Kinesthesia

by Amy

PART EIGHT

Mulder stepped around a gang of children, pushed his way past a cowboy carrying a giant hot-pink monkey. Three laps around the midway and his blood pressure was still in the red zone.

You're a fucking degenerate, he told himself.

He passed the Haunted House, Mouse Trap, Himalayan; dodged a pond full of plastic guppies; skirted the end of the line for the Super Slide. Turned left at the Scrambler. Started the circuit again.

What the hell had he been thinking back there? They'd been in a dangerous situation and he'd responded by getting a boner. It was bad form. Very, very bad form.

A spinning claw swung over his head, trailing dangling legs like a fistful of seaweed. Mulder stared up at the riders. They didn't look like they were having much fun.

Next to the Gravitron there was a dunk tank, complete with trap door and foul-tempered clown. Maybe, Mulder thought, hurling things would help.

"Balls." He slapped a five-spot on the counter.

The barker was a bony little guy with enormous mutton-chop sideburns. "Sorry, man. Technical difficulties."

The clown was clinging to the edge of his cage, shouting and waving his arm at someone just past Mulder. "Where the fuck you been, girl?"

Mulder glanced over his shoulder.

Gwen.

"Don't get your panties in a knot." She climbed over the counter, trudged down the bullpen. Mulder left his five where it was.

"I was taking a swim all last night," the clown complained. He was an enormous man, at least 6'4", 250, Mulder guessed. For all his size, he really was a comical figure, gobs of red, white, and blue makeup smeared haphazardly over a three-day growth of beard. "Fix it so it *stays* fixed this time."

Gwen squatted under the target, staring absently at some mechanism or other. "If you weren't such a lard- ass it *woulda* stayed fixed."

"Oh yeah? Well I - "

"We're still waiting for that part." Rising, she turned to go.

The barker laughed. "Take your time, honey. Lard- ass ain't had this many baths all season."

Gwen climbed back over the counter.

"Watch your mouth, Blinky." The clown latched his fingers in the chain link around his cage and gave it a menacing rattle. "Gwen, when you coming back? Gwen!"

Gwen didn't answer. She didn't seem to be in the mood to laugh. Eyes down, she shoved her right hand in her pocket and muttered, "Be right back," to the barker, then turned, stared at Mulder for a moment, and started away.

"Hey, Gwen." Mulder pocketed his fiver and followed, pulling up beside her.

She didn't look at him. "Hey, Duke." Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face was streaked as if she'd been scrubbing it with a shop rag.

"You okay?" Mulder dodged a couple of patrons, trying to stay by her side.

"Who wants to know?"

"Hey, look, we drank a lot last night, and I just thought - "

"Gotta get some wire," she muttered.

Mulder walked a little faster, trying to head her off. "What do you need the wire for?"

She ignored him, kept walking.

"Want something to eat?"

She stopped. "Huh?"

"It's on me," he said.

Gwen lifted the brim of her ball cap, pushed a tangled strand of hair off her face. Her expression was guarded, mistrustful, maybe. After a moment, though, she shrugged, nodded. Mulder steered her toward the concession area.

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"You ever been married, Duke?" she asked him, half a bottle of orange juice later.

Mulder stretched and looked at his watch. He still had half an hour until he had to report for work. "Nope."

"It's a flat store."

"It's a what?"

"Flat store. No way to win." She pushed her untouched sausage biscuit to one side. "You ever seen Tarzan?"

He frowned, not sure what the Lord of the Apes had to do with anything. "Uh-huh."

"You know those traps they make - they dig a hole and cover it up." Eyes brightening with some as-yet- unspecified emotion, she waved her grease-stained hands in the air, miming digging and covering. "And it looks just like normal jungle, but the minute you walk over it, you're cannibal hash."

For a moment, Mulder stared. Gwen had a terrible scar on one side of her right hand. He'd never noticed it before.

She glared at him. "Something wrong?"

He shrugged, looked down. "Nope."

Turning abruptly, she swung her legs over the picnic bench and planted her boots in the gravel. "Gotta fix the drop joint, Duke. You can come with me if you need something to do."

Mulder rose. "Okay."

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"'Fix it so it stays fixed.' Frickin' moron. What, does he think I carry a spare spring trigger in my ass or something?"

