree but Walter had another eighteen months to go. He had started late because of his tour in Vietnam and subsequent recovery from injuries received in action. So even though he'd maintained a heavy course load all along, he'd still finish a year or so behind Jesse.
Which was fine because he still hadn't declared a major, something which had become a necessity at this point. Walter had bounced from subject to subject, excelling at all of them, being wooed by several academic departments to choose a major in their area. But nothing relit the fire in his belly. It had been like that ever since he returned from 'Nam.
Walter preferred not to spend the summer in the small Iowa town where he'd grown up. His folks had been proud that he'd been admitted to the University at first. But now, with no career in mind, they were beginning to wonder if he was just wasting time and the money he'd gotten from college loans. It was a sore subject around the Skinner home and the reason Walter had not wanted to go home this year. The elder Skinner, a small town cop with great expectations of his only son, was not pleased about Walter's lack of direction.
So Jesse's offer of a counselor position at the camp he'd worked at for years seemed like a godsend. On the coast of Maine, Camp Passamaquoddy sounded like a great place to hang out for the season. And avoid the annual trip home and all the arguments it would bring.
"We didn't have an extra spot in any other group," Jesse told Walter as they began to walk toward the camp's meeting area. "And he belongs in your wigwam anyway, because of his age."
Walter gave his friend a sideways glance that signaled his lack of enthusiasm for all the cheesy Indian names and jargon he'd been inundated with in his two-day orientation. Named for the local Indian tribe, the camp was a tasteless tribute to every American Indian-related cliche imaginable.
"Well, don't worry about it, Jess," he said lightly. "How much trouble could one more kid be?"
By the end of the day, he'd gotten the first fourteen kids settled in their cabin, the "Algonquin wigwam," as the staff and kids referred to it. Skinner considered telling Quince, the camp's director, that the Algonquin actually lived in long houses but thought better of it. Many of the Indian names used throughout the camp were derived from Plains tribes so historical accuracy was not a driving force here.
The last minute addition to his cabin, he couldn't manage to choke out the word 'wigwam,' had not yet arrived. Since the decision to send young Fox to camp had been a last minute one, all the details had not been finalized until it was too late to get him there on time. He would arrive late the following day. Walter hoped they'd find an extra bed by then because right now, the kid would be sleeping on the floor of a cabin designed to house twelve kids comfortably, fourteen max. There was an extra bed in his room at the front of the cabin but he'd be damned if he was sharing it with one of these kids. He was already expected to eat every meal and spend all of his days with them. He was definitely sleeping alone.
By the next afternoon, he'd gotten to know the names of all 14 of his kids, with the exception of two. One was Billy and one was Bobby and he was hard pressed to tell which one was which. The group had chosen its 'Chief,' a kid named Thomas who'd been attending this camp since he was eight years old. He had the political schtick down. The 'Medicine Man" headdress for their wigwam went to Thomas' best friend, a short, pudgy kid named Ian.
They'd gone on a hike, and taken canoes out on the lake in the afternoon. Now the boys were at dinner in the dining hall, and Skinner, to his great relief, was happily eating a hamburger and drinking a leisurely beer at the Bangor airport. Alone and in peace. He'd been dispatched to pick up the final kid from the local airport and had been grateful for the opportunity to get away from the noise and chaos of the last day and a half. Somehow he'd imagined a summer in the woods of Maine would be pastoral and bucolic. He'd failed to factor nearly 200 boys and a couple of dozen camp counselors into his vision.
The kid was arriving on the last plane from Boston. Alone. Someone had taken him to the airport in Martha's Vineyard, where he was from, and put him on a puddle jumper to Boston. Where he was escorted to a plane to Bangor. Now Walter had been commissioned to meet him and drive him the several hours back to the camp. Unlike the other kids, this kid's parents hadn't felt the need to see where he would spend the summer, or with whom, the young man mused. Or to get him there on time. It was odd, that's for sure.
The plane landed and Walter finished his beer and paid the bartender for the drink and the burger. Then he strolled over to the door and out to the tarmac where the small prop plane had pulled up. A couple of businessmen came off first, obviously anxious to be getting home from wherever their jobs had taken them. Then a family of six disembarked, followed by an older couple and a couple of women who looked like sisters. They were all heading for vacation homes, he guessed. Finally, an airline employee appeared, trailed by a sullen, silent, clearly unhappy teenager.
"Oh, brother," Skinner breathed as the woman scanned the waiting crowd. It was just him and a little old lady. She guessed right and marched right up to him.
"I believe you're here to pick up . . . him," she said, not bothering to ask for identification. "He's all yours." She took off like a bat out of hell, leaving him with the stone-faced boy.
Walter watched her flee then turned to the boy and put out his right hand. "You must be Fox Mulder," he said. "I'm Walter Skinner. Nice to meet you."
The boy stared at him for a second, then spoke. "Look. I don't want to be here, okay? I didn't want to come to this freakin' camp. I didn't want to come to freakin' Maine. And I'm not interested in meeting anyone at Camp Piss-on-my-quoddy. If it was up to me, I'd be home right now."
Walter appraised him, taking in the posture, language and accent. They didn't fit with his expectation of some State Department big-shot's kid, even the accent was wrong for someone raised in Massachusetts. He catalogued all of that information, then turned and headed for the airport exit. "If it was up to me, you'd be home, too," he called back over his shoulder.
He strode out to the van he'd driven down to Bangor. It was parked in the first spot in the lot and he unlocked the door and got in. He turned the engine on and sneaked a look at his watch. It had been almost 60 seconds. He put the van into reverse and pulled slowly out of the spot.
"Hey! HEY!" the kid yelled from the sidewalk outside the terminal. He was out of breath from lugging his large duffel bag and he continued out into the parking lot, dragging it behind him. "What the hell are you doing?"
Walter pulled the van to a stop and reached over to crank down the window on the passenger side. "What's up?" he asked lightly.
"Well, you're-- you're supposed to be driving me to Camp Piss-on. . . . I mean the camp, aren't you?" the boy asked, still trying to maintain a brave front but failing miserably.
"I don't plan to spend two hours in this van with anyone with your attitude, kid, so I think you're on your own," Walter replied.
The boy was upended by his response and he bit down on his lower lip to keep it from quivering. "But I-- I. There isn't another plane tonight. . . . And I don't have a t-ticket anyway," he stammered, trying to think of a way out of the corner he'd painted himself into. "You can't just leave me here!"
"I bet I can. Watch me." Walter put the van back in gear and let it roll forward a little.
"No!" the kid yelled frantically. "I don't-- I don't . . . I don't have anywhere else to go!"
Despite his Herculean attempt to keep up his act, the boy's body began to shake and he sobbed once before clamping down even harder on his lower lip. "Pl--please. . . "
Walter's heart went out to the kid despite everything. "Okay, that's the magic word," he said quietly. "Throw your bag in the back and get in."
The boy nodded and did as instructed. Walter sighed deeply in the dark confines of the car while he waited. He'd already begun to suspect this summer would not turn out to be anything like he expected. Now he was certain. One 13-year-old boy named Fox Mulder was likely to be the deciding factor.
They'd driven in near silence for an hour until Walter realized the boy was starving. He was a skinny kid but the counselor hadn't thought to ask. Now, however, it was hard to miss the sound of the boy's stomach growling in the radio-free van.
"Did you eat anything?" Walter asked him.
The boy shook his head.
