Title: Christmas Spirits
Author: SL Wickham (based on an idea by Mark Wickham)
Email: S3wick@AOL.com
Category: where ever madam archivists see fit to place it.  (Please forgive the 'cheesy' spin.)
Rating: PG-13/R (for some naughty language)
Summary: the boys pull community service just before Christmas . . .
Disclaimers: (Yeah, I know- -it's late) Something called Christmas, our 25th Anniversary, and up- teenth million 'how's the story coming?' questions, got in the way.  Thanks to Chris, John, Vince, Frank, Tom, Bruce, Dean, Zulieka, and Steven for some fun characters; to my hubby, Mark for the bug in my ear (aka story idea), his support- -he doesn't think my writing fan fic is weird- -hopefully you won't disagree;  And my mother, Judy for her staunch support against disbelieving academia   that all submissions were indeed mine and not produced by ill-gotten means.  

 

 

A MARYLAND COURTROOM

DECEMBER 16, 2002           

1 P.M.

 

The sharp crack of wood upon wood echoed through out the silent court room prompting the

three men standing before the honorable Edgar T.  Shoemaker to jump silently.  The judge suppres-

sed the satisfied grin such actions gave him.  He cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hand

and read the defendants' names allowed:

"Melvin Frohike . . ."

The shortest and eldest of the trio stepped forward, clearly ill at ease in the freshly tailored suit

bought for the occasion.

". . . John Fitzgerald Byers . . ."

The bearded man couldn't have stood any straighter, the first man noted with some contempt.  Nonetheless, at the sound of his name he immediately 'snapped to', his tailored suit flawless.

". . . Richard W. Langly . . ."

The blond immediately stopped tugging at the borrowed tie and over starched white shirt, and cast bespectacled eyes up toward the bench.  Equally unsettled- -if not more so- -he fought the urge to stuff his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  He was regretting not having taken Byers' offer to loan him a suit as well, until he remembered the loaner trousers were an inch too short for him.  Robe-boy would just have to deal with the jeans.          

He shuffled forward.  The judge was singling him out- -he knew it.  They always did.  It was the hair thing.  Everybody had a problem with the long hair.  He now wished he'd heeded further advice to wear it pulled back in a pony tail.

". . . are hereby ordered to serve 100 hours of community service.  To begin immediately.  Court

adjourned."

The gavel's ending proclamation seemed less ominous now over the stir of people as they exited the court room.

The three Gunmen openly relaxed- -even Byers to the point of tugging at his own tie.  A rarity

with him.  Langly in the meantime, had pulled his off and unfastened the top two buttons.  He flung the tie to it's rightful owner with a hushed, "Thanks, dude."  

John Byers rolled the loaner tie and stuffed it into a suit pocket.  "We best find out our assign-ment," he prompted in his usual clipped tenor.  "The sooner we get this over with . . ."

" . . .  The sooner we can get the hell out of here and back to the paper," Frohike muttered in agreement.  "I just hope whatever we get handed isn't any worse than spending the last three nights in jail."

Langly scowled. "I can think of at least one."


His room mates groaned openly at the possibilities. 

The younger man had been raised on a dairy farm.

 

WESTERN MARYLAND'S

HAVEN HOME FOR BOYS

AND GIRLS

DECEMBER 19, 2002 

8:30 A.M.

 

The Gunmen's ancient VW micro bus rolled into a parking space just as a group of pre teen boys and girls, dressed in identical blue and grey sweatshirts and blue jeans, gathered on the build-ing's front steps.  Catching sight of Langly in the passenger seat, one of the older boys cried out,  "Look the grunge mobile comes with it's own hippie."

"Can't we just slip out of the country?" Langly whined as he cast a baleful eye toward the youngsters.  "Go to Canada, or . . .?"

Byers' and Frohike's collective glares silenced him immediately.  

The little man reached around the blond and opened the door.  He slammed his hip into his, forcing him to the pavement and followed.

"Oh, look they got a midget," guffawed another teen, this time a girl.  "He's ugly."

"Sure it ain't a troll?"  Another snickered.

"Naw," came a third voice.  "It's an elf."    

Frohike openly bristled.  "So help me, I'm gonna paddle some a . . ."

Byers had come around from the drivers' side and all but hurried his two room mates past the group.  As the door closed behind them, he heard someone say, "They even got their own Man in Black.  How weird is that?"

 

Away from the scrutiny of the teens, the three Gunmen took in their surroundings.   To their left was a long administration desk.  A tattered log book lay open for both guests and inhabitants of the building to either check in or out.  It was surprisingly unmanned at present.  To their right  was a

larger, separate room- -possibly a resource or study room.  A bank of six computer monitors and their accompanying CPU's ran along the nearest wall. 

"Nice fossils," Langly commented dryly.  "I think I grew up with one of those."  Byers silenced him with another stern look, convinced the facility relied heavily on public donations.  By the looks of the interior walls' peeling paint and water stained ceiling, generosity was fleeting at best.  The Gunmen took turns signing in and went in search of someone in charge. 

"I see you made it past the welcoming committee," came a sardonic voice from behind them as they passed one of the offices.

The three men whirled to a willowy, no nonsense black woman.  She was perhaps in her late forties.  "Misters Byers, Langly and Frohike, I presume?"  Each man raised his hand as she spoke their names.  "Good." She waved them toward the cubicle she'd stepped from.  "In here please."

The Gunmen, however, stood their ground. "Madam, might we get on with what ever punish-ment you've laid out for us?"  John Byers addressed.  "We're journalists and have a dead line."

Openly unimpressed, the woman sneered, "Lucky us.  Maybe you could write a nice gooey piece on the home just in time for Christmas.  Now come with me.  You're due for orientation." 


