X-Files: Trust No One

by Tim Lebbon

  He didn’t say any of that, though. Severen wasn’t one of his, after all. Any agent who’d presented him with such sloppy guesswork would’ve gotten torn a new one, but this guy was just a sleepy local cop, completely overwhelmed by the violence of the situation. So all Skinner said to him was, “Thanks. I’ll want to see the scene myself, soon as the sun’s up.” Which wouldn’t be for hours yet. The sky would get significantly darker before there would be any hint of lightening along its horizon.

  Barely acknowledging the officer’s nod, Skinner sidestepped and knocked on the door to the room, then slid it open and stepped inside. “Malloy?” he said softly as he approached the hospital bed. “Can you hear me?”

  That provoked a raspy laugh in response. “Hello, AD Skinner.” Her voice was thinner than it had been that morning, with a noticeable tremor, but still clear. “How lovely to see you again. I’m afraid I won’t be able to consider your defense just now. I’m a little preoccupied.”

  At least she still has her sense of humor, Skinner thought, moving in a little closer. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he assured her. “We can talk about that later. Right now I want to hear exactly what happened.”

  “Trying to figure out who to thank?” Malloy asked, and laughed again. Her laugh was a bit fluttery, and Skinner suspected part of her good mood came from the drugs they were giving her.

  But he answered seriously: “No, trying to figure out who to come down on like a ton of bricks for putting the hurt on one of my people. Can you tell me what you remember?”

  She frowned, her eyes slightly unfocused, but after a second she nodded. “I was at work late,” she started slowly. “I got home, got out of my car, and headed to the front door.” The frown deepened, casting new lines across her face. “It started raining. Something—somebody—hit me. On the arm. Then again. Then across my chest. I fell down. Then something hit me in the head. That’s all I remember.”

  “Did you see who did it?” But he wasn’t surprised when she shook her head. She’d have mentioned that already, if she had.

  “No, it was pitch black,” she confirmed. “I never saw a thing.” Her gaze skittered toward the door, and the cop stationed outside. “The officer told me he thought it was a mugger. Or a burglar. Something like that.”

  Skinner balled his hands into fists. “Yes, well, while Officer Severen might be adept at handing out speeding tickets and terrorizing truant schoolchildren,” he drawled, “I think I’ll decide for myself who might have done this to you and why.” He leaned in a little. “Trust me, though, Malloy. I will get whoever’s behind this. You have my word.”

  That earned him a faint, sleepy smile as her eyes drooped shut. “Thank you, AD Skinner. And just for that, you can have a short extension on your defense. Shall we say Monday instead?” Then her chin slid down to rest against her collarbone, and her breathing slowed and deepened. She was out.

  Monday, Skinner thought as he turned to go. Apparently Malloy was an optimist. Who knew? But he certainly intended to have some information for her by then, even if it wasn’t about the project they’d been discussing a few short hours ago. He was already compiling a list of questions in his head as he strode down the hospital corridor, heading for the elevator that would take him back down to the parking garage and to his car. He had Malloy’s address already—he’d see what answers he could find there. First thing in the morning, though. Because if he was any later getting home, Malloy wouldn’t be the only FBI agent sporting bruises.

  *****

  KENSINGTON, MARYLAND

  FRIDAY, 8:20 a.m.

  “Unreliable witness.” That was the first thing to pop into Skinner’s head as he surveyed the scene. For all her icy calm and her sharp gaze, Malloy was an unreliable witness. Then again, she was the victim rather than a bystander, so she could hardly be blamed for her memory being muddled. It did mean he had to question everything she’d said, though.

  Because there wasn’t any rain. Nor had there been. He looked down at the files scattered across the space between her car and her front door, which had clearly fallen when she’d been attacked. Not a single one of them was wet. And the grass beyond was damp, so it had rained at some point earlier, enough for the blades to retain droplets, but the papers were crumpled yet dry.

  And curiously unmarked, was the second thing he noticed as he squatted down to examine them. A few were scuffed by what looked to be a woman’s shoe, and judging by the angle and the distance between those marks they were from Malloy as she flailed backward and then fell. But he didn’t see any other marks. Not one.

  Which meant whoever’d done this to her had stepped flawlessly around those papers. Unless he’d simply collected any he had tagged with his feet, but that seemed equally unlikely, given how thoroughly the distance was covered by them.

  It’d been dark, Skinner noted, glancing up at the porch’s front edge and then over his shoulder toward the street. No street light within view, no lights on the driveway, a single bulb by the door itself but that hadn’t been on. So Malloy had been right about one thing, it had been pitch black. But how had her assailant gotten around all those papers, then? And why would she think it had been raining when it wasn’t?

  This case isn’t right, Skinner decided, straightening from his crouch. The pieces don’t add up. Which made him think of the X-Files. Mulder would be all over this. For a minute Skinner was tempted to call him in. But no, that wouldn’t help any to let the lanky agent start spinning his wild theories and citing obscure folklore. Still, Skinner decided to treat this attack as if it were an X-File. Throw out the rules of reality, he told himself. Anything is possible, no matter how crazy. So what did he know?