"Why didn't you say something?" he asked exasperatedly. "There was food back at the airport--"
"You didn't give me a chance at the airport," the kid retorted snidely. "Remember?"
Walter bit back his response. A part of him knew the boy was right. But that part of him wasn't good at admitting when he'd made a mistake. He shook his head impatiently and pulled off the highway at the next exit. There was an all-night service station with vending machines. That would have to do. Fox sat in the passenger seat, not moving.
"Well? This not good enough for your sophisticated tastes or something?" the counselor asked him finally.
"I'm okay," the kid spat back at him. "Keep driving."
Walter turned to look at him, silently counting to ten, trying to avoid blowing up at the infuriating adolescent in the passenger seat. But the kid looked smaller, and less sure of himself with each passing second. He stared out the side window and the man wasn't completely certain but he thought he saw a small tear slide down his face in the reflection in the dark glass.
"Come on, kid," he persisted a little more calmly. "We're here. Go get something to eat."
The boy shook his head again and folded his arms tightly over his ribs.
"We've still got a long way to go--"
"I don't have any money, okay!" the kid shouted suddenly, turning on him. "Just . . . just drive, all right?"
Walter blinked in surprise, then he began to laugh. "You don't have any money?" he asked with a short laugh. He got out of the car, slamming the door behind him and storming off toward the station building. "Great! So now I've gotta spend my money feeding some rich kid. Just perfect."
He pulled out a handful of change and got two cokes and a selection of junk food from the other machine. Pretzels. Chips. A couple of candy bars. A package of cookies. That's all they had to offer so he settled for it and headed back to the van.
"Here," he said as he dropped the stuff on the bench seat between them. "You can pay me when your parents send your allowance."
The boy stared at him, looking like he thought men from Mars might land sooner but he reached out and took one of the bags of pretzels. They finished the drive back to Perry in tense silence and Walter was dismayed to reach their cabin and find there was no extra bed in the main room. Pete, the camp's assistant director, was sitting on the front steps of the Algonquin cabin and he stayed long enough to inform Skinner they hadn't found an extra bed yet.
"But don't worry," he said. "One of the little guys will get home-sick and check out any time now. That'll free up a bed." He turned to Fox. "How. A big Indian welcome to Camp Passamaquoddy." Then he wished them both a good night and went off to the private house the senior staff members occupied.
"How?" the boy repeated after Pete had walked off into the dark. "Is he kidding?"
Skinner sighed. "Unfortunately . . . no." He opened the door to the cabin and ushered the boy in quietly. "There's an extra bed in my room. You'll have to crash there tonight. But tomorrow, we're finding another bed, if I have to scare the daylights out of one of those little kids myself!"
The next few days passed slowly for both of them. No extra bed became available and by day two, Walter helped the kid move the extra bunk out of his bedroom and into the main room. It didn't fit easily anywhere, and the fact it blocked access to the bathroom didn't make the other fourteen boys happy. Or Fox, who had other kids bumping their shins on his bunk all night long as they stumbled toward the head in the dark. The boy's winning personality had failed to impress a single other member of the 'tribe' and the complication with the bed was just the icing on a not very appealing cake.
Jesse sat down next to Walter, plopping his tray on the table loudly. "Are we having fun yet?"
Walter stared at him morosely. "You got a death wish or something? This has been the worst week of my life. And I've been through boot camp and Vietnam."
Jesse sighed. He'd been expecting that answer. "Well, it's funny you say that. 'Cause Quince asked me to see what's wrong. Your kids . . . don't seem to be getting along. They're late for everything. And that one kid, Fox, you can't even find him most of the time."
Walter listened impassively. At some level, he agreed with that assessment. He was doing a piss-poor job with these kids. He had the largest group, one more kid than the cabin could comfortably hold. He had the most difficult age group, in his opinion. And he had Fox Mulder. Tracking that kid alone was taking up half of his time.
But another part of him rebelled against failure. It wasn't in his nature and he'd had very little experience with it, thank God. Walter didn't know for sure that he wanted to stay at the camp. But he was certain he didn't want to go back to Iowa, where he had no job lined up and would have to deal with his folks. "So what's Quince want you to do?"
"Well, he wants me to see if you're gonna be able to handle it. Or . . . if you'd prefer to be released," Jesse said quietly.
"Can somebody explain to me how I'm supposed to make the other kids like the Mulder kid?" he asked angrily. "I don't like him much myself. Or how I'm supposed to keep an eye on 15 kids, more than anyone else, when one of them wanders off at the drop of a hat?"
"I hear you, man," Jesse replied. "I can see he's not . . . fitting in. What's his problem anyway?"
"I don't know," Walter answered. "He doesn't talk, except to cause trouble. He hasn't willingly joined in one activity. And he's pissed off everyone else in the cabin."
"Wigwam," Jesse corrected him. "You gotta start looking like you're with the program, Walt. That's another one of Quince's hot buttons. Maybe we can get your kids to organize the camp pow-wow this weekend. Give them something to work on together and build some tribal spirit--"
His friend winced. "This isn't gonna involve dressing up in costumes, is it, Jesse?" he asked slowly, afraid of the answer.
Jesse slapped him on the back and gave him a wicked grin. "Don't worry about it, Walt," he said as he dove into the hamburger on his plate. "You'd make a great wooden Indian."
And Jesse had been right about organizing the pow-wow. Once Walter had a goal, he was able to organize the kids and get it done. And it did build some team spirit in the group. With the exception of the Mulder kid. He was still wandering off on his own whenever Walter took his eye off him. And he had a penchant for causing trouble.
"I think there's a bear in the kitchen," he announced as he entered the dining hall one evening. "I just saw him go in the back door!"
The smaller boys began screaming and started running for the exits. The panic grew as word was passed along throughout the room. Food trays were dropped on the floor and one counselor ran out yelling he'd 'call the park rangers! Or the state police!'
Pete, the camp's Assistant Director, headed for the exit, too. He and dozens of kids were now wildly passing Fox, standing in the middle of the chaos, an innocent look on his face.
"I've got a shotgun back at the house," Pete called. "I'll get it!"
Walter and Jesse exchanged confused glances. Then Walter grabbed a plate of food off the table and moved quietly toward the door to the kitchen to see what was there. The kitchen staff had not come running out that way, which seemed odd if there was a bear in their midst.
Jesse was behind him. "What do you see, Walt?"
"Nothing so far," he answered, carefully pushing the swinging door open. Everything in the kitchen looked normal, people were working, food was cooking on the range. And in the midst of the kitchen stood the camp director, Quince, wearing a brown poncho. His longish hair was hanging loose, not in its usual pony tail. He noticed the two young counselors peeking into the kitchen. "What's wrong?" he asked curiously.
Walter put the plate of food on a counter in the kitchen and stood there, holding the swinging door open. He looked back into the dining area and crooked his finger at Fox. "Come here," he said.
The boy walked right over, not the least bit concerned about the possibility of confronting a bear.
"Is that what you saw?" Walter asked him evenly.
Fox looked into the kitchen. "Oh. Yeah, I guess that's what it was all right. He kind of looks like a bear, don't you think?"
The boy had been restricted to the cabin for the next three evenings after that fiasco, something Walter knew would do nothing to help him start to fit in with the rest of the kids. He made a point of checking up on him the first night, about an hour after supper. The other kids had gone for a movie night at the neighboring girls camp but Fox was left behind because he was being punished. And Walter used that excuse to avoid the trip himself.
