Skin

by Ben Mezrich

  Fielding began applying a dry powder over the wound. “Meat tenderizer,” Scully explained. “It makes the nematocysts stick together, and neutralizes the acid venom.”

  Fielding reached for a scalpel from a small tray held by one of the monks. She carefully began to scrape the top layer of skin off of the old man’s leg. The man’s pain seemed to lessen as she shaved away the nematocysts. Still, he seemed dazed, nearly catatonic. Mulder’s thoughts drifted back to Perry Stanton as he watched Fielding work with the scalpel. He remembered the wild look in Stanton’s eyes as he leapt at him in the subway tunnel. Stanton had been completely out of his mind, in agony—not so different from the old man on the litter. Both were trapped in the torment of their own skin.

  Finally, Fielding set the scalpel back on the tray and began to rinse the wound. As the patient settled back against the stretcher, Fielding turned toward Mulder. “As I was about to say, I’m not really the person you should be talking to. I’m not a native of this town—and I have no personal knowledge of either of the Paladins. But there is someone who might be able to help you. Allan Trowbridge, one of the clinic’s founders.”

  Scully had her notepad out of her pocket and was shaking rainwater out of the binding. “Did Trowbridge know Emile Paladin?”

  “Allan served as an orderly with the MASH unit during the war. He decided to settle in Alkut after the war ended. He helped set up this clinic—and was responsible for getting the Red Cross to send much of the equipment. He’s very well respected in the community.”

  “Is he here at the clinic?” Mulder asked, his interest growing.

  “Today is his day off. You can probably find him at home—I’ll give you directions. A friendly warning, though; from what I’ve heard about Emile Paladin and his MASH unit—you aren’t going to be making many friends, bringing up that past. Some things are better left alone.”

  Mulder raised his eyebrows. The cryptic statement was just the sort of thing to make him want to dig deeper.

  16

  Mulder’s face caught fire from the inside, followed by a shrill ringing deep in his ears. He quickly reached for his drink, but his eyes were watering so much he couldn’t find the glass. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but all he could manage was a fierce choking sound, somewhat akin to a chain saw cutting through bone.

  His attempts at communication were met by a gale of laughter from the other side of the low wooden table. Allan Trowbridge slammed his beefy palms together, a huge smile on his lips. “Like I said, som-dtam is an acquired taste. Even the Thais treat the northern dish with respect.”

  Mulder finally found his glass of bia—Thai beer—letting the harsh bubbles chase the fire away. He rubbed the tears out of his eyes and looked at Scully, who was seated cross-legged on the wood-paneled floor next to him, her chopsticks hovering above the oversize dish. “Dive right in, Scully. Don’t let me suffer alone.”

  Scully paused for a moment, then shrugged and lifted one of the noodlelike strips to her lips. The moment she closed her mouth, her eyes sprang open and red cauliflowers appeared on her cheeks. She coughed, grabbing Mulder’s glass right out of his hand. Mulder turned back toward Trowbridge, who was thoroughly enjoying the show.

  “You know,” Mulder joked, “assaulting FBI agents is a federal crime. What did you say was in this concoction?”

  Before Trowbridge could answer, his wife sidled up next to him, bowing softly as she took her seat at the low pine table. Her appearance was a striking contrast to her husband’s. Trowbridge was a huge man, over six feet tall and at least 220 pounds. His barrel chest swelled against the table with each breath, and his bright red beard seemed to spring out over his square jaw like moss on a boulder. Rina Trowbridge, on the other hand, was a tiny woman—barely five feet tall, with thin, delicate features. Her jet-black hair was tied back behind her head in a complex system of buns, and she was wearing an elegant, jade green silk smock, buttoned at the throat.

  “First,” Rina said, her English draped in the velvet tones of her Thai accent, “we start with raw papaya. Then we add lime juice, a handful of chilies, dried shrimp, and tiny salted land crabs. The finished product is pounded in a pestle, and served as is. I apologize for the lack of warning—my husband is a sadist.”

