Weft -
Greetings
by Amirin
Ferrari.
Testarosa.
Convertible.
Black.
God help me. I think I'm in love.
I looked through the glove box for my next set of instructions. And thought
he had to be kidding me. The man actually expected me to drive this
incredible...car sounds so inadequate...to...New York? I was going to a
Rangers game. Center ice. Shit.
How does he do this? Why does he do this?
Why do I not really give a rat's ass?
Damn, driving this through New England all the way to New York City. Top
down. Ohhh, yeah.
I will owe the man for the rest of my life.
He'd been in touch sporadically for the last week. Krycek. Mulder, I
hadn't heard word one from but Krycek was calling daily, letting me know that
Mulder was all right, keeping me in the loop. I don't really know why.
He practically handed that operation in St. Louis to Mulder on a platter.
Said he just wanted to keep the man sharp. Alert. Alive. And far away from
D.C. and the FBI and lots of other unpleasant letters.
Don't tell me he's got an agenda. You think I don't know that? I haven't
any idea what it is, but it got Mulder out of his damned apartment, gave him
something else to think about for nineteen weeks. Other than Scully getting
killed.
Krycek's given me a lot to think about, too. He only calls me when I'm at
home, on my cell. Told me once not to bother trying to track him down. Told me
not to worry about Mulder; he was at least halfway across the country from him.
Naturally, he didn't specify which country and only laughed when I asked him.
Told me Mulder was okay and was going to be more okay as time passed. Told
me Mulder liked baseball. And room service. And flying first class. And
lobster. And sunrises over the ocean. And some damned Russian poet. And a
dozen other things that sounded completely... I don't know what. It wasn't
sinister, but in a way it was. He's dropping bread crumbs and Mulder's
following. Anywhere. Everywhere.
I know Mulder has his cell. I could call. But what the hell do I tell him?
What could I possibly tell Mulder about Alex Krycek that he doesn't already
know? He's got no rudder, since Scully was killed. No direction. Mulder's
compass is pointing right at Krycek and Krycek's got the time, and the money,
apparently, to send Mulder all over the damned country if he wants to.
So, what do I do?
And what do I do now that I'm apparently in the game, as well? Or at least
going to one. Krycek sent me a ticket to a Rangers game, center ice. It was
delivered by special messenger this afternoon, along with lunch. The bastard
bought me lunch.
There was also a note that said he hoped I liked Sicilian.
So, what the hell do I do?
I go watch the Rangers play hockey, I guess. Christ on a crutch.
The drive to New York was automotive nirvana. The weather was perfect, the
car was perfect, the day was perfect. And if the Rangers won against the
Penguins, tonight, life would be perfect. Considering how bad it could have
been, everything was fucking incredible.
I thought about my apartment twice on the drive to the Big Apple. And one of
those times was to wonder who was feeding my fish. Wouldn't surprise me one
bit if Alex had taken care of that, too.
He'd taken care of everything. And if I weren't enjoying it all so much,
I'd be seriously pissed. But, I couldn't argue with his choices so far. Not
by a damned sight.
Did I mention the hotel? Sorry, I guess that should be The Hotel. He got me
a room at The Plaza. Room? Ha. Try king-sized suite. Again. Just like St.
Louis. I'm sensing a pattern here...
I didn't even know what the 1-800 number written on the slip of paper was,
until the front desk answered to confirm the reservation under yet another name
that was also written on the slip of paper. Paid in full. For the next two
nights.
I checked in with the confirmation code, following Alex's instructions to
the letter. They fell all over themselves making me comfortable. The valet
damned near prostrated himself in front of the Ferrari.
A long, thin envelope was waiting on the table in the living room.Brochures,
an itinerary, more reservations under even more names. There was one for a late
dinner after the game. At Delgatti's. For two. Who the hell was I having
dinner with? Him? He'd said he was going to be gone for a couple of days. I
guessed it wouldn't be too bad, whoever it was, or he would have left the
Mylanta in plain sight.
I grabbed a quick shower to wash the road off of me and got changed into
something more hockey-ish. Kept the leather jacket on. I was getting used to
it.
Hailed a cab to take me to the arena; last thing I needed was for the car to
get stolen. Quick ride, nice being a normal person and not an agent. Mostly.
I still carried the cell. And my gun. Don't leave home with it.
Found my seat with no problem. Perfect view. I could see everything.
Couldn't have been any better. I kicked back and relaxed, as much as one can
at a Rangers game. It was going to be fun...
I thought I saw a man who looked like Mulder as I was making my way to my
seat. Convinced myself I was delusional; the man'd been on my mind a lot
during the drive from D.C., that was all. As had Krycek.
I took a look around the arena with an agent's eye but really didn't feel
like I was in any danger. Public place, huge crowd. Not quite Krycek's style,
from what I remembered of it.
I hadn't been in my seat five minutes when I heard his voice.
"If you turn around, I'll disappear."
Shit.
"What do you want, Krycek?"
"I just wanted to say hello. It's been too long."
"Not long enough."
"Funny, how I knew you were going to say that. Still so predictable.
Unlike Fox. You never know what the hell's going to come out of his mouth
next."
Fox? "Where's Mulder?"
Silence met that growled demand and I was about to turn when something came
around my neck. I flashed on a near-garrotting in a stairwell before a small,
expensive pair of state-of-the-art binoculars dropped onto my chest. I reached
up to take them and a gloved hand over my shoulder pointed almost straight
ahead.
"Exit sign. Nine rows down. Seventh seat from the left."
Mulder. So much for delusional.
"Nice jacket."
"He likes my tailor."
"What the hell are you up to?"
"Saving his ass."
"From what?"
"From the same fuckers who waxed his partner."
"He's in danger? Christ, why didn't you tell me? We would've gotten him
into a safe house, something."
"You would've gotten him killed."
"What?"
"You're still thinking in terms of 'we', Skinner. Meaning you and some
people you think you can trust at the Bureau. I think in terms of 'I'. And
'he'. And that's it."
A moment spared for quick thought and I got it. I thought I got it. Hell,
you never knew with Krycek.
"You've been keeping him moving. And visible. With a paper trail,tickets,
reservations in his name..."
"Until Vermont. They'll think he's there for quite a while. There are
some... intriguing locations for a man of Mulder's interests in Vermont. I have
associates who will be keeping things hectic for a few days, up there. They'll
believe he's involved. For a while. Long enough."
"Long enough to what?"
"I've got some things I need to do. Places I need to go. People I need
to... deal with. I'll be out of touch for a couple of days. And that's where
you come in, Skinner. You get to play guard dog until I either make it back
or send Mulder somewhere else. Fair warning: Don't interfere, whichever. You
really don't look that great in black."
A vague sense of movement and he was gone by the time I turned around.
Christ. Now, I had to go get Mulder. What the hell were he and I going to do
until Krycek got back? And what would Krycek do if I hauled Mulder into
protective custody?
The son-of-a-bitch would 'deal with' me, that's what. I wasn't going to
think about 'how'.
Shit.
I know my jaw hit the ground when the 'stick' was rolled out of the truck.
Jesus, Alex.