He'd had a quiet meal in the dining room with the camp's nurse and the sports director who'd also elected to stay behind. It was just cold sandwiches, because the kitchen staff had been given the evening off. And, Walter surmised, the nurse and the sports guy were having an affair so he excused himself early and took a quiet walk. Then he decided to see if his most troublesome 'Indian' was where he was supposed to be.
It was a clear, bright night and there was virtually no sound in the camp or the surrounding woods. He stopped outside the cabin to enjoy the moment, until the sound of someone crying pierced his silent reverie. Coming through the window of the cabin.
Walter opened the door quietly and found the main room dark. The only one present was Fox, lying in his bed. He was facing away from the door but the counselor could make out his form and see his body heaving with sobs. He approached the bed and reached down, laying a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked and the boy startled mightily.
"N-nothing," he said, quickly running an arm over his face. He remained on his side, facing away from the man. But his voice with soggy with tears he was stuffed up so it was impossible to hide the fact he'd been crying.
Walter squatted next to the bed. "Something must be wrong," he began, only to be cut off by the kid.
"Nothing's wrong! Just leave me-- just leave me alone. Please! I just want to be left alone!" The boy jumped out of the other side of the bed and ran into the bathroom.
Walter didn't want to follow him so he just sat down on another bed and waited the boy out. It took almost 20 minutes but he eventually made his way back into the room, a look of terror crossing his face when he saw the counselor was still there. Walter had turned on the light in the entryway so the room was dimly lit now.
"If you're here for your money. . . I still don't have it," Fox said quietly, sitting back down on his bed with his back to the man.
Walter was surprised. He'd seen the kid had finally gotten a letter from his parents and assumed they'd sent him his allowance, as the other kids' parents did regularly. But he said nothing.
"I called my Mom and asked her to send some but she . . . forgets a lot of stuff now. I'll call again--"
"Don't worry about it, kid," Walter said. "I don't need you to pay me back for the pretzels and soda. If that's what you were worried about, forget it, okay?"
The boy nodded but remained silent.
"That can't be what you're so upset about though," Walter continued, already regretting that he felt the need to push this. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in this kid's problems. He had enough of his own. "I don't know if I can help but--"
"You can't help!" the kid burst out suddenly. "No one can help! And coming to this stupid camp isn't gonna help either."
"Help what?"
The child crossed his arms over his chest as if he were cold even though it was a warm summer night. He shook his head, refusing to answer the question about what he might need or want help with.
Walter recognized he'd heard all he was going to hear. And at one level of his psyche, he knew he didn't want to hear more. "Okay, then. I'm here if you change your mind." He sighed and looked at his watch. The rest of the camp wouldn't return for another hour and half. "I don't know about you, kid," he said, "but those bins of ice cream in the kitchen are calling my name. . . "
The boy gave him the first smile he'd seen since they met. It was shy and tentative but it could be counted as a smile. "Well. . . I'm not supposed to leave the cabin, 'cuz I'm being punished."
Walter nodded solemnly. "I know," he said. "And if you don't tell anyone, I promise I won't." That won him a high-wattage smile that made him think there was a regular kid buried in there somewhere. Fox leapt off the bed and headed for the door.
A few minutes later the two of them were eating big bowls of chocolate ice cream in companionable silence in the large dining hall. Neither spoke but that suited the moment. Walter suspected the boy was as solitary in his way as he was and that gave him a shaft of insight into the kid's personality. But he also suspected there were layers of problems and emotions that he couldn't unravel and didn't want to. He had enough problems of his own.
On the way back to the cabin, he tried to make a deal with the boy. "I can see you're not crazy about all this Indian stuff, Fox," he said quietly. "And frankly, neither am I. But--"
"This stuff is so lame," the young answered. "I mean none of it's even remotely accurate. The local Indian population didn't live in wig-wams or teepees. And--"
"I know!" the young counselor laughed. "Don't get me started about how many names come from Plains tribes that were never within a thousand miles of here. But we can't change it. And nobody else cares that it's 'lame,' as you say. So let's just agree that we'll know it's historically inaccurate and deeply cliched, and keep it to ourselves, okay?"
Fox gave him a sour look but Walter pressed.
"Sometimes it's better to just go along, kid," he told the boy sincerely. "And bide your time until you have the opportunity to change things. But hopefully, neither of us will be here long enough for that to happen! Save your ammo for things that matter."
The boy grimaced but he recognized a helping hand when it was offered. Walter suspected he had been trying to find a way out of the hole he'd dug himself and maybe this evening would prove to be his first step up. They returned to the cabin and played card games for about an hour until the rest of the group arrived. The other kids told Walter about the movie they'd seen and he tried his best to get Fox included in the conversation. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
By the next day, though, he was back to wondering what made Fox Mulder tick. The boy made no effort to try to connect with any of the other kids. Instead, he seemed to have attached himself bodily to the young counselor's side. Walter was shocked at how little attention it had taken to win him over. He began to wonder if the kid was sadly neglected the rest of the time.
Fox developed a case of hero worship that Walter found embarrassing. If they took out the canoes, Fox was there at his side. When they went hiking, the boy hung back to walk with him. At breakfast, lunch and dinner, he found the kid at whatever table Walter chose, eating the same things.
He was a bright boy and, in fact, they seemed to have a lot of common interests. But at 22, Walter was not especially interested in developing a close, personal relationship with a 13-year-old. And certainly not one as complicated and trying as this kid.
"You seem to have grown a new appendage," Jesse told him at dinner a few nights later while Fox went to get a second helping of meat loaf.
"Yes, and it's driving me nuts. First I couldn't find him half the time. Now I'm tripping over him all day long."
"Well, for what it's worth, Quince thinks you've 'gotten with the program,' Walt," Jesse told him. "And he's happy that the kid's fitting in, too. I think Quince made some promises to someone that this would work out. Someone important. Just keep it up."
"Well, Jess, if it requires having Fox Mulder surgically attached to my hip, I'm not sure I want to be part of the program," he sighed. "How do I get him to start relating to the other kids?"
"I don't know. Why don't you try asking your "Chief" to get him involved in more group activities? That'll make Thomas feel important."
Walter thought Thomas already felt a little too important, but kids were not his specialty. So he gave it some thought and looked for an opportunity to enlist Thomas' assistance. It came in the form of "Games Day." It was an annual event in which three area boys' camps participated and this year Camp Passamaquoddy was hosting it.
Walter had noticed Fox was a gifted athlete and he passed the word along to Thomas and the other Chiefs when they were planning their strategy for winning this year. "Fox would help assure a win," he told the committee. "He's an excellent swimmer. And he's great at baseball. And I think he excels at all the track and field stuff, too. You should get him involved in the athletic competitions."
He could see the kids' eyes light up at the thought, although Thomas hung back a little. He knew Fox well and was personally competitive with the other kid. But the group will won out and they elected Thomas to bring Fox into the loop. Walter was pleased when Thomas asked him. He saw Fox look at him for approval and he nodded slightly, indicating he thought it was a good idea. Fox agreed and dove in with both feet in the practice sessions.
For the first time in weeks, the counselor found himself with a little private time. It was enough time to take out a counselor from the girls' camp next door a few times. Sharon Hartwell was a pretty brunette, only a couple of years younger than Walter. She hailed from a ritzy suburb of Philadelphia and had summered in Maine, first at her family's country place, then at the neighboring girl's camp named "Pocahontas". This year she'd returned once more to spend a final summer before entering her senior year in college and then embarking on her adult life.
