That Maverick With The Dog

by Dan The Man

9. Epilogue: In Good Hands

9 - Epilogue: In Good Hands

„Well, ladies and gentlemen, congratu-fucking-lations to you.“ The bony man with the turtleneck sweater said as he placed his coffee cup on his desk and took a seat behind it.
„Wasnt that an epic backfire, if there ever was one.“

Fitz and me stood uncomofortably in front of him like he was a judge and we were at a show trial. I glanced at the guest chairs standing in front of it. Wasn’t Ian going to ask us to sit down or something like that?

„Don’t even think about it. Don’t bother taking a seat, I’ll throw you out in a second anyway.“ He said in an acidic tone.
„Just know this, Helen and Fitz. I have had the honour to preside over my lifetime’s share of fuck-ups, and this one sure as hell is one of them. You – especially you, Fitz. You broke into that guy’s house, and decided you like it so much that you invited half the Linlithgow PD to join you? Are you fucking nuts?“

„Fitz had a lead. A really good lead.“ I tried to defend him.

„No, I didn’t...“ Fitzgerald growled in a voice resembling that of a chain smoker.

„Shut up. Both of you. But he’s right. You did all this because you found a fucking hair? A hair and this...“ he struggled to find a word for it,
„This album with kiddie photoshops? You had strict orders; Fitz. Go in the house, find anything of value and get the fuck out of here. Not play fucking CSI and get a forensic team over. That this guy is a ... whadyacallit...“

„Brony?“ I suggested.

„Thank you, Helen – a brony, is not, and has never been valid proof to suspect him of terrorism.Hell, it shouldn’t even be remotely relevant! Especially not to let the trap spring and send the cops over to finish it. And you, Helen, you were supposed to hang onto Fisher. And what did you do? You abandon your target and go back to the house. For what?“

„Ian!“ I shouted.
I nearly scared myself with what force I opted to interrupt him.
„We collected a whole bunch of perfectly solid evidence. We had every reason to suspect there was something going on there. I... I will not simply stand here and let you hang me and Fitz as incompetent assholes, just because you refused to look at our stuff any further! What about the hair sample? What about the pictures? And what about the letter? You can’t tell me this doesn’t account for anything strange! This has to mean something!“

Ian looked at me for a second with skeptic eyes, before turning to Fitz.
„Fitzgerald?“

„Yes...?“ he said as he looked up.

„Get out of here. Leave Helen to me for a second.“

Fitzgerald protested, trying to fumble something out of his coat pocket.
„But... Ian, I need to discuss something with you right now.“

„Get out! Now! You can tell me in ten minutes.“ our boss ordered.

Fitz turned around hesitantly and left.

After he shut the door behind him, Ian looked back to me and beckoned me closer to the table with a finger.

„I don’t care what you’re going to say, Ian. I stand by it.“ I re-asserted my position, trying not to impede myself by stuttering.

„Helen.“ Ian said, almost softly.
„You cannot expect me to present... this... 'evidence'... as proof for an act of terrorism. You can’t expect me to go to the Ministry of Defence and say, ‘Hey, guess what, this is we all we have. Can you work with that?‘“

„For the last time, this was not an act of terrorism!“ I persisted, glaring at him.
„I thought you read my report. I wrote down everything right in there. All about ‚Dashie‘... and the explosion, and Brian being the bystander... it was all an accident.“

„I did read it, and by God I hope I never heave to read such a piece of... trash again soon.“ He commented drily.
„Luckily for you, dear Helen, I took care of that report personally."

Took care?
I froze.

"I don't think you would be still standing here if it would have fallen into the hands of one of those Internal Investigation shits over in capital. And now I would like to warn you not to repeat something like that ever again... It just makes you look like a complete schizophrenic.“

„Where is my report now?“ I inquired.

„In good hands.“

„And what about the things I based my report on? The evidence Fitz and I collected? The papers, the foot prints in the garden, the whole lot?“

„In. Good. Hands.“ Ian repeated slowly.
„I want you to know this matter out of your hands now. Just as a reference for the future, do not expect your direct superiors read such a pile of speculation. You know what happens to employees who can’t keep their act together. So don’t mention it again.“

I didn’t really know what I could say.
Was he really going to declare me schizophrenic for what I had honestly written? I understood that he didn’t believe me - it was one of those things that wasn't very easy to believe...
But why was he trying so hard to drive me away from my conclusions?
„What’s going on, Ian? What are you hiding?“

He waved my question off and took a big gulp from his coffee.
„I hope you get me. You don’t have the evidence anymore, and you don’t have the report anymore. Deal with it. It’s all stored in the archives now, where no-one can meddle with it any longer.“

„What archives?“ I asked.

„Military Intelligence Archives.“ he answered innocently.

