Author's Prologue: In 1964, a bright, handsome young man named James Thomas Egan, Jr. thought joining the Marine Corps out of Notre Dame University seemed like a terrific idea. With a 95 average out of Quantico, he could pick his spot. He decided on Hawaii. He probably figured he'd lei a few native babes, and pick up officer's pay in a beautiful setting in peacetime. Then a police action began in a country called Vietnam. And the young First Lieutenant was in the initial wave of Marines sent in 1965. On January 21, 1966, when he failed to assemble at a rendezvous point after engaging six VC in a ground battle, he was declared MIA. Later, it was determined, but never proven, that he became a POW, was taken to a series of camps, and subsequently shot by the VC for not following their orders. Fighting Irish. Thirty one years later, his is a name I wear on a red metal bracelet, a name on The Wall in Washington, and a name on The Crater here in Jersey. This story is for him, and was also born out of my disappointment with the portrayal of the VN Vet by the scriptwriters of the X-Files--(They either never met any, or don't care to.) It's also my attempt to flesh out Walter Skinner's experiences In Country, and how they may have shaped the person he is today-something that seems to have been overlooked in the show. But then, he no longer wears his wedding ring, and he has a lovely new apartment, complete with interior decorating. This from a man who couldn't unpack for weeks, he was so shattered by his separation from his wife. Go Figure. In closing, if you are ever in Arlington, pay your respects to a young Irishman from New Jersey who will never know the love of his family, the comfort of children, or a wife, or will never experience the everyday--as you and I do. Major James Thomas Egan, Jr. rests in Section H, Grave 303. Semper Fi. "Half His Foe - Skinner Goes To War" Part 1 of 8 by Margie Maggiulli Proud Charter Member, DDEB1 NC-17-- mild sexual content, violence, language, war Classifications--T Keywords--Annie and Walter uncover secrets about each other's pasts. This story hopes you've read my "Taking Steps", and know about the Old Woman from "Avatar" (which, BTW, is the name of a faucet from Kohler) Please check out: http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/parade/hg83/skinner.htm Oh, and feel free to contact me with comments good, bad, or ugly at margie@mtgpa.mt.lucent.com "He who overcomes his foe by force Overcomes but half his foe." Milton, "Paradise Lost" July, 1980 The woman stuck her arm out of the window of the old Pontiac, feeling the hot air fold around her skin like a tourniquet. It was hot. Hot, she was sure, even for summertime in Arizona. Discussing the weather, the 60-ish retired couple drove through the shimmering afternoon, satisfied with their lunch at a quiet diner a while back, and looking for some place to gas up. The woman glanced over at her husband. "Do you think it was worth it, our coming out here, where nothing seems to happen?" she asked. Her husband responded, "It's the changing face of the desert landscape, Louise, *that* is what it is all about." She snorted. "George, you've read too many travel guides." Then she pointed out through the dust-covered windshield. "There's a place," she said. "Looks deserted," George mumbled, slowing down the car. He eased the car off the road and over to what for all appearances was a gas station. As they pulled up to the island, Louise noticed the pumps were old, the facades scratched and opaque, the nozzles stuck into their sides frozen in a perpetual salute. The building just beyond the island stuck out of the desert landscape like a wart on a witch. It was low, square, and was covered in brown, peeling paint. The exterior walls were littered with signs, mostly faded, discussing services and products long since unavailable. "Barely looks like they've got gas," George said quietly. The garage bay doors, as if holding back a secret, were bolted shut. The only sign of life was a man with his back to them, seated in the small office to the left of the quiet garage. George put the car in park, and tooted the horn. The figure dressed in the black T-shirt seemed not to hear it. Then, after George leaned on the horn a little harder, the figure rose from the seat and turned around. At that moment, Louise knew something was wrong about the way he looked. It wasn't the dirty, loose jeans and black baseball hat with the familiar Forget-Me-Not Association's POW-MIA insignia from the Vietnam War. It was his eyes. They were bright, bright blue and seemed wild, and unable to focus as he came towards their car. "You think he looks all right?" she asked as she leaned towards her husband, taking comfort in his nearness and wishing they were both 30 years younger. George said, "Look, you'd be a little nuts too if you were out here in the middle of nowhere, and all alone." The medium-built, wavy-haired man walked up to the car. "Can I help you folks?" "Sure," George said, "fill it up with super, please." "No problem. Sorry I didn't hear you at first. I was cleaning my handgun," he said, then walked with long strides around to the gas tank on their car. "Cleaning his handgun?" Louise said, a little nervously. "Don't worry about it, he probably needs protection out here," George responded. As if he had overhead their conversation, the man walked back over to the driver's side window, leaned down and rested his elbows on the car door. "Yeah, it's tough out here. Gotta look out for all sorts of vermin that come sniffin' around at night." "I noticed your hat," George said, "were you in the war?" Louise sighed. The man touched the brim of his hat. "Yeah, yeah I was. Was there a little while." "Enough to make your presence known, right?" her husband chuckled. The man's eyes clouded over, "Yes sir, if you call killing someone a way to make a difference. Me, I think the whole thing was a crime." The change in his voice made Louise feel that he was referring to something specific, and not to the war in general. She had always been intuitive, sensitive to people. And this guy was in turmoil, no question in her mind about that. "In fact, I even lost touch with my family because of the war," the man said, looking away from them and out into the dry Arizona desert. "Oh? What happened?" asked Louise, only half interested. "The easiest way to explain it is to say it was the memories. The hardest way to explain it is to say it was...the memory of the memories." He hung his head for a moment. thought Louise. Then she watched, a little tense, as the man dug into his back pocket. "Here's a picture of my little girl," he said, reaching his arm in and showing them an old color photograph of a little girl in flannel pajamas in front of a Christmas tree. Over time, the girl's skin had become faded-looking, and the decorated tree looked purple. "She's lovely," said the woman, lying, nervous. "Yeah, just like her mother," he said, pulling the picture back and looking at it. "Sorry I don't have anything more recent, but...well, I've haven't seen her in a while." "Has she tried to contact you?" she asked. She tried to shoot a look at her husband, but he seemed intent on keeping his back to her. The pump clicked loudly, indicating their tank was full. The man put his head down so Louise couldn't see his face. "She used to write me, but, not much anymore. I been tryin' for a couple of years to get the courage up to go see her...You know, funny you folks coming along now. I hadn't worn this hat in years. Guess I didn't count on someone coming along today." Suddenly, he put the picture back in his pocket and lifted his head, saying, a little too brightly, "I'll finish you up and you can get to wherever you're headed." He walked to the side of their car, pulled out the pump nozzle and closed up their gas tank. Walking back to the window, he said, "That'll be 20 bucks." As he accepted the bill from George, he said to the couple, "Thank you. You folks been the nicest ones to come on through here in weeks." He smiled into Louise's eyes. Louise swore she was watching a man coming to a decision, that he was telling her goodbye almost like mother to son. It unnerved her, and after the man had walked back to the office, she leaned over and said, "George, something is wrong with that man, mark my words. Not to mention the whole bit about not expecting anyone to come by. Bet he's planning something with that gun of his." She inclined her head towards her husband. "Come on, Louise, you gotta be kidding me." George sighed noisily, and rolled up the window a little bit. As he massaged the steering wheel, he said, "He's just lonely, that's all. You always read too much into things." Then he started the car. "No, really," she said, "I just get the feeling that--" Her words were cut off by a muffled, sudden sound from inside the station's office. The couple looked over in the direction of the office. Louise gasped. The front office window had a large, runny bloodstain on it. It looked, Louise thought, astonished, almost like a refrigerator drawing done by one of her toddler grandchildren, as if a trace of innocence could be found in something so horrible. ............................... The coroner would find Marine Corps First Lieutenant Daniel Sean O'Hannon dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound from a .38 Police Special. There was no suicide note. The police investigation would be routinely filed, the immediate family notified, the case, closed. The only notation the police at the scene would make in their report was that the victim's baseball cap was on the desk, carefully placed over the untouched photograph of a little girl, and a Christmas tree. No one would know that, even at the last moment, O'Hannon only wanted to protect his daughter from the consequences of his actions. =================== "No, I really don't want to talk about it." Annie looked at Skinner across the Sunday morning breakfast table. "and don't do that funny little chin-thing of yours." "That what?" "You know, what you do when you get an answer you disapprove of." Annie demonstrated by moving her chin sharply in, shifting her eyes, and inhaling loudly. Then she made a motion at her waist like she was straightening an imaginary pair of pants. Skinner slid his hand over his chin, and began to grin, shaking his head. Annie took a satisfied sip of her coffee and smiled. "Everything but the pants, McTigue," he said, snapping the Sunday paper and holding it up. "I don't straighten my pants." He peered over the top of the paper at her smirking at him. He wanted to walk over and kiss that smirk off her face. He grinned more broadly. "Well, maybe once in a while." She laughed softly. "Digression aside, Walter, the answer is still no." Annie pushed her chair back and stood up. "Look, there are things you don't talk about, places I can't go. My family, and my experiences growing up with Fox are, for me, something I don't want to talk about yet." "Fair enough," he said, folding the paper. "I won't ask anything else unless you offer first." Her face became pensive. Then she walked over to him and sat down in his lap, resting her head on his shoulder as he embraced her. He took a deep breath. God, he loved the way she smelled. It wasn't that she used the same perfume, it was more that her scent was...comfortable, and pleasing to him. "How long have we lived together?" Annie began, "Three months? I just feel like we are only beginning. I mean, I've never met your Mom, or your sister and her husband and their kids-" "I know, Annie, but with work schedules, I can't get time to-" "That's not what I'm saying." She made a quick, frustrated motion with her hands. "I'm saying we've got time to learn all there is to learn about each other." She stood up. "I gotta get dressed. I promised Maura I'd come by and sit the kids late this afternoon." Annie walked out of the kitchen. Skinner sat alone at the table for a moment. Annie was right, it had been three months since she'd gathered up her things and joined him in his home. She had brought a pair of ragged, well-worn slippers that she had nicknamed Yin and Yang, her CD collection, the pillows from her bed, toiletries, clothing, shoes, and a mysterious box labeled "old stuff" that she had shoved into her half of the walk-in bedroom closet. All she told him was that the box contained memories that she hated delving into, but couldn't throw away. Curious, but willing to let it go for the present, he didn't bring it up. He had been a little apprehensive when she decided to only sub-let her apartment rather than break the lease. At the time, she said it was to save her from losing her security deposit, but Skinner, always somewhat suspicious of everyone's motives, thanks to the ingrained attitude developed from his time on the job, felt a little uneasy at her keeping a back door in their relationship. Their time together began in the middle of their professional lives going full swing. Ginny O'Bryan had retired, and Annie, having been given Ginny's delegation, worked late most nights trying to deal with downsizing and the extra work load it created. Skinner was, as he always had been, a workaholic, to the point where Annie had said one night during a rare quiet moment that she was lucky a vow of celibacy didn't go along with his almost priest-like devotion to his job. Most times, one beat the other home, started supper, got the mail, turned on the lights, and waited. For him, that usually meant listening for the sound of the front door, then, for the whisper of her stocking feet on the carpet, since she usually abandoned her heels as soon as she walked in. She'd come to the kitchen, or over to his desk, without even taking off her coat, and wrap her arms around him. At that moment, it seemed, the tensions of the day would finally ease from his body. Even if he had gone to bed before she got home he couldn't quite fall asleep without her. There was a feeling of incompleteness, something not quite right until he had made that physical connection with her, and as she slipped into bed beside him, he would reach for her, and, without words, hold her. Skinner stood, stretched, and walked to the sink. As he did the few breakfast dishes, he remembered how just recently he had found her in the condo parking lot, scraping the "Hoffa-96" and "Warning-I Speed Up for Politicians" stickers off the bumper of her old truck. She had told him with a laugh that she figured in a class place like the Viva Towers, it was better to try and blend in. He had pointed out to her that her beat-up mess of a red Ford pickup was anything but inconspicuous, no matter what was stuck, or not stuck, on its backside. She'd sighed, kissed him, and asked him if he minded being with someone so out of place. He'd kissed her back, and told her it was better than sleeping alone. She walked away, saying she was glad that his responses to her questions never quite made her comfortable. At the time, he had dismissed it as her oddly-timed humor. Now, he wondered if what she had meant was that she was grateful he wasn't letting her get too settled in. The dishes done, he walked upstairs, and saw Annie undressing, her back to the bedroom doorway. He watched her drop her red silk robe to the floor, slip her nightgown off, and toss it on the bed. Then he walked quietly up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She started against him, instinctively bringing her arms across her naked breasts. "How the hell do you do that?" she breathed. "Do what?" he murmured, his lips and tongue defining the shape of her warm, slight shoulders. "Sneak up on me like that." "Comes with the job training," he whispered. He felt her body begin to relax as he ran his hands down over her belly, slipping his fingers underneath the soft fabric of her cotton underpants. "What are you doing up here all alone?" His teeth softly grazed the flesh of her earlobe. "Trying to get ready to take a shower," she whispered, her breath quickening as his hands began to caress between her legs. "Alone?" he asked, increasing the movement of his hands. She made a sound in her throat, and leaned hard against his body. "Guess not." ................................ Later, Annie sat, dressed in her underwear, on the edge of the bed, towel drying her long hair as Skinner donned clean boxers and a T-shirt. "Here," he said, and pulled one of his T- shirts over her head. She slipped it the rest of the way on. "Thanks," she said, smiling at him. "Annie, about before, downstairs in the kitchen, I really didn't mean...," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed next to her. She put a slightly damp hand to his lips. "Walter," she whispered, "it's OK." Then he watched her eyes change, and he could almost feel her mood darken. She handed him the towel. "Finish my hair," she said, and turned her back to him. Skinner, not having known her long, but believing he knew her well, gently squeezed the water from the tendrils of her long hair, and waited. "Where to start..." she said, so softly, Skinner almost didn't hear it. "My mom spent most of my childhood...dismissing me. Nothing was ever...simple. Nothing that was given to me was given without a catch." She stopped, and her shoulders sagged briefly. Skinner reached over and gave her shoulders a slight caress. "Annie, if this is too--" She put her hand over his and patted it. Then she sat back up, and said, "I said it's OK. And to answer your earlier question about how Fox and I met it was when my mom moved us to Chilmark to be near my aunt. My father..." she stopped and sighed, "my father had left us some time before. He, uh, he died several years later, alone. I hadn't seen him since he and my mom split. I just...couldn't...." she shook her head. "I can't talk about my parents anymore." "OK," he replied, abandoning the towel and lightly massaging her back. She continued after a moment, "As far as what Fox and I were to each other...well, I lost my virginity to him the night of my junior prom." She turned her body slightly towards him, and the edges of her mouth upturned slightly. "Still want me to continue?" At the mention of Mulder's name in their home in this kind of connection with his lover, he felt a twinge, just a small one, like the prick of a pin, or the slight sting of a mosquito bite. he thought "Yes, if you want to," he said. "I'm not talking about all of this for me, I'm doing it for you," she said, playfully grabbing his knee. "Is that what you say to yourself when you do what you did to me in the shower just now?" he asked. He realized with a start that he needed to reassure his ego that Annie thought he was desirable. She giggled. "No, AD Skinner, believe it or not, I actually enjoy doing that. I look forward to doing that. In fact," she said turning to face him, straddling his hips with her smooth, bare legs, "the reason I try to avoid you at all costs at work is because I think about doing it to you. Quite often." She began to kiss his chest through the fabric of his shirt, pushing him onto his back, moving her mouth down his body. "And I'm afraid I'll be overcome by my desires and attack you, and do it to you in the hallway in front of your subordinates." Her face was now dangerously close to the open fly of his boxers. He moaned and rolled away from her. "Don't change the subject, McTigue." "OK, OK," she said, with a little grin. She sat up near him. "Fox and I, we got along great, from the moment we met at school. He was a bit of an outcast, and I was never one for accumulating friends. So, no one much hung out with the two of us except the two of us." "One day, he tried out for Varsity basketball, even though he had a case of the 'gawky awkwards' as he called them. The coach liked his sincerity, and put Fox on the team. I started going to all of the games and sat right behind the team bench. Sometimes, near the end of the game, the coach let him sub for one of the regular players. He seemed so incredibly happy." Her voice, suddenly quiet, became hoarse. "Watching his long arms and legs as he moved down the court...I guess my feelings of friendship just spilled over into puppy love. Whatever it was, it lasted through that summer after the prom until..." her voice faltered a little, "until he went off to college." Annie stopped, and shifted a little on the bed. "Anyway, neither of us liked going home much, so after the games, we'd go sit in the bleachers. He'd shoot hoops and we'd talk until the janitors kicked us out. Then we'd go to the diner, or sit on his front stoop....His sister Samantha had been gone awhile by that time, and I guess I never could get him to talk about it. But, I never could talk about my family much with him either, then." She sighed and turned away from him slightly. "We just talked about...everything and anything but. TV, politics, schoolwork. He even tried to teach me to play chess. When we were together, life seemed so...normal. And maybe that fact alone was enough to make us a refuge, one to the other, from the bad...bad out-takes of 'Father Knows Best' that constituted our family lives." She bowed her head. Skinner touched her cheek, and was surprised when his fingertips came back wet. He sat up immediately. "Annie?" She began to move off the bed, but he reached out and held her arm. "Come here, Anne," he whispered. She resisted. "Come on, you don't have to go to Maura's yet," he said softly, urging her to come to him. Finally, she rested heavily against him. He wrapped his arms around her, her tears coming from somewhere he couldn't heal. Helpless, he closed his eyes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Look, you guys, Mr. Skinner will be back any second from the grocery store. You have to pick up all this stuff and carry it back to the kitchen, now!" Annie said to the three boys, pointing towards the kitchen door. Moaning and muttering to themselves, Maura's three boys picked up their soda cans and empty chip bags and walked towards the kitchen. Simultaneously, Annie heard Skinner's key in the lock. She ran for the front door. As he opened the door, Annie said, "You gotta get a cellphone, Walter. Not to mention a computer with a CD-ROM drive." "OK, Annie what does my being a technical Neanderthal have to do with-" He looked over her head and into the condo. Noticing his odd expression, Annie quickly explained, "I forgot Maura was having her place painted, so I offered to watch the kids here." "Chaos is too simple a word to describe what I'm looking at," he said with a grimace. Annie followed his gaze, realizing that he was right. The TV, rarely on when they were alone, was loud with a kid's video. Laura, the youngest Murphy, sat clutching a teddy bear, glued to the screen. The place was littered with open sleeping bags, toys, and boxes of kid's videos, and the carpet was sprinkled in spots with whatever the kids had been eating while walking around. Skinner stepped into the foyer. "That's Laura. Her nickname is Laura the Little," Annie said, trying to find a place to begin, gesturing to the mesmerized child in front of the TV. He nodded, and sighed. Suddenly, three boys came whipping out of the kitchen door and into the living room, circling Skinner's desk and whooping. "Who are these three, Moe, Larry, and Curly?" Skinner asked her over the boys' shouts. "Well, in no particular order they are Scott, Aldrin, and Glenn," Annie answered. Skinner looked at her, frowning. "Their dad had a thing for astronauts," she added with a shrug. Scott, calling, "Catch!" to Glenn, lobbed the football he was carrying at his younger brother. It missed Glenn's waiting hands and bounced off the TV screen. Everyone froze. Annie looked at Skinner, and so did everyone else. Skinner pulled himself up to his full height, creating exactly the kind of effect on the boys Annie figured it would, and walked slowly over to where the three of them were looking uncomfortable. "My name is Walter Skinner. You," he said, gesturing to the boys, "may call me 'sir.' And you are?" "Scott,sir." "Glenn,sir." "Aldrin,sir." Skinner shook hands with each of them in turn. Then he said, "This is my home. You are guests here. As such, you will conduct yourselves with some relative quiet and you will respect my things or you will receive appropriate retribution. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir!" all three boys said. "Now, I want this place picked up, and back to the way you found it, OK?" "Yes, sir!" came the response from the rank and file. "Wonderful," he said, walking towards the kitchen. Annie looked at the boys and shrugged with a 'don't look at me' expression on her face. She followed Skinner into the kitchen as the boys bent to their tasks. "I think that went rather well, don't you?" she said to him, forcing a smile. He looked at her from over the top of his glasses, and raised his eyebrows. "Glad you feel the same way," she said. She watched him unpack the groceries. "Mmmm...nice choice of wine, Walter. You planning something special for later?" she asked, turning her back to him to stir the pasta she was readying for supper. She felt his arms around her waist. "Seems like you're booked for this evening, McTigue," he said softly. She began to slowly slide her buttocks back and forth across the front of his pants. "Oh, I don't know, Walter, since I've met you I've become quite a...night owl." She turned in his arms and kissed him. "And if you play your cards right, I just might let you ruffle my feathers." Skinner leaned down to kiss her again when they heard shouts from the living room. "Sounds like duty calls," she said, moving reluctantly out of Skinner's arms. "I'm not pickin' it up,you brought it." Scott was in Aldrin's face. "But it's yours!" Aldrin shouted at his brother. Annie, in a hurried attempt to referee, said, "Look, you guys--" "It's not my sleeping bag, it's Scott's!" shouted Aldrin. "But you brought it from our apartment!" Scott shouted back. Laura started to cry. "Don't fight! Momma says we can't fight!" "OK, look--" Annie was fighting to take control of the situation. "No, I'm not pickin' it up!" Scott screamed. Suddenly, a lion that looked a lot like Skinner roared from the kitchen doorway, "Is there a problem out here?" Annie covered her smile with her hand. "No, sir!" Scott and Aldrin said together, standing immediately at attention. "Now, the sleeping bag belongs to?" Skinner stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms folded. If he were wearing the right hat, Annie would swear he was a boot camp sergeant. And loving every minute of it. "Me," said Scott. "And it was brought here by?" "Me," said Aldrin. "Well, then I suggest each of you take one end and carry it into the--" he looked at Annie. "Spare bedroom," she said. "--spare bedroom upstairs with all your other things, after which you will report to the kitchen for supper," Skinner finished. The boys quickly complied, with a little help from Glenn, whom Annie figured just wanted to get out of the line of fire. "A little discipline works every time," Skinner said with a satisfied grin. He suddenly looked down. Annie spotted Laura hanging off the bottom half of Skinner's leg. He looked over at Annie, a little confused. Annie laughed. "She wants a ride, Walter!" "What?" he said, scowling. "Give her a ride into supper!" Annie said, walking past him into the kitchen. He scowled deeper, and looked down into Laura's freckled face. "Giddyup!" Laura said with a grin. "Just walk, Skinner, you'll see what I mean," Annie said over her shoulder. To the child's squeals of "Wheee!!" Skinner limped into the kitchen, with Laura wearing a very pleased expression, and Annie laughing. "Oh, Skinner, if I only had a camera!" she said. .................................. After supper, Skinner cleared the table as Annie supervised the kids washing up and changing into their pajamas. Then the four of them sat on the couch in front of the TV as Annie put on a video that Maura had packed. "Is Mommy coming soon?" asked Laura, dressed in a frilly nightgown, curled up on the couch with her teddy bear. "Yeah, honey, real soon," Annie said softly, and stroked her cheek. Sure all the kids were warm under a quilt and watching TV, Annie went into the kitchen where Skinner was finishing up the dishes. She walked to the sink, where he was up to his elbows in suds. "You know we have a dishwasher, Skinner," she said, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. "I enjoy doing the dishes, McTigue. Something satisfying about a clean dish," he said. "Well, all's quiet on the western front," Annie said, sighing. "Why do I have the feeling that's only temporary?" She smiled at him, thinking how wonderful he looked, and how happy she felt at that moment being with him. "I just came in to thank you," she said. "Thank me for what? Allowing a band of wild children to wreak havoc on our home?" "Oh cut me a break. You loved the chance to do your best drill sergeant impression and snap those boys in line," Annie said, giggling. "You think so, do you?" he said, turning from the sink, drying his hands, and pulling her into his embrace. Annie wrapped her arms around him. "Skinner, you strike me as a man with a take-the-bull-by-the-horns attitude. Especially when it comes to throwing that same bull, which you do real, real well," she said softly. Shaking his head a little, he said, "Shut up and kiss me Annie Rose." As his warm lips found hers, she ran her hands over his shoulders and broad back. In their time together, his body and its curves and musculature had become familiar, and her desire for him had grown stronger. She found his company infinitely pleasing, and his presence around her something she connected to easily, and simply. There were times when she thought it would be difficult to make light conversation, or to find a point to begin with each other after a long day at work. Somehow, though, all she had to do was look in his eyes and she would find a place to start. And it was this steady undercurrent of feeling for him that she equated with love. Though she hadn't put it into words to him, the emotion was there still, as deeply rooted as an evergreen, and as hardy and stubborn as a weed. Suddenly there was a chorus of "Euuuwwws!!" The two adults separated, and four redheads were beside themselves with giggles in the kitchen doorway. It was Skinner who regained his composure first. "Come on you guys, back into the living room," he said, herding the four kids back out the door again. Annie left them to their devices and decided to finish washing the dishes. She dried them and, as she began putting them away, she realized everything was suddenly quiet. She walked out to the living room and noticed the TV was off, and Skinner and the kids were missing. All the kids' belongings had been piled neatly by the front door in anticipation of Maura's arrival. Then, from upstairs in their bedroom, she could hear the sound of Skinner's voice. She walked quietly up the steps to the partially open door, which allowed her to look in without being immediately spotted by the ones inside. Skinner lay in the center of the bed, a book propped up on his chest and one arm under his head. All four kids, two on one side, two on the other, were in various snuggly positions against Skinner's long, muscular frame. All the kids except Glenn were asleep. Skinner's voice was soft and steady, but Annie couldn't quite make out what he was saying, and Glenn's eyes were getting droopy. Annie happily took the whole scene in. There was a knock at the front door. Annie turned and went quickly downstairs to it. It was Maura. The two women exchanged hellos and hugged. "I would have rung the bell, but I figured the kids may be asleep," Maura said quietly. "Everything OK? You're positively glowing, Annie." "Better than I could have imagined. Come here, I need a witness," she said, gesturing for her friend to follow her. By the time the two women got to the door, Skinner had lain the book on his chest and closed his eyes. Glenn had long since followed the example set by his siblings and fallen asleep as well. "So," Maura whispered, "I finally get to meet the man in your life." "Guess that's one way to look at him," Annie whispered back. "Quite a moment, isn't it?" "Trust me, Anne, my life's nothin' but a series of moments, with very little time for myself in between," she sighed in her soft brogue. "Come on, let's get them up." .......................................... The last of the sleepy kids were being loaded into Maura's van. Skinner gently put Laura into the back seat, and stepped back so Maura could secure the little girl's seatbelt. Then Maura extended her hand to him, saying, "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Skinner. Thank you for all your help." "You're welcome, I'm sure," he said, shaking her hand. "I'll drive Anne to the front door when I leave," Maura said. "Thank you, Mrs. Murphy." Then, with a quick nod to Annie, he said, "I'll see you inside." The two women watched him walk across the parking lot and head back into the building. "Well, there goes a man of few words," Maura said. "Yeah, but occasionally he finds the right ones, so I don't have any complaints," she said, as she headed for the passenger side. Then she added, "You really should bring less stuff. Or better yet, have had less kids." Maura softly laughed. "I've made lots of bad decisions in my life, my dear, but my kids...my kids I'd do over again, just the same." The two women looked into the van at the sleeping children. "You better go," Annie said. Maura nodded, then regarded her friend. "Do you love him?" "I don't know, but I know that when I'm with him, who I am feels OK, for the first time in a long time," Annie said, after a moment. "Well, Annie, my dear, sometimes that's enough," Maura said, with a wink. Then she climbed into the driver's seat, saying, "C'mon, I promised the lord of the manor I'd drive his lady to the front door!" Annie, with a hearty laugh, climbed in, too. ................................ Skinner had turned off all but one of the living room lights, which Annie knew was his signal that he had retired for the night. She closed and locked the front door, and walked upstairs to the bedroom. He was relaxing in bed, naked to the waist, under the blankets, and reading. Getting aroused at the sight of him, but tired after an afternoon with the Murphy Crew, she asked, "So, is that the tome you were reading to the kids tonight?" "No," he said, gesturing to an unopened book on the bed. She sat down on the edge of his side of the bed and picked up the book. "'A Field Director's Handbook for Special Agent Recruitment'? Are you kidding?" Annie laughed so hard, she fell back, putting her hand over her face. He looked at her and rolled his eyes. She said, "Sorry, Skinner, I just...don't you think they're a little young?" And she started laughing again, wiping tears from her eyes. Suddenly, he was leaning over her. "Funny, they didn't mind it," he said softly. He began his loving explorations of her body by caressing her legs through the fabric of her sweatpants. She touched his face. "Thank you," she whispered. He looked into her eyes. "You already thanked me, Annie." She felt his hands on the waistband of her sweats. Then he began trailing kisses down her throat and over her shoulders. "I know, I just..." she was surprised to hear the catch in her voice, and to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. Skinner stopped his advances and leaned over her again, brushing the hair from her face. "What?" he whispered. "I just can't seem to always express how much I love being here with you. How much I appreciate the...lengths you've gone through to accommodate me, and my life, and how tolerant you've been--" "Annie," he said, nuzzling her neck, "you make it sound like our time together has been an effort for me. Like I'm...doing something I find unpleasant. That's not true. Being with you is--" "Time-consuming? Fraught with problems?" "No, it's--" "Unspectacular? Difficult?" "Anne--" "Unfulfilling?" She found herself smiling up at him. "Something akin to root canal?" "McTigue--" Her smile widened. "A struggle? Depressing?" He kissed her, successfully stemming her tide. "Shut up," he whispered into her hair, his hands again on her sweatpants. He slipped them down and off, and relaxed his warm hips against hers, kissing her again. "If I may be allowed to finish..." he said, raising his eyebrows at her. Annie wriggled her hips up towards him, and caressed his back and shoulders. "Yeah, but hurry up, I'm kinda losin' the gist of the conversation," she murmured. "Being with you, Anne McTigue is..." "It's everything I knew it would be, and nothing I expected." "Meaning?" "Meaning..." he said, lowering his head to kiss her throat, moving his hands over her breasts, and pushing her T-shirt up to gently suck her skin, taking each nipple slowly in his mouth. Then he said, "You should analyze less, and relax more." Unable to help herself, she laughed. "This coming from a man in law enforcement? Mr. Data Gatherer? Mr. Process Meeting? Mr.--" she drew in her breath sharply, feeling his mouth moving over the now-bare skin of her lower belly, taking her flesh in his teeth, tasting, teasing, nipping. Annie opened her legs wider to accommodate him, as his mouth was replaced by his hands, and the nipping became slow caresses with his fingertips. He slid back up her body still caressing, still insistent. No longer tired, her whole body was humming under his knowing touch. She gave in to her growing desire for him, and whispered his name. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "What's this?" Annie asked as she sat at the kitchen table, sorting through their mail. It had been a long work day for Anne, and she was beat. Skinner, who had arrived home earlier, was at the refrigerator. He brought two open bottles of beer over and sat down with her, taking the creamy-white, folded paper out of her hand and looking at it. "It's an invitation." "To--?" she said, feeling uneasy, sipping her beer. "A dinner party." Something about the way he said it gave her even more pause. "You want to cut to the chase here?" "When Sharon and I--" he stopped himself for a second. "I used to belong to a private club here in DC. When Sharon and I split, I let the membership lapse. I decided to renew it the other day because...I'd like the chance to show you off a little," he finished matter-of-factly. She stood up and walked to the sink, leaning her back against it. "Is that the only reason?" she asked. Annie, though sure Skinner's motives were good ones could feel her nerves beginning to jangle. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long frame and sipping his beer. "Oh, I don't know, McTigue. It might be a pleasant time. The food's good there and the company--" "--would be, if you'll allow me the liberty, people who knew you in another life." "That's true," he said, rising from his chair. He stood in front of her. "So, does that mean you won't come with me tomorrow night?" Her eyes opened wide. "Tomorrow night!? Are you kidding?" She checked the wall clock. "You mean to tell me I have only three hours to go out shopping and find something to wear?" He shook his head, looking confused. "McTigue, our closet's full of--" She held up her hand. "Don't go there, Skinner." She walked past him to the kitchen door. "Wait a second, Annie." "What?" "I'll come with you. You can find something, then we can grab a late supper somewhere." She smiled at him, walked back to where he was, and kissed him. "Damn straight you're coming with me, Walter Skinner. If you're throwing this little lamb to the wolves you better believe you're springing for the sheep's clothing." ................................ Skinner resisted Annie's insistent tug on his hand. "Oh, c'mon Skinner, what are you afraid of?" "McTigue-" "It's just a fortune teller for cryin' out loud. Don't be so uptight!" He looked at her, feeling slightly miffed at her choice of words. "What's the matter, Skinner, phrase hit too close to home?" she teased him. Annie put her hand up, peering into the glass front window. Then she saw the placard. "'Do you feel your life is out of balance?'" said Annie, reading, "'Are you searching for answers that elude you? Would you like to bring harmony into your life?'" Skinner rolled his eyes, and stepped back from Annie, looking up and down the street. He should never have let her talk him into taking an exploratory walk in Georgetown after supper at the Chinese restaurant two blocks over. "I don't trust any place that is sandwiched in between a beauty salon that makes 100 percent human hair wigs, and a tattoo parlor." But it was too late, Annie had gone through the door despite his protests. Reluctantly, he followed. Skinner stood for a few minutes in the little anteroom just inside the front door. The white-walled room had a seating area with large, white, overstuffed pillows and bamboo chairs, and a little bamboo-trimmed, glass-topped coffee table. A small doorway hung with beads lead into the reading room. He could hear soft voices coming from inside. He stood there, debating what to do. Usually, he abhorred these places. Priding himself on his stoic, feet-on-the-ground approach to life, he preferred to leave the more esoteric nonsense, including delving into the future, however vaguely, alone. Partly because, whether he would admit it or not, he thought it better not to know. "Walter, I know you're standing out there," Annie's voice called to him. Unable to escape the inevitable, he pushed the beads aside, and walked in. The reading room was fairly plain. Velvet fabrics embroidered with astrological designs decorated the walls, creating a heavy, oppressive atmosphere around him. Most people would term the feel of the room as "intimate". To Skinner, it was stifling. There was a small lamp on a corner shelf, the dim wattage making it difficult for Skinner to see clearly. After his vision adjusted somewhat, he saw Annie seated at a small, square table draped in black velvet. The short, heavy-set woman sitting across from her was dressed in a gold lame, floor-length dress, and was reading Annie's palm. The woman's long, dark nails were making soft trails in Annie's skin. "...facing challenges. It is especially important that you nourish the spiritual part of you. This has been neglected, and yet may be called upon soon for something...important," said the woman. Annie shifted in the seat, saying, "Do you know what that could be?" "No," said the woman, her eyes searching Annie's face. "But whatever it is, approach it without fear, and be secure in your faith, and you will succeed." She sat back. "Would you like another reading? Perhaps with cards?" "No, thank you, but my friend here would be--" Annie waved in Skinner's direction. "McTigue, I don't think--" Annie stood up and gestured to the seat. "C'mon, Skinner, surprise me and do something spontaneous for a change." He tightened his jaw and didn't move. "Perhaps the gentleman would prefer to stand," said the woman. "My name is Grace Pilgrim. And you are someone that has a position of power within the government." She put a hand to her forehead. "Just a moment, it's coming to me. Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Your birthday is January 21, 1950, and you have a tendency towards being stubborn and emotionally distant to those around you," Grace said. Skinner looked at her, his eyes narrowing. Then he noticed Annie had her back to him. Grace laughed, and so did Annie as she turned around to face him. "Sorry, Skinner," Annie sighed,"I figured you'd be more relaxed if--" "If what?" he asked her, a little irritated. "Fine. If I am to be a source of amusement, then let's get it over with, shall we?" He sat down opposite Grace Pilgrim. Grace's light brown eyes played over his face, and seemed to be scrutinizing him. Then she extended her hand to take his. "Please, Mr. Skinner, you'll discover that I'm perfectly harmless." He gave her his hand, and she took it gently, tracing its lines the same way she had Annie's. "I feel as if I know you," she said with a smile, and glanced over at Annie, who smiled back, and walked away towards the waiting room. "I'll give you some privacy," she said, and left, to the soft clack of the beaded doorway. "Mr. Skinner," said Grace Pilgrim, "your hand is interesting and many-faceted. I believe you are not as much a skeptic as you pretend to be." "Why would you say that?" "It appears you have had...experiences..." "You're getting that from my palm?" "No, from the aura that surrounds you." "Really?" he said, sarcastically, looking away. "Look, this is pointless, I don't--" "'Don't mind him, he's just a green motherfucker--'" It was a man's voice. The voice of a young marine from his past. Skinner looked up and saw a shadow, then a familiar face, flow over the features of the woman sitting across from him, and just as quickly, it was gone. He pulled back away from the table and stood up, startled, knocking over the chair he was sitting in. He began to sweat. The woman's eyes first appeared unfocused, and then re- focused back on Skinner. "What's wrong?" she asked him, the fear in her voice obvious. Skinner shook his head, turned on his heel and left the room. Unable to catch his breath, he walked out into the waiting room and grabbed Annie's arm. "We are getting the hell out of here and no arguments, McTigue," he said firmly, practically picking her up and dragging her out of the room. "What's wrong?" "Shut up and let's go," he said. ..................................... Skinner sat in the living room, alone. Annie, after several attempts to get him to tell her what happened, had given up on him and gone to bed, fretting over the dinner party at the club the following night. Skinner tried to read the document he had taken out of his briefcase, hoping that concentrating on work would bring him back to the present, but the harder he focused on the paper in front of him, the more the words blurred, and the more he saw the faces of the men he'd lost in Vietnam. "Hey, hey, c'mon, keep up or we'll leave you to be ravaged by the VC patrols, " Booker said, grabbing PFC Walter Skinner's arms and pulling him closer to the tight-knit group of young marines. "Shit, man, you know the fuckin' rules, we ain't supposed to be outside the wire at night," Natchez said. "Oh, for Christ fuckin' sake, who brought this asshole?" asked Vasquez, laughing. "Guys, man, I don't know if I can do this," Skinner said, drunk, like they all were, on warm beer. "Listen to this boot, man. Didn't your daddy ever give you The Talk, little boy?" asked Montgomery. "OK, well, here's the quick version, 'cause we only got a short walk." He slipped his arm over Skinner's shoulders. "See, girls, man, they got this--" Skinner rammed his elbow into Montgomery's gut. "Oh, shit I know the drill." "Yeah, that's the problem. He's been the only one picking up his tool for the past eighteen years!" sneered H-Bomb, and the whole group of staggering young men whooped and yelled. "Maybe that's why Scout didn't want to join us. Too fuckin frustratin' breakin' in the FNG," said Natchez. "Natchez, man, you gotta get out from under that Scout. He's trouble with a capital-fuckin'-T," said Vasquez, shaking his small, dark frame like he was shrugging off a bug. "I think Natchez believes Scout's his ticket back to the World as a rich man," said Booker, slapping Natchez on the back. Natchez was quiet. "The only thing Scout's gonna do for anyone is put them in a green body bag while saving his own ass," said H-Bomb. The group fell quiet, the mention of death causing them all to temporarily lose their good moods. "Oh, man, you're bringing everybody down with this shit," said Montgomery. He stood in front of the group, raising his arms like Jesus over the waters. "Behold, gentlemen, the Promised Land." He stepped back, sweeping his arms in a grand gesture, too grand for the likes of the quonset hut he was indicating. Nothing more than a large, straw-covered spot of dusty beige. Skinner took a step back into Booker. "I don't feel so good." "Don't mind him, he's just a green motherfucker," said Booker. "And lookee here," he said, grabbing Skinner's head in a headlock and folding back Skinner's ears, "Does that look wet back there to you, Vaz?" "Sure as shit does," Vasquez said, bending close to the struggling Skinner to double check and see for himself. Booker let Skinner go, and then took hold of him by his shoulders. "Young Walter, this is where you lose your cherry-----." "------And gain your nickname," finished H-bomb. Booker turned PFC Skinner around, and gave him a push towards the entrance to the hut. Skinner caught his feet, almost losing his balance, and straightened up. When he hesitated, he felt someone's hand on his back, shoving him forward again. The hut's exterior was mostly dark. Through the open doorway, Skinner could see the glow of several flickering lamps, casting shadows on the hut's walls, making them appear to move, like flimsy curtains. Several young Vietnamese girls came to the door of the hut, their bodies appearing to sway, a light wind catching the hems of their dresses. Skinner thought they looked younger than he was. Suddenly, a stronger gust of wind cut across the hut's entrance and slammed him in the nose. He made it to within ten feet of the door before the smell of opium, pot, and sex buckled him to his knees. PFC Walter Skinner, scared to his roots, threw up. Immediately, an older Vietnamese woman came to the door of the hut, herding the girls inside, shouting, "Get him up! Get him up! He bad for business!" The group hurried over to the fallen soldier, picking him up by various body parts. "Come on, we got to get him the hell outta here, man," said H-bomb. "He's attracting too much fucking attention." "OK, mama-san, OK, we're fuckin' movin!" Vasquez shouted over his shoulder at the irate woman as the group, with the sick FNG in the center of them, moved quickly back towards base camp. "I'm sorry, man, I'm so fuckin' sorry," said Skinner, wiping his mouth and trying to stand. "Yeah, yeah, Skinner, we know, and as soon as we get you cleaned up you can just give all of us a kiss and make it better," said Montgomery, laughing. "Right now, we gotta get our asses back over the wire before we wind up digging latrines for the pogues." Booker patted Skinner on the back, saying, "Look, man, pussy's everywhere. You'll get yours." He smiled. "Yeah, don't worry, Young Walter, your secret's safe with us, man," said Vasquez. "Vaz is right, ain't nobody's business what your status is. Far as everyone is concerned you've been made, played, and laid, Lover Boy!" The group, laughing, headed back to base camp. .................................................... PFC Walter Skinner stood washing the vomit out of his jungle utilities at one of the outdoor shower stalls near the EM club. Though it was ridiculous, and dangerous, to be out at night unarmed, Skinner couldn't sleep because of the stench the clothing gave off. The night had been unusually quiet. No incoming, or outgoing artillery rounds. Most of the soldiers were relaxing in the EM club, and Skinner, in the rare pocket of peace, lulled by the warmth of the night, felt almost safe in the confines of the camp. As he rinsed his clothes in the cold water from the shower head, he wondered what the hell his buddies would have given him as a nickname. Right now, he figured, it should be Puke. He began to laugh out loud as he turned off the water and settled his wet clothing along the walls of the stall. Suddenly, he heard a soft sound near him, and froze. He looked around quickly, but saw nothing. He ducked down, put his back tightly to the wall of the shower, waiting, not breathing. His first instinct was to reach for a weapon that wasn't there, and realized that he was naked except for his army-issue boxers and dog tags. He had left his change of clothes in the next stall over, so he wouldn't get it wet. A second sound, closer now, came to him. He wasn't sure what it was, fabric maybe, moving, in the darkness, coming towards him. But it was who may be clothed in it that had his gut tight, and his heart pounding. Then he got a faint odor of bleach, and the young hoochgirl that cleaned the EM club walked across the doorway to the stall he was hiding in. Relieved, his body so completely relaxed, he lost his balance and fell over onto the ground, almost tripping her. Startled, she dropped the bucket she was carrying and put her hand to her mouth with a soft, "Ua!" Skinner had seen her several times since he came to camp, her long, black hair swaying over her shoulders as she bent to her task of scrubbing the floor of the EM club every night. He had found her attractive, exotic, almost. She was the first he really knew about the people that lived and toiled in this country he was in. And though he had heard stories otherwise, he couldn't believe this girl, or any Vietnamese, could do him any harm. He also accepted the dichotomy of knowing he could easily be proven wrong. He scrambled to his feet. She looked him over, and smiled behind her hand. Skinner, embarrassed by her frank stare, and his lack of clothing, tightened his young body and moved closer to the protection of the shower stall wall. "I'm sorry," he muttered, "I, uh...you caught me off-guard." he thought, feeling foolish. "Toi khong hieu," she said. "I know...chut thoi...English," she said softly, and giggled. Skinner, liking the gentle sound of her voice, said, "If you'll just, uh, could you excuse me?" He moved towards the stall with his change of clothes. He began to dress quickly with his back to her, saying, "I just had to wash out--" He pulled on his boots and turned back to where she was. Or thought she was. She wasn't there. Skinner looked around, and saw her rounding a corner at the back of the club. Without bothering to tie his boots, he began to follow her. She was heading for the shadows at the periphery of the camp. He caught up to her and took her arm. Again, she started, then smiled when she saw it was him. "It's dangerous out here at night. You should try to stay near the buildings, you never know when a sniper could--" He stopped. Her brow was deeply furrowed, as if trying to understand what he was saying, one ear inclined towards him. Not knowing what else to do, he gently urged her to come with him away from the darkness and towards the lights of the hooches and low camp outbuildings. She shook her head, and took her arm away from his. Then movement out of the corner of his eye surprised him, and he saw a Vietnamese girl separate herself from the blackness at the perimeter of the camp. The hoochgirl smiled at Skinner and said, "Da, cam on co...thank you." She reached up and touched his face, her skin smelling of bleach, her dark eyes holding his for a moment. Then she walked away. Skinner watched her join the other young woman and disappear into the night. He rubbed his face. He shook his head in helplessness, and went back to his wet clothes in the shower stall. ========================= "How come you're so quiet?" Skinner asked. They were riding over to where Annie was sure she was about to be scrutinized and criticized, she thought. "Annie, if you sit the whole ride over to the club with your hand over your face, I'll just spare you the misery and we'll go home." She giggled. "Sorry, I didn't realize I was cocooning. Of course, you are aware you are the master of emotional withdrawal, so I consider myself having learned from the best." "Point well taken, McTigue, point well taken." He reached over and took her hand off her face and kissed it. "You'll be fine, Anne." They rode in silence for a minute, then she said, sighing, "Are we there yet, Skinner?" He laughed. "Just another minute or two. You're really tense about this, aren't you?" "Right now, Skinner, I don't know what's tighter, my gut, or my control top pantyhose." She looked over at him, and grinned. ............................. The interior of the club, empty because of the dinner party she was about to attend, smelled like cigar smoke. Annie wrinkled her nose. There were velvet-covered chairs scattered over the dark red and gold oriental rugs in the main seating area, and the brocade-topped oddly matched end tables held handsome humidors and well-used coasters. Besides a hearty fire burning in the large fireplace, the paneled room had walls hung with heavy tapestries depicting various violent, bloody hunting scenes. There were also heads of dead animals hanging above the fireplace. Then she looked suspiciously at Skinner. "You don't feel a strong urge to mount me above the fireplace at the cabin, do you?" she asked him. "What?" he said, looking completely confused. "Nothing," she said. Then, she leaned over to him, saying, "This place positively reeks of testosterone, Skinner. If it gets any heavier, I'll probably grow a penis." He looked at her over the top of his glasses. "OK, OK, I'll do my best to behave." She took his arm and pulled him close, whispering, "Of course if I do, grow a...you know...it'll sure make things interesting later on tonight, don't you think?" He sighed and put his arm tightly around her waist. "Annie, if the timing were better, I'd--" "Mmmm," she said, sliding a hand discreetly under his tuxedo jacket and running her hand over his back, "if the timing were better you'd what?" He looked down at her and laughed softly. "Never mind, McTigue, never mind." The two of them headed for one of several doorways off the main sitting room, which Anne quickly discovered was the entrance to the dining room. There were at least six other couples, all men and women in their mid-forties and early fifties, obviously friendly with each other, holding drinks and chatting before a small fireplace near the beautifully appointed dining room table. "Well, I'll say this much, Skinner, this place certainly seems to have some class. Tell me, do you have preference about where we sit, or would next to the exit be too obvious?" He smiled. "Sorry, McTigue, that's not an option." He pulled her into a quick kiss. The brief touch of his lips was enough to reassure her, coupled with the simple warmth of his arm on her waist. He inclined his body towards her and whispered, as he ran a careful hand over the slim strap of her velvet ankle-length gown, "Whatever happens tonight, remember that I'm right here with you, Annie Rose. I won't go anywhere without you." Before she could respond, she felt the air in the room change, and a woman separated herself from the group, flying over to the two of them, her hand extended out. "Walter Skinner. So good of you to join us again!" The woman took his hand. "Dora, how are you?" "I'm well," said the gray-haired, well-coifed woman. Annie wondered how it felt to shake someone's hand with all those rings on it. She found out it was something akin to being caught in a leg-hold trap when Dora took her hand next. Annie noticed Dora barely touched her, then quickly dropped Annie's hand. "I'm afraid we haven't met." "Mrs. Dora Wendell, Miss Anne McTigue," Skinner said. "How do you do, Mrs. Wendell?" Annie said, trying to sound genuine. "Lovely to meet you, dear." She turned away from Anne, dismissing her to concentrate on Skinner. "It's so nice to see you here again Walter. You and Sharon were missed for quite some time. The place just isn't the same without her. She really was a wonderful, charming, lovely woman. As I was saying to Jackie----Jackie!" Dora called over her shoulder to a tall, striking woman with long, black hair done up in a jeweled hair comb. The woman came towards them. "Yes, Dora?" Jackie's slate-blue eyes turned immediately to Annie, and she knew she'd found an ally. "Jacqueline Michele-Charles, this is Anne McTigue," Dora said, dismissing Anne with a wave of her hand, "and I know you remember Walter." "Walter, nice to see you," she nodded. As they touched hands, Annie saw something pass between Skinner and Jackie, a spark, or a snap of static electricity. It flared, and was gone. Then Jackie reached out and took Annie's hand in both of hers. "Welcome to our little club. I'm sure you'll find your evening quite entertaining." She smiled a little slyly at Annie. "Thank you," Annie said, hoping her words conveyed some of the relief she was feeling at having Jackie's warm presence between her and Dora. "I was just telling both of them how much we all miss Sharon's company, and how the place just feels incredibly empty without her. Don't you think? Especially when we have our little chats about the men in our lives, though I don't remember Sharon complaining at all about you, Walter. In fact--" A well-dressed man, probably a butler, Annie surmised, rang a small hand bell. "Time to get our seats!" Dora said, moving quickly away. "I'm sure we'll be talking later!" Jackie said, with a wink, "Enjoy your evening." She walked away. As Annie and Skinner headed for the table, Annie whispered to him, "Saved by the bell." "Something tells me I'll be calling you the second Mrs. DeWinter before we get out of here." She gave him a little jab with her elbow, "Just remember, Skinner, this was all your idea." He held out her chair for her. As she sat down, he leaned over and said, "If it means anything to you, Annie, I think you're the most beautiful woman in the room." Annie smiled. "Nice try at diversion, Skinner. It doesn't help when I'm worried sick I'll drop my supper in my lap or get a seed between my teeth." He looked at her and rolled his eyes. "I meant it, Anne." "Sorry, I've never been one for compliments." Annie touched his arm and put her lips close to his ear. "But remind me to thank you properly later, Walter Skinner." . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annie, after being introduced around the table to a group of people who's names she was sure she'd forgotten the moment she'd heard them, was mercifully spared having to make conversation. Skinner held up his end, and luckily, no one else brought up Sharon to him. Somewhere between the soup, and the salad, Dora asked her where she worked. "I'm the acting mailroom supervisor for the FBI offices in the Hoover building." "Oh," Dora raised her eyebrows, "then I suppose you met on the job?" "Something like that," Annie said, glancing over at Skinner. "So, tell me, what do you do as a...what was it? Mailroom supervisor?" Dora seemed as if she was belittling what Annie did, but, for Skinner, she decided to play it evenly. "Set up the guidelines that govern the way the different organizations within the FBI communicate with one another, mostly." "Much to our chagrin," Skinner added, to a soft chorus of chuckles from around the table. Annie smiled. "We're also responsible for maintaining and tracking some of the information that circulates throughout the Bureau. But we also get to organize nice things, like gatherings to celebrate retirements, or promotions--" "Do you cater these affairs?" Dora interrupted. "Oh, no. It's difficult to get people in and out of the building because of the tight security, so we find it easier to--" "Hmmm, well," Dora said, "Next time, my dear, call me. I have names of excellent caterers up the wazoo," Dora said to the very polite laughter from around the table. "Probably because she's got such a large wazoo," Annie whispered to Skinner, who responded by giving her knee a quick and hard squeeze under the table. Her eyes narrowed at him. Supper was served. Again Annie was spared anything but light conversation. She mostly sat back and enjoyed the blackened swordfish. "You were right, the food's pretty good," she whispered to Skinner. "And I suppose you also remember where the bathroom is?" She looked at him. "Sure, Annie. Back out the door to the right. Follow the signs for rest rooms." As she rose to go he reached up and touched her arm. "That's 'rest rooms', McTigue, not 'exit' signs, OK?" She leaned down where no one could see and nipped his earlobe. "Don't worry, Skinner, you're stuck with me." ................................................ The ladies room was plain in contrast to the rest of the club. Annie stood at the large, oak-trimmed mirror near the sink, adjusting her dress, wondering what the hell ever possessed her to accept Skinner's invitation to this dinner party. Anne fixed her hair, trying to forget who was in that dining room, waiting, like an eagle on a tree limb, for its prey. As if on cue, the paneled door swung open and Dora swooped in. "Oh, there you are. Some of us were taking wages whether you had bolted and ran." Annie took a deep breath and said nothing. Dora turned to the mirror, took lipstick out of her purse and began to apply it to her small, thin mouth. "You know, you have lovely shoulders, my dear. Though that dress you're wearing is all the wrong color for you." Annie crossed her arms. "Sharon had lovely shoulders, too. I guess Walter likes all his women to have lovely shoulders," Dora continued. "Though I must admit, Sharon was considerably more at ease around--" "Mrs. Skinner is dead, Mrs. Wendell. And I would appreciate it if you would remember that." Annie, shocked at herself, closed her eyes. Dora swirled the lipstick back into its case, dropped it loudly into her pocketbook, and said, "Thank you Miss McTigue. I'm sure I will from now on." With that, she left the bathroom. Annie leaned over to the mirror and began to bang her forehead on it. A stall door swung open to the sound of a toilet flushing, and Jackie Charles stepped out, fanning herself. "Whew! Is it hot in here, or did Dora Wendell just leave?" "I didn't know you were--" Jackie interrupted. "Causing yourself physical injury will only give the Romans more satisfaction." Annie sighed. "Well, I already feel considerably chewed on by the lions, so I figured, what the hell." Jackie, washing her hands, laughed. "You'll have to try to find it in you to forgive Dora. While she and Sharon weren't best friends by any stretch, Sharon, bless her soul, tolerated Dora's eccentricities and opinions more than the rest of us. There were times when the only reason the conversation continued civilly was because Sharon stepped in and soothed the waters." "Well," Annie said, "I'm no soother. In fact, I barely know what to say to Walter half the time, much less his circle of friends." Jackie smiled at her. "Don't forget, Annie, in the first place, you're a little younger than most of us, and secondly, you happen to be on the arm of a man that several ladies," she raised an eyebrow, "consider to be one of the most handsome men in the room. Certainly the most physically fit." Annie felt herself blushing, remembering whatever it was that had flashed between Jackie and Skinner. "Those two facts alone," Jackie continued, "can make things uncomfortable for whomever would be in Walter Skinner's company tonight." She patted her hair, checked her makeup, and said, "Buck up, Annie. You're doing fine." ................................. Annie walked, alone, to the entrance to the dining room. She paused, looking in, feeling like she was heading for the electric chair. The women were seated at the table, relaxing over drinks, waiting for dessert to be served. The men were nearer to Annie, by the fireplace, talking. Annie noticed most of them were smoking cigars, or drinking what she assumed was brandy. Annie grimaced. Skinner stood slightly apart from the group of men, not speaking, looking into the fire. The warm, amber light played over his face, stroking his skin, giving it a pleasant glow. One hand held a brandy glass, and he was casually swirling the dark liquid. The other hand was in his pocket, and he had one foot up on the raised hearth. Watching him, she realized that, to her, Walter Skinner truly was the most beautiful man in the room. Annie leaned back away from the door and into the corner created by the recessed doorway. She pressed her back to the wall and put her head down. "You look like me the day we met," Skinner's voice said. She looked up into his brown eyes, and smiled. "Is it that obvious?" He nodded, and put his hands on her waist. "Stick it out, Annie, for me, will you?" he asked her softly, bringing her gently to him. She nodded slightly. "Kiss me, Walter," she whispered. His lips and tongue tasted of cognac, and his skin smelled faintly of cologne and cigar smoke. She caressed the side of his leg with the inside of her calf, and he responded by running his hand down over her buttocks and under the curve of her thigh. A little breathlessly, she said, "Let's just go, Walter, let's just get out of here--" Then a small bell rang briefly inside the dining room. "Sorry, Annie. That's the cattle call for dessert," Skinner said, his lips to her ear. She reluctantly stepped away from his arms, saying, "Sounds more like a deathknell to me." .................................... Dessert was a light, marvelously textured flan, served along with an almond-tasting aperitif. After a few sips of the thick, sweet alcoholic liquid, Anne was beginning to feel she could handle anything. Until Dora moved in for the second barrage. "So, Walter, tell me, how are things at the Federal Bureau of Investigation?" She was talking to him, but looking at Annie over the top of her nose. He looked at Dora. "As well as can be expected." She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? That's all? Still keeping secrets, are you?" "It's not that, I--" "Sharon always said you were good at keeping secrets, Walter. But then," Annie heard her words echoing loudly back at her from the end of a long tunnel, "Mrs. Skinner is dead, as your date so carefully reminded me in the ladies' room." Annie's stomach pulled up high, and stuffed itself in her throat. She looked down so, if she threw up, at least it would be in her lap, and not on her plate. The entire table stopped talking. The tension collected around her like stifling, stagnant water. Thinking quickly, Anne moved her hand to spill the remainder of her drink, hopefully creating a diversion that would allow her to leave the table. And the entire situation. Skinner, second-guessing her, took her by the wrist and stopped her. She looked at him, pleading with her eyes, He shook his head slightly, then he moved his hand down her wrist and squeezed and held her hand. Still holding her eyes with his, he said, loud enough for the entire table to hear, "Anne's right, Dora. Sharon did pass away some time ago, despite my best efforts and wishes to the contrary. Anne's not here to replace Sharon by any means. She is her own person in her own right, and I would appreciate it if you would offer her the same respect and consideration that you do me." He stood, taking Annie with him. "If all of you would excuse us, I think we've had enough diversion for this evening. We hope we can join you again soon." Annie looked quickly at Jackie, who gave her a little 'thumbs up' sign near the edge of the table. Then Anne slipped her arm through her lover's and, with his warm hand over hers, left the Romans at the coliseum to find themselves another Christian. ....................................... Filled with emotion for him, Annie couldn't speak, afraid the moment would fracture. But, when they were finally alone and he was driving home, she leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. And began to grin, which broadened into a chuckle, grew into a giggle, and exploded into laughter. Skinner, turning to kiss the side of her forehead, smiled. When her laughter had subsided, she said, "OK, Walter, come clean." "What?" he asked, obviously taken off-guard. "Oh, you don't seriously think I missed that whole thing between you and Jackie Charles, do you? Especially since Dora made such a point of bringing your past together to my attention," she teased. She was surprised when his face became serious, and he drove for awhile without speaking. Annie almost wished she hadn't made light of the situation when he spoke. "I was called in to investigate the death of her first husband ten years ago. Jackie comes from a small family in Idaho, not from money. There were some suspicious circumstances surrounding Michael's death, so of course, they looked to Jackie. Made her out to be a gold-digger. I did her a favor in the middle of a very rough time, used my resources at the Bureau and proved his death was accidental." Annie looked at him. "I'm sorry if you thought I was implying-" "No, no, Anne," he said, taking her hand. "Dora has a way of taking a singular situation and-" "Twisting it to her own purposes? I figured that out already." Skinner smiling, touched her face. She reached over and ran her hands along his jaw-line and across the smooth skin of his lips. "You know, if I'm not careful, I could easily get used to this," she whispered. "What's that?" He took her hand in his. "You and me." ================= He was walking towards a black, lacquered table in a large room, dense with mangroves, elephant grass, vines, and broad-leafed trees. The oppressive, humid heat wrapped around him, crushing the air from his lungs. Something stung his eyes. Dust. Red dust hung in the air like a bloody mist. He was following a long, thin trail of blood on the earthen floor. At first, he could walk around it. Then, there was more if it, until he had no choice but to walk right through it. A small, black case lay on the table. The closer he got, the more clearly he could see that blood was oozing, spilling out of the case, and across the tabletop to the ground. Now at the edge of the table, he picked up the case. The blood began to run down and over his hand. The case vibrated rhythmically, pulsing. He opened it. Inside, he recognized the familiar golden profile of George Washington framed by the heart-shaped purple enamel. But when he reached out to touch it, it became a human heart, beating, the severed valves spewing blood over his face, on his chest. He dropped the box on the table. The human heart skittered out across the table top. And became the headless body of the boy he'd shot in Vietnam. The boy's hand reached up, and the upper portion of the dead body moved, as if it meant to rise from the table and come towards him. He cried out, desperate to wipe the blood from his skin, desperate to escape the child's corpse. He turned away from the table. And fell into the arms of the Old Woman, who embraced him, whispering, "Tro ve." Skinner's eyes flew open to the white flash of lightening, and the artillery rumble of distant thunder. He couldn't catch his breath. He removed the sheets, sticky with his sweat, carefully, so he wouldn't wake Annie, and walked towards his chest of drawers. He opened the top drawer and removed the small box, flipped up the top, and looked in. His purple heart, unchanged, was inside. He turned it over. The inscription, "For Military Merit" and his name were illuminated by another flash of lightening. He closed his eyes, and willed his breathing to slow down. "What's the matter?" came Annie's sleepy voice from the bed. "Everything OK?" "Yeah, yeah, it's OK," he answered, returning the box to his dresser drawer. His hands became less shaky as the memory of the dream began to fade a little in his more rational, wakeful state. He walked back to the bed as thunder rolled over his shoulder outside the window. Annie reached out and touched his back. "What was that you were looking at?" Skinner turned over towards her and pulled her close. "Nothing. It's not important," he whispered. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, the bridge of her nose, and let his lips linger on her mouth. His hands moved over her skin with the careful cadence of a giving lover. There was another flash of lightening. "Must be quite a storm coming," she whispered. "I thought it was just the way you kissed me," he whispered back. She giggled softly, saying, "Walter, who would ever have thought that such an anal-retentive weenie-counter would turn out to be a romantic?" She kissed him, moving her hips up, her silhouette melding with his, both of them ignoring the approaching bad weather. ==================== The day was going very badly for AD Walter Skinner. He couldn't shake the images from the dream the night before. The dead boy's body. The beating, bloody heart. He picked up a memo, put it down, rubbed his forehead. He picked up the paper again, straightened his tie, and tried to focus. Boom! Boom! Skinner started, and instinctively ducked, at the sound over his head. Boom! Boom! The short, deep, hollow sound came again. He punched the intercom button. "Kimberly what the hell is that noise?" he barked. "I'm sorry, sir. They're working inside the ceiling ductwork. I left the memo--" "Thank you," came his curt reply as he punched the button again. Boom! Boom! Skinner put his hand over his face. "If you can't handle it..." came a voice from his past. Boom! Boom! "--then stand outside." Boom! Boom! Boomboomboomboomboomboom-------------- "Me no VC! Me no VC!" the small, dark-skinned farmer was on his knees, pleading. Scout brought the butt of his M-16 down on the back of the farmer's head. Boom! "Talk, you VC fuck!" PFC Skinner was holding his M-16 against the throat of the man's wife. Her small, brown, rough-textured hands were squeezing his forearm, squeezing hard. Skinner tried not to register that the woman's slight body was shaking in fear against his. The couple's young daughter was crouched at her mother's feet, her face buried in her mother's knees. PFC Skinner watched, oddly fascinated, as the blood splatters on the floor and wall of the hut near the farmer's beaten body grew larger as Scout brought the rifle handle down again. And again. And again. The sound of the gunbutt connecting with flesh and bone was loud to Skinner's ears. "Talk! Who put the satchel charge on the fuckin' gate?" Scout shouted, inches from the man's bleeding head. "Toi khong biet," the farmer said hoarsely. "What he say?" Scout demanded of Natchez, who was sitting by the doorway of the hut, holding Scout's pack. "I think he said, 'I don't know,'" Natchez replied, breathing hard. Scout pulled back his arms like some hideous piston and brought the riflebutt down again. Boom! The man slid to the floor. Scout turned to where Skinner was standing. "Kill the VC bitch," Scout said to Skinner. Skinner's mouth went dry and his belly felt hollow. Scout reached down and turned the head of the unconscious farmer towards his wife until Skinner thought the man's neck would break. "Kill her while he watches!" Scout demanded. Skinner's palms turned liquid. He hesitated. Scout's eyes burned into his. "OK, pussy, I gotta better idea," he hissed at Skinner. "Natchez, get the girl." Natchez hopped up like his butt was on fire, quickly stepping over to where Skinner and the woman were standing. Natchez reached down and pulled the teenager away from her mother's legs. The girl and the mother were both sobbing. Skinner felt the woman's tears falling on his bare arm. "Lay her on the table," Scout demanded. Skinner's heart was beating so fast, he could see his flak jacket moving quickly up, down, up, down. He heard the mother whisper, "Da khong, xin, da khong, xin..." softly, like she was praying. She fell against the barrel of his rifle. Skinner pulled it back and pointed it away. Instinctively, Skinner re-arranged his legs so he could help her stand, his need to hang on to his humanity finally overcoming his sense of survival. He knew these people posed no threat. The girl struggled against Natchez, and bit his hand. He immediately let her go, saying, "Damn it!" The girl ran back to her mother, who bent down to encircle her child. Skinner felt his knees go. It was all he could do to stand up. The heat in the hut, in sharp contrast to the rain falling outside, overwhelmed him. The bandanna around his head was soaked with his sweat, and was as tight as a vice. Scout said, "Natchez, hold him," and gestured to the still form of the man crumbled at his feet. Natchez did as he was told, shaking his bleeding hand. Scout approached the girl without emotion, or facial expression. Kicking and struggling, she flailed against him as he wrenched her free from her mother's arms. The mother didn't resist. Instead, she crawled over to her husband's motionless body. Skinner said nothing. He watched Scout drag the girl to the small, black, lacquered table, shove her onto her back, and move in between her legs. When the girl still struggled, kicking at Scout's body with her feet, Scout pummeled her with his fists until Skinner saw her cease to move. The mother, weeping, leaned against her husband, saying softly, "Con gai, con gai, con gai..." Natchez let the man's body go, and sat back, his face ashen. Scout turned away from the girl to Skinner. His face and fist were splayed with her blood. He was so close to him, Skinner could feel his breath on his face. "Fuck her," Scout said, low, like the growl of an animal. Skinner met Scout's gaze, forcing himself to breath through his fear. "No." "Fuck her while they watch," Scout said, gesturing to the girl's parents. "No," Skinner said again, more firmly this time. Scout grabbed him hard by his flak jacket. Skinner put his fist over Scout's. Scout leaned into him, saying, "You don't git it do you? These are the VC motherfuckers who set the trap that killed Vasquez and wounded Montgomery!" "We don't know that," said Skinner, his voice shaky. Scout squeezed Skinner's fist and pulled. Skinner felt himself being lifted off the floor. "This ain't about knowin' you FNG! This is about fuckin' war! Take a hard look! These motherfuckers are the goddamn enemy! That gook shouldn't even be here!" Scout shouted, gesturing to the unconscious man on the floor. "He's gotta be NVA!" Then his eyes narrowed, and he shoved his bloody fist in Skinner's face. "School's out, pussy," Scout said in obvious disgust. He put his foot to the side of Skinner's leg and shoved him, so Skinner lost his balance and fell onto his stomach. The heavy pack on Skinner's back crushed the wind out of him, and his M-16 clattered down onto the ground next to him. Then Scout drew back his foot and kicked Skinner in the stomach. Skinner saw a white flash, felt pain radiating from his gut, and pulled in his knees. "There ain't no room in the Nam for different, pussy!" Scout shouted at him. He pulled back his foot and kicked him again. "If you can't handle it, then stand outside!" Scout pulled back his foot a third time, but Skinner didn't wait. Scrambling, he grabbed his weapon and crawled outside the hut to escape another kick from Scout. He heaved himself over and out the door. The thick, cold rain hit him everywhere. He rolled away from the hut, and willed himself up into a sitting position, pulling his rifle to his chest. As the rain plucked at his skin and soaked his clothes, he turned his face upward, and tried to move his mind away from Vietnam. He recalled images from home. The scent of his mother's Chanel No. 5, and the jingle of her charm bracelet. The feel of the sandpaper under his fingertips as he worked at his uncle's elbow in the workshop. But everything he was seeing was splattered in blood. Suddenly, everything he believed, tasted, touched, remembered about the World, was covered in blood. He heard screaming from the hut, then several quick bursts of bullets. Natchez and Scout came to the entrance. Natchez' eyes looked black, and were looking, but not looking, at Skinner. Scout patted Natchez on the back, smiling, and saying, "You done real good, Natch. Now you is a double veteran, my man." Then, his smile fading, Scout walked towards Skinner, and leaned down, so their eyes were level. The two men's eyes held, then Scout spat in Skinner's face. Skinner flinched, but didn't break the stare. "Rain don't make it clean, pussy. You no different. Jes' gonna take you a little longer. Like I tol' you, ain't no room for different in the Nam, motherfucker." "----said you need a copy of this memo. Skinner?" The sound of Annie's voice startled him out of the memory. She was close to his desk, holding out a pink sheet of paper. "Yes, uh, Miss McTigue..." he said awkwardly, shuffling papers, his palms full of sweat. "Walter, it's just you and me. The door's closed," she said softly. "I know we agreed to keep us private, but when I couldn't get your attention from the doorway, I--- Walter, your hands are shaking. Tell me what's wrong." Skinner looked up from his desk and shook his head, overwhelmed by the ghosts of his past. He saw her face react to something in his, saw her eyes search his face. Then she held out her arms to him, pulling him close to her breast. He hesitated, then slowly wrapped his arms around her waist, breathing in her scent, closing his tired eyes against the soft fabric of her blouse. She whispered, "It's gonna be OK." . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . PFC Skinner sat in the dark, in the bushes near the wire, the rain having stopped, at least for the moment. He was alone, trying to keep a grip on himself. Trying to fight back against the cruelty, the inhumanity that was sweeping over him, to the exclusion of what he once believed was right and wrong. He was cleaning his weapon, drying it off, trying in vain to wipe off the memory of Scout, and the murdered family. And the reality that Skinner knew, in some way, he had been a party to it, had done nothing to stop it, had let it happen. The girl, the young girl...He heard a sound, deep, and raspy. And realized it had come from his lips, and that the rifle was getting wet, but it wasn't raining. He wiped the rag over his face, but the sorrow wouldn't stop, the conflict within him spilling over with his tears. He was aware of someone close, the familiar smell of bleach, and a hand on his arm. He looked over into the soft, dark eyes of the hoochgirl, the expression of sadness on her face mirroring what he was feeling. Without words, he let himself be comforted by her arms, let his mouth accept her kiss, as he set his weapon aside next to her cleaning bucket, and they both moved into the limited privacy afforded by the grass, and the darkness of the night. ..................................... Later, sitting around with Booker, and H-Bomb, smoking opium-laced reefer and leaving everything behind for the moment, he told his pals, with a little air of mystery, that he wanted his nickname to be Hooch. When pressed, all he would say was it just felt right. Booker, looking over at H-Bomb with a little grin, said, "Well, if right was how it felt, man, then congratulations. And Hooch it is." "To Hooch!" said H-Bomb. The three grunts bumped joints and deeply inhaled. "Life is good," he continued, very stoned. "No, man, life in the World is good. This is just us keeping our perspective," said Hooch. "And doing whatever it takes," Booker said. "Semper Fi, man," said H-Bomb, and all three nodded, and inhaled again. ============== The small package arrived with the late afternoon mail, and, as was routine, was placed on Skinner's desk by his assistant Kimberly along with several memos for his approval and signature. Close to the end of the day, he finally turned his attention to the stack of undone work. He reached for the brown paper-wrapped flat box, and turned it over. It had no return address on it, or any postage marks whatsoever. He put it down and punched a button on his phone. ......................... In an hour, the lab returned the package to him unopened, telling him the preliminary x-rays showed it was just a VCR cassette tape, no suspicious-looking mechanisms. Nothing out of the ordinary. So, Skinner opened it up, and saw that it was indeed, an unlabeled tape. He took it out of its box and carried it over to the far wall of his office, folding open doors set into the wall to reveal a TV and a VCR. He turned on the power to the TV, and pushed the tape into the VCR. Sitting in the chair closest to the wall, he hit the 'Play' button on the VCR's remote. The familiar blue screen snapped on, then was replaced by what looked like an old, almost-faded war film. Skinner squinted. Something about the scenery looked familiar. So familiar, he could almost smell it. He heard a voice off-camera asking the young soldier in the foreground who's face was hidden by a hat what it was like in the bush. The hat moved back and Skinner took a sharp breath. "Vasquez," he