  First, someone had attacked Malloy here in her driveway.

  Second, it had been pitch dark, yet the attacker had not only hit her repeatedly but had stepped around obstacles to do so.

  Third, this was personal. That wasn’t a fact, but Skinner knew it nonetheless. It was too violent to be anything else. There had been real anger, real hatred, behind those blows. And the attacker had sought Malloy out specifically. Whoever it was had wanted her to suffer.

  His knee-jerk response to that was “obviously I’m not the only one whose budget she threatened.” That was uncharitable, of course. But perhaps there was some truth to it. He didn’t think for a second that the attacker was FBI, if for no other reason than he’d have an agent’s badge for being this sloppy. But had Malloy always been with the Bureau? There had been that coffee cup, he remembered. What had it said? Rice & Sloan. That would be his next stop. They should be open by the time he got there.

  *****

  GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, 10:41 a.m.

  “I talked to your old bosses,” he told Malloy when he stopped by to see her an hour or two later. He’d been pleased to find her awake and more cogent today. “Thought this might have to do with something you’d worked on there. But they couldn’t think of anything that might fit the bill.”

  “I’m an accountant,” she reminded him, “not a prosecutor. I don’t get people coming after me.” Which was ironic, given that she looked like she’d gone ten rounds with a city bus, the bruising now purpling clearly beneath and around the bandages.

  “Whoever did this was after you in particular,” Skinner argued. “I know it. And you do too.” He saw the way her eyes flickered away from him for just a second. “What?” he demanded, leaning forward in the chair he’d dragged next to her bed. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “It’s nothing,” she answered after a second, her voice smaller and more malleable than before, the brittle steel missing for a change. “It doesn’t mean anything. I was delirious.”

  “Maybe you were,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t pick up on something. Tell me.”

  She sighed. “I thought I heard... a voice. Right before I blacked out.”

  “A voice?” Skinner was all ears.
“Man? Woman? Young? Old? Accent? Range? What did it say?”

  “Man, I think.” She frowned and squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “Soft. Husky. No real accent. He said ‘in the kingdom of the blind, there are no kings.’” She laughed, wincing as the movement caught at her bruised chest and wrapped ribs. “Sorry. I thought I imagined it. Maybe I did.”

  “Maybe,” Skinner agreed, but he was already turning the phrase over in his head. “In the kingdom of the blind, there are no kings.” He knew there was a phrase, maybe from the Bible? Something about the kingdom of the blind and the one-eyed man. This could be a twisted version of that. He was absolutely certain she hadn’t imagined it. Her attacker had whispered this to her, which meant it was important. But what did it mean?

  The brief conversation had worn Malloy out, so Skinner left the room to let her rest. A quick search on his phone had turned up the original quote: “In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” It was Erasmus, not the Bible. Even so, he’d said “there are no kings.” That sounded bitter. Angry. Were they looking for a blind man? Or was that only a metaphor?

  A blind man wouldn’t have cared that it was dark, Skinner realized. And her injuries, from something thin and heavy like a pipe or a cane—or a walking stick. Could a blind man have navigated his way through those files? Not easily. Not with any speed. X-Files, Skinner reminded himself. Maybe this wasn’t just any old blind man.

  He felt like the pieces were there, only just out of reach. And he had the sinking feeling he wouldn’t be able to grasp them on his own. With a sigh, he called up a number on his phone.

  “This is Skinner,” he said as soon as it picked up. “I need an answer, and I don’t have time for twenty questions. How would a blind man find his way through a pile of papers without touching them, at high speed?”

  The reply was immediate. “Echolocation.”

  “That thing that bats do?”

  “There have been theories,” Mulder started, but sped up when Skinner cleared his throat. “Some think we could learn to do what bats do. Echolocate, find our way by sonar. See our surroundings by letting reflected sounds paint a mental picture.”

  “Anybody doing research on that?”

  He heard the sound of Mulder typing at his computer. “There was a guy,” the agent said after a minute. “Doctor Gerald Rasmussen. Published a paper on it several years back. Lots of promise.” More typing. “It doesn’t look like it ever went anywhere, though.”

  “Where did this Rasmussen work?” Skinner asked.

  The sound of more keys being struck. “Patton GenTech,” Mulder replied.

  “Thank you, Agent Mulder.” Skinner tried not to let the words stick in his throat. “You’ve been a big help.” He hung up before the agent could launch any more theories at him, or ask why he’d needed to know.

  Rasmussen. Patton GenTech. Published years ago and nothing since.

  Skinner had a pretty good hunch that, if he asked at Rice & Sloan, he’d learn that Patton GenTech had been a client of theirs, and that during budget review one year the firm had recommended Rasmussen’s funding be cut. “At best questionable results,” he was sure.

  Just as he was sure Tracy Malloy had been the accountant in charge.

  It looked like the good doctor’s research had borne fruit finally. And now he’d decided to prove it and get revenge, all at the same time.

  But Malloy had survived the attack.

  Which meant, Skinner knew, that her assailant was sure to try again.

  He frowned and glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. He had until nightfall, at least, and probably a few hours past that. More than enough time to go home, grab a shower, change, eat something, and then get ready.