  Mulder laughed. In truth, Allan Trowbridge seemed to be a genuinely amiable man. Despite Dr. Fielding’s warnings, Trowbridge had not seemed upset by Mulder and Scully’s arrival—or their front line of questions about Emile Paladin and the MASH unit. Instead of displaying any anger, he had immediately demanded that the two agents join him for lunch. His wife had happily added two settings to the table.

  Mulder’s gaze swept across the small living area as he gingerly scooped a small ball of khao niew—sticky rice—into his serving bowl. The narrow, wood-walled room had a warm and friendly feel to it, from the loosely woven hangings to the plush, faded crimson oriental carpet that covered most of the floor. There was a tall rattan bookshelf by the door, filled with medical manuals and Thai-to-English dictionaries. In the far corner, there was a small Buddhist shrine, complete with a four-foot-high golden Buddha seated cross-legged, palms up, on a marble pedestal. The Buddha was surrounded by unlit incense and dried garlands, and there were two sets of cloth slippers beneath the pedestal. No doubt, Trowbridge had picked up some of his wife’s culture—and perhaps that accounted for his easygoing attitude. Along with their spirituality and superstitions, the Thai were also known for their relaxed way of life.

  “You’ve come a long way to ask questions about ancient history,” Trowbridge said as he picked at the last remnants of his meal—finally turning the conversation back to Mulder and Scully’s entrance. “Emile and Andrew Paladin are a part of this village’s past—but certainly not part of its present. I haven’t spoken either of those names in a long, long time. And I don’t know anything about Andrew Paladin’s whereabouts. I’ve heard rumors that he lives up in the mountains—but I haven’t seen him since the war. So I’m not sure how I can help you.”

  “But you did serve under Emile Paladin in the MASH unit?” Scully asked, still sipping Mulder’s beer. “Dr. Fielding led us to believe that Paladin and his unit were not something Alkut was very fond of remembering.”

  Trowbridge nodded, his smile weakening slightly. “Well, it was a time of war. And Emile Paladin was an intimidating, obsessive man. He ran the MASH unit as if it was his private fiefdom. And to the villagers, who weren’t used to the effects of modern warfare—sometimes the place seemed like a hell on Earth. And I guess that made Emile Paladin into some sort of devil.”

  Mulder paused, as he saw a tiny, inadvertent shiver move through Trowbridge’s shoulders. It was the first crack in the man’s amiable facade, and it made Mulder wonder—was there something hidden behind that smile? “What exactly do you mean?”

  Trowbridge spread his hands against the table, his eyes shifting downward for a brief second. “Our MASH unit specialized in napalm injuries, Agent Mulder. They sent us the absolute worst of the worst—men with burns over fifty percent of their body. A steady stream of horribly scorched soldiers, most without faces. Without hair. Without skin. Men who should have died on the battlefield but had somehow survived—burned to the last inch of their humanity.”

  Trowbridge’s voice wavered, and Mulder watched as his wife rose from the table and crossed to the golden Buddha in the far corner. She leaned forward and took a match from beneath the garlands. Carefully, she lit one of the sticks of incense.

  “Emile Paladin was their doctor,” Trowbridge continued, his smile now gone but his expression still light. “And they were his obsession. He spent his days and nights surrounded by those tortured souls. He hardly spoke to anyone.”

  Scully leaned forward, the beautiful cuisine suddenly forgotten. “Were you aware of what he was working on?”

  Trowbridge glanced at his wife, who was lighting a second stick of incense. The enormous man took a deep breath, his face slightly paled. “Skin. He was searching for th
e perfect synthetic skin. Something that could trick the body’s defenses, that would be accepted by the immune system, that could repair the damage from the napalm. It was his quest, the only thing that mattered to him. He would spend weeks locked in his research laboratory, working on his skin. By the end, the only one he allowed inside with him was his son.”

  Mulder turned toward Trowbridge, wondering if he had misheard. Emile Paladin had a son? Julian Kyle had not mentioned anything about a son. Nor had there been anything in the military or FBI files on Emile Paladin about progeny. Mulder shifted his head and saw that Scully was staring at Trowbridge with the same intensity.

  “Paladin had a child?” she asked.