They went to the movies in the local town first, then had fried clams and a couple of beers at a local clam bar. It had been a fun, carefree evening and Walter was pleased with how well it had gone. He'd wondered if he was a little out of his league with Sharon but her easy smile and caring nature got him over that hurdle fast. And once they'd begun to really talk, they went on for hours. At just past midnight he was driving her back to her camp when she spotted a clearing near the lake.
"Oh, Walter! Stop, please," she said suddenly.
"What's wrong?" he asked, hitting the brakes and started to pull the car over. He'd borrowed it from Jesse and the brakes were iffy at best. They coasted to a stop.
"Nothing's wrong," she said shyly. "It's just this is . . . this is the 'Make Out Lake' . . ."
He chuckled. "I thought it was "Moccasin Lake.'"
"No. That's what they want you to believe but . . . ." She giggled in a way that made him grin. "I always said I wanted to come to "Make Out Lake" with the boy I'm going to marry. . . . I've never stopped here before."
Walter was shocked and a dumbfounded by her statement. He blushed so furiously, he was glad it was dark in the car. "I-I-That's . . . ," he stammered. "I don't know what to say. . . . "
"Don't say anything," she said, grabbing his hand. "Just take a walk with me by the lake. Then . . . we'll see, okay?"
They walked hand in hand for about an hour, stopping to kiss and explore each other's bodies. The heat between them was breathtaking but Walter worked hard to keep his head. He suspected he really could love this girl. Could marry her. And that required a certain level of respect and a bit of time, to create a strong foundation for their relationship. She, on the other hand, seemed to have come to a quick and definite decision, something that was not in Walter's nature. He guided her to a log by the lakeside and they sat down. She moved naturally into the circle of his arms and laid her head on his shoulder.
"I'm so glad you asked me out," she said suddenly. "I kept asking Meg to ask Jesse if you had noticed me . . . ."
"Really?" he asked, smiling. "I wondered why Jesse kept bringing you up. I thought it was 'cause he could see I wanted to get to know you better."
In the woods not far away, Fox Mulder stood behind a tree, listening to their conversation. He'd had a fight with Thomas, the Algonquin wigwam's 'chief.' They'd nearly come to blows earlier in the evening and unfortunately, when one of the counselors walked in, it was Fox who appeared to be threatening Thomas. And no one came to Fox's defense, despite the fact several other boys had witnessed Thomas egging him on, taunting him. Mr. Quince hadn't listened to Fox's side of it, had merely sentenced him once again to confinement to his cabin. And loss of privileges.
But this time his punishment would keep him from participating in Games Day. And after all the practices, and training with Walter, he'd been looking forward to it. He'd even begun to think if he did well, it would make the counselor proud of him. Fox couldn't quite articulate, even to himself, how important it was for someone to be proud of him. No one else was, that's for sure.
So when Pete, the camp's assistant director escorted him back to his cabin, and Thomas and the others were there to witness his humiliation, Fox lost control and stormed out of the cabin. Walter was off-duty and wouldn't be back until later. And Fox needed to talk to him desperately. In the boy's mind, the counselor was the only one who could help him figure out how to make it right, how to fix the mess he'd gotten himself into.
So Fox had taken a long walk in the woods, circled Moccasin Lake twice and then returned to the camp to see if Walter had returned. When he didn't spot the car, he headed back into the woods before any of the others spotted him. He'd known they were looking for him, and that they'd sent a search party into the woods. But the boy hadn't had any trouble eluding them. Walter was the only one he wanted to speak to. The only one he could talk to.
Finally he'd noticed the car by the side of the road a ways back, then tracked the path the two counselors had taken until he found them. But it didn't look like they wanted to be disturbed from what Fox could see. Between the kissing and the talking, it didn't look like he'd be welcome at the moment. But he needed to talk to Walter. Walter was the only person in the world who was his real friend, who seemed to like him despite . . . everything. So he sat down to watch. And wait.
Walter and Sharon laughed together easily about something Fox had missed.
"Well, I wasn't certain you'd be able to get away from the camp. Or your shadow. That one kid is just attached to you, isn't he?"
"Fox. Yeah," Skinner sighed in frustration. "I told Jesse it feels like I've developed a boil. And I need to figure out how to get it lanced . . . "
Sharon giggled and whispered something and he laughed in response.
Behind them, in the woods, Fox stood motionless, feeling as though his legs might go out from under him at any moment. He was barely breathing, but not conscious of the fact until the need to gasp for oxygen pressed itself on him. And when he did, he sobbed involuntarily and realized with a start that his face was wet with tears. He shook off the feeling of hurt and betrayal and turned, running blindly back into the woods, away from the camp, and the road. And most of all, away from Walter Skinner.
"What was that?" Walter asked Sharon suddenly.
"What?"
"Sounded like a small animal or something," Walter replied, peering into the woods behind them.
"What's a baby animal doing up at this hour?" Sharon asked lightly.
"I don't know," he chuckled. "But let's get going anyway. Last thing I need is something else to take care of!"
He dropped her off with a promise to see her again at the weekend. Then he returned to Camp Passamaquoddy, feeling relaxed and pleased with his life. Until Jesse met him as soon as he turned off the car.
"The Mulder kid's gone," he said urgently. "Been gone for hours. We've had searchers in the woods but-"
"What?" Walter blurted through the open window. "What do you mean 'gone,' Jess?"
Jesse covered the situation as best he could as Walter got out of the car and they headed for the main building. The search operation was headquartered there.
"The local sheriff's keeping an eye out in all the local towns," Jesse explained. "We've notified the bus stations and the railroad stations within twenty miles. Tomorrow, if we haven't found him, they'll get a crew out here and start dredging the lake-"
Skinner stopped cold. He'd assumed Fox had run away, he was an incorrigible escape artist. He hadn't considered that something might have happened to the kid. Now his blood ran cold as he entered the main cabin and saw the members of the local sheriff's department and the Forestry Service there.
"He's been gone for four hours now," Quince was saying. "It's not cold in the woods tonight but all kinds of things could happen to him-"
"He's a good hiker," Walter interrupted. "Good tracking skills. And a very strong swimmer for a kid his age."
"Well, that'll all help him," the Forest Ranger said. "We can't do much more until it's light anyway. We should plan to meet again at dawn."
"Have his parents been notified yet?" the local Sheriff asked Quince.
Quince looked stricken. "No. We haven't called them yet. I wanted to . . . know what we were dealing with before I called. Let's give it till morning, then we'll reassess."
Walter and Jesse exchanged a curious look and the Sheriff spoke up and advised the Camp director that he ought not wait but Quince seemed certain he didn't want to make the call yet.
Jesse and Walter headed out of the cabin to go back to their own soon thereafter.
"I'm going after him," Walter said firmly as they paused in front of the Algonquin Wigwam. "Can you get someone else to stay with my kids? I have to go now."
"What can you do now, Walter? It'll be light in five hours, we'll all go then-"
"No. I've been in the woods with Fox. I know how he thinks. And I know he won't . . . use the best judgment if he's emotionally overwrought, Jess. And that little incident you described would probably push him over the edge. He was really looking forward to Games Day-"
"But we can all go in the morning-"
"By then, something could have happened to him-"
"Quince will be mad-"
"Only if I don't find him. And frankly, I don't care anyway. That little kid's my responsibility and I'm going," Walter concluded, grasping the handle on the cabin door. He turned back briefly. "I'll try to meet up with you tomorrow morning if I don't find him first."