Gwen threw open the back of a rusty panel truck parked in a sloping lot just past the midway fence. The interior was dark. She hefted herself up and climbed inside. Mulder followed.

"I mean, shit." Pausing to yawn, she flipped the switch on what he assumed was a battery-operated light. "Not only does nobody even have a part for some of this stuff, when we *do* find one they take for-fucking-ever to get to us."

"Why's that?" The interior of the truck reeked of motor oil. Everywhere Mulder looked there were heaps of half-spent tires, boxes of greasy parts, canisters of lubricant and hydraulic fluid. Fan belts and lengths of chain hung on hooks, trimming the walls like industrial lace.

"Cuz we keep moving around. Parts get sent some place and we're already long gone. They have to chase us down." Gwen started digging in a box. "So we get good at just making it up. Like, Rob," - here she straightened, frowned at him again - "you know him, right?"

Mulder shrugged. "Kinda."

"He's a freakin' wizard. He can fix anything." Gwen turned back to the box and stuck her hands inside it. Instead of continuing to rummage, though, she stood still, staring down as if transfixed by junk.

Mulder kicked at some coiled rope on the floor. "Gwen?"

Seeming to recover, she dug for a second, then dragged a length of heavy wire out of the box. Switching it quickly from right hand to left, she held it out to him. "That look rusty to you?"

"Maybe a little."

"Good enough for the bozo, then."

"Gwen! You in there?" A tool belt clattered onto the dusty floor near the entrance. Gwen turned with a poker-faced stare, watched her father climb into the truck.

"All rested up?" she asked, her voice sharper than Mulder had ever heard it.

Tim Frye got to his feet. "Um, I had to - " His eyes locked onto hers. "Well, shit. I see you heard."

She stiffened. "Yeah."

"Honey, I didn't know until this mor - " Noticing Mulder, he stopped short, reached down and picked up his tool belt. "Duke," he said, with a slight nod.

Mulder flashed on Scully, looking small next to Frye in the weight-guess joint. It wouldn't have been hard for Frye to overpower her, if she'd had too much to drink and he'd caught her off-guard. The thought, inappropriate as it was, made Mulder's blood pressure climb several notches.

"Morning, Tim."

"What you doing in here? You ain't authorized."

"I was-"

"He's just giving me a hand, Daddy."

"Is he, now?"

Gwen shot Mulder a glance, then a sneer. "You don't have to worry about him. He's harmless."

"He better be."

Mulder lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Absolutely, Boss."

Gwen scowled down into the box.

"Anyway, Gwenny, I'm real sorry. I - "

She spun and went to another box. "Yeah, whatever."

Frye looked lost for a moment, then shrugged. He turned toward Mulder. "You supposed to be working?"

"Um, what's his name - Solly? He said to come in at one."

For a moment, Frye's stare did not waver. Then he turned abruptly and slung his tools onto the narrow workbench that lined one side of the truck. "It's almost one now."

The clatter of the tools drew Mulder's attention to the workbench long enough for him to notice that there was a square red carton sitting there, not far from where the tools had landed. Mulder was no carpenter, but he'd been in Home Depot enough times since getting sent to domestic terrorism to recognize a box of nails when he saw it. Trying not to stare, he took a step toward the bench.

"Right, Boss," he said, moving past the bench, toward the back of the truck. Frye stepped back to let him pass.

Then he pretended to stumble, knocked the carton over with his elbow. Small nails spilled onto the work surface; a few fell to the floor. "Oh shit, sorry..." He bent, scooped them up.

"Just leave it," Frye said.

"Yeah, okay." Mulder righted the carton, dropped most of the nails in his hand back inside. "See you around, Gwen."

"Take it easy, Duke."

When he was on the ground and out of sight of the entrance, he shoved the nails into his pocket and lurked for a moment, listening.

"What's the wire for?"

"Trying to rig the drop joint."

"Same fix as last week? The one I showed you?"

"Yeah, it didn't hold. Bozo's too fat."

"You want me to come on up there?"

"It's okay. I got it covered."

There was a silence.

"I wish you'd let me help you, baby."

"I don't need no help."

After a few seconds, Frye spoke again. "Girl, I know it's hard to see on a day like today, but Christ, listen. One day you're gonna understand why I made you get away from him."