„What?“

Ian rolled his eyes. He propped himself up against his chair and looked me in the eyes.
„Send in Fitz when you leave. And should you try and ask anyone about this fucking evidence again, I will have a certain somebody's pink slip over lunch.“

It was difficult to leave the office without asking another question. But I knew that Ian probably wasn’t joking. He could be very consequential if the situation called for it.
I didn’t know whether it was just because he didn’t take me seriously, but I was about the only one who could tell him in his face that he was full of shit and get away with it.
I needed a few minutes to connect the dots of what he just told me. He wasn’t suggesting to shut up about this topic because the others would deem me crazy... It was the other way around. I was sure I wasn’t going to get that report I wrote, the only document in which I ever spelled out the whole truth of what Brian told me on that day, back ever again.

It has been almost a two months now. Brian was detained and tried by the state court for... well, for whatever my boss Ian had deemed to be 'believable' and 'appropriate'.
And the things about Dashie and Celestia and the photos and the letter... they certainly were neither. I felt good for Brian. I didn’t know whether he was going to get away unscathed from the trial or not, whatever the thing was he was being indicted with.
But in any case, his Dashie was safe. The secret was safe. Whether or not Dashie really existed somewhere out there, and whether or not Brian had told me the full truth about her back then - whether he now was a loving, mourning father who was the keeper of the perhaps greatest mystery on earth, or just a poor, deluded lunatic who really wanted to believe in his fantasies - he was probably never going to get troubled about her again.
At least that thought was very relaxing.
As long as those files lay in some godforsaken government archive, they were not going to destroy anybody’s life. Neither Brian’s, nor mine, nor that of Fitzgerald.

Or at least that's what I expected; as I opened the door into the corridor, and spotted my partner slumped on one of the waiting chairs, his hands massaging his eyelids, I could feel that he was in a predicament of his very own.

„Hey.“ I said softly.

„Hi.“ He answered, weakly.

I knew I should have sent him in right after me. But instead – I don’t know whether it was sympathy, empathy, shame or anger – I sat down with him, carefully scrutinising his face. It was the face of a broken man.

„You wanna talk about it?“ I asked him.

„About what?“ he inquired and went back to massaging his face with his hands.
„I have nothing to say.“

I was straightforward in my questions.
„Do you believe in Dashie?“

He froze what he was doing.

„It’s a simple yes or no question, Fitz. You believed Fisher’s story as well, didn't you?“

He snorted. But he could not quite follow up with a snide comment.
„Bullshit... You heard what Ian said. It’s all some kind of creepy roleplay.“

„But Ian wasn’t there, Fitz. You were there. And as far as I remember it, you were the first one to jump at me with the proof of Dashie's existence, as giddy and excited as you were.“

„I was behaving like quite an idiot, wasn‘t I?“ he said with a soulless smile.

„Dashie exists. I know you may be telling yourself the opposite. But I'm sure you don’t even believe it yourself.“

„Whatever you say, Mulder.“ He snarked weakly.

„I’m serious.“ I said and edged closer to him.
„You know how I could tell that you were believing Fisher all along?“

He tried to ignore me.

„Because when you were claiming you weren’t, you couldn’t even look him in the face. That’s how obviously you were denying the undeniable.“

„It...“ he finally broke in a shaky voice.
„It cannot be possible. Physically, logically, biologically... no living creature can fly like that...“

„But it is.“ I countered simply.

„It’s not allowed to be possible, Helen.“

„But it is.“ I countered once again.

And he answered no more. He shut his eyes instead. I saw how something went click in his mind. As if he had felled some kind of difficult decision through my words.
If I had only known earlier what this decision was .

He rose from his chair.
„It’s my turn with Ian now.“
Walking past mem he left me behind and walked right into the office.

+++

As I went home that day, I chose on reflect on the past few days.

Weeks had passed.

Endless weeks that were spent either in complete lethargy or non-stop work.
Ian had sent me into compulsory leave for twenty days. He apparently didn’t me want me around a the offices, going around and asking uncomfortable questions.
I didn’t disagree with that decision. I think, this leave gave me some time to think over the matter some more. It answered me more questions than even the longest day spent at work would have.

I thought about Fitz. After some time, he had stopped showing up for work in the offices. I did wonder where he had suddenly gone to. Ian had just mentioned that he had been 'relocated' to analysis, and that it was the right place for a man like him.

I also thought about Brian. Whether he was serving time now, or whether he was free to go. If that was the case, he still had my number. And yet he hadn’t called me yet. Maybe it was embarrassment. Maybe he had decided to move on. Or maybe he had just given in to his despair about Dashie.
I didn’t know. I just kept waiting. I wouldn’t have thought I would expect his call even more fervently than he would have expected mine. I had, after all, promised him to keep him informed about my government’s taps on the Dashie investigation.

I returned to my home on bayneck, a flat just above my 'psychiatry praxis', when my phone began ringing.
'Couldn't be him', I thought of course. Why would he call only now?

I picked up, automatically answering with a dull 'Ingrid Tremblay, Doctor of Psychology. Who am I talking to?'

If only I had known whose voice I heard on the other end of the line...

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