He set out a few minutes later with a backpack he'd loaded with some food and water and first aid supplies. With Fox, it was hard to know what might be needed. He started out in the direction they'd often hiked, toward Moccasin Lake. About halfway around, he found a place where Fox must have spent some time. There were gum wrappers on the ground and a place had been cleared to sit. In the bright moonlight, the young counselor could make out that the boy had run back in the direction of the camp but then the trail moved off to circle the lake in the other direction. Shaking his head, Walter followed the trail he thought Fox might have taken.
After a while, though, it looked like he'd veered off the regular hiking trail, setting out into the deeper woods. Walter was perplexed about why he might do something like that until he thought about the main highway. Fox would probably know it was in that direction. But the man knew it was probably a good ten miles through thick woods. If Fox thought he could traverse that distance easily, and without getting off track, he would find himself sadly mistaken. He'd likely get turned around and off course as any inexperienced hiker would.
Walter sighed loudly, trying to decide whether to try to follow his trail, or go back and lead the search party here tomorrow. But his concern for the boy outweighed common sense and he set off after him. He tied a bandage to a tree where he left the trail, for the others to find in the morning. He moved fast, trying to make up time, reasoning that the boy would be more tentative and not make as much progress as the older, bigger counselor.
About an hour into the woods, Walter came to a chain-link fence. It was old and rusted and its wire top had been left unfinished and standing straight up to discourage anyone from trying to climb it. But it had fresh signs posted every thirty feet. "Danger. Property of the U.S. Government. No Admittance Under Any Circumstances. Violators will be Prosecuted."
Walter stopped cold. "Now what?" he muttered, checking the ground to see if there were any tracks to indicate which way the boy had gone. Had he doubled back? Gone left or right to circle the federal facility? Walter decided to move to the right to see if he could pick up a trail. About fifty feet down, he noticed a piece of blue denim stuck on top of the fence. Obviously Fox had not been discouraged by the signs or the fence.
Walter fingered it and found it was wet with blood. His heart lurched, wondering how badly the boy had injured himself and he flung his backpack over the fence and swiftly followed it, being careful not to get caught on the open top of the fencing as Fox must have done. He picked up the backpack and began to look around.
The entire facility was deserted. And seemed like it had been deserted for some time, which made Walter wonder about the new signs. There were no cars or trucks and no people anywhere. He began searching the premises. There was a large building where it appeared scientists apparently worked. There were long aluminum tables with petrii dishes and jars and some equipment the young man didn't recognize. He worked his way through that building, then having found no sign of Fox, moved on.
The next building looked like office space and he quickly cleared that one off the list. The lights in that building didn't work and he didn't think the boy would find it a place he'd want to stay.
The next one also had no working lights but the bright moonlight lit the main room he entered because the building had lots of windows. It seemed to be some kind of living area, with tables and couches and chairs. There was a Ping-Pong table with a ball and paddles still lying on top. And a television at the far end of the room. Walter continued through the building, finding one sleeping room after another. In the fifth one he found the object of his search. Sound asleep. He had pushed one of the beds over to the window and covered himself up so well Walter almost missed him. But the sound of his breathing in the dark silence drew the young man's attention.
Walter checked him out quickly and saw his hand was bandaged with some cotton cloth he'd found somewhere. It didn't appear to still be bleeding.
He debated about whether to let Fox sleep a little more but he knew he had to get him back to the camp and call off the major search that would be unleashed in the morning. Not to mention, the calls that would go to the boy's parents and worry them sick. He reached down and shook Fox as gently as he could.
"Wh-what? What?" Fox came to full alert, backing further into the corner of the bed, his back up against the wall.
"It's okay, Fox," Walter told him soothingly. "It's okay. You're okay. It's just me."
Fox's eyes darted around for a moment until he realized it was the counselor. His face reflected relief for a split second until he remembered why he'd run away to begin with. "Leave me alone!" he shouted, jumping up. "I don't-How did you find me anyway?"
Walter was stunned by his reaction. The boy he'd left behind earlier had become his personal shadow. Now Fox resembled the alienated wildcat he'd been when he first came to the camp.
"What's wrong, Fo-" Walter asked him, reaching a hand out to touch the boy's shoulder in an attempt to calm him.
But Fox slapped his hand away, his eyes darting around the dark room as he fought to get his bearings. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" he bellowed before taking off like a bat out of hell.
"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Walter muttered, dropping his backpack on the bed and running after him. "Fox! Get back here!"
But the boy had a head start and Walter came to a stop when he realized he'd lost him, hoping to hear some noise that would help him pinpoint Fox's location. But the kid was obviously hiding and being careful not to make any sound. Because he didn't want to be found. Walter shook his head, confused and annoyed by the change in this kid's behavior.
"Fox! Where are you?" he called out, losing patience. "Quit the crap and get out here!"
No sound returned and Walter heaved a frustrated sigh. He noisily headed back to the room where he'd found the boy. He waited there a moment, then snuck out the other way and went out a side door he'd spotted earlier. He went around to the front entrance and leaned on a pillar to the side of the entranceway.
In a minute, the door opened quietly and Fox crept out. He was busy looking over his shoulder, back into the building so it startled him mightily when a large hand reached out and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"Hey!" he shouted, turning around quickly. All color went out of his face when he saw who it was. "Let me go!"
"I don't think so," Walter told him, opening the door and marching him back into the building. He directed the boy toward the day room he'd seen earlier.
"Let me go, I said! You c-can't-You can't make me go with you if I don't want to! AND I DON'T WANT TO!" Suddenly Fox kicked him in the shin and Walter bent over in pain, grabbing the abused appendage.
"Ow! What the-" he began, then realized he'd loosened his hold on the boy when Fox twisted away from him and headed back toward the front door. He put the pain in his leg aside and ran after the boy at full speed, catching up with him just as he was opening the door again. Walter slammed it shut and grabbed him again. This time he shook the boy to make sure he got his attention.
"WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU?" he yelled, holding the kid at arm's length. It was a good thing because Fox began trying to kick him again. "STOP THAT!"
"NO!" Fox shouted back angrily. "Why did you come here? Why did you follow me? I don't want-I HATE YOU! I HATE EVERYBODY!"
Walter was stunned by his assertion. He grabbed the boy around his mid-section and carried him over to a chair in the corner of the room. It was an overstuffed, upholstered thing in a hideous green fabric and he plopped the boy into it and blocked him from getting up.
"I HATE YOU!" Fox yelled into his face.
"I HEARD THAT!" Walter responded in kind. Then he let out a deep breath and purposely reduced the volume of his voice. "I heard you the first time, Fox. Now tell me why-"
The boy's eyes blinked at the sudden change in tone and Walter saw them well up. "I-I don't have to tell you anything. I hate-"
"I know. You hate me. You want to tell me why? I thought we were friends-"
"YOU DID NOT!" Fox shouted, trying to stand up again. He was startled when the counselor put a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back into the chair. "You d-did not! You were just pretending! You d-don't l-like me either." He scrunched his face up, trying to ward off the tears that were beginning to brim over.
"That's not true-"
"It is true! I h-heard you! You said . . . ." Fox bit down on his lower lip, not willing to chance the emotional storm that was barely being held back.