"Oh, I understand, all right."

"Honey - "

"Shut up. I ain't six."

"I never said you were. Look, just between you and me, I'm not too happy about what happened this morning, either."

Gwen's voice softened. "Yeah, I bet I know why. I thought you and Mandy were - "

Tim snorted. "Oh, hell no. That ain't it. That ain't it *at all.*"

"Whatever. Look, I gotta go."

Frye sounded resigned. "Yeah. Okay."

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6:31 PM

Mike wandered into the back office, circled the desk, made his way back out again. Scully heard him whine, scratch the outer door.

"Just a minute, boy," she said.

Outside, the tear-down was in full swing. Mandy had gone to the fairground office a few minutes before, saying she'd be back in half an hour. Scully hadn't seen Peake for hours.

She studied the jumble of clippings and photos on the old man's office wall. One newspaper article was much like another - the same human interest story about carnies over and over - and she wondered why the old man still bothered tacking them up. The photos were more interesting, though, some clearly as old as the show itself. Rob Peake's picture was all over the place: in his military uniform, as a shirtless teenage ride jock, even, she was fairly certain, as a toddler, shown several times posing in the arms of a leggy young blonde who never seemed to be more than half-dressed.

She recognized other faces in the collection - Tim Frye; Richard, the old man who ran the carousel; Dale, the manager of the company cook joint. An immensely fat man with full lips and bushy eyebrows appeared in many of the older pictures - he was always shown wearing a squashed white fedora and sometimes had a wiry, hawk-nosed woman on his arm. She was the Laurel to his Hardy, and Scully thought she looked familiar, but wasn't sure why.

Then she saw the fedora-topped face at the head of a newspaper article and realized she was looking at the man's obituary: 'James Dalton Smith, aged 63. Mr. Smith was co-owner and general manager of Peake and Smith Amusements, a local carnival company. He is survived by his wife, Rachel Kaufman Smith, his daughter and one grandchild.'

So there had been a partner, at one time. Interesting, but not particularly helpful. And odd that that hadn't been in any of the background information. She was beginning to wonder about how much was *not* in the official files, and why.

Sighing, Scully turned toward the nightmare of a filing cabinet and stared at it. The idea of the Peakes causing trouble so close to home just didn't make sense. Not when the show was clearly making a substantial profit. What did either of them stand to gain?

She opened the top drawer. She just needed something, *anything* to establish a motive, however tenuous. Then search warrants could be obtained; suspects brought in for questioning, and, most importantly, she and Mulder could go home.

Mulder.

Her stomach knotted.

How many lame jokes would he tell in the airport this time? What kind of stupid 'apology' would come popping out of his mouth next?

Mike whined at the door, toenails excitedly clicking the linoleum. The outer door rattled.

Scully shut the drawer, made a hasty exit from the office, hoping no one would notice she'd left it unlocked. Dropping into her chair, she picked up the payroll spreadsheet Mandy had given her.

A key turned in the lock. "Hey, Mikey," she heard Peake say.

Scully stared at her monitor and took a calming breath. "How's it going out there?"

"Hot as hell. Mandy here?" Peake was filthy, his work-shirt and jeans caked with dust. She smelled axle grease, sweat, caught a faint whiff of marijuana smoke.

"Um - " She tapped some keys, gave the spreadsheet a studied frown. "She went to the main office."

Peake frowned. "I was just up there. Must've missed her. She say what's up?"

Scully turned to answer, but his gaze was so penetrating that for a moment she forgot what she was going to say. "Um - " Memory filling with all she'd heard in his bedroom earlier, she tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to maintain a light-hearted tone. "She said she had to settle a beef."

"Oh. Okay." Still watching her, he gave a glassy-eyed smile. He headed toward the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

"I'm all right."

She heard the refrigerator open. "You weren't here when we got back this afternoon. Everything okay?"

Scully grabbed the first lie that popped into her head. "I was out looking for Mr. Peake. I got worried about him."

Peake laughed. "Oh, that. Vegas. I heard."

"You think it's funny? Mandy freaked when I told her. At first I didn't think he was serious about going, then - "

"Shit, he's *always* serious about Vegas."