"Hey, doll, we already went through two days of that crap," Frohike barked, all the more cranky from the lack of sleep.  Along with a round robin grilling concerning proper conduct as child care providers, the trio had pulled an all nighter creating both pristine backgrounds for themselves in pre-paration of Haven Home's standard security screen, and laying out pages for the The Lone Gunman by Friday's self proposed dead line.   

"My name is Aleesha  Johns," she said icily, snapping their attentions back to the present.  "Ms. Johns."  She approached and stood toe to toe with the older man.  "You will address me as such.  Not doll, honey or some other testosterone challenged term of endearment. Understood?"

Frohike gulped and managed a respectable, "Yes, ma'am."

Her gaze turned toward Byers and Langly.  The former uttered an equally passable "Yes, ma'am."  While an openly intimidated Langly simply nodded.

"In here." 

The Gunmen silently crammed themselves into the small cubicle barely big enough for one person.

"The state of Maryland has it's own set of rules," she began, "concerning the welfare of these children, and, I have mine:

"Foremost, don't take liberties with these kids, no matter how tough they talk- -sexually or otherwise.  You will perform the tasks handed you, and, satisfactorily, to earn your time." Her dark eyes cut to the bearded, nattily dressed Gunman. "However, Mr Byers, I'm afraid that suit ain't gonna get you out of bathroom detail." 

Byers felt his cheeks flush red; refusing to look at Frohike who had warned him of this possibil-ity.  "I brought a change of clothing- -just in case," he mumbled and indicated the door. "If I may?"

She nodded, excusing him.

"You'll report here by nine a.m. and leave by three p.m.  That's when the children arrive back from school." Johns continued.

And she's worried about us interacting with these kids?  Frohike thought.  Even if we wanted to

- -strike that! - -we'd never have the opportunity!

As they exited, Frohike's bespectacled eyes fell across two framed photographs on the woman's desk.   The first one depicted a small Afro-American boy about six, cuddling a worn teddy bear; his own dark eyes intense and mistrusting.  The other photo showed two other children- -a boy and a girl- -both white.

The second boy was slightly older than the first, but his eyes shared the same intensity as his counter-part.  The girl was perhaps in her early to late teens.

"I'll introduce you to the custodian.  His name's Bobby," Johns continued as she led them toward another small office.  Byers had since rejoined them.  Not ordinarily one to 'dress down', he now wore black multi-pocketed utility trousers, combat boots and a white t-shirt. 

 

11:30 A.M.

 

Melvin Frohike cast a wary eye toward Johns' office before entering.  He'd had more than enough of her during the morning's briefing, not to mention her constant vigil of the Gunmen's progress throughout the morning.  He was not anxious for another confrontation.

She wasn't in her office.  Probably up somebody else's 'incompetent' ass.  Thankfully he and his room mates, despite their less than favorable housekeeping skills, had gotten the south end of the building clean enough for her satisfaction.

Frohike quickly snatched up the waste basket and dumped it's contents into a larger receptacle.

As he replaced the smaller can, his eyes fell across the picture on Johns' desk once again.

Cute kids.  Adults now, he realized.  His own familiarity with photography, as well as the subjects' clothing, identifying the photo as having been taken decades before.

"Those kids died in a Christmas eve fire about thirty years ago," came a gravely voice from the

doorway.

The Gunman jumped.  It was Bobby.


Shit!  All he needed was this simpleton to go running to Johns about his snooping through her

office.  Thankfully, years of covert ops, often necessary in their self imposed line of work, prompted a cool head.

Rather than patronize, the Gunman stated, "It didn't think it was recent." He didn't ask as to fire's cause- -the Christmas season had both it's share of joys as well as hazards. 

The older black man- -he had to be damn near sixty!- -continued, "They got all them kids out.

But," Frohike openly cringed, preparing himself for the worse.  "that one boy ran back in to save that

bear he's holding.  The other two were brother and sister.  She was also working here.  Hoped to save enough to get her own place and adopt her brother.  When the fire started, he went back in through the basement to save a puppy he was secretly caring for.  She went in after him. They never found his body.  But they found hers."

Frohike replaced the picture and exited the office.  He didn't want to hear any more, but Bobby

dogged him through the next several rooms.

"Since then, the electricity's never been right," the black man continued. "Especially this time of year.  It got even worse when they put them damn computers in."

Pausing in his work, the little man whirled on him.  "Have they had anybody out to look at it?

The electricity, I mean?"

The other man shrugged.  "When they can afford to.  But it don't do no good."

"You two want to snap up this tea party and get back to work?"  Came Ms.  Johns' voice from

behind them.  The two men stiffened and old Bobby hurried away with a mumbled, "Yessum."

Frohike held his ground, both defending he and his fellow man, as well as fishing for more information.  "Bobby was telling me about those kids that died in a fire thirty years ago."  She seemed unaffected by his attempts, however.

She's heard it all! 

Okay.  We cut the crap!  

"He also told me you've had some electrical problems.  My friends and I are investigative reporters.  Gooey stories not withstanding, we may be able to right some possible wrongs here."

Johns looked at him evenly.  "That so called paper you work for is self-published," she intoned icily.  "How the hell are you gonna to print it when you can't even pay your fine?"

They had their ways, Frohike thought.  Admittingly, all as shady as the next.   However, he proposed, "Let me and my boys take a look at the wiring.  We've got some electrical and computer know-how."

"Journalists with both electrical and computer back grounds," Johns patronized.  "Diversity not

withstanding, are you certified?"

"We are," the Gunman shot back, careful not to divulge any contradicting information already

obtainable through the bogus papers he and his room mates had provided. However, Aleesha Johns was not one to embrace specialties when dealing with the likes of these three.  (You didn't work the master's house until you sweated in the fields some.)