"What did you hear?" Walter asked him curiously.
The boy looked away from him, trying to get a grip on his emotions. "You said . . . you want to have me 'surgically removed.' L-like 'a boil.' I h-heard . . . "
Walter was shocked and ashamed to hear the words he'd said to Sharon repeated. He hadn't meant them seriously. How could Fox know? He had run away while Walter was out with Sharon. Suddenly he remembered the noise in the woods near the lake.
"You were eavesdropping? On me and Sharon," he said accusatorily, embarrassed at having been overheard.
"I-I j-just wanted to talk to y-you," the boy said tearfully. Then he shook it off and grew angry again. "So I know. I know you were pretending! You don't really care about me. . . . You wish I wasn't here, too. I-Nobody cares about me!"
"That's not true," Walter began. "The entire camp is worried about you. They have a search party-"
"That's just 'cause they'll hafta tell my parents they lost me, that's all," Fox responded logically. Then the walls began to crumble around his emotions again. "Only my p-parents won't care. They d-don't like me either. . . ."
Walter was blown away by the stark hopelessness of that admission. It seemed impossible and yet . . . This kid's parents hadn't even bothered to accompany him to the camp. Nor had they come for Parent's Visit the week before.
"That can't be true," he began, trying to figure out what to say.
"YES IT IS!" Fox bellowed. He startled the counselor when he pushed him back and began to make a run for it again. This time Walter was faster on his feet. He grabbed the boy around his midsection again and held him while Fox flailed in his arms.
"Fox---"
"LET ME GO!" the kid yelled. "You don't like me. Stop pretending! YOU DON'T CARE. NOBODY CARES ABOUT ME. JUST LET ME GO AND NO ONE WILL KNOW-"
Walter was becoming more and more worried about the hysteria in the boy's voice. "Stop it, Fox!" he yelled, shaking him once. "That's not true. People care. I care-"
"You do n-not," Fox responded, beginning to shout again. His entire body tensed with rage. "YOU'RE A LIAR! YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT ME! NOBODY . . . NOBODY CARES ABOUT M-ME!"
"I DO SO CARE," Walter shouted. "AND IF YOU DONT' CALM DOWN, I'LL SHOW YOU EXACTLY HOW MUCH. EXACTLY THE WAY MY DAD SHOWED ME-"
Fox continued struggling, trying to fight his way out. "YOU DO NOT! I KNOW YOU DON'T SO STOP L-LYING-" The boy stopped yelling when the counselor suddenly picked him up and tucked him firmly under one arm. Then he strode over to the Ping-Pong table and took one of the paddles. He grabbed it with his free hand and continued over to a straight back chair next to a table. Walter pulled it out and seated himself, bringing the boy to rest face down over his long, muscled legs.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Fox bellowed as he was adjusted over the counselor's legs. He struggled to pull away but his feet weren't able to gain any purchase on the floor and before he knew it a strong arm held him tightly across his waist and pulled him into position. His butt up and in exactly the right place. The first whack shocked him.
"STOP! YOU C-CAN'T-- YOU CAN'T HIT ME!" he shrieked.
"Oh, we'll see about that," Walter replied, applying the paddle a half dozen more times. He'd never delivered a spanking before in his life but he'd certainly been the recipient of enough to know how it went.
"LEAVE ME ALONE! ST-STOP!" Fox wailed, putting his hand back automatically to protect his flank. Walter merely grabbed it by the wrist and anchored it against the small of the boy's back.
"I'm not stopping until you calm down," the young counselor told him, continuing his assault on the boy's bottom with the paddle. "And listen to me."
"I WON'T LISTEN TO YOU! I HATE YOU!"
Walter shook his head, stunned at the boy's continued defiance. But he knew exactly how to deal with it and increased the power with which he smacked the upturned butt.
"OWW! I-I-- Please!" Fox began to plead. "I'll do anything you want-"
Walter heard the sound of his voice turn from rage to pleading but he knew the kid would say anything at this point. That didn't mean he believed it. He continued paddling Fox's bottom but now he began to speak to him.
"I care too much about you to let you get away with that," he said reasonably. "I'm sorry about what you heard but I was just kidding, Fox. I think you have to judge by my actions-"
Fox picked his head up and looked over his shoulder. "You're hitting me!" he said accusatorily.
That stopped the counselor cold for a moment and he chuckled. "Yeah. Because I CARE about you! Too much to let you run away! Too much to let you walk around thinking nobody does, kid." He punctuated his words with additional smacks with the paddle.
"You do n-not," Fox blubbered. "I h-heard you tell h-her OWW! OUCH!!"
"You heard me say something stupid, just to be funny. Because I'm worried you haven't gotten too friendly with the other kids," Walter told him, stopping in mid-stroke. "I'm sorry for what I said. But you shouldn't have been eavesdropping," he whacked the kid's butt again. "And you shouldn't have been off camp premises." Another whack. "And you shouldn't have run away . . . "
"I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry! I pr-promise I won't do it again!" he sobbed, letting go of the last of his defiance. "I'm sorry. . . ."
Walter laid the paddle down on the table beside him, then he slid the boy gently off his legs and onto his own knees. He placed a hand on each of Fox' shoulders and looked directly into the kid's tear-filled hazel eyes.
"You better not ever let me catch you doing anything like this again," he said sternly. "Do you know what could happen to you all by yourself out here? If you ever run off again, without permission, I'll blister your butt but good, do you hear me?"
Fox nodded as tears streamed down his cheeks. He'd run away from home several times in the last year, intent on finding his sister when the police and all the government types had failed. He'd been found each time and returned home . . . to accusatory resignation from his father. And deep, silent disappointment from his mother. No one had ever even yelled at him for going. They'd merely continued their mute, all-consuming vigil of hope that Samantha would be returned somehow. And ignored their son and his pain.
Fox put a hand back and began to rub his burning bottom. "Th-that h-hurt," he hiccuped before biting down on his lower lip to hold off another sob.
Walter's eyes lit with amusement. "No kidding," he said. "You'd think that was the first spanking you'd ever gotten-" He began, then stopped when the look on Fox's face told him it was. "You're joking! How could--?" He stopped, realizing it fit right in with this kid's behavior. He was neglected every way that counted. Parental discipline went right along with it.
"Well, then, welcome to the real world, kid," he said, pushing back the sweaty hair that had fallen on Fox's forehead. "Believe me, I never had any doubt my Dad cared about me, or what I did. He showed me a whole lot, usually butt up over his knee! But I guess I have to admit, hard as he was on me, it was good to know he cared."
Fox was staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning.
"And I care about you, pal," the counselor said gently, pulling the boy into a hug. "I don't know why you. . . " he ruffled the back of the kid's hair and felt Fox sob into his shoulder. "You're by the far the most troublesome Indian in the entire tribe. But I like you. And I do care about you. I-I always will. But you have to promise me you'll care about yourself, Fox. Even if it seems like no one else does, I want you to remember I care. And I'm expecting you to care about you, too."
Fox began to cry again, huge, heaving sobs that shook his entire body. Walter was sorry he'd said something to cause that reaction but he sensed the boy needed the release. He himself was a little surprised at the admission but he just held on, rubbing his back gently, until he was cried out. When Fox finally began to calm down, the counselor pushed him back and looked at him.
"You're a mess," he said affectionately. "Is there any running water in the building?"