said. "Depends on the bush you're talkin' about," said the young marine, grinning and wiping his rifle carefully with a rag. "Oh, man, he's been out in the sun too long!" The camera quickly panned left and stopped on a small group of marines, laughing at their friend. The voice was H-bomb's, and Skinner was no longer in his office, but was back with the men he served with, talking to the reporter that had come to their camp on the way back to LZ English. "You should ignore us, sir, we're just back from a little jungle walking tour and need to chow down," said Booker. "Yeah, the chow's the best when you haul it back out of--" said Montgomery. "You mean when you haul it back alive," interrupted Vasquez, grinning into the camera. "Is my mom gonna see this?" The reporter chuckled, saying, "I don't know, soldier." Then, he said, "You're pretty quiet." PFC Skinner looked around, and realized he was the target of the question. He looked up into the camera and ostensibly into the face of the person he was talking to. "Sorry, sir, I don't remember the question," said the sweaty, weary marine. H-bomb looked at PFC Skinner, and patted his arm roughly, "Don't mind him, sir, heat's getting to all of us. This is the new guy. New guys take a little while to get used to the country club life we live here." The rest of the grunts chuckled, but it was becoming obvious the men were tired, and wanted to go. Probably sensing this, the reporter hurriedly asked, "So tell me, what's it like to face down the enemy?" "I don't know, sir, we really don't see them all that often. Mostly, it's just popping a couple of rounds into the bush in response to them shooting at us," H-Bomb responded. "Yeah, man, if you let them get close enough to count your nose hairs the VC will be the last thing you ever see," said Vasquez, laughing. "How about you?" The question was directed again at PFC Skinner. The boy's face was drawn and tired. He shook his head. "I think that's enough for everyone, thank you." The camera panned right and caught the face of First Lieutenant Daniel Sean O'Hannon. "Ah, Danny Boy, 'tis good of you to join us," said Montgomery bastardizing an Irish accent. The ragged group broke out into an off-key version of 'Danny Boy.' "Come on, boys, party's over," O'Hannon held up his hand to the camera, giving a little wave, "Thank you." Skinner, slammed back into the present, hit the Pause button. O'Hannon. Skinner's gut tightened.O'Hannon. The man by whose orders he and his friends went out, clutching to each other like frightened children, into the dark jungle, to die. He shut the tape off. He knew how it ended, and he didn't want to see anymore. He grabbed for the tape sleeve, hoping to find out more about who sent it. There was something taped to the inside of the box. He stood up, his legs shaky, and walked back to his desk for his letter opener. He slit the tape and pulled out the small piece of folded paper. .......................................... Skinner launched into the bedroom and strode towards the closet, flipping on the light and kneeling down quickly underneath Annie's clothes. He hesitated, knowing he was invading Annie's privacy, knowing he should ask her permission, and reached. His hands found the rough cardboard of the "old stuff" box. He yanked it towards him, surprised at once by how light and small it was. He reached for the flaps, flipping them open, peering in. And at that moment, felt like both the violator and the violated. He took what he needed and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Then, from downstairs he heard Annie open the front door. He took a deep breath, and heard her call his name from somewhere near the edge of an abyss. "Skinner, you here?" He had just enough time to close the flaps on the box and shove it backwards into the closet. He stood up quickly, closing the closet door as she came to the top of the stairs. She looked at him oddly. "Walter, you OK? You didn't answer me." "Yeah, fine." "Funny," she said, taking a step towards him. He noticed she was still wearing her coat, "you don't look fine." He took a step away from her. His body tense and his head reeling, he said, with more force than he intended, "I have to go out." "Out? Out where?" "Just out, Anne," he said, through clenched teeth. She put up her hands and took a step back from him. "OK, fine, whatever." She looked at him a second longer, then went back down the stairs. He composed himself for a few minutes, and followed her down. As he took his coat out of the closet, he could hear her in the kitchen. He paused, running his hand over her coat as it lay on the desk chair, considering the possibility of explaining, of talking to her about the pieces of the puzzle he was putting together. Then he dismissed the thought, and left. .............................. Annie knew there were more layers to their little exchange in the bedroom than Skinner was letting on. Something that began with his reading with Grace Pilgrim. Something that had to do with the pain she saw in his face the day she brought the memo to him, and continued with the disturbance in his sleep the other night. Something that also had to do with whatever he was looking at in his top dresser drawer. So, after she made sure he had left, she decided to snoop a little. Going upstairs to their bedroom, she went to the chest of drawers, and put her hand on the top one. She had wanted badly to open it ever since she saw Skinner putting something mysterious back into it. She pulled the drawer open, looked in, and took out the small black box. In that moment, Annie knew. .......................... Skinner got into his car, driving, not knowing where he was going. He heard Anne, in his head, talking to him about the night. "I always liked the darkness," she had told him one evening as they stood outside on their small balcony. "Always. Never afraid of it, even as a kid. Something comforting about the dark, something unobtrusive. Daylight is so harsh...no hidden, quiet spaces. So many things that need to be tended to. Things not done, like laundry, dusty shelves, phone calls you have to make." He had looked at her, knowing that she was speaking to things in her past, yet another windowshade corner she was lifting. "In the dark, all the shapes just sort of melt into one another. Just one large, concealed blur of...irresponsibility." He thought of Anne all the while he drove. Thought of their brief time together, her ability to reach through his silences with her humor, and her tolerance of his need to keep his discussions of his work to a minimum. He had failed Sharon by slowly, over time closing himself off, after she had known him as an open, caring man. As he morphed into the stony, cold wall of silence that he was safe in, he watched her slip from him, and only at the end could he admit to himself that he never once tried to redeem himself to her. Annie, having only known him as he was now, seemed content with him, even if he was not always there completely as her lover, as her 'other half' in the traditional sense. And maybe that was what drew him out; her lack of expectation creating for him a place where he couldn't fail her, couldn't disappoint her, and that was enough to make him try that much harder not to. Then he was struck by the fact that he was reviewing his relationship with Anne almost as dispassionately as he reviewed the documentation contained in a case file before he signed off on it. And moved it off his desk for filing elsewhere. Then he stopped thinking, afraid of the significance of the comparison. He found himself sometime later in his office, alone. It was late, the place was empty, and he sat at his desk, still unable to focus. Then he took the two items out of his pants pocket to look at them. The first was a photo, small, taken with a quick snap by a corpsman-friend, Sparky, of their platoon in 'Nam. Unfortunately, in the last second, PFC Skinner had moved, heard something, a detail forgotten now, that caused him to look away. His young face was a blur, his name unreadable, blocked by Vasquez' riflebutt. Skinner allowed his eyes to roam over the photo, recognizing the faces, the rumpled uniforms, the dirty boots, of the men he had known. Especially the medium-built, wavy-haired man in the front. He flipped it over. "Daddy, 1968" was written in Annie's handwriting. He took a sharp breath, and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he looked at the second item, the piece of paper that had been hidden in the cassette tape box. It was a copy of a birth certificate, indicating that a girl had been born in 1962 at 7:23 a.m. on April 19th. Skinner stared at the parents' names. Cheryl and Daniel O'Hannon. Cheryl's maiden name was McTigue. And they had named their firstborn child Anne Rose. He held the certificate and the photograph together, and put his face in his hands, trying to keep control. And then he wondered if he had known from the beginning who her father was, would that have made a difference to him? Would he still have gotten involved with her, still have allowed himself to get close to her? He made a fist and clenched it tightly, unsure of the answer. Then he brought the certificate close to his face and noticed, for the first time, that it had a faint odor. Cigarette smoke. Annie closed the flaps of her "old stuff" box and pushed it back into its place in her closet. She had no more information than when she had opened the box, but one thing was true, Skinner's Purple Heart meant he had served in Vietnam, as her father had. And though she knew it would be too much of a coincidence, she had looked in her box for the only picture she had of her father in the war. A picture of his platoon. But the picture wasn't there, right on top like she thought it was, and Annie was racking her brain to try and think of where it could be. She wandered back down the stairs, knowing the picture could only be in the box. Or somewhere among her mother's things in storage in Chilmark. Annie stood in the kitchen, idly wiping down the already spotless countertop. She had never thought much about the Vietnam War over the years. She had tried to read several books on the subject in an attempt to better understand her father, and his time In Country, but after a while the accounts of what happened there became more and more difficult for her to deal with. Especially when she began to envision her father as not only the victim, but the victimizer, something she was sure he was incapable of. Hoped he was incapable of. Annie also felt enormously guilty that she had never seen her father again after he left. She had written him, but with her mother's growing emotional dependence on Annie, it became an issue of divided loyalty. Annie spent so much of her time filling in the gaps her father had left, she had neglected much of her own needs. And personal relationships. All of which Fox Mulder had gently brought to her attention when he surprised her by coming to her mother's wake, and telling her in between hugs that she hadn't called or written anything other than Christmas cards to him for eight years. Eight years...Annie smiled slightly at the memory of her delight as they made small talk, him holding her hand, all the while standing at the back of the funeral parlor, oblivious to everyone around them. And later, as she stood at her mother's open grave, she suddenly realized how much of her own life had slipped by her, taken up by the care of first her healthy, and then ultimately, her dying mother. Eight years. And to think there was a time when she thought she couldn't live without Fox Mulder. Annie sighed, turned on the dishwasher, and looked up at the wall clock. Skinner had been gone three hours already, and Annie decided to give up waiting and go to bed. As she went about her nightly routine, and slipped into her pajamas, she knew that things were changing. That there was something Skinner wasn't telling her, and now, she realized, she had something she should probably tell him. As she turned out the light, her last thoughts were of her mother, and father, and suddenly, she remembered her father's strongbox. She began mentally to plan a way to get back up to Massachusetts. As quickly as possible. =============== The group of young grunts, enjoying the approaching cool the night would bring, was sitting near the wire, smoking dope, listening to the drone of B-52s. "Must be clearing a patch for a fire zone," muttered one of them, as the muffled sounds of explosions met their ears. "I just hope their fuckin' aim is good and they don't hit us," said someone else, to the uncomfortable laughter of the group. Scout wouldn't take his eyes off Hooch, watching him as Hooch stood drinking warm beer in the fading daylight, talking within his small circle of friends about nothing in particular. "Hey, Hooch," said H-Bomb in a conspiratorial tone, "what gives with you and Scout? It's been like this for days between you two." Hooch raised his voice and said, "Scout thinks I was a bad boy and didn't do as I was told. Isn't that right, Scout?" Scout slid off the little mound of damp earth he was sitting on. The grunts around him made room as his boots hit the ground. He walked towards Hooch and was on him in three long strides. "That's right, you son-of-a-bitch." Scout leaned over and poked Hooch's chest, hard. "And I tell you what, asshole. Far as I am concerned your nickname ain't fuckin' Hooch, it's Pussy Fucking Coward. Until you redeems yourself, that's what the fuck I'm gonna call you." Hooch grabbed Scout's finger and squeezed. It took everything in him not to break it. Scout tried to pull it back. It became a tug off war, with both men tight to each other. The grunts surrounded them. "I don't owe you shit, Scout," Hooch hissed. "Oh, you owe me, Pussy Fuckin' Coward Skinner. You owe me. And you better watch your back on patrol, motherfucker." Scout came in close. Hooch could smell the stink of his unwashed skin. More angry than he had ever been in his life, Hooch spat in Scout's face. Scout started back. Then Hooch swung his fist, connecting squarely with Scout's chin. Scout, caught off-guard, fell back. Hooch put his fists to his sides, like loaded six-guns, ready. Scout rose and came at him, running up and grabbing Hooch around the middle, bringing him down on his back. He pinned Hooch's arms with his knees and began to beat Hooch with his fists. Booker ran over and grabbed Scout's arms, shouting for help. H-Bomb came over and helped pull Scout off Hooch, who was bleeding from the mouth and nose. Scout struggled out of their grip as Natchez extended his hand to help Hooch up. The two men's eyes held, then Hooch took Natchez' hand and stood shakily on his feet. "You ain't gonna make no difference here, farm boy, and you ain't gonna make it outta here alive!" Scout shouted as he walked away, punching his fists in the air. "Man, what the fuck did you do to make Scout so angry?" Booker asked Skinner. "He's had it in for me from the second I got off the chopper. I don't know what the fuck his problem is," Hooch said, wiping the blood off his face with his shirt. "Well, all I know is you better fuckin' watch your back, like he says," said H-Bomb. "Or better yet, we'll watch it for you," he finished, grinning and putting his arm around Hooch's shoulders. "Let's go. I got us ride on a Cobra so we can go check on Montgomery," said Booker, putting his arm around H-Bomb. Hooch, still bleeding, knew he'd be too embarrassed to admit it out loud, but he loved his friends almost more at that moment than his family back in the World. Even though he knew these men, like Vasquez, could be gone in an instant. ============= "I'm tellin' you guys, this map is wrong, man, something is fugazi," said Hooch, staring at the terrain map with a flashlight, huddled tightly with the other grunts pulling night patrol. "We're too far west," he said, peering up into the cloud-covered, blank sky, wishing there were constellations he could use to check his location by. "Well, well, well, why am I not fuckin' surprised you're the one creatin' a problem?" said Scout to Hooch sarcastically. "I say the map is right. Let's jus' hump the five clicks and kill us some gooks and get the fuck out of the bush." "Look, the longer we stand here fuckin' around, the longer this whole thing is gonna take. O'Hannon's a straight guy. He sent us out here, I say everything's cool," said H-Bomb. "Yeah, let's just get this fuckin' op over with and get us some beer," said Booker. "I say it's cool with me. I vote we go," said Natchez. Suddenly, the sound of branches and vines shifting and moving came to them. "What the fuck was that?" Hooch whispered, and flicked off the flashlight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Skinner awoke with a start, disoriented. Something in the hooch moved, rolled, and shifted. A shadow, threatening, curling and uncurling like a snake. A snake. Or a rat. Now the shadow was slithering across the floor, now slipping under his bed covers. His mind screamed. He opened his mouth and a cry escaped as he saw something coming towards where he sat stiff and scared on the bed. A snake. A rat. He reached out and grabbed for it, squeezing, crushing, protecting himself. And saw Annie's face, white with fear, rise up from under the covers. "Jesus Christ, Walter, let go of me!" she cried. Skinner quickly broke his vice grip on her and sat back, his breathing shallow. He watched her recoil from him, rubbing her leg with a shaky hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Annie," he whispered as he closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ Almighty," she said softly, like a prayer, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." Skinner pulled his knees into his chest. He felt Annie's arms go around him. "Please, please tell me what is wrong. Please tell me how I can help you. Talk to me, please, Walter, talk to me," she pleaded with him. He shrugged her off and stood up. "What? What did I do?" She switched on the bedside lamp and stood up, too. "Why are you treating me this way?" "It wasn't you, Anne." "Then what? Was it something at the office? Why are you pulling away from me?" "It was your father," Skinner blurted out. She stepped back. "What? What are you talking about? Does this have something to do with your time in Vietnam?" Skinner stood, stunned, and clenched his fists. "I...I went through your drawer and I found your Purple Heart. I know you were in the war, too. I--" "I don't know how to say this gently, so I'll just say it," he interrupted, taking a deep breath. "When I served in Vietnam, we were sent out on night patrol. The North Vietnamese Army slammed into us, cut us down. Everyone except me. The man that sent us on patrol that night was First Lieutenant Daniel O'Hannon. Your father." He walked over to the valet near the dresser and yanked the photo out of his pants pocket. Shock and anger spread like fire across her face as he handed it to her. "That's your father," he said, stabbing with a finger at the photo, "and that's me." Another stab. She looked up at him, the shock giving way to a look of betrayal. Her expression made him soften a little. "I know I took this from your box, Annie. I didn't know it was in there, I just...took a chance. I had to know if it was true." He watched her process all that he had told her. Then she took a step back and held the photo to her chest. She blinked at him. "But...I'm sure he wouldn't--How could my father have known that your patrol would be ambushed"? Skinner pulled back in frustration, "I don't know, Anne. I only have my suspicions. Suspicions about our marching orders, about the map your father gave us to follow..." Then he watched her face tighten. "Are you saying that you think my father deliberately--?" She walked up to him and leaned towards him, "I'm not sure what your motivation is, Skinner, but the idea that you'd lie about--" He became undone. He grabbed her arms and shook her, "You don't get it, do you? It was your father that sent us into that ambush. We were under his command. He knew we were being sent out there to die! There could be no other explanation!" He released her, shocked at the flood of anger overtaking him, watching her try to regain her footing, his shove so hard, she almost fell. "How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you accuse a dead man, who has no chance to defend himself, or his actions. My father would never do something so horrible. He was a good man. He'd never hurt anyone!" He felt as if she had wrenched something from herself and threw it at him. He almost laughed at the thought. "With all due respect to the memory of your father, McTigue," he said, bitter, sarcastic, "I didn't know him in that role. I only know him as the son-of-a-bitch that slaughtered my friends." "Damn you!" she cried, and slapped him across the face. Then, just as quickly, she pulled back, and put her hand to her lips. Her eyes filled with tears. "How?" she whispered, "How did we get to this place with each other?" "I don't know," he said, looking away. The skin of his face stung, the confusion in his head translating to an ache in his heart. "I only know that I need to make peace with whatever it was that happened that night on patrol, and I can't do that staying here with you." He began to move around the bedroom, taking a duffel bag out of the bedroom closet, then walking to the dresser and jamming some clothes and his wallet in it. He put on jeans and a sweatshirt. "Where are you going?" she asked him, watching him dress. "I can take a room at a hotel tonight. You stay here." He walked out of the bedroom, sliding barefoot into his worn pair of docksiders. "And after that?" she asked his back. "I don't know, Annie. I don't have an answer for you," he said, going downstairs and taking his trenchcoat out of the closet. He was about to leave when he heard Annie's voice. "It's been my experience that nothing happens by accident. Whatever all of this is, it was meant to happen this way." "I'm not sure I believe that," Skinner shot up in the direction