  After some deliberation, the woman said, "Finish what you're doing.  Then come see me."  

 

12:45 P.M.

 

Byers and Langly welcomed the change of venue.  Particularly after spending the morning de-fending their respective honors mopping floors and unclogging toilets. 

Because of his leaner build and lesser electronics skills, Byers took the attic.  Langly gained the

computer room by default and Frohike headed for the basement.

 

The beam of Byers' head mounted flashlight suddenly died, plunging him into darkness.


"Damn!"  He shook his head and thumped the connection with his index finger in hopes of coaxing a loose connection into compliance. 

To no avail. 

Peeling the light from his head, the bearded man realized too late that the lack of light would prevent his accessing the damage.  He'd have to return to ground level.  "So much for top of the line," he muttered, jamming the light back on his head.

The bearded Gunman began to back out of the cramped crawlspace when two nickle-sized red dots appeared in front of him.  He blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks.

No.   They were stationery.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he realized the red dots lay in the center of another shape- -also round, with two protrusions on top.     

Ears?

Another more elongated shape appeared below this.  A body?  If so, two smaller protrusions angled outward at it's top, and two longer ones at its bottom, allowing it to sit. 

It was an old teddy bear! 

What the hell was it doing up here?  He didn't expect it belonged to any of the kids they'd met earlier . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them.  The head mounted flash light suddenly snapped on, blinding him momentarily.

Blinking to clear his vision, he was startled to find the bear had disappeared!

 

       The headset's earpiece squawked with a brief burst of feedback.

Frohike grimaced and jammed his index finger into the device.  Other than Byers' clipped com-mentaries and Langly's separate and chronic wheeze as he muttered his own crude deliberations through the miles of wiring on his end, it was silent.

Then it was back.

Lower in pitch- -almost mournful.

He jabbed the earpiece again, but the noise continued.      

"Hey, cut the chatter!" he barked.  All three Gunmen cut their mics; the younger two without question.  They had orchestrated enough covert ops not to question a direct order.

Frohike continued to read each junction box where a series of wires met, with a hand held meter, convinced someone or some thing was watching him.

Probably that bitch, Johns, he thought.  Just waiting for us to make a mistake so she can send us packing!

Another drawn out hum- -no, more like a dog's howl- -emitted from the earpiece once again. 

"I said, cut the chatter!" 

The headset was off! 

He heard the sound again.  He immediately recognized it as a dog's- -or was it a puppy's?- -plaintive whimper.  He sidled up to the corridor intersection to his left.  There was nothing but dated boxes marked IRS. 

Another series of whimpers and howls crescendoed and died, followed  by a scratching sound

to his right.  As he felt what little hair he still had to stand on end, he fought the urge to retreat.  He flipped on the headset mic.

 

Still trying to shake off the attic's apparition, Byers returned to the facility's community room and knelt where Langly was laying half in and half out of an access panel tracing through the com-puter bank's wiring. 

"Anything?" the bearded man prompted.


Openly frustrated by his room mate's impatience and his own failure to find the suspected flaws, Langly straightened and returned the multi-meter to its case.  "It all checks out," he moaned.  "This hardware's in better shape than ours.  What about you?"

"I'm not sure."

Langly's head snapped up; clearly ready to denounce Byers' lack of electronic expertise.  (Thanks to he and Frohike, the bearded man at least knew enough about basic electronics to keep his ass from getting fried!  He was simply their respectable 'suit', editor-in-chief and head financier.)

Byers seemed paler and more distant than usual. 

Staring at the older man, Langly snickered in spite of himself. "You look like you've seen Cas-per himself."

"I think I did," the other replied remotely, his words far too profound to be anything less than sincere and he went on to tell Langly about his experience in the attic. 

"Mulder, I would believe," the blond chuckled when he'd finished.  "Frohike and I at least have an excuse for either popping or smoking all things chemical or organic before we met.  But not you, dude.  You're so clean, you squeak." 

"I'm not kidding, Langly," Byers shot back in his high tenor- -now an octave higher, revealing the stress he was under.

 

Their headsets suddenly crackled with Frohike's voice.  "Byers? Langly?  You got your ears on?"

"Talk to me," the blond acknowledged. 

"Is Byers there?" the voice seemed a little more agitated than usual, even for Frohike.    

"Affirmative," came Byers' answer.

"Come down here!"

 The two men exchanged panicked looks before Byers turned and raced down the hallway.

Langly was left to wait; his window to the others via a simple headset. 

 

A networking connection inside an open access panel sputtered and died, blanking out all six computer screens.

"What the hell- -?"

The blond grabbed up the meter and dove back inside the panel.

Everything was as he'd left it, so there was nothing to indicate a loose wire. 

He felt something brush against the back of his neck and he swiped at a stray lock of yellow hair that had pulled loose from its pony tail.  It was persistent and kept aggravating him.  He finally straightened again and readjusted the hair tie.

Returning to his work, his eye caught something on the computer screen in front of him.  At first he turned toward the door, thinking someone had entered.  No.

 He blinked and turned back- -the image was gone.

"Heavy," Langly mumbled, not immediately concerned.  However, he again searched the room, almost expecting his room mates to catch him second guessing himself.   "All I need is those two raggin' on me."  He continued tracing the defective 'loop'.

That damn hair had pulled loose again and was tickling the back of his neck.  Cursing, Langly straightened to secure it once again and saw his own reflection in the second screen.  Behind him was a young girl, blowing on the back of his neck! 

Again, he whirled to find no one behind him.  The momentum careened the back of his head in to the desk.

"Ow!  Shit!" Blinking away the stars, he turned back to the screen . . . and her!

. . . taunting him.  No.  Beckoning him to follow . . .