"It's just - he seemed confused. When he said he was going today I thought he must be kidding. I mean, in the middle of a jump - "

"No big." He came back into the office, a bottle of Budweiser in each hand. "It's not like he has any real responsibilities - Mandy's the one who runs the show."

She watched him drain the first beer in four gulps. "It doesn't bother you that he didn't make it to your wedding?"

"Nope." Opening the second bottle, he settled near her, leaning against the edge of the desk with his legs thrust out. "Pops thinks marriage is for suckers. The whole idea makes him mad. Mandy wouldn't hear about anything else but him being there, but shit, it would've been so fucking funny. Me standing up saying all the vows and him three feet away cussing me out."

Scully shifted in her chair, set her spreadsheet down. She'd never had a chance to talk to Peake alone and she intended to make the most of it. "I couldn't believe it when you guys told me what you were doing this morning. I mean, from what you said last night - isn't marriage just another one of those bullshit things you were talking about?"

He regarded her evenly, took a long drink of beer. "Well, having to go get a piece of paper that says you're married, the part that's just about your money and your stuff - yeah, that part's bullshit. It's another way for the man to control you, make stew off you. But the part about standing up in front of your friends and saying 'I do' - I think that's worth doing. I mean, most people are too selfish to *really* do it, if you know what I mean. To be married not just on paper, but here," - he tapped his forehead, " - and here." He tapped his chest.

"And you and Mandy are different?"

"Yeah. I mean, we aren't scared, the way most people are. Shit - that's my old man's problem, if you ask me. Takes guts to really be with somebody. That's why he sticks to the working girls. They're just in it for the take. He can relate to that."

"What about your mother?"

Peake laughed. "My *who*?" Shaking his head, he pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt pocket, stuck it behind his ear.

"You mean - ?"

"Pops says Smitty picked her up in Reno. I don't really remember her."

"So your dad raised you by himself?"

"More or less." He sipped his beer. "I mean, you know him. I always had a really hot babysitter."

Scully checked Peake's face for signs that he was kidding, found none. "Who's Smitty?"

"You never heard about Smitty?"

"No."

"Oh damn, those are some good stories. Smitty was my dad's partner, back in the day. He went out horizontal - guess only the old-timers remember him."

She smiled at him. "You're an old-timer?"

"Hell yeah." He raised his arms above his head, stretched like a tomcat. His shirt, which was unbuttoned, swung open.

"Oh - " Scully stared, caught off-guard. There was a crude but familiar design tattooed in black across Peake's sternum. She quickly dropped her gaze, hoping he hadn't noticed her looking.

But he had. "Cool ink, huh?"

Swallowing, she looked back up at him, gave what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. "Um, yeah. What is that, a Ferris wheel?"

He chuckled. "No. I got it when I was in China. Where I was staying, you get a tattoo to mark all the big events in your life." Sweeping his shirt aside, he tapped his chest with his index finger. "It's called 'dharmachakra.' Go ahead - take a look, if you want."

Having been invited, Scully leaned closer, peered at the design. It was virtually identical to the symbol left behind at the crime scenes. Her heart began to race. She swallowed hard. "That's interesting. What does it mean?"

Suddenly his expression was dead serious. "Lots of things," he said. "I got it so I'd remember. Like when they ring the bell in the temple. Brings you back to reality."

His eyes were glowing. She'd never seen him so sincere about anything. Before she knew what she was doing, she'd put her hand on his knee. "I'd love to hear more about it."

It was a bold move, she knew, and its effect was instantaneous. Peake gave her an intent look, reached out and, very deliberately, drew a small circle just above the bridge of her nose.

"You shoulda stayed last night, Brenda."

An unwelcome shiver shot down Scully's spine.

Mike barked, scratching the door.

"I gotta take him out," she murmured.

Peake looked over at the dog. "When you gotta go," he said softly, "you gotta go. Right, Mike?"

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Mike trotted along on his leash. Peake walked beside her, drinking another beer out of a plastic cup. Evening was coming on, filled with crashes and shouts. Scully had been completely disoriented when they'd stepped outside the office - in the space of a few hours, everything she'd grown used to seeing had been disassembled. The Ferris Wheel still stood, though, on the far side of the midway. They headed toward it.

"Hey, Rob!" A ride jock passed by, socked Peake in the shoulder. "I just heard the news, you son-of-a- bitch. 'Bout shit a brick. What the hell?"