  Trowbridge looked toward his wife again, who instantly met his gaze. The fear was plainly written across her face. She didn’t want her husband to say anything more. But Trowbridge shook his head, turning back to the agents. It seemed that he wanted to tell the story—as if he had been waiting a long time to let it out. “The boy’s name was Quo Tien. He was born to a prostitute who lived near the MASH unit. She died during childbirth, and Paladin took the child as his own. He raised the boy among his burned, tortured patients. As you can guess, the boy did not turn out well.”

  Mulder wasn’t sure what that meant. He waited for Trowbridge to continue, but instead the big man leaned back from the table, his face sagging. He shook his head, as if chasing the memories away. “As I said, that’s all ancient history. The war ended, the MASH unit closed up shop. Emile Paladin was forced to continue his research elsewhere. He and his son moved out of Alkut. And a few years later—as you know—he died.”

  End of story, Trowbridge seemed to want to add. But something in his eyes told Mulder the story was actually far from over. Mulder aimed his chopsticks at another ball of sticky rice. “A hiking accident. That’s what we were told.”

  “And that’s what’s on the death certificate,” Trowbridge said, speaking quietly. “He fell into a deep ravine while hiking in the mountains. During the war, he had often taken trips up See Dum Kao. He was an avid student of Thai mythology, and there are many ancient ruins in those mountains. But the terrain can be quite treacherous—and according to the story, Paladin broke his neck in a canyon near the range’s peak. His body was greatly damaged by the fall—and picked clean by local wildlife.”

  Rina Trowbridge was bent in ritual prostration before the Buddhist shrine. She suddenly cleared her throat, drawing the attention away from her husband. When she turned away from the Buddha, her face was strangely stiff, her eyes smoldering. “My husband has not told you the entire story. My husband is afraid. We are both afraid.”

  Mulder was shocked by the sudden admission. The tension was as palpable as the strong scent of incense. Trowbridge whispered something in Thai to his wife. She lowered her eyes. Mulder felt Scully’s hand on his arm—but he couldn’t let things lie. His senses told him they were on the edge of something vitally important. “Mr. Trowbridge, if you’re in some kind of danger—”

  “It’s nothing,” Trowbridge loudly interrupted, not meeting Mulder’s eyes. “An old wives’ tale, a foolish myth, a farmer’s superstition. Rumors—”

  “They’re not rumors,” Rina Trowbridge declared, stepping toward the table. “Gin-Korng-Pew is not a rumor.”

  Mulder searched his memory for the words, but found nothing that matched. He could hear Scully moving uncomfortably next to him; she could tell they were about to delve into Mulder territory, and she wasn’t happy about it. They were supposed to be searching for Andrew Paladin. But from the looks on Rina’s and Allan Trowbridge’s faces—Mulder knew, this was too important to pass over.

  “It’s a local legend,” Trowbridge finally explained, though something in his face told Mulder that he was not as skeptical as his words, “dating back many centuries. Gin-Korng-Pew means, literally, the Skin Eater. It’s the name of a mythical creature that supposedly lives in a cave at the base of the See Dum range.”

  “The Skin Eater?” Scully repeated.

  “I know how foolish it sounds,” Trowbridge responded, facing her. “But as the story goes, around three hundred years ago, bodies began to crop up around the town—minus their skin. Usually vagrants, sometimes farm animals, sometimes missing children—and always the corpses were found in the same state, completely skinned. A local cult grew up around the mysterious deaths—and a small temple was even erected, out near the edge of town. Sacrifices were made, and about a century ago the corpses stopped appearing. According to the myth, Gin-Korng-Pew was sated; the creature went into an indefinite hibernation in his cave.”

  Rina lowered herself to her husband’s side. “But his hibernation was interrupted. Twenty-five years ago—around the same time the MASH unit opened its doors—the skinned bodies began appearing again. First farm animals. Then a pair of brothers, lost on a hunting expedition. Then more and more villagers—poor souls who had wandered too far from home. Every week, it seemed, there was another skinned corpse found near the town. It got so bad, people were afraid to leave their houses. And of course, everyone knew it was because of the MASH unit.”

  Mulder did not need to see Scully’s expression to know what she was thinking. But he was not so quick to dismiss the woman’s story. In his experience, old wives’ tales usually had a basis in facts. It just took a certain sort of vision to see those facts. “And why was that, Mrs. Trowbridge?”