Where . . .?


He didn't care.  Panic-stricken, the blond Gunman lept to his feet and bolted from the room. He nearly knocked Byers and Frohike, who were engaged in a heated discussion, down as they entered.

"What the hell's up with you?" Frohike demanded, catching his breath.  Then he saw the horror etched in Langly's sharp features. "Oh Christ!" 

Byers saw it too.  Realizing the blond hadalso experienced a possible vision, he demanded, "What the hell did you see?"

In his agitated state, however, Langly was unable to articulate, and simply pulled them into the room.

Once he'd found his voice, the younger man explained everything in his usual animated way.  "You saw girls on these screens?"  Frohike grumbled, when he'd finished.  His gruff voice was

tinged with jealousy.

"No.  One girl- -the same girl- -two different times," Langly insisted. "At first it was just a glance, then it was in that second screen.  She was," he grinned sheepishly, "you know, playing with my hair and stuff."

Frohike snorted.  "Sounds like your night fantasies are invading your conscious state- -such as it is."  Byers suppressed a grin.

The blond bristled and tipped his head toward the latter. "What about the teddy bear you saw?"  Despite his sudden bravado, Langly was still visibly shaken and his voice still quavered slightly as he spoke.  Turning back to Frohike, he quieried, "Or did he tell you?"

"He told me," the little man was suddenly somber. "When I told you two to be quiet earlier?  I thought I heard a dog- -maybe a puppy- -howling and whimpering in the basement.  But I couldn't find it. That's why I had Byers come down.  His eyesight's a hell of a lot better than either of ours." Byers, however, appeared to be questioning these very attributes.  Though neither willing to admit nor deny the puppy he'd heard might be linked to his room mates' apparitions,  Frohike added not unkindly, "At least I thought so before you told me about that teddy bear."

"So what now?" Langly demanded.  The color in his face- -at least what passed for healthy- - had returned.

Frohike looked at his watch.  It was about two-thirty.  "Finish up, pack our gear and report back here tomorrow."

"Can't we just appeal to the judge?" the blond whined.

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND

7:05 P. M.

 

"Sounds like you guys are invading my turf," agent Monica Reyes teased the Gunmen's answer-ing machine.  Byers had left the initial message upon their return, in hopes the latest recruits of Fox Mulder's controversial X-files, could provide some spectral guidance. They were thankful that she had answered and not her more critical partner, John Doggett. "Call me back so we can talk at length.  Thanks."

John Byers snatched up the phone a split second ahead of Frohike and dialed. 

"Hello?  Monica?" he said into the mouthpiece, then tabbed on the speaker phone.

"Hi, John."  The agent greeted cheerfully, refusing to refer to any of the Gunmen by their more familiar last names.  "So you're branching out into spectral analysis.  Interesting.  No offense, but its not as lucrative as that paper of yours."


Monica Reyes mild taunt prompted the Gunmen to bristle slightly.  "Seriously guys. You have most of the equipment on hand already- -video and still cameras, thermometers . . .  I can make some calls and have the rest waiting for you at headquarters."  The three men perked up, embracing the woman's sudden sincerity and support.  "Do you have a piece of paper and pencil handy?"  Byers snatched up a notepad and aptly caught the pen Langly pitched to him.  He announced he was ready and for the next several minutes, the four of them parlayed back and forth until Byers had nearly ten pages of explicit notes.

"However, before you tread into virgin territory," Monica warned, "you need to appeal to those apparitions you saw."

Richard Langly wasn't sure he liked her meaning.  "Appeal to them?  How . . .?"

 

BERTRAM BYERS' RESIDENCE

RESTON, VIRGINIA                          

8:00 P. M.

 

John Byers raised his hand to knock, then, with a deep exasperated sigh, dropped it back to his side.  He and his father had finally reconciled their decade-long rift months earlier;  guaranteeing only sporadic visits at best. 

The holidays held their own bitter memories.

 

He was eight when his mother died a week before Christmas.  While the rest of the world em-braced the joys of the holiday, the Byers' non descript bungalow had remained devoid of the tradi-tional holiday trappings to this day.

It was now or never.

He knocked.

Bertram Byers had found solace in the strict, utilitarian rules and discipline he had been raised with, since his wife's death to cancer thirty years earlier.

       His son had embraced this very discipline without undue question. 

Like his father, it had become more evident following his mother's death; carrying John Byers unfalteringly  into his adult life. Then in 1989, the younger Byers had unexplainably, and, against all logic, quit his staid DOD job with the FCC, to help publish the controversial government bashing publication known as The Lone Gunman.  Thus, alienating them from each other's world.

 

His father waved him into the house, silent.

In another situation the two men could prove charming and articulate.  Now they stood silently in the middle of the room, waiting for the other to speak first.

They did so- -simultaneously.  "How you doing, John/dad?"  Rather than be amused, or bemus-ed, by this however, they continued; each answering the other's question, "Fine.  And you?/Well."

John Byers hesitated only for a moment before revealing in his usual no nonsense tone, "Dad, do you still have that old teddy bear of mine?"

This proved to be the very icebreaker they desperately needed.  Nontheless, the elder Byers was taken aback by the query.  "Its still sitting in that old rocker in our bedroom," he managed.  "Your mother would have never forgiven me if I'd gotten rid of it."

"Do you mind if I have it?"   The younger man all but stuttered.

Too surprised to formerly respond, the older man simply nodded.

His son rushed down the hall toward the room in question and plucked a worn teddy bear from the cane rocker.  "To think I gave you up because I didn't need you any more," he whispered into the bear's whimsical expression.  The tattered ears had absorbed a lifetime of little boy's secrets; the dark orbs upholding its undying promise never to reveal them.  