Peake laughed. "Just keeping you on your toes, Purty. Having fun. No big deal."

The guy kept walking. "You got a pretty fucked up idea of fun, boy."

Mike surged ahead. Scully struggled to keep her balance. "I always wanted to travel," she said, hoping he'd open up some more about the monastery. "Tell me about China. How'd you end up there?"

"I was on leave in Hong Kong when I met this girl, see." He grinned, drained the beer, tossed the cup in a trash can.

The dog paused at a light pole, lifted his leg. They waited. Peake's arm brushed against hers. "A girl, huh?" She leaned against him, just a little, looked up. "That girl have anything to do with you going to the stockade?"

"Sort of," he said. Turning his back on the hubbub around them, he took a step closer, changed the subject. "So, Brenda - how long you been a carny now? A month?"

"That sounds about right."

His voice dropped a little lower. "Havin' fun yet?"

"Uh-huh."

"I heard the old man told you to drive his tank to Pueblo."

She smiled. "Wow, word travels fast around here."

"So it's true?" He shook his head. "Jesus. Well, welcome to the family, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

He drew his index finger across her forehead, brushed aside a lock of hair. "Nevermind. Listen, Mandy's gotta tow her place, I've gotta tow mine. How about we caravan and all stop for a drink somewhere?"

Before she could answer, Mike jerked the leash and pulled her toward a cluster of Whack-a-Mole units waiting to be loaded on a panel truck. Someone moved into her line of vision, standing hands-in-pockets in the middle of a sea of purple mole heads.

Gwen again.

For a moment their eyes met, and the girl scowled, leaving Scully with a most unsettling feeling.

"Rob!"

Tim Frye was coming toward them. He was red-faced. A streak of black grease crossed his chest like a sash. "Looks like we're on schedule," he told Peake, lifting his ball cap and dragging a sweaty forearm across his brow. "Where you been, man?" For a split second, he glanced at Gwen, who turned her back and stalked away. Then his eyes traveled very deliberately from Peake to Scully and back to Peake again. The tips of his mustache drooped lower.

"How's it going, Tim? Those new guys working out?"

"Huh?" Frye looked over his shoulder at the Thunder Bolt, which stood nearby. "Mostly. That one kid they hired don't know a C-wrench from an O-ring. But, um, that other one - " He gave a vague gesture. "What's-his-name - Duke. He's keeping up, I guess."

"Rob! There you are!" Mandy came ambling toward them, smiling broadly.

"Hey, baby," Peake said, reaching out with one arm and latching on to her. "You square it?"

"Huh?"

"You settle that beef?"

"Oh, that." Giving Scully a quick glance, Mandy waved her hand. "Yeah. I talked, they listened."

Peake's arms went around her waist; her fingers wound into his hair. Within moments they were lip-locked, every carny in the vicinity cheering them on.

Frye stepped away from them, rolling his eyes. "Christ, next thing they'll sell tickets."

Mike circled. Scully followed Frye, switching the leash from one hand to the other. "You know, before last night I didn't even know they were together."

He shook his head, turned his back on the newlyweds. "One thing I'll say for Mandy," he said, in a low voice, "she sees something she wants, she takes it. As for Rob, well shit. He's been home about seven months, and he was smart for the first four or five. Don't know what happened after that."

"Did *you* know about the wedding?"

He sighed. "This morning Rob woke me up, says 'put on a clean shirt and go up to the bingo joint.' Next thing I know, I'm the damned best man. Donnie went with'em to get the license one day last week - "

There was a crash of metal and Mike was off again, nearly jerking Scully's arm from its socket. She gave Frye an apologetic wave as she was yanked away, following the dog through the crowd of purple Whack- a-Mole games, past the back of the panel truck where Gwen stood stock-still, staring at Rob and Mandy.

Dragging Scully close to the Thunder Bolt, Mike sniffed his way alongside a trailer, then stuck his nose into a discarded paper bag near one of its back tires. Stopping short, Scully heard voices:

"Duke! You can finish those panels now!"

She craned her neck, peeked around the back of the trailer. Mulder was standing about forty feet away, stripped to the waist, tool belt slung low, holding a very large drill.

"Hey, Brenda."