"Yeah," Fox sniffed. "I found a bathroom. And there's a kitchen in the back of the building. . . ."
They got up and headed in that direction. Walter was surprised at how close the boy stayed beside him and he wordlessly placed an arm around Fox's shoulder. The kid didn't respond except to lean closer to the man's side.
They found the bathroom and Fox went inside to wash his face. The kitchen was just down the hall so Walter wandered in to see if he could find some cold water for the kid. The plumbing still worked and he rooted around for a couple of glasses. Then he turned on the tap and began to let it run, waiting for it to get cold. In a moment, he realized Fox was standing beside him.
"I'm waiting for this to turn cold," Walter said. "But it's not happening. Any ice in that refrigerator?"
Fox shook his head. "I think there's a freezer over here though," he said as he headed toward a metal door. "I saw it before." Fox opened the door and walked inside. It was dark and the light switch didn't work.
"Here, take the flashlight," Walter called. When Fox turned, he tossed it to him, then he began filling up the first glass. A shriek from the boy made him drop the glass, shattering it in the aluminum sink. The counselor ran over to see what had happened to Fox.
And saw the boy staring, terrified, into the freezer. Walter's eyes darted from the boy toward whatever he was looking at and his own heart nearly stopped. It was a woman's body, a young woman, not more than a girl. She was lying on the floor, her eyes wide open, her face contorted in some grotesque mask of fright.
Walter grabbed the boy and pulled him into his chest, turning Fox's head away from the hideous sight that held his gaze. "Don't look," he said, not able to turn away himself. "Don't look, Fox. Come outside."
The kid was nearly paralyzed with shock, and his body was shaking violently. Walter gently guided him into the kitchen and got him the glass of water on the counter. "Here, drink this," he said. Fox stared at him, eyes wide with fear. "Drink, Fox."
The boy automatically obeyed, taking a couple of quick sips. Then he put the glass down on the counter behind him and turned to stare at the counselor.
Walter wasn't certain what to do. He was certain the young woman in the freezer was dead but he had to go back in and make sure. "Will you be okay here for a minute, Fox?" he asked the boy.
Fox nodded silently but it was a tentative action.
"I'll be right back," Walter added, then he steeled himself to go back into the freezer. There was a pile of plastic table cloths folded up and sitting on a shelf near the door. He took one and headed in.
The woman was wearing a cotton hospital gown, a blue one. Her eyes were open and Walter knelt down beside her and gently closed them. He shuddered as he realized she couldn't be much more than a teenager. There was no doubt she was dead so he covered her with the plastic sheet, then exited the freezer, closing the door behind him.
"What-what are we going to do?" Fox said, finally finding his voice.
"I-I don't know. Did you check to see if any of the phones work earlier?"
The boy nodded, and swallowed convulsively. "I couldn't find any that did," he answered quietly.
"I was afraid of that," Walter said. "I uh, I think you should go back to sleep-"
"I don't want to stay here alone!" the boy responded, panicked at the thought. "I can't-"
"I won't leave you alone," Walter responded quickly, pulling the boy into a hug. "I promise. I'm gonna . . . light a signal fire, that's all. Then I'll come right back inside."
"I want to go with you," Fox blurted. "Please!"
"Okay," Walter reassured him. "You come with me. Then I'll stay with you while you try to get some sleep, okay?"
They went outside and found dry wood and kindling in the wooded area outside the main gate. They carried it all back inside. There was a small garden outside the building where vegetables must have been grown at one time. It was rimmed by large rocks. Walter had spotted some tools outside the building earlier and now he got a spade and dug a hole that he rimmed with the rocks. Fox and he piled the wood and kindling inside, then set it afire.
Then they went back inside. They elected to try to sleep in the room farthest from the kitchen. But Fox couldn't seem to calm down enough to lie down. He was agitated and nervous and Walter talked to him soothingly, trying to decrease his anxiety. But nothing seemed to work.
"Fox, if you don't lie down and try to get some sleep, I'm gonna put that paddle to use again," he finally said, exasperated.
"No!" the boy blurted immediately. "I'm not-I don't think I can sleep! I think-"
"Don't think. Just listen to me. Morning will be here before you know it. Lie down and try to get some sleep, okay?"
Fox blinked nervously, then he nodded his head. He laid down, muttering about how he'd never be able to sleep. But in two minutes, the boy was snoring softly. Walter felt the room was a little chilled and he took the blanket off the other bed and covered the boy with that one, too. Then he sat down in a chair by the window so he could keep an eye on the fire.
He had to build it up again once before dawn but almost immediately thereafter he heard a helicopter passing over. Walter ran outside and started waving for its attention. The chopper circled for a moment, then it landed in a large, open area behind the buildings. Walter realized with a start it was a landing pad for exactly that purpose. What kind of operation was this anyway? In the middle of the woods in Maine?
"Is the kid okay?" the first man out of the helicopter asked him. The guy was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and tie. Not a state trooper, that's for sure.
"Yeah. But there's a dead body inside. A woman-"
The guy in the suit looked shocked for a moment, then he asked to see. Walter took him inside, explaining how he and Fox had found her. The man returned to the helicopter and gave instructions, then he came back into the building and found the counselor waking the boy.
"I'm Special Agent Wade Holloway of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," the man said, introducing himself to the two of them.
Walter's eyes checked out the ID, then he looked at the man and his puzzlement was self-evident.
"This is a federal facility," Holloway explained. "When your signal fire was spotted, we were called in. We were already on alert about young Mr. Mulder here."
Walter saw the boy had the grace to blush at the trouble he'd caused so many people and he reached out and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Fox looked at him appreciatively.
"We've asked to have your folks notified that you're okay," Holloway said, seeking to reassure the boy, too. "Now what can you tell me about the body?"
The two of them filled the agent in on every detail they could remember. Which to the agent's surprise, was a hell of a lot. Holloway was certain he'd never had two witnesses with the powers of observation these two displayed. At one point, they even began trying to piece the minimal evidence together into an investigative theory.
In less than an hour, two more helicopters had ferried in additional teams of personnel and the place was crawling with investigators, forensics staff and a local coroner.
"We've notified the camp director that you're both okay," Holloway told Walter as he got himself and the counselor a cup of coffee. Fox was still glued to the younger man's side and neither of them had eaten anything in more than a day now. There was some food in the day room but neither of them had any appetite. Agent Holloway and his partner, a black agent named Carl Williams tried to persuade them both to eat something.
"This is hard the first time," Williams said. "Hell, you never get used to it. But you're gonna make yourself sick if you don't get some nourishment."
"I c-can't," Fox answered automatically.
Walter realized Fox wouldn't eat anything unless he did, so he forced himself to take a turkey sandwich. And found once he'd started that he was ravenous. He took a second bite, then he picked up another sandwich and handed it to the kid. "Eat," he said in a tone that brooked no protest.
Fox looked reluctant but he took the sandwich and began to nibble on it. And discovered he too was famished. The two agents exchanged a quick smile that only lasted until one of the forensics people approached.
"I don't get this, Agent Holloway," the man said. "The prints are a match for a girl in the missing persons database. Anna Korinsky. But-"
"We got a match?" Williams responded, enthused. "Thank God!"