As he turned to leave, Byers' eyes fell across a framed photo of he and his parents.  He grimaced at how young he must have been- -five perhaps?  Like always, the Byers family was dressed to the nines.  Not extravacly so, but well enough to exude a healthy confidence they were worthy of the

respect bestowed of both superiors and subordinates.  Even at this tender age, John Byers was too disciplined to exhibit the typical spoiled pretentiousness of an only child.     

 "You know how many co-workers begged to know how I'd gotten you to give up that bear, John?"  The voice startled him from behind. 

The younger Byers grinned in spite of himself, remembering.  Replacing the picture, he stated.  "I was six.  The other kids were all older than I and kept making fun of me.  I had to make a quick decision or risk being permantely ostersized."

"No one believed me," the other chuckled.  "However, your mother wouldn't let me throw it out."  

John Byers suddenly reached out and hugged his father stiffly; the gesture clearly an unfamiliar practice.  "He- -It'll be fine, dad," he promised.  As he cradled the stuffed animal in the crook of his arm, his father's expression suggested that his life might be forfeit if he were to fail in his mission.

At the front door, the elder Byers' voice stopped his son in his tracks:  "What are you and your friends doing for Christmas, John?"

The bearded Gunman blinked back his amazement.  His father had never extended such an

invitation- -season not withstanding- -to either he or his room mates.

"I'm not sure," he was painfully honest.  Then revealed, "We pulled community service for a

parking violation last week."

Bert Byers bit back his amusement.  "Where?"

"Haven Home for Boys and Girls."  However, John Byers decided against revealing the appari-tions he and his room mates had seen.  At least for now.

The older man all but beamed.  The bear was probably a gift for one of the kids.  "Maybe you

can all stop by later?"

Still taken aback by his father's sudden hospitality, John Byers managed, "That'll be nice, dad.  Thanks."

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

DECEMBER 21, 2002

10:20 A. M.

 

The woman's voice on the other end of the phone seemed vindictive toward Frohike's request to adopt a puppy from their facility.

"Ma'am this is the fourth place we've called," the older man pleaded.  His voice was surprisingly patient, despite having spent the last two days engaged in humiliating menial labor and dealing with Aleesha Johns.  In addition, the Gunmen had began taking eight hour shifts laying out the final pages of the LG, while the other two slept or ran the necessary errands.

However, the woman was adamant.  As with the other facilities, all available puppies had either been placed or were currently in the adoption process.  Or so they said. He slammed down the re-ceiver and turned to Byers.  "Maybe we can get lucky with just the bear."

"I still opt for an appeal," Langly muttered from behind his computer monitor.         

 Ignoring the blond, the bearded man shrugged and stated, "Let's hope we can convince Ms. Johns to let us proceed."

 

 

 

 

 


HAVEN HOME FOR

BOYS AND GIRLS

11:30 A. M.

 

The three Gunman trudged into the facility and signed in.  Three teens horsing around just inside the door, stopped to stare silently at the procession.  They immediately drew a larger crowd from those milling about the computer room.  Equally appalled by the Gunmen's flagrant breech of protocal, the young volunteer at the desk escorted them to Ms. Johns' office.

John Byers gathered his courage and stated in his clipped tenor, "Ms. Johns, we believe your

facility may be haunted."           

The woman couldn't contain her amusement, or her anger.  "By your ghosts if Reynolds catches

you in here after your 'agreed' hours."

"Please, ma'am," the bearded man continued. "Security screens not withstanding, somebody made sure we pulled this assignment.  We prefer your cooperation.  But we can, and have worked, around more severe opposition."

Aleesha Johns' hard expression all but backed him down.  "One call to your P.O., mister, and you'll be spending your Christmas in jail."

Byers absorbed her threat and gulped back a secondary appeal for the moment.  He risked a glanced to the others- -Frohike's hard gaze pleaded for clemency, as did Langly 's own fearful one.

Such opposition simply prompted another barrage.  "Just one night, Ms. Johns.  Please," Byers begged.  "While the children are in bed, we can set up our cameras . . ."

The black woman plucked the telephone's handset from its base and waved it threatingly.  From his perspective, Langly saw the base's preprogrammed panel and hissed, "She's got speed dial, Byers.  Shut the hell up!" 

But Byers was on a roll. "Agent Reyes is a highly respected, FBI agent whose specialty lies

within the realm of spectral analysis.  Unfortunately, while she is not immediately available to oversee our operation, she has given us a full briefing on how to perform the necessary tasks in her absence.  We just need your approval." 

Johns pushed the button labeled D. A.  and held the receiver to her ear.  "Mr.  Chas Reynolds, please," she all but oozed into the receptionist's ear.

"Yeah?" came the unmistakable baritone of their P. O.

"Chas, I'm afraid you're going to have to make other arrangements with those guys you sent me.

Yeah, the newspaper guys."  The Gunmen, however, had heard Reynolds harsh confirmation through the earpiece.  But when the man asked for details, the woman ventured nothing more than an ulti-

matum if he refused to comply.

 The Gunmen were out.  They refused to look at each other.  Langly was grumbling something

about incompetence; Byers certain it was directed at him specifically.

Johns suddenly held out the phone to the bearded man.  He took it with some trepidation.

"What's the problem, Mr.  Byers?" the P.O. demanded.    

More subdued now, Byers began with the apparitions they'd seen and concluded with their de-

sire to place their cameras throughout Haven Home in hopes of capturing the images on both still and video cameras.

"Ghosts," the other voice stated flatly.

"I assure you," the bearded Gunman attempted again. "The children will not be involved."

"Neither will you," Reynolds ordered; his voice heard by all.  "If you all leave by choice, we'll reschedule your sentences until after the holidays.  Force our hand and we'll see that you'll spend the remainder of them in jail.  Understood?"