  And he could stop at a flower shop along the way. If he stepped inside bearing roses, Sharon wouldn’t kick him out right away. He hoped.

  *****

  GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SATURDAY, 12:13 a.m.

  It was late, just past midnight, when Skinner started awake. He’d been dozing off in the chair outside Malloy’s room, where he’d stationed himself right after dinner. Now he looked around to see what had awakened him, squinting in the dark.

  Dark. Why was it dark? This was a hospital, even late at night on a recovery wing like this there were always lights. But he didn’t see any at all. Total blackout.

  That wasn’t good.

  No one was around, which was also odd, and wrong. But if the power had failed the staff would be busy trying to get that sorted, and seeing to those in immediate danger, the patients on life support and so on. This wing was for those already in recovery, which meant all the heart monitors and whatnot were no longer functioning but that was less crucial than getting somebody’s insulin pump going again. There had probably been a bustle of nurses gathering supplies and running for the other floors, which might have also contributed to his waking up. Someone would be back to check on the floor soon, he was sure. Right now, though, he was alone out here.

  The next thing he noticed was the sound. It was a soft, rapid patter—a lot like rain, he realized. Score one for you, Malloy. It wasn’t rain, though, not exactly. It sent a shiver down his spine, and left an uncomfortable near-buzzing in his ears and behind his eyes.

  And it was getting closer.

  After a few seconds he could discern a figure approaching out of the shadows, emerging from them as if shedding an inky curtain, edges and details slowly resolving against the black. A tall figure, tapping a long, thick white cane on the ground in front of him, the cane the only bright spot in the darkness. That was the sound, Skinner realized, fighting down a second shiver. And, if he was right, the man used that sound, and its echoes, to paint a mental picture of his surroundings. Just like a bat. The mental image only added to the eeriness of the situation.

  “Doctor Rasmussen, I presume?” Skinner called out, rising to his feet and reaching into his jacket pocket at the same time. Taking action helped push back the child-like fear of the dark that had been gnawing at him since he’d opened his eyes to blackness.

  “Stand aside, whoever you are,” the good doctor replied, his voice soft and low like a whisper and chilling as a winter wind. “I only want her.”

  “Can’t do that,” Skinner said, shaking off the last of the gloom. “Walk away, doctor. Walk away now, while you still can.”

  The doctor smiled as he tapped his way closer, moving unerringly around various chairs and carts in his path despite the inky black that made them barely more than vague outlines lingering in the shadows. “I don’t think so,” he replied. His total ease in the darkness would have been enough to unsettle anyone.

  Skinner shrugged, now intent enough upon his plan to ignore any fear. “Your funeral.” And he switched on the device in his hand.

  Instantly Rasmussen froze, head tilting this way and that in obvious confusion. His cane hovered where it was, in mid-tap, its end less than an inch from the floor. “What have you done?” he demanded, his voice rising to a shriek.

  “Ultrasound recording,” Skinner answered, approaching the doctor but staying wary. His other hand retrieved a ziptie from his other pocket. “From a hawkmoth. They cancel a bat’s echolocation. Figured they’d do the same for you.” It was useful to have friends. Especially ones at the Smithsonian. And astounding just what they had on file in the digital archives over at the National Zoo. He’d stopped there on the way back.

  Rasmussen thrashed about, swinging that cane of his in a vicious arc, but now he was just as blind as Skinner. Moreso, apparently—as Skinner got closer and his sight adjusted he could see that the doctor’s eyes were dull and filmed over, as if a fog had seeped into them, masking the colors beneath. No wonder the man had been so focused on a cure for blindness—he had been hoping to use it himself. And he had. Too bad he’d decided his first action with it should be one of revenge.

  Even though he still couldn’t see much, Skinner was able to duck t
he blind swing easily, and he stepped into the arc of the cane, catching it with one hand and wrenching it from Rasmussen’s grip. With his other hand he grabbed the doctor’s shoulder and spun him around, a foot to the back of the man’s knee, forcing his legs to buckle and driving him to the ground. From there it was an easy thing to zip-tie his hands behind his back. Problem solved.

  He was already dreading how insufferable Mulder was going to be once he found out.

  *****

  GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TUESDAY, 5:22 p.m.

  A few days later, Skinner dropped by to see Malloy again. “You’re looking better,” he commented as he entered her room. There was a lightweight cast on her arm, and a foam cast along the side of her face, but a lot of the bruising was starting to fade.

  “Better,” she agreed, “but still a long ways to go. At least they’re letting me go home.” She was already dressed in regular clothes, jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, rather than hospital garb. “Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “For catching Rasmussen. For stopping him.”

  Skinner nodded. “Glad I could be of service.”

  A small smile crept onto Malloy’s face, and her eyes had a hint of their old fire when she replied, “And is this the part where you tell me what that service will cost me? Like sparing your precious X-Files?”

  But Skinner shook his head. “No, this is the part where I give you my defense.” He dropped a file onto the bed beside her.

  She flipped it open, then looked up at him, frowning. “This is my incident report. So this is some kind of weird blackmail?”