of her shadow, and, taking his keys, left their home. .......................... Every time he closed his eyes at the hotel, after the memory of Annie's hurt and angry face slid way in sleep, the Old Woman came to him. "Tro ve," she whispered, "tro ve," her haunting presence in his dreams forcing him awake. Unable to sleep any longer, Skinner sat at the small table in his hotel room, the pad and pen bearing the hotel's insignia in front of him. He closed his eyes, and folded his hands, thinking. Then, after a time, he picked up the pen, and began to draft a plan. ===================== Over the next several days, using the influence afforded him by his position in the Bureau, he contacted the Vietnamese government offices in Ottawa, Canada, and made arrangements to have a travel visa processed and sent to him immediately. Then he had Kimberly make flight arrangements. Having spent the past few nights at a hotel, and easily avoiding Anne at work, all that was left to do was to go home and pack. And hopefully, not run into Anne. He knew her Saturday schedule well enough to make sure he would return to the condo when she wasn't home. As Skinner moved around the bedroom and bathroom, packing a light travel bag, he tried to ignore how much of Anne was there in the room with him. Her clothes in the closet full of the scent of her perfume, her hairbrush, hair combs and clips neatly arranged on one half of their dresser. He reached out to caress the soft velvet of the jewelry case he had given her as a gift when they moved in together. She had often joked that she had better take good care of it, because it might be the *only* thing she'd ever wrangle out of him. He started to smile, then caught himself. He firmly zipped his bag and pushed her out of his mind. He thought he heard the doorbell, and went quickly towards the bedroom door, tripping over her slippers, Yin and Yang, lying on the floor like obedient puppies. He picked them up, and carefully tucked them under her side of the bed. He ran his hand over the surface of the blanket, following the imaginary outline of her body, and indulged himself in a moment of absolute loneliness, and pain, at the thought of being without her. Then he stood up and moved away from it. ....................... "You leaving me, Walter?" He started at the sound of Annie's voice, which seemed to come from the direction of the balcony. Then he saw her sitting in the frame of the open sliding glass door, looking out, and away from where he was standing. In the shadows of the fading afternoon sky, the light, or lack of it, made her skin look gray. Skinner could almost touch how much pain she was in. "How long have you been sitting there, Annie?" "Long enough to get that for you," she said, gesturing to an overnight delivery envelope on the desk top. "It came by courier. Kim called earlier and told me it was coming, and asked me to be sure someone would be home to get it. You don't have a cellphone, and I wasn't sure if you'd be here. It's your travel visa. She also offered to fax me your itinerary. I told her it wasn't necessary, because I have no idea where you're going and I really don't give a shit." "Anne--" "Are you leaving me, Walter?" she asked again. "I have something I have to do, Annie. We can talk when I get back." "I may not be here when you get back." She turned to look at him. "That's up to you, Annie." He hesitated, then began to walk towards her. She held up her hand to stop him, and made a small noise in her throat. Skinner knew she was crying. He picked up the envelope, walked towards the front door, and put on his trenchcoat. "Skinner..." her voice was hoarse, and thin. He paused. "I don't believe what you're doing is right. My father's dead, your friends are dead. Why can't you just--" "Because I can't, Anne," he said, his voice rising. He opened the door. "Then just go, just get the hell out of here," she said, her voice barely audible. Without looking at her he said, "For what it's worth, Annie Rose, I love you." He quietly closed the door. ================= Walter Skinner sat in the window seat of the 747 heading for his past. At the last stop he made before the airport, the reference librarian at Georgetown University had told him that, at least phonetically, it seemed as if the phrase uttered by the Old Woman in his dream was "return" in Vietnamese. Return. As the clouds passed by the safety glass like aimless ghosts, everything behind him slipped away... Hooch was on watch that afternoon, near one of the breaks in the wire, listening to the sound of outgoing artillery rounds. He had developed a routine on his watch depending on where he was stationed within the camp. He was beginning to take great comfort in routines, using them as a buffer zone between himself and the insanity around him. If he was near the northside, close by the machine gun bunker, he would stay low, tense, near the trench line, catching any close action, leaving the distant targets to the M-60s. If he was on the southside, near the steep slope overlooking the village, he relaxed a little, preferring instead to watch the women and children working the rice paddies, toiling around their quonset huts, seemingly peaceful, normal. He was on the southside pulling watch now, when he felt eyes on him. He turned and saw Scout looking intently at him. "What the fuck do you want?" Hooch asked. The odd look on Scout's face put his whole body on alert. "I don't know, Skinner, thought I'd come by and make your watch a little interesting." Scout took a step towards him. He was carrying an M-79 grenade launcher. "What the hell do you think you're going to do with that?" Hooch asked, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. "Oh, maybe kill me a fuckin' gook farmer," Scout said, gesturing with the weapon out towards the village. Hooch's finger played over the trigger of his M-16. "Not on my watch, asshole. Make your trouble someplace else." The two men, having reached an impasse, didn't move. "And jus' where do you suggest I go, Pussy Fuckin' Coward Skinner?" Scout asked, his eyes narrow. Hooch got the clear feeling that Scout was going to kill him. His hands tightened on his rifle. "How about straight to hell, you son- of-a-bitch." Scout made a move as if to raise the launcher level with Hooch's stomach. At the same moment, Hooch began to raise his rifle, fighting to stay calm. Then, suddenly, Scout looked past Hooch, over his shoulder, his eyes wide. Hooch quickly turned in the direction of Scout's stare. A child was at the top of the slope, coming towards them through the break in the wire. "He's coming into camp," Hooch said, instinctively raising his weapon in the boy's direction. "Sweet Jesus, he's covered in frags," Scout said, and whistled. The Vietnamese boy that Hooch figured was probably about 10 years old, was sobbing, his arms outstretched. There were grenades across his arms and chest held on by white gauze tape. The whiteness of the tape stood out against the child's dark skin. "You gotta drop him where he is. If he gets any closer to camp, we'll be hit. Do it!" Scout demanded of Skinner. "You're the one on watch, kill him!" Scout's voice was close to his ear. Hooch watched as the boy slowly approached. His stomach pulled in, and his palms began to sweat. "Tai sao?" the boy cried, "tai sao?" "I can't," Hooch said, his voice breaking. "You don't have no goddamn choice, asshole. You gotta do it! They ain't people, they're the fuckin' enemy. Think of Montgomery! Think of Vasquez! Take your revenge! Do it!" Scout pushed him, hard. "Wake up, you stupid shit! His mama-san or his papa-san taped those motherfuckers to him! Do the kid a favor, the frags may not all go together, and we'll be watchin' him go a little at a time!! What the fuck are you waitin' for?" Scout's voice was so loud, it was all there was, and it drowned out whatever portion of sanity and humanity remained in Hooch. Hooch cried out as he squeezed the trigger, releasing the horror that Scout was right, the pain for killing some mother's son, the shame that was rising inside him like an infection for having been a part of the murder of this child, and the Vietnamese family in the hut. The bullets from the semi-automatic cut clean across the boy's throat, snapping his head off at the neck like a small, brown branch. The boy rattled backwards in the path of the bullets, uplifted in the momentum of the spray, then his lifeless body fell back to the ground. Hooch pointed his rifle mindlessly at the sky, still firing, still shouting until he felt arms on him, and H-Bomb and Booker held him, as Scout took the empty weapon away. Hooch fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands, beyond comfort. "It's over, man, it's over," Booker said gently. Suddenly, the grenades attached to the child began to explode. "Get down!" shouted Scout. The four men dove for the ground, and watched as fragments of the dead child's bone, muscle and tissue sprayed randomly over the ground in reaction to the exploding hardware. "He's a safe enough distance, we'll just have to wait the whole thing out," said Booker. When the last frag had discharged, the men stood on their feet, silent, overcome by the sight of the rendered body, and the all- too-familiar smell of death. And then Scout laughed. The sound was, to Hooch, like a mockery of God. Like the sound made by the Angel Lucifer, as he fell from the edge of Heaven into Hell. "You did the right thing, Hooch, man. You earned my trust again," Scout said, slapping him on the back. Hooch knew that, at Scout's touch, he'd lost his soul. He looked at the dead child, and realized the boy, too, was dead without the civility of someone mourning his loss. If this is what Hooch's life would be, if he had to live like this, playing by rules he couldn't even begin to understand, then he swore that he would never, could never, feel anything again. ==================== His Vietnamese guide asked him if this was a place of particularly painful memories. "Yes," Skinner said, looking around at the field that was the sight of the ambush, near the village of Cam Lo. So much about the place had become peaceful, and serene. The rice paddies actively being farmed, the village rebuilt, like the shattered lives of its occupants who had long since moved forward, and stepped over the past. Skinner heard a sound coming over the ridge behind his guide. Laughter, a child's laughter. A boy, about 10 years old, came up over the trail towards the two men. The guide reached out, roughly grabbed the child and spoke to him harshly, obviously admonishing the boy, in Vietnamese. The guide looked over at Skinner. "This is my son," he said apologetically, "he follow us from the village. He is...curious about the tall man from America." "It's OK," Skinner said, squatting down to the boy's level, "it's OK, let him come over." His father's tight grip on him gone, the boy approached, tentative, cautious, his face shy, his eyes, wide. He held out a hand full of fronds of elephant grass. Skinner accepted the gift, then reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. The boy grinned, and giggled. Skinner tried to grin back, knowing it looked more like a grimace as he felt the tears sting at his eyes. He looked down. The boy was missing half of his left foot. Skinner looked to his guide. "What happened?" he asked. On the pretense of fixing his glasses, he wiped his face. "Left over," the guide began, "Russian mine. Left over from the conflict. Clinic. American doctors fix him. He was just a baby. He OK now." "Yes," Skinner said, hearing his voice betray more than he wanted it to, "he's OK." Overcome, he squeezed the grass tightly, and stood up. "I will leave you so you may have a moment of peace for your memories," his guide said, and quietly walked away, his arm draped over his son's slight shoulders, the tall grass moving aside as they left. "Moment of silence," Skinner corrected his absent companion. "Moment of--" Suddenly, the black curtain of night fell all around him. Startled, he dropped to his knees, and looked up into the visage of the Old Woman. "Return," she said, and Booker, walking point slowly in the moonless, monsoon season night, pierced through her spirit. Skinner watched it fold aside and dissipate. He sat helpless, safe, in the audience of a tragedy whose ending he couldn't change. H-Bomb came next, one hand on his weapon, the other holding fast to Booker's flak jacket. Because of the thickness of the vegetation, each man had a phosphorescent twig, created by nature in the rotting jungle wood, stuck into the netting at the rear of his helmet, so the man behind could follow, and not get lost. After H-Bomb came Natchez, and Hooch, the side men, hacking through the strangle of vines and underbrush. Montgomery was next, his wounds healed enough to put him back on his feet, alert somehow through the pain he was in, determined to revenge Vaz's death. "Jesus Christ, this thing makes too much fuckin' noise," Natchez hissed at the machete, and hacked. "Not half as much as you bull shittin'," whispered H-Bomb. "Shut the fuck up, both of you!" hissed back Hooch. Johnson came second-to-last, taking the dead Vasquez's place, transplanting Hooch as the FNG, on his first patrol, and eager for his first kill. Skinner peered into the space behind Johnson. He registered that someone was missing. Scout. Then, a form behind Johnson, almost too far back. Scout? Suddenly a softly spoken, "Oh shit," from the front. Booker. Skinner's head swung over in its direction, his fists and body tight. Something came crashing through the jungle to the left, shouting, "Chu Hoi!" his arms up. NVA. Johnson took him down in two bursts. Then AK-47 fire was all around the helpless patrol, like deadly hailstones. "We're caught!" shouted Montgomery. Skinner could see the quick sparks of the VC's weapons from their well-hidden outposts in the trees, the brief flashes like obscene starlight coming out of the sky. Then the enemy, still firing, riding thick guideropes to the base of those trees, advancing slowly in the direction of the doomed patrol. Blood splattered the leaves, the jungle floor, plants parting, exploding with gunfire, none of the patrol able to get off a shot, the NVA too tight around them, too prepared to kill. Even in the blackness, Skinner could see as the unending streams of bullets suspending the dying bodies of his friends up, like marionettes, eyes rolling back in death, enemy fire ripping them apart. Angry, Skinner looked up and raised his fists, crying out into the night, up to the heavens, too late to get God's attention, too bitter to believe He'd intervene anyway. Suddenly, light burst through the skin of his closed eyelids. He opened them, and saw that he was at a GR Point. The smell of formaldehyde, blood, and the dead were heavy around him, in spite of the large exhaust fan slowly rotating in the ceiling of the tent. He fell back, covering his mouth and nose, shaking, and in a cold sweat. The sunlight pouring into the tent did nothing to warm him. A young corpsman in charge of the bodies was leaning over, using a shower nozzle with running water to gently wash off the blood and the mud from the dead soldier on the table. The skin of the body was chalk-white, and peppered with wounds. Skinner stood up, drawn towards the sunlit body. His eyes scanned the soldier's profile. It has Hooch. Skinner's eyes opened wider, and he walked to the table, no longer conscious of the smell. He looked at his young body, the places where the skin was torn open, muscle and bone exposed. Somehow, being washed clean by this gentle, baptismal stream of water, Skinner almost felt himself healing. The corpsman said softly, as he rinsed off the traces of war, "You're lucky today, Private, we're not busy. I can get you and your friends dressed up real nice to send you home." He reached over to a tray near the body and picked up a large needle that was attached to a long tube, that was in turn attached to a small electric pump. There was a large bucket on the floor, and Skinner knew it was a crude process for exsanguination. There was also an IV with a clear fluid on the tray. The corpsman leaned over Hooch's body, feeling with his fingertips on the grunt's throat. "Unfortunately, first I have to--" He paused. Felt the skin of Hooch's throat more definitively. "Oh my God," he gasped. Then ran for the door of the tent, shouting, "Medic! I need help in here!" Then something flashed white in Skinner's eyes until he had to shield his face. As the light faded back a little, he saw again the Old Woman standing before him. "Why?" he asked her, his voice full of pain. "Because you need to see," she said. "Why did I survive?" "To forgive. And to protect." "Why?" he asked again, more helpless this time at the cryptic nature of her responses. "For your integrity. For the work. For the people that surround you now." "What people? You mean Anne--" "And more." Confused, he stepped back, lifting a shaky hand to his face. "Nothing happens by accident," she said. Those words, he thought, and looked up. And into the face of his Vietnamese guide. "--have an accident?" the guide was asking. "You are very pale." Skinner's mouth was dry. He couldn't speak. He turned, and walked away from his past. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annie touched the inside of the pane of glass. It would be ridiculous to expect there would be something left. Some trace of him, or of his suicide, she thought. "Everything OK, little lady?" said the small, slight man sitting at the desk, figuring out his credit receipts. "Yes, it's...OK." She put her hand down. "Now, could you tell me again what you are looking for?" he asked. My father, she thought. Then aloud, she said, "My father used to own this place about 17 years ago. I guess I was hoping I'd find something of him still here." The man raised his dark eyebrows. "Wait a second. You the daughter of the fellow that killed himself in here?" To put it bluntly. "Yes, yes I am." "I bought the place not long after. Got it pretty cheap, too, since folks say--" "Don't tell me, the place is haunted," she sighed. "Got that right." "Do you believe it?" she asked him. He considered her for a moment, and said, "Young lady, there's always someone haunting someone." A bell clanged and Annie noticed several cars pulling up to the pumps outside. "Gotta go. You look around as long as you want," he said, leaving her alone in the office. As she looked around, she tried to imagine what it may have looked like when her father owned the station, but couldn't even begin to see things as they might have been all those years ago. She also wasn't sure what she was doing in the middle of the heat of the Arizona desert. But she felt compelled to come, to rinse out the bad taste left in her mouth where her father was concerned. In Skinner's absence, Annie had been better able to sort out her feelings. Though she knew she loved him, the somewhat tenuous connection between them felt strained. Annie had suspected what had drawn Skinner to her in the first place had been her ability to cajole him, entice him, with humor. But she had occasionally wondered why he stayed. He was not, and probably never would be, a demonstrative man, and maybe her absent father and emotionally distant mother had made Annie more comfortable with that than other people would be. She also realized that the majority of her relationship with Skinner was wordless. Quiet. Unexpected. Like the flowers he'd bring her for no reason. The way he remembered what wine she liked. The time he spread out a blanket on the balcony and read to her from Yeats. All because she had called him in tears at his office where he was working late, after she had to fire four people from her staff because of downsizing. , she thought, looking around at the cluttered gas station office, to be remembering his kisses on her face, waking her up at one in the morning, his hands urging her out of bed, and downstairs to his makeshift picnic. Maybe it was his inability to always soft-touch, to easily romance, coupled with her lack of expectation that made them well-suited for each other. She shifted her feet, watching the cars outside, and thought then of her trip to Chilmark. Thought of finding her father's strongbox in the small storage shed, and discovering it contained just one thing. A letter from her father to Skinner. Private First Class Skinner. After she had gotten over the shock of seeing her lover's name written in her father's hand, it struck her hard that her time with Skinner must have truly been destined to be, despite Skinner's doubts to the contrary. At least, in the sense that Skinner's meeting her had been the beginning of his resolving the ghosts of his past. For Annie, she felt she had as much unresolved as she had before. Then she began to get angry. Angry that her father had left nothing behind for her. Angry that he had made no attempt to resolve for her why he took his own life, and left her limping along beside her selfish, unfeeling mother. Alone. In frustration and disgust, she had emptied out the shed, and thrown out everything, every one of her parents' possessions, but had saved the letter, her curiosity for what it contained strong, and her sense of obligation to Skinner even stronger. "If only I knew why you did what you did, Daddy," she whispered into a corner of the office, her back to the large picture window so no one could tell she was crying. Annie turned around. And was shocked to see she had stepped back 17 years before. She saw the Pontiac outside, with the couple interviewed by the police in the archived report she'd been given in town. She saw her father inside, dressed in a black T-shirt, carefully putting a 20 dollar bill in the money box in the drawer. His hair was longer, the lines on his face were deeper, but he was still her daddy. The man who held her hand when she cried through the mumps, the man whose suicide had left a hole in her life that she was only now beginning to forgive him for. She saw the gun on the desk, and her stomach pulled in tight. "Daddy?" she said, but he didn't seem to hear, "Daddy?" Still, he didn't hear. She watched him take the picture of her out of his back pocket, and lay it on the desk. "No," she whispered. She fell to her knees next to him as he took off his baseball cap. He leaned over and kissed the face of the child in the photograph. Annie touched her face, trying to reach into the past and hold onto her father's love. Then he put his cap carefully over the picture. "Goodbye," he said softly, and picked up the gun from the desktop. Annie reached for it, but her fingers passed through it. She grabbed for her father's arm, but again, in vain. He raised the gun to the side of his head. "Daddy!" Annie shouted, and put her hands over her face, her heart aching. The sound of the shot made her start back into the desk. "You OK, Miss?" The man had returned to the office, and was looking at her oddly. Annie stood, trying to collect herself, turning away and wiping her face. "Yes, I guess...I must have tripped over the leg of the chair. There's just," she gestured helplessly, "nothing left." "You know, there was something..." the man left her alone again in the office for a moment, giving her a second of privacy. Annie's hands were shaking so badly, she could barely get the tissue out of her pocketbook. "This was left by the cops all those years ago." He held out the dusty, flattened relic of her father's life. "Seems they forgot to send it along with--" he stopped and looked at her. "--the body," she finished for him. "Don't know what happened to some photograph everybody in town talked about, but here's the hat anyway," he continued. "Can't believe I still have it." Annie took her father's black baseball cap from the man, and held it to her chest. "Thank you very much," was all she could manage as she left the office, the tears starting again. She walked towards her rented truck and leaned against the driver's side door, holding the hat to her face, hoping for some trace of her father's scent to come back to her. , she thought, "I love you, Daddy," she said, weeping into the fabric. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go home. But she wasn't sure if that was back to Chilmark, or back to Skinner. She opened up the truck door, and gave a little gasp. The faded Christmas photograph was lying on the front seat of the car. "Goodbye, Little Raggedy Annie. Forgive us." Her father's voice filled the car, calling her by her childhood nickname. Then it faded, and was gone. She picked up the picture and held it, along with the hat, close to her. "Goodbye, Daddy," she whispered, "goodbye." ======================== Skinner picked up the credit card-only telephone at O'Hare airport, wanded his card through, and dialed a familiar number. "Mulder," the voice said on the other end. "Agent Mulder, it's Skinner." "Sir! Where are you? Are you allright?" "I'm at O'Hare Airport. I've been trying to get in touch with Anne and she's not picking up at home. When I called her office number, some idiot told me that she didn't work there anymore." Mulder was quiet. "Agent Mulder?" "Sir, Annie doesn't work at the Bureau, at least, not at the moment. She took a leave of absence. Something about her father's death. I think she's moved out of your place, too." Now it was Skinner's turn to be quiet. After a moment, he asked, "Do you know where she's staying?" "No, sir, not at the moment. I'm sorry, I----" "Thank you, Agent Mulder," Skinner said, and hung up. ....................................... Skinner was coming through the departure gate at Dulles Airport. His head was pounding, and the travel bag on his shoulder felt like it weighed 100 pounds. He watched his plane's disembarking passengers being greeted by people in the waiting area, and, though he knew it was impossible, for a moment, he hoped.... He looked around, trying to be inconspicuous. And was surprised when he saw Fox Mulder leaning against a large window nearby. His first reaction was that whatever brought Mulder to the airport was work-related, and Skinner stiffened his countenance as much as he could through his weariness. "Agent Mulder, what are you doing here?" he asked as he walked up to his subordinate. Mulder drew himself up and extended his hand. "Sir, welcome home." Skinner sighed, and briefly shook Mulder's hand. "If this is about a case your working on, Mulder, can it wait?" He began to walk briskly. He felt Mulder's hand grasp his coatsleeve. "Sir, I'd like a moment." Skinner stopped. And noticed that he did what Annie would have described as his "funny little chin-thing." At this unexpected, affectionate thought of his lover, he turned his head, afraid his face would betray to Mulder what he was feeling. He felt Mulder's hand still on his arm, more insistent. "Please, let's go...have a drink." Skinner nodded. Emotionally and physically drained, his defenses weakened briefly by his travels, he decided he would expend less energy if he just went along with Mulder. The two men sat wordlessly in front of their drinks in the airport lounge. They had chosen a quiet table, and neither of them had removed their coats. Skinner thought they must have looked like incredibly bored business men, or uneasy undercover narcs. Skinner picked up the highball glass and sipped its amber liquid, the combination of whiskey and melting ice cubes creating a confusion of hot and cold on his tongue. Mulder said, "I'm not here because Anne asked me to talk to you." "Then why are you here, Agent Mulder?" Skinner, tired, couldn't keep the edge of annoyance out of his voice. Mulder shook his head slightly and grimaced. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?" Skinner felt his shoulders and back tighten with his rising indignation over Mulder's prying into his and Annie's private relationship, however good the intentions. "Look, I really don't think this is necessary." "It is if you want to hold onto Annie," Mulder countered as he leaned into the table. "You do want to hold onto her, don't you?" Skinner avoided Mulder's frank stare. "Perhaps I feel that falls under the category of 'none of your business.'" Mulder sat back up in his seat. "Fine. You wanna play it that way, then I'll make this brief. Annie matters to me. A lot. She and I go back a long way together. I don't know how much she told you about her adolescence, but it was-," he stopped, and took a drink of his beer, "about as fulfilling as mine." Skinner saw a pinpoint of pain begin in Mulder's eyes, and spread throughout his face. Then Mulder shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the layers of ache from himself. "She didn't talk about her folks much when we were younger. It's only been recently, since she's come to Washington, that we've spoken about her past." Skinner felt again that slight twinge of jealousy, silently hoping the only thing Mulder and Annie had done since she came to Washington was talk. Then something occurred to him, and he felt compelled to speak. "Annie mentioned her mother's illness, and her father's death, neither of which I know a lot about. She also told me her mother dismissed her. What did she mean?" Skinner knew the question was an opening for his subordinate to tell him the same kind of intimate details he was jealous Mulder knew about Anne. But he wanted to know more, and right now, Mulder was his only conduit. "Her parents came from a tiny town on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana. Annie would have been an abortion if her mother had had the money. Instead, Anne became the reason her mother and father got married. Annie meant that her mother, starting from before Anne was born, kept her at a distance, Cheryl's lack of loving serving as a constant reminder to Anne that she wasn't really wanted. "Cheryl was always angry, at everybody, for everything. When Danny enlisted in the Marines as a way to provide for his family, Cheryl saw it only as his way of escaping his responsibilities as husband and father. Annie said her mother would always accuse her father of being...relieved at being sent to active duty in Vietnam. Then later, it was almost as if Cheryl never forgave him for coming back alive from the war. "One day, Cheryl simply threw him out, and then left, moving her and Anne to Chilmark where Cheryl's sister lived. Annie and I met there, in school." "I know, she's...told me a little about that." He gave Mulder a quick glance. Then he took a pull on his drink, pushing the image of a young, sweet Annie lying naked in Mulder's teen-age arms out of his head. Mulder looked at him evenly. Skinner thought it was one of the few times he couldn't read what Mulder was thinking-one of the few times a twitch of his mouth, or a look in his eyes didn't betray what he was really feeling. "Danny shot himself in the head with a .38 in an Arizona gas station in 1980." He paused. Skinner tried not to let Mulder see the impact his words were having on him. "After Danny's death, Cheryl got sick, with a variety of illnesses. Scully would call her a classic case of hypochondriasis. I say Cheryl was so racked with guilt over her husband's suicide that it began to eat at her. And she took Anne along for the ride." Mulder paused again and finished his beer. He put the bottle on the table and began to twirl it between his thumb and forefinger. "Anne and I went from being close friends to distant acquaintances until her mother's life finally crawled to a halt about two and a half years ago." "Mulder--," Skinner was getting uncomfortable with Annie's life being dissected before him in such a public place. "All I'm saying, sir, is it's about time Annie stopped being visited by the sins of her parents." He stood up abruptly. "I think she deserves better, don't you?" He cocked an eyebrow at Skinner and left. Skinner drained his glass, but didn't stand up. Instead, he held the empty glass to his forehead, contemplating everything. Too weary to think clearly, incoherent thoughts rattled around in his head, fractured sentences, fragments of emotions. And he wanted Anne there with him, to help put the pieces together. "Want another drink?" He looked up into the half-lidded, passive eyes of a waitress. "No, thank you," he said. "I have someplace I need to go." ================== Skinner unlocked the door to the condo, put down his bag, and hung up his coat. Though his home appeared unchanged, it felt different, colder. Then he noticed the kitchen light was on, and the door was ajar. He headed quickly for it. He strode in, startling Annie as she sat at the table fingering an envelope and drinking coffee. "What are you doing here?" he asked her, relieved and pleased to see her. "Don't get too happy with yourself, Skinner," her voice was distant, and without emotion, "Fox told me you called looking for me. I've been waiting for you to give you something." Her face was pale, and there were more lines around her eyes than he remembered. "What have you got?" he asked her, sitting opposite her at the table. "How's this for fate?" Annie asked, handing him the business- sized white envelope with the words "PFC Walter Skinner" written in shaky script. "Where did you--" "You're not the only one digging around in their past, Skinner. I went back to..." she hesitated, "...Chilmark to where I'd put my mother's things in storage, and found this in my father's strongbox. I figured if anything had answers, the strongbox would." "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked her softly. She responded bitterly, "Did you?" He looked in her eyes. "I'm not sure." She looked away from him. "Funny, Skinner, you're not the sort I figured would consider a catharsis his style." "Why would you say that?" "Because that would imply a weakness. A crack in the facade." Annie looked back at him. "Are you vulnerable, Walter? Do you have a soft spot?" Her eyes seemed to be pleading with him. "Yes," he said, "I do. For you, I do, Annie Rose. I just need a chance to--" When he reached for her hand, she dismissed him with a gesture and stood up. She put her balled fist to her lips, took a deep breath, and spoke. "As far as I know, Mom never touched the box after she threw Dad out, and just left it, waiting, as if she thought he'd come back one day to retrieve whatever was in it." She paused again and put a hand to her face. Her voice got quieter. "I never touched it either, like it was sacred or something. All those years and I didn't know it was unlocked." She looked at him. "There was a note on top of this envelope that asked my mom to find you and give this to you in the event of his death. I guess my family owes you an apology for being about 17 years too late." She headed for the kitchen door. "Where are you going?" he asked. "I have an appointment. I have to go." As she passed him, he reached for her and took her arm gently. She turned her head slowly to look at him. Sadness and pain seemed to radiate from her body. "Haven't we hurt each other enough?" "Annie," he whispered. "There are so many things I need to explain. Please, give me a chance." She turned back to him blinking and wiping her eyes. "I have to go upstairs and get a couple of things I forgot. Maybe I'll stop back here before I leave." She pulled her arm away from his grasp. "It's all I can ask," he said, and watched her walk away. He turned his attention to the envelope, and opened it. He put what was obviously writing paper aside and opened the second sheet of paper. It was an army-issue terrain map. Skinner laid it out on the table. He skimmed over the lines and measurements that were familiar, and yet, in the light of the present, also looked foreign, and unreal. Then he looked at the letter, written in the same shaky script as the envelope. Knowing the letter was the key to coming to terms with his past, he still was reluctant to read it, wondering, as he had so many times before in his lifetime, if finding out the truth was really the right thing to do. He sighed, picked up the letter, and began to read. "'Hooch, "'I don't know where you are in your life now, but obviously mine is over otherwise you wouldn't be reading this. I'm putting this note in with my daughter Annie Rose's Christmas present, hoping her momma won't turn around and send it back to me, which she usually does with all my letters. Cheryl's always been a tough customer, and I have a funny feeling my little girl isn't too far behind in that department.'" Skinner said to the paper, "You're wrong, Danny Boy. Annie's nothing like either of the two of you." He continued reading. "'It hasn't been easy all this time to live with this without telling anyone, but I had to, because I wanted my little girl to grow up and think her daddy was OK. I tell you this now because I am hoping by this time she is old enough to decide for herself about me, and, if I remember correctly, you were different than most of the soldiers I served with, and I trust you to do the right thing by my family. It would mean a great deal to me to know that you've shared the truth about what happened that night on patrol with my daughter. "'I've attached Annie and Cheryl's last known address, and one for Cheryl's sister Ruth. I'm not sure how you may have some by this letter, and I'm not sure if by this time they will still be there, but it will give you a place to start. "'But on to more important issues. "'To say it simply, I sent you and your patrol into the jungle to die. I had to switch the maps because my colonel told me I had to smoke out the NVA units hiding in the field, and that if I didn't send you boys in there to draw their fire and disclose their position, he was going to send in the whole battalion. I made a choice. We had kill quotas to meet, the colonel told me, and he was falling behind. He told me to fake the destination and patrol lines on the map to bring you farther west than was actually safe, because he had gotten word from C-company that there was enemy movement along that perimeter. We probably should have sent in arvin, or Montagnards, but, hindsight is 20-20. The colonel believed your patrol was, as he put it, 'cheap, easy, and available.' So he put the screws to me and off you went. "'This is small comfort, but your actions at the time enabled us to move in after you and terminate not only the VC that killed your patrol, but 150 others that were stationed secretly along the western perimeter. "'I justified my decision by looking at the number of lives your friends' sacrifices saved. I know this sounds like shit now, but then it was all I had to hold on to. So I took my thirty pieces of silver and made it back to the World. I never quite fit, though, and eventually wound up alone, in a small gas station in Arizona. Can you believe it? Guess I got used to the heat and the dust in Nam. I actually even missed it a little. "'If there is a yin and a yang out of all of this, I hope whatever I am owed by the men that died that day I receive on the other side. As for you and your life, may this information give you some peace, and may you find it in yourself to forgive me. Danny Boy'" "'P.S. Scout is still alive. He must of figured out something was wrong, and hung back far enough from the rest of you to get shot in the legs, but not get killed, and to make it back to base camp. Because of his injury, he was airlifted out and sent back home within a few hours . He told us what happened, but wasn't sure of your location. It took us a couple of days to find all of you, so there's no way you would have known what happened to him. Especially since we hid the truth. And something tells me he wouldn't try to find you, even though he was told you survived the ambush. If this helps at all, last I heard, he was a lawyer in Atlanta, Georgia, going by his Christian name, Trenton Bradley.'" Skinner put the letter down, and felt his head get heavy. Scout was still alive. So he was not the only survivor. Scout was still alive. How could that be? All those years, he just assumed... Alive. That son of a bitch was still alive. He gritted his teeth. Then he crushed the map, standing up and stuffing it into the garbage can in the corner of the kitchen. He lightly punched the wall. "Son of a bitch," he said, punching the wall again, harder this time. "Damn it," he said, kicking the tall, bullet-shaped, silver metal can out of the way, so he could get closer to the wall. With the loud, hollow sound of the can crashing to the floor, he heard the sound of AK-47 rounds going off in his head, the screams and shouts of his friends going down, the sting of the bullets hitting him, the smell of his own body as it was violated by the hail of death that was raining down on him. He hit the rough wall again, and again, ignoring how it felt, ignoring the slight bloodstain his bleeding hand was leaving on it. His cry of "Damn it, damn it, damn it," became a litany that would have continued if he hadn't felt someone come into the room. "Walter, my God what are you doing?" Annie's voice penetrated the haze in his head. He stopped, focusing suddenly on his fist, his knuckles almost through the kitchen wall. He became aware that Annie was tugging gently on his arm, but he couldn't move it, the muscles were so tight with anger, he couldn't untense his fist. Her hands took his hand and urged it away from the wall, rubbing his forearm, getting his fingers to unfurl, his arm to relax. "I thought...you'd left..." Skinner found it hard to speak through the tightness in his chest. She shook her head, looking at him, her eyes soft and wet. "I couldn't...I wanted..." She closed her eyes. He watched the tears fall down her cheeks, and felt something wet on his face. And realized these tears were his own. She reached up and took him into her arms. He collapsed in her embrace, and they fell to their knees on the kitchen floor as she stroked him, and rocked him, telling him it would be all right. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Walter Skinner found himself on another plane heading for yet another piece of the puzzle that was his past. And his mind, heart, and soul were entirely occupied with Anne Rose McTigue O'Hannon. After comforting each other for a time on the kitchen floor, Anne had moved out of his arms and stood up, putting several steps of distance between then. Wiping his face on his shirt sleeve, he stood up, too. The two of them stood there, one looking down, the other looking away, until Annie cleared her throat. "It appears this little trip down memory lane hasn't been easy for either of us. And it seems to have left more unresolved then answered." She paused, and put her hand to her face. "It's odd, isn't it? The forces at work around us? First we meet, then each of us uses our relationship as a springboard to put our broken pasts together. Maybe that's all we were meant to be. Not lovers, not friends, just...catalysts." "What, are you saying we're some sort of scientific experiment?" A small smile played around her lips. "As usual, Skinner, the timing of your humor escapes me." Her voice broke. "Look, I...I know that--this whole thing with my dad..." "Anne, that wasn't your fault. Please, don't blame yourself." "Maybe I shouldn't. But could you find it in you to forgive him, through me, for what you believe he did?" Her eyes searched his face in earnest. He set his jaw and looked away, overcome by the conflict inside him over Annie's request. He couldn't answer her, not now. Maybe not ever. "I didn't think so," she said bitterly. "I'll see you, Walter. I have an appointment." She walked quickly towards the front door and picked up her duffel bag. "Wait, Annie, don't go," he said. She stopped. "What?" All the uncertainty that had rushed into him at the bar came again. He didn't want it to end like this between them. He wanted her here, with him, until somehow they could work it out, and move past this. That faced with the knowledge that Annie was truly going to leave him, he found that he needed her, and, despite all the hidden hurts they'd uncovered, couldn't let her go. "Here," he walked over to her and handed her the letter, "no more secrets. It may not contain what you want to hear, but it is, still, a piece of who your father was. And might explain why he took his life." She took it, her hand trembling. She looked at the letter for a long moment, then sighed. "You once told me that holding on to your routines was how you got through the tough times. My tough times just never seem to be over. When I was a kid, my parents' issues were so large, they crowded me out. Now, as an adult, I thought here, with you, there was room. I guess I was wrong." "Annie, there is room for you here. Just...just tell me where you are staying. I want to talk to you. I want to see you. Maybe..." he was grasping for something, anything that would make her stay with him, "you could move back in, and we could-" "Walter, look, this isn't the way I had planned to--" She took a step closer to the door, opened it, and seemed to turn paler. "I decided to take another job, a good job, out-of-state. I'm heading for a meeting at an employment office downtown to sign the paperwork. This is a good chance for me, and if there's one thing I've learned from you, it's to put your career first above everything," she looked in his eyes, "and above everyone." "That's not true, Annie, I've always made time for you, for us." "I know, I know," her voice was soft, "but how much time, really, when you weigh it against the time you and I spend apart, with our own agendas? Or the time you spend mentally pre-occupied with your job? I'm sorry it's come to this, but this is something I have to do. I've been plagued for years by situations I had no responsibility for creating. Staying here with you knowing how you feel about my father would be another of those situations. This is my chance to start over. Please don't try and stop me." "Annie," he began to feel an ache in his chest, "I can't be without you." "Walter," she whispered, "I know you well enough to know you won't let that happen." Skinner could see that she needed to get away, so he nodded, and folded his arms tightly to his chest. He looked down so he wouldn't see her closing the door. And exiting his life. ......................... In the present, as the voice of the pilot indicated their approach to the Atlanta airport, Skinner passed a hand over his face and adjusted his glasses, pulling back his emotions, ready to disembark. =============== The entrance to the law office of Trenton Bradley was part of what looked to Skinner like an abandoned building. Most of the rest of the street had buildings for sale and the sidewalks had very little foot traffic. As he stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street, Skinner was struck by the incredibly humid heat that had Atlanta tightly in its grip. Everything around him was colorless and bland, bleached by the intensity of the sun. He took two steps closer to the front door, into the slight shadow of the building, trying to avoid the hot weather. It was then he noticed the exterior walls to Bradley's office had rusty water marks that looked like varicose veins scattered along their facades. A few sad-looking weeds grew through cracks in the foundation, and broken bottle glass was scattered along the sidewalk under the neatly shuttered office window. Skinner put his hand on the dented brass doorknob and turned it. The door's hand-painted lettering proclaiming, "Trenton T. Bradley, Counselor-at-Law," had deteriorated until it was almost unreadable. Inside, a neat, attractive, African-American woman was seated at a desk near one wall of the small office. Her desk was almost empty, and there were stacks of cardboard boxes along the walls. "Hello, do you have an appointment?" she asked pleasantly. Her nameplate read 'Olivia K. Bradley'. "No, I'm afraid I don't," he responded. The air in the room was close and still. Skinner realized there was no air conditioning. She looked at him for a moment. "Well, whom shall I say is here to see Mr. Bradley?" "Walter Skinner," he said, handing her one of his business cards. "Certainly," she said, rising from her chair to accept the small white piece of paper. Skinner looked around for a place to sit down. There wasn't any. "We're moving our office across town to a bigger place. It's taken almost 15 years, but we've finally built up the practice enough. You're lucky you got here when you did, because after today, we would have been gone," she said. "Seems my life has been a series of odd coincidences lately," he said. She nodded. "I'll tell my husband you're here." Skinner leaned against the wall, waiting. Trenton Bradley did not stand up or extend his hand to Walter Skinner when Skinner entered the room. Bradley's office, like the waiting area, was sticky, warm, and empty, except for moving boxes stacked against one wall. Bradley was still reed-thin, but his hair was almost completely white, and the features of his face had grown gaunter, sharper, giving him a harsh look. He looked to Skinner like a bitter, old man. "You had more hair then, as I remember," Bradley said, regarding him over the top of a lit cigar, his eyes narrow. He gestured to a seat in front of the desk. "Yes, I did," Skinner responded as he sat down. Bradley watched him for awhile, puffing the cigar, his eyes almost boring into his. Finally, he said, "OK, Skinner, I know you didn't wait 29 years to make a social call. You want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?" Skinner decided to cut to the chase. "I...just recently found out you survived the ambush. I was under the impression all these years it was just myself." "Who told you? O'Hannon?" Bradley asked, his voice low, and suspicious. "That's not important. What is important is that it took me all these years to find out," Skinner said, unable to hide the disgust in his voice. Bradley drew on his cigar, then rolled it between his fingers, not looking at Skinner. "What did you want to do, Skinner, exchange Christmas cards?" "Don't get sanctimonious with me, Bradley," he said, his voice immediately getting tight. "What's wrong? Does it rile you that I'm alive? Is that why you're here? To accuse me of surviving? Would you feel better if you were standing in front of a name on The Wall in Washington instead of sitting across the desk of a successful lawyer?" Skinner set his jaw. "Or don't you go visit your old friends at the Memorial?" Bradley looked at Skinner wearing a smug expression. "Mean to tell me a big hotshot like you in the--" He looked down at Skinner's business card, "--FBI there in Washington can't make time for some old friends? You tellin' me you're too busy to walk The Walk, man?" "It's not that, it's..." Skinner began weakly. Once again under Scout's steady gaze and accusatory tone, Hooch was losing his grip on his resolve. "You did what the rest of us did there, Skinner. You can't adopt a 'holier than thou' attitude and expect me to--" "What I did over there," Skinner interrupted, his anger beginning to rise, "was never done, even remotely done, with the same intentions as yours. The War was like one long business deal for you, Bradley." "And for you?" Bradley leaned towards him and dropped his voice. "What is it like for you?" Skinner, his guard suddenly down and drawn in by the need to talk, and by the empathy he thought he saw in Bradley's eyes, said, "It's like a living thing that has found a way to twist itself around my conscience. It's like a lens that I see my life through. Something that is there every day, with me, like a wound that won't heal, or a scar I can hide from others, but not from myself." A sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh erupted from Trenton Bradley. "What's the matter, Walter, got too many people askin' you what it's like to kill someone?" The amused tone of Bradley's voice went down through Skinner and into his gut, and it hurt. And he felt the flush of embarrassment at having so willing shared something so private with this man. "That was always your problem back then, Skinner," Bradley continued, "you felt too much. There was no room for you there--you were too different. Gettin' the shit shot outta you was the best thing that could have happened." "What makes you--" "Because it put you back in the World, man, because it gave you a ticket out." He puffed the cigar. "Some of us looked Hell in the face and said, 'I'll take you on.' You, you looked away." He leaned over towards Skinner, pointing towards him with the hand holding the cigar. "And that was your first mistake." "I didn't come here for a lecture on war, you son of a bitch," Skinner said, rising slightly from his chair to lean towards Bradley, feeling in his anger, more purposeful. "Oh? Then what did you come here for?" "To find out why you didn't warn us if you sensed something was wrong. Why you left us to die while you escaped back to camp." "It wasn't my fault. It was O'Hannon's altered map lead us into that ambush," Bradley said flatly, twirling his cigar. Skinner started, and sat back in the chair. "How did you know that?" Bradley's face was passive. "I had my connections. Back in the Nam, money talked and shit walked. One of my sources close to the guys in charge told me something just might have been fugazi with our marching orders, but he didn't know what. Once we got out on patrol, I was lucky to put two and two together, with a little help from the doubt you shed on the map's validity." "That's why you hung back, away from the rest of us," Skinner said, quietly beginning to understand. Now it was Bradley's turn to look startled. "Did O'Hannon tell you--" "O'Hannon's been dead for years, Bradley. He committed suicide." Bradley looked away, and puffed on his cigar for a minute. "Whatever you may think of me, Skinner, bottom line is it was O'Hannon's op. He was the one that sent us out like pigs in a slaughterhouse." "He was just following orders!" Skinner said, fed up with Bradley, and his obvious lack of guilt, shame, or remorse for his part, however inconsequential, in the outcome of the ambush, or for any of his actions in Vietnam. "And that makes it just jim-fuckin'-dandy? Look, Skinner, I'm no Judas, and I do not need your absolution or your forgiveness for what I did, and I am not looking for it. I live with what happened and I don't give a shit about your conscience or your judgments. I make a good living now working the system to my own advantage. I break a few rules, I pull a few strings...no one gives a shit, because no one gets hurt. Far as what happened in 'Nam is concerned, I'd do it all again, just the same way. And I'd feel just the same fuckin' way about it, too." Skinner stood to his full height and he met Trenton Bradley's stare with his own. "So would I, Mr. Bradley," he said with firm conviction. "So would I." He took a deep breath, and at that moment, reclaimed his soul. ======================== Walter Skinner walked slowly, respectfully, through Arlington National Cemetery. Fall leaves were scattered like forgotten thoughts over the gravesites. The cemetery was almost deserted, except for a few people, tourists, maybe, or family of one of the dead. Or, as in his case, someone who was almost 17 years too late to say a proper goodbye to a fallen soldier. It had always seemed to Skinner unsettling to pay his respects at the Vietnam Memorial. In his time in Washington, he had made the trip once. Just once. But could barely bring himself to get too close, or to touch the granite panels, or to look at the remembrances left at the feet of the spirits captured in the thousands of names engraved there. Maybe because The Wall carried with it the souls of the men and women taken too early, before their time. Maybe because he was afraid he'd put too many faces to the names. Or maybe because he felt it was just a slim line that had kept him from being a name on it, and not a person in front of it, and that reality scared him. Terrified him. In Arlington, amongst the war dead from many conflicts, were also veterans, survivors who had lived out the length of their lives leaving families, wives, husbands. Kids, grandkids, maybe great- grandkids. The thought that these people had, in time, found some measure of peace was comforting to him. Now, in the silence, in the overwhelming numbers of the dead, Skinner was suddenly struck by the futility of the hate he had carried for Daniel O'Hannon. A man who, racked by his own demons, had taken his life, denying himself both the right to grow old, and the love and comfort of his family. He thought of Trenton Bradley, slipping back and forth in that grey area between right and wrong. And believed that no matter the justification, the stranglehold the tangled web of deception had on Bradley would be his undoing, and Bradley wouldn't be wise enough to see it coming. Then Skinner thought of himself, and the words of the Old Woman, and it became clear to him that the paths he'd chosen after the war, both professionally and personally, were almost pre-ordained. That despite his occasional misgivings about the nature of the work, and the impact it had on his life, Skinner, taking a breath of the crisp air, felt stronger and more resolved to move forward than he'd had in years. It was, as his mother had told him long ago his father would say, time to stop looking for trouble where there was none. That it was best to accept what is as all there was. He knelt down by O'Hannon's white tombstone, certain now that when Annie had asked for his forgiveness, he should have given it to her. He wished that he would get a second chance to tell her so. Deep from within himself, in the middle of a quiet autumn day, alone, contrite, and with all his heart, Private First Class Walter Skinner sang, "Danny Boy" to his dead superior, softly, gently, and with all the forgiveness he could muster. "That was nice." Skinner swung his head around, and looked up into Annie's face. He stood up. They looked at each other in an awkward silence for several minutes. Then he said. "How did you know I'd be here?" "Kim told me." He saw a flash of the Annie he loved as she raised her eyebrows at him. "'Bout time you started treating the hired help a little better and brought them into your inner circle, Skinner. She really is a wonderful person, as well as a terrific assistant." "Something tells me I need to work on how I treat all the women in my life." She smiled slightly and looked away. "Oh, I don't know, Walter, I think--," she took a few slow, careful steps towards him. "I really think you're--," She put her head down and put her hand over her face. Her shoulders began to shake. Skinner went to her immediately and put his arms around her. "How was your meeting?" he whispered. She moved out of his arms. "I...I didn't go." He knew that would be all she could tell him, but for now, it was enough. Then she walked closer to her father's grave. "You know, I've never been here. I've worked in the area for what, two years? I've never been here, but I know it's Grave 303, Section H." She knelt down and touched the tombstone gently, tenderly. She reached into her pocket and took something out. Skinner knelt beside her. She held the photo out to him. "This is me one Christmas. I think it was near the time my dad came back from the war, but I don't remember." She put the picture down onto the ground near the tombstone. "It's funny, so many individual moments make up a single life. Then, one day, this is all it comes down to. Just this, a hole covered over with dirt and grass, and nothing left." She reached across to the stone again. "I do forgive you, Daddy. Both of you," she whispered through her tears. When Skinner reached for her again, she shook her head, and stood up. "I'm not an easy person to be with at times, Walter," she said, her head turned away. He took her hand, "Neither am I, Anne." She looked up at him. "Maybe if we try putting our worst parts together they'll cancel each other out." He could see her trying to muster a smile. He said, holding her hand tighter, "Does this mean you're going to give us a chance to find out?" She nodded. His eyes searched her face, unsure of what he was looking for. Maybe he was surprised she had given in so easily, or maybe he wanted to believe she had never given up on them in the first place. Then he said, "Come on, there's one more place I need to go." She looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What?" He took her hand, and lead her away from the memories and pain that were her father. In a short walk, they both stood before a second headstone, and Skinner said to her, "My father was a captain in the Marine Corps when war broke out in Korea in 1950. He was sent over in 1951. After he'd been there ten months, we suddenly stopped getting letters. Then, we heard from a soldier in his platoon that my dad had been one of several soldiers that had been engaged in a fire fight with the North Korean Army, and who had failed to make the rendezvous point. The soldier said my father had been wounded, and subsequently captured. The most frustrating thing was that it took a letter from a congressman my uncle contacted before we received official word." He squeezed his eyes shut and put a hand over his face for a moment. Even though he had been so young, he could still remember his mother's grief, and, as he grew older, the empty place the death of his father had left. And he began to see O'Hannon as Annie's dad, and in doing so understood her loss that much better. "They never found his remains but he was declared Killed in Action - Body Not Recovered sometime after the war ended. I think I enlisted in the marines as a way to get closer to the dad I never knew." "And I've been living my whole life trying to believe I mattered to someone." "You matter to me, Annie," he said softly,"more than I can tell you, you matter to me." She reached up and touched his face. "I've missed you." With a half-sigh, half-moan, he gathered her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Annie, I'm sorry I don't always have the right words. I'm sorry about everything with your father, and for the way I treated you. You don't deserve it, not from me, not from anybody." He kissed her. Her lips were slightly salty with tears, and delicious. He tried not to think of how long it had been since he had kissed her last. Even through her coat, he could feel the familiar curves of her body. She pulled back from him and looked into his eyes for a long time. "Thank you," she said finally. Then, her eyes so green, so soft, smiled at him. "Come on, AD Skinner, take your lady home." He returned her smile. Then he asked, puzzled, "Where's your truck?" "Had to take a cab. Funny to be saying this in our present circumstances, but the truck died---DOA at the garage...no more bastion to my wilder days, no more eyesore." She looked up at him and grinned. "Lucky you." "Yes," he said, pulling her close to him, and taking her words to have an entirely different meaning, "lucky me." ========================== Several Months Later "What are you doing?" "I'm having breakfast," Annie said around a mouthful of food. Skinner glanced over Annie's shoulder at the counter top. "Salsa and tortilla chips don't exactly qualify as a breakfast food, McTigue." "They do in my world AD Skinner," she said, digging in, then reaching over to turn up the radio. She began to swing her hips in time to Elvis Presley's 'Jailhouse Rock,' which she followed up by doing The Bump with the countertop. With an exaggerated sigh, she said, "Too bad you and those big feet can't dance." She turned her back to him. He slid his arms around her waist. "As I have told you on a number of occasions, Annie," he said into her hair, "you're wrong." He took her hand and twirled her into, then out of, his arms. "Besides, I thought you only liked music from the 80's." He pulled her close into his hips and began to rock his body against hers. She took his hand and kissed its palm. "People change, Walter, people change," she said with a laugh. Then she smiled up into his eyes. "You make me very happy, Walter Skinner." He twirled her again, and pulled her close. "Me, or my big feet, Annie?" he asked as he kissed her throat. "Well, you know what they say about about---" "---About big feet, yes I do," he finished for her, and twirled her out of his arms to her laughter. He pulled her close again, then bent her backwards into a dip, kissing her. As he raised her slowly up, he continued to deepen the kiss. Annie wrapped her arms around his neck and reached up to take his glasses off. She could feel herself getting extremely aroused, and began to massage his chest. "Let's skip breakfast..." she murmured. "----such as it is." "Such as it is, and go straight for dessert," she whispered as his mouth moved over her throat and his hands began to loosen her robe. "Well, since I haven't eaten yet..." he said. "Yes---?" "I might as well...eat you." Annie could feel his hands moving aside the fabric of her pajama top. "Walter Skinner, Sunday mornings with you never cease to surprise me," she whispered as she kissed him. They were startled by the abrupt ringing of the telephone. "Let's let the machine get it," Annie said. "I wish I could, but I'm expecting a call from--" "--from Fox? He in the field?" He looked at her a second, then nodded. She handed him back his glasses, and, very reluctantly, returned to her breakfast as Skinner walked over to the wallphone. Wrinkling her nose, she began urging the salsa bowl over to the sink. "Yeah, this is Skinner," she heard him say as, her back to him, she began to ladle the red sauce into the sink's garbage disposal. "No, no I'll tell her," came Skinner's voice, interrupting her thoughts, the sound almost mechanical. Something...something was not quite right. She sensed it before the words formed in her head. Then she heard a strange sound. Turning, she saw Skinner having trouble hanging up the phone, his body slumped against the wall. Annie, food forgotten, walked towards him, her hands out, as if to catch him. "Walter?" "Annie," he said quietly, his eyes distant, his face pale. "Annie, they..." She stopped walking, hands still out, "What?" "They found my father." To Be Continued................... end.