"Yes!" the Gunmen answered in unison.  Byers replaced the receiver.


Frohike, however, had had enough and snapped to his feet.  "Listen, lady!"  The dark woman's

eyes shot daggers at him, but the older man refused to back down.  "Our little inspection of the joint revealed some major code violations as far as the wiring goes.  That means you may be on the

brink of another possible fire."

"You have five minutes before I call the cops."

 

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

11:32 P.M.

 

I should be sleeping, Langly grumbled to himself as he booted up his laptap.  He yawned- -one more day and this issue would be finished.  Byers' shift would be ending soon, passing the torch first to Frohike, then to him at the semi-merciful hour of  8:00 A.M.- -only three hours before he was due  to get up anyway- -and run until 4 P.M.

The laptop's screen cast an eerie glow over the sharp features and glared off the lenses of his outdated horned rims as he tapped into the local DC papers dated the day of the Haven Home fire.  The girl he'd seen in the computer room, stared back at him from a photograph with a young boy- -also killed in the fire.

Langly tabbed up the obituary columns and stared incrediously at the screen.  The two were originally from Saltville, Nebraska- -his home town!  That was too weird! 

He requested the Saltville Guardian, the local paper.  As for the fire, it garnered a simple five inch column on the back page.  Not surprising.  He hit the obituary columns for that time frame.   His eye focused immediately on a photo of a blond girl with the same  sharp features he'd been cursed with- -large nose and pointed cleft chin.  Poor kid, he thought.  Then he saw the name- - "Drucilla Langly!"   He enlarged the article.   "Sixteen.  Daughter of Warren and Arleen Langly

of . . ."

"Shit!  She's my sister!" he bit down on his knuckle to silence his outburst- -not wanting the others to know just yet.  Langly checked the date again- -1970.  He would have been two years old at the time.

 

Someone knocked on his door.

"Langly?" It was Byers. No doubt passing by on his way to wake up Frohike.  The bearded man stuck his head in the door.  He was devoid of the trademark tie and suit jacket and looked rough, Langly thought.  But then he had gone right to work on the paper upon their return. "Are you two switching?" He asked his room mate.

"Uh, no," the blond stated.  "Just squelching some creative energy.  You know?"  Byers grinned

understanding- -he himself guilty of satisfying nocturnal inspiration.  He mumbled, "good night," and continued toward Frohike's room. 

Langly lay awake for several minutes listening to the muffled voices of his room mates as Byers

briefed the older man on his progress.  The conversation lasted only as long as it took the younger man to reach his own bedroom.  Then died all together as his door closed.

Why hadn't his parents told him about his sister?

It would be about 9:30 their time.  Dad might be asleep already, but mom would be up still.  She

would be easier to talk to.  He picked up the phone and after several agonizing minutes dialed.  The clipped, mechanical voice informed him that the number was unlisted.

Damn!

The Gunman dialed another number.  "Yeah?" answered a sleepy voice.

"Kimmy?


"Geez, Langly!" the voice barked. "Its late!  Normal people work a  9 to 5 shift and prefer an eight hour sleep cycle."

"I need your hacking skills."

"Since when?"

"Since I have two nosey room mates and you don't.  I need my folk's unlisted phone number in Saltville, Nebraska.  Its Warren and Arleen Langly.  Thanks, dude."

Langly didn't await fellow hacker, Kim Belmont's response before hanging up.     

 

OFFICES OF THE

LONE  GUNMAN

DECEMBER 22, 2002

3:13 A. M.

 

The phone's insistent brrrr pierced his consciousness. 

Frohike reached out from the lighted layout table where he'd fallen asleep, and slapped blindly

at what he mistook for the alarm clock their current situation had forced them to buy.  

Realizing the interruption was indeed the phone, Frohike snatched up the receiver and muttered, "Lone Gunman.  Frohike speaking."

"Mr.  Frohike?"

 It was Ms. Johns!

He was instantly awake.  "Ma'am?"

The voice on the other end was surprisingly hesitant as she stated, "I'm afraid we have

a situation here."

The older Gunman fought to keep the edge from his voice.  On the contrary, he was almost fearful of the possibilities; he himself guilty of prophecy.

Aleesha Johns' voice had lost it's own edge as she appealed, "Mr.  Frohike, some of the kids claimed they smelled smoke," she began.  "We've had to evacuate until the fire Marshall deems our building safe."

Frohike guessed the rest.  "Do you have a place to stay?"

The woman openly sighed- -her voice edged with desperation, "The Red Cross gave us vouchers for food and shelter. Unfortunately, everything's either booked for the weekend, or they refused to accommodate us."

So much for keeping in the spirit of the season!  The little man thought glumly.  Then made

a snap decision.  "Are you familiar with the warehouse district?"

She was, and he promptly gave her detailed instructions on how to find them.  He was not prepared for her next proposal, however. "The inspectors won't be out until Tuesday.  I won't object to you setting up your ghost bustin' equipment until then.  However, you're on your own if they catch you trespassing."

The older man didn't hesitate. "Sounds like a plan."

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

3:30 A. M.

 

Richard Langly was his usual pragmatic self.  Particularly due to his inability to get back to sleep following his discovery, and being awakened a half hour early for his agreed shift. "So I either go with you and Byers or stay here and help counselor dearest babysit?" he grumbled.

"Yes," the others stated simultaneously.  Frohike and Byers  were already dressed in night ops gear- -dark utility trousers, black turtlenecks and knit watch caps, boots, and flak vests.


 The blond hadn't yet gotten out of bed.

 Byers began rummaging through the piles of clothing littering the floor and pulled out a set of clothes identical to theirs.  Tossing them on the bed, he announced, "Go or stay.  You've got five minutes to decide." 