  “Emile Paladin had awakened the Skin Eater. Either through his hikes in the mountains—or because of the thousands of horribly tormented soldiers he brought to Alkut. He had awakened Gin-Korng-Pew after so many years. And the creature was hungry.”

  “And now?” Scully asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice. “Are there still skinless corpses appearing around town?”

  Rina Trowbridge shook her head. “Emile Paladin was their last victim. After his death, the creature returned to his hibernation.”

  Scully touched Mulder’s shoulder as she rose to her feet. Mulder could tell—she had heard enough. “Thank you both for lunch, and for your time. I’m sorry we can’t stay any longer, but we need to continue our search for Andrew Paladin.”

  Trowbridge nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t help you there. You might try speaking to David Kuo—he’s the only lawyer in town, and he probably had some connection to the Paladins at the time of Emile’s death. His office is connected to the town hall. The small circular building a block past the clinic.”

  Mulder shook Trowbridge’s hand and bowed to his wife, thanking her for the meal. He waited until he and Scully had reached the door before letting his thoughts form a question. “You mentioned a temple built to placate Gin-Korng-Pew. Does it still exist?”

  Trowbridge seemed surprised by Mulder’s interest. Maybe he had assumed that an FBI agent couldn’t possibly put stock in such a story. He didn’t realize that Mulder could have told him a hundred stories that were equally as bizarre—and all based on fact.

  “At the very edge of town,” Trowbridge answered. “A stone building with a domed roof. It is run by a cadre of monks in dark red robes—the cult of Gin-Korng-Pew. They keep the temple in order in case, well—”

  “In case of his reawakening,” Rina Trowbridge finished, her face serious. Mulder felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain spattering down outside. No matter what Scully thought, he could not discount the story he had just heard.

  Skinless corpses. A scientist whose life had been dedicated to the search for the perfect synthetic skin. And a few thousand miles away, a man who had murdered—and died—because of something that had been done to his skin.

  These were the elements of an X-File.

  17

  Quo Tien watched from across the street until the two agents turned the corner, heading toward the center of town. Then he quietly approached the traditional wooden house. His long, thin body was draped in a flowing black smock, and his slicked-back hair glistened in the perpetual rain. There was a heavy burlap bag hanging from the belt arou
nd his waist, and a dark rucksack slung over his left shoulder.

  When he arrived at the front steps leading up to the house, he reached into an inner pocket in his smock and withdrew a shiny steel straight razor with a molded plastic handle. The blade was three and a quarter inches long, the handle specially designed to conform to Tien’s fingers. A surge of hunger swept through him as he climbed the low steps, his free hand forming a gentle fist. He knocked twice on the painted wood.

  The anticipation was intense, as he listened to the heavy footsteps on the other side of the door. He kept his hands at his sides, the straight razor hidden beneath his oversized sleeve. He could feel the rain running in twisting rivulets down his exposed neck, and the anticipation multiplied, turning virulent. Patience. Patience. Patience.

  A few seconds later, the door swung inward. There was a brief pause—then recognition snapped across Allan Trowbridge’s face. His eyes went wide, his mouth jerked open and closed. He looked like a marionette with tangled strings. Tien smiled. “Hello, Allan. Mind if I come inside?”

  Trowbridge’s cheeks turned chalky white. His thick shoulders shook with fear. “Please. I didn’t tell them anything. I swear—”

  “My father taught me never to swear, Allan. It’s a straight shot to hell.”

  Suddenly, Quo Tien’s right arm whipped forward. The razor sliced through the soft skin beneath Trowbridge’s jaw, digging back almost to his spine. The huge man’s head lolled to the side, and a fountain of bright blood spattered against the open door.

  Tien caught Trowbridge by the waist as the man’s body teetered forward. A second later he had dragged Trowbridge through the entrance of his home, gently shutting the door with the heel of his foot. He laid Trowbridge’s body on the floor, kneeling so close he could hear the blood gurgling out of the gash in the man’s throat. As he watched the man die, an incredible heat moved through his groin. He moaned softly, his eyes rolling back in his head.