"But something doesn't make any sense," the forensics guy cut him off. "She's been missing since 1957, disappeared at the age of 10-"
"That's impossible," Williams said, shaking his head. "That's twenty years ago. And that girl's no more than a teenager. You must have read the prints wrong-"
"I didn't," the man said indignantly. "I had 'em checked twice. It's her-"
"How could that be?" Holloway asked. "You have to have made a mistake."
"Um, I noticed some initials carved in the wall of one of the rooms," Fox spoke up suddenly. "This morning when I woke up. It was 'AK,' carved over and over-"
He took them to the room in question and, sure enough, the letters 'AK' were carved in the wall, along the baseboard where they would not be easily noticeable.
"Well, it's not proof, but it's a heckuva coincidence," Walter murmured thoughtfully as he started to check along the baseboard in the rest of the room. He found two other sets of initials. "'TG' and "CL.' And a name, Sam."
Fox's eyes flickered with shock and he rushed over to see it for himself. Walter could see he was bothered by all of this, even more so now than when they'd first found the body. He placed an arm around the boy's shoulder and tried to lead him away.
"No!" Fox responded, his eyes glued to the wall. "My-my sister! Her name was Samantha. Samantha Ann Mulder. She always wrote her initials 'SAM.' And she disappeared, too!"
The young counselor's mouth opened in shock. "What? When?"
But the two FBI agents moved to get them both out of the room. "Let's go back out to the day room, okay? I think we need to go over this entire place with a fine tooth comb."
"No! That's not a name. It's initials! I know it is. SAM, Samantha Ann Mulder!"
They'd had to sedate him to get him to calm down. Walter stayed with him until he fell asleep, then he rejoined the two investigators.
"They'll be taking you back to the camp soon," Holloway said. "You'll probably be contacted again. I'm sure there'll be a lot of additional questions."
"Anything I can do to help," Walter responded sincerely. "I want someone to pay for whatever happened to that girl. . . And whoever else was held here. . . ."
"Yeah," Holloway agreed, sizing up the young man from a different perspective. He'd been calm and collected throughout this ordeal, had figured a way to signal for help and kept the boy from going to pieces. He'd also been the one to spot the additional initials in the wall, after Fox had pointed out the first set. "Ever think about a career with the Bureau?"
They'd taken Walter and Fox back to Camp Passamaquoddy within the hour but not before Agent Holloway had given the counselor his business card and invited him to come in for an interview in Washington before the summer was over.
When they reached the camp, though, William Mulder was there, waiting. He was angry, furious at the camp for having lost his son. The story about the body only served to enrage the man further and he announced he was taking the boy home immediately. A friend had accompanied him to Maine, a man who must have been a physician. He sedated Fox again, over Walter's protests.
"He's not hysterical. He just thinks-" Walter spoke up when the man with the cigarette pulled out a syringe.
"Thank you for your opinion," the man cut him off without an ounce of sincerity. Then he flicked his cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it. "We'll take it from here."
Indian River Motor Lodge
Bangor, Maine
Special Agent Fox Mulder walked out of the bathroom tentatively. He was dressed in a pair of gray sweat pants and a tee shirt and his hair was still damp from his shower. He purposely didn't look at the other man in the room but went to his own bed and sat down. He picked up his case and placed it on the floor beside the bed, then laid down and began to stare at the TV screen.
Skinner watched him out of the corner of his eye, not sure whether to say what was on his mind. They'd worked together for years without speaking of it. Why did it seem so important now?
"It's quite a coincidence, isn't it, Agent Mulder. Both of us ending up in the Bureau. . . ."
Mulder nearly flinched at the comment. He'd barely been able to think of anything else since Skinner arrived in Maine. Somehow it all seemed to come together in his head here in a way he'd always been able to ward off elsewhere. He bit down on his lower lip, debating how to respond.
"It's not really a coincidence," he finally answered truthfully. "When I got older, I-I checked to see where you ended up. And when the FBI recruiter came to Oxford, I found him. And pumped him about whether you were with them still. He told me you were SAC in Buffalo-"
Skinner's head had swiveled to look at Mulder as soon as the young agent spoke. He was surprised to hear that. Mulder had never even hinted that he remembered Skinner in all the years they'd worked together.
"You did? Then why didn't you ever respond to my letters?" The younger Skinner had been shocked and saddened when Mulder's father yanked him out of the camp, before they'd even had a chance to speak again. He'd gotten his home address and written to him immediately, wanting to make sure the boy knew he'd meant it when he said he cared about him. And what happened to him.
Now it was Mulder's turn to look over in shock. "You wrote? When?"
Skinner's face reflected his confusion. "What do you mean 'when,' Mulder? I wrote about a dozen times over the next couple of years."
"I never got a letter," Mulder said quietly, shaking his head. Suddenly he was certain why, that his father was somehow to blame. His eyes filled with unwanted tears and he shook them off quickly. There had been many times in his teens when it would have been good to know somebody cared.
"I was . . . so shocked when you entered the Academy," Skinner said. "I followed your progress but I wasn't certain . . . you remembered me. Or wanted to remember. I could understand that . . . ."
"I wondered why you never said anything. And part of me was . . . grateful you didn't," Mulder answered softly. "I mean, after you were promoted to AD and I got assigned to you. I . . . It would have been a little . . embarrassing to know you remembered . . . everything."
Skinner smiled despite himself. He'd found himself having mixed feelings about supervising Agent Mulder, too, for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which was their past. But he suspected it had helped them forge a solid professional relationship despite the fact they both studiously avoided mentioning it. God knows Mulder had not managed to do that with many other people in the Bureau. And Skinner suspected it was the reason why Mulder trusted him, no matter what the external evidence might indicate at various times in their history.
"Mulder, you were a kid," he sighed. "I wasn't much more than a kid myself. I don't think. . . either of us has anything to regret."
Mulder smiled ruefully and he looked over at the AD. "Yeah, well, as I remember it, you weren't the one on the receiving end of that Ping-Pong paddle."
Skinner chuckled. "Well, I think I told you then that my end did a whole lot of receiving during my own childhood, Agent," he said warmly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. You were a pretty terrific kid. Whose thought processes just needed a little . . . straightening out."
Mulder blushed furiously and he turned his head back to stare at the television, surprised at how touched he was by the Assistant Director's praise. "Well, as long as you don't think my 'thought processes' need straightening out any more," he said, trying to make light of the moment.
Skinner snorted, then he rose and went over to the television. He clicked it off, then raised a hand to cut off Mulder's protest. "No, right now what I think you need is some sleep," he said with a smile. "But if you don't agree, I'm sure that Ping-Pong table downstairs has a paddle I could put to good use . . . ."
Mulder's mouth dropped open in shock. He closed it immediately, then turned on his side, bunching his pillow up under his head and closing his eyes. "Yes, sir," he said quickly. "I was just thinking I could use some sleep myself."
Skinner nodded, pleased at how quick and certain a response he'd elicited from his agent. He smiled as he went back to his own bed, got in and turned off the light on the table between the two beds. "Good night, Agent Mulder," he said affectionately.
"Good night, sir," the younger man yawned as he drifted into much needed sleep.
Skinner sank down into the overly soft mattress and sighed contentedly. The young man sleeping in the bed next to him was still the most troublesome Indian in his tribe. But for the first time in a long time, they both knew how much the Assistant Director cared about him. And now Skinner had a potential disciplinary option that might actually motivate young Agent Mulder to better behavior.
"I love Maine," the AD whispered to himself as he drifted into sleep. "I oughta come here more often."
THE END