Langly didn't like either option, but in his mind, returning to Haven Home was far worse than dealing with a handful of teenagers and Ms Johns.  Besides, once Byers and Frohike were gone, he

could further investigate his sister's death.  

The door buzzer echoed throughout the warehouse, prompting Byers' statement, "Perhaps not."  Near panicked, Langly sprang out of bed, naked except for a tattered, oversized t-shirt that

revealed more than  it covered. "You guys got those CPU's sealed?  Right?" he suddenly asked, jumping into the trousers, Byers had found for him. 

The bearded man had since disappeared down the concrete stairs to answer the door.

"Tight as the proverbial drum."  Frohike promised, eyeballing the younger man suspiciously as voices drifted up from the ground floor.

However, Frohike's computer savvy was the least of the blond's problems.   He could easily gain access to what he needed and reseal everything with the excuse the little man knew nothing of the procedure, all without the others discovering the truth.  It was the kids he was most concerned with.  He hadn't had the opportunity to personally seal the back-up systems that held their more delicate ops.

 

One fourteen year old in particular made Langly nervous.  Since Haven Homes' arrival, Akeem Wells hadn't been able to keep his eyes- -or his hands- -off the multi-banks of computers and other hodge-podge of electronic gear that littered the maze of counters and steel shelving. 

Once alone with their guests, Langly begged Ms. Johns to keep better tabs on her charges- -he himself counted eleven- -as they were eventually rounded up and herded upstairs to the warehouse's loft. 

Despite the hour, sleep was not an option for anyone.  Some of the teens unrolled sleeping bags

- -boys on one side, girls on the other- -and lounged in what available space they could.  Some  talked.  Another girl, about fifteen, Langly determined, seemed to be watching his every move from the far end of the room.

She almost looked like the girl in the Guardian photo.  That was ridiculous.  Sleep depravation and his eyes were playing tricks on his mind.  Nonetheless, their eyes kept locking on each other.   She was wearing an old fashioned- -well, late seventies style, but still ancient history to the thirtyish Gunman- -paisley dress . . .    

Two of the older girls and Ms. Johns had busied themselves inventorying the kitchen cabinets and refrigerator in preparation of a shopping list, when one of the girls unintentionally sent several pots and pans cascading out of a bottom cupboard with a terrible din.  Some reacted with a shocked look or a sharp retort, including Langly.   With a hard look to the Gunman in particular, Ms. Johns spoke quietly to the girl and she sheepishly gathered the items and replaced them.  With calm restored, Langly again searched for the girl.  She wasn't there!  Shrugging it off, he ventured down-stairs to continuing researching his sister's death before re sealing everything.

He did not see the three pairs of eyes watching him from behind one of the shelves.

 

STATE ROUTE 97

5:35 A. M.    

 


It had been raining steadily for the last hour, casting a heavier pall on Byers' and Frohike's already dismal moods.  However, the thrill of intrigue was already cancelling out exhaustion; the majority of their trip having been spent discussing Langly's sudden moodiness, their inability to find the much needed puppy and where in the facility to place their cameras and other borrowed equip-ment. 

The van's dashboard was making that squeaky sound again.  After several minutes, Frohike swore and smacked it with the bottom of his boot.  It was immediately silent.  Byers shot him a dirty look as he signaled and turned left.

"Nice hit, MacGyver.  Can't you just tighten something?"

"I'd prefer to loosen some bureaucratic asses," Frohike mumbled, returning to the original argu-ment. "You'd think the SPCA would be more than willing to adopt out a dog."

Byers rolled his eyes, and stated, "They're only looking out for the animal's best interest, Fro-hike.  They don't cater to impulse buying."

The other had to agree and looked out into the gloom.  Something caught his eye and he ordered

Byers to stop, then, "to back up.  Slowly."

The younger man complied.  

He had gotten only a few feet, when Frohike suddenly jumped out.  Byers braked suddenly and waited.

Pounded by the rain, the little man scurried back toward a clump of tall grass and dove into the thick of it.  After several minutes, he emerged with his jacket wrapped around a shivering ball of fur.  The small dog was not about to go quietly, however, and struggled to get away.  Frohike clutch-ed it to his chest in an attempt to calm it. 

Returning to the van, he entered through the side door and with Byers' help, placed the animal into a blanketed box they'd quickly prepared.  For several minutes, the small dog continued to yip and whine as if in pain.  "Frohike, that dog might be injured and quite possibly someone's pet,"  Byers stated the obvious as the man changed out of his wet clothes.  "We don't have the right to just take it."  Once changed, however, Frohike plucked the animal from its makeshift bed and cuddled it.  It settled down almost immediately and, with a deep sigh, closed its eyes and slipped into a deep sleep.

"We can't leave it here," Frohike protested.  "We'll post a notice once we're done with it.  Until then, we've got our dog- -and our teddy bear.  Two out of three should give us better odds in satis-fying these spirits."

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

5:45 A. M.

 

Langly stretched and yawned. 

His eyes ached and a slight hazing effect appeared just below his left eye.  He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them.  The haze was persistent, however.  He started to press his fingers into the edges of his eye sockets, but thought better of it- -old-mother-hen Byers had often warned him about this.

       He tried to ignore it. 

To no avail.  The haze seemed thicker as if it were taking on solid form.  It was as if someone were standing next to him- -but just outside of his peripheral vision.  This trick of light (or whatever it was) tormented him for several minutes and he fought the impulse to look to see if someone was

indeed standing there.

Ten minutes later, he had the last of their precious files buried and turned off the unit.  The smug grin suddenly disappeared, however, as he realized the 'spot' had since disappeared from his left side- -but was now on his right side! 


The blond whirled, first one way, then the other.  Nothing.  The hell with you Byers!  he thought. 

Langly jammed his fingertips up under his glasses and into the orbital sockets.  He rubbed until his eyes burned and teared.  Pulling his hands away, he blinked several times to clear his vision and looked around again.  The haze was gone.

       He just needed sleep, that was all.  However, plans to return to his own bed were detoured by

the sight of 'Old Red'.  The stately and butt-ugly couch they'd rescued from a street corner ten years ago, looked every bit as inviting.  He plopped down on the worn cushions and took one more look around.  Nothing was going to get past those CPU's, he thought with a smug grin.

Conciousness was fleeting, and he soon slipped into a deep sleep.

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

6:08 A.M.       

 

Unseen by the two boys, the girl watched as Todd Arneson , also fourteen, but shorter than his companion, and white, supplied surveillance as Akeem made his move toward Langly's computer.

"I wish I'd been there when that hippy dude reformatted everything," the taller boy gushed. "Our systems have never run so smooth."  He had the server cracked within minutes- -pulling up the blond Gunman's recently closed file.  "They've been checking on us," he commented, curious.

  Todd turned his attention to focus on the screen in front of them.

"Blondie downloaded everything from the fire, " Akeem added.  He tabbed up copies of the two photos that now sat on Aleesha Johns' desk. 

"We've seen this," Todd retorted, his voice edged with disappointment.

Equally disgruntled, Akeem  closed out the files but kept digging through the last cache.  He pulled up the obituaries for a Nebraska paper called the Saltville Guardian next, and the two boys could barely contain their amusement.  "I didn't take that hippy for a hick.  I thought they shot you for that."

Akeem kept typing and scanned the obituaries that splashed onto the screen. "Hippy-dude  downloaded this obituary about an another girl." He made some adjustments. "Oh wow!" he exclaimed.  "He lost an older sister to some kind of accident when he was just a baby.  Weird."

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN           

6:15 A.M.       

 

She was back, standing- -no, floating!- -above him.  He waved her away, but she kept returning.

Taunting him. 

His face.

No hers!

Almost the spitting image, but devoid of the familiar horned rims.  

The girl from the Guardian obituary photo!

Langly's eyes popped open in horror to less of the dream and  more of the real vision.  Like his dream, her eyes were haunting and every bit as beckoning . . .

He squelched a panicked cry and launched himself off the couch.  He bolted up the stairs- -  through the obstacle of endless sleeping bags- -to his bedroom, oblivious to the sleepy stares of his guests.  The blond spring boarded off his bed and collapsed into a far corner.  He fumbled his cell phone off the nearby night stand and dialed.

"Lone Gunman.  Byers speaking."

"Byers," Langly hissed.  "She's here!"

 


HAVEN HOME FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

6:20 A. M.

 

"What? Who's there, Langly?" John Byers was openly concerned for the man on the other end of the line.  Confrontations not withstanding, Richard Langly for all his brash deliberations against life begrudging him every turn, was not the bravest of souls.  There was also their guests' welfare to con-

sider.

 "The girl!" the voice on the other end stammered. "I saw her again.  But she was a little bit- -

different."

"What?"  Byers looked to Frohike setting up the last of the cameras.  He hesitated at Byers' out-

burst and at his invitation, snapped open his own phone.   

"Langly, what the hell's going on?"

"I saw her again," he rattled on.  "I mean, I saw another girl.  Almost identical, but she wasn't the same girl."

"Describe her," came his room mates synchronized command.

Hesitantly, Langly did so: "Blond.  Skinny.  She was wearing a paisley dress like they did

about thirty years ago.  But this one- -the second girl- - she looks like me."

The little man was openly repulsed.  And curious. "Langly, that 's not the girl you saw in the Haven Home computer," he confirmed. "She was the same one in the photograph on Johns' desk.  Are you sure she was a different girl?"

"Yes!" the other blurted.  "I found an obituary from my home town, Saltville, Nebraska!  Those two kids who died were from there!  My sister died that same year!"  There was an open sigh as he confessed, "That's why I made such a big deal about staying here."  

"Langly, you've got to get back to that screen," Frohike was adamant.

"Hell, no!" the blond objected. 

"Langly, you're seeing two different girls," Byers' tenor rose and fell with anticipation.  "The one you saw earlier at Haven Home died in the fire with her brother and another little boy.  This time your dead sister came through."  He looked to Frohike whose dark bespectacled eyes were now as wide and animated as his own blue.  

Langly's voice echoed from twin receivers. "I'm changing vocations as of now!"

"Not yet!" Byers ordered. "Get back on that computer, Langly.  Now!"  Frohike in the meantime had booted up the facility's computers.  "And document everything!"

Langly's voice was suddenly contrite as he confessed, "I already did that."  This last statement was unnecessary as the entire warehouse, both upstairs and down was monitored twenty-four/seven by both video and audio tape. "According to the paper, my sister died when I was two years old.  My folks never told me about her."

Byers expressed his condolences as did Frohike.  However, the bearded Gunman failed to con-tain his heightening enthusiasm as he added, "I don't think even Mulder's heard of spirits jumping programs!  Our trinity is complete."

Frohike had to agree. "Spectral or not, it's a sign of the times."

Langly still refused to cooperate.

"What was that paper called?"  Frohike demanded grabbing up the nearest keyboard.

The voice on the other end hesitated.  "We can find it ourselves, damn it."

"Saltville Guardian."

"Date?"

"1970."


Frohike tabbed up the information, but the system suddenly went blank.  Byers immediately snatched up the still camera he wore around his neck.  Turning a slow three sixty, he snapped off a roll of film.  Another set of cameras, set off with trip cords, snapped pictures from different angles.