"Wha-?" she looked over her shoulder, startled.

Frye had followed, now he stepped in front of her. "Can we talk? About last night, I mean?"

"It's okay," she murmured, eyes wandering back toward the Thunder Bolt. Mulder lifted his ball cap, mopped his sweaty brow with a sweaty forearm, then flipped the cap backward on his head and hefted the drill.

"You mad at me?" Frye touched her arm.

"'Course not," she said, trying to smile. "We were a little drunk, I guess. It's okay."

Over Frye's shoulder, she saw Mulder set the drill in place. His shoulder and bicep went rigid as the bit began to spin. Legs planted wide, he braced his free arm against the ride's steel skirting. A screw dropped into the dust.

Frye kept talking. "Good. 'Cause I'd never. . ."

He said more, but the words barely registered. Scully was too busy watching Mulder. He manhandled a panel off the ride, flung it onto a stack several feet away. She'd seen Mulder's body in action many times before, of course. But this was different.

"Brenda." Frye took hold of her hand. "Aren't you gonna answer me?"

She started. She had no idea what he had just asked her. "Sorry, Tim, I-"

Frye, still holding her free hand, turned toward the ride. "What are you - ?"

"Oh, noth - " she began, embarrassed at having been caught staring.

Frye dropped her hand. "Shit, no," he muttered. "Duke! Hey, don't - aw, shit!"

Scully spun just in time to see the huge metal pole fall. Her heart went into her throat. "Mu -"

Mulder glanced up. For a split second it looked like he'd get away, but the end of a falling brace swung wide and struck him. He dropped into the dirt.

One gasp later she was running, dragging the dog, following Frye toward Mulder's prone form.

"Purty, goddammit!" Frye shouted at one of the other carnies. He knelt next to Mulder, who was trying to sit up.

"What the hell - " Mulder muttered, rubbing his head. Blood was dripping from a cut along his hairline.

Frye helped him sit. "Hang on, Duke, you're bleeding."

"I'm okay. I just - what happened?"

"Dude, that piece you moved is structural. You loosened it up too soon. Which Purty should have been fucking telling you. Where the fuck is he?"

A small crowd had begun to form around them. Scully hovered at its edge, eyes darting from Mulder's dripping cut to the downed pole that was lying nearby.

Peake pushed past a couple of onlookers. "Tom!"

A boy stepped forward. "Yeah?"

"Get the kit and some ice."

"Okay."

Kit? Ice? Scully thought. There was no way Mulder could have escaped a concussion.

Frye was peering at Mulder's head. "Doesn't look too bad," he said. "Think you got lucky, bud."

The man who'd been joking with Peake only moments before was now apologizing profusely. "Rob, I'm sorry, man. We was taking a smoke break and - "

Peake's voice was harsh. "He's green, you bastard, you're supposed to be watching him."

"It's my fault," Frye said.

"You're damned right," Peake fumed. "Dead carny's bad for business. We'll have OSHA nosing around. Get 86'd from the spot."

Mulder looked up at Peake and scowled. "Do I look dead to you?"

Frye clapped Mulder on the shoulder. "We'll patch it up, man. Hang on a sec."

Before Scully knew what she was doing, she'd handed Mike's leash to the carny next to her and knelt next to Mulder on the ground. "Anybody have a flashlight?"

Frye shot her a puzzled look. "Used to volunteer with the Red Cross," she told him with a shrug. It was a lame excuse, but she didn't care. "He got hit pretty hard. He might need more than just ice."

Someone put a small Mag-light in her hand and she shone it into each of Mulder's eyes. His pupils looked even. "You dizzy, Duke?"

"I'm fine," he said softly, wiping blood with the back of his hand.

"Head wounds bleed a lot," she said, examining the wound. "Feel like you're gonna throw up?"

"No."

"Did you pass out?"

"No." Their eyes met. "I think I'm okay, Brenda. Really."

"If you say so," she said, with what she hoped looked like a disinterested shrug. In truth, the last thing she wanted to do was get up and walk away from him. "If you start to feel dizzy, you should go to the emergency room, okay?"

Mulder nodded, then winced.

"Duke?"

"I'm okay," he said, waving her off.

"Okay, people," Peake called to the crowd. "Show's over. Back to work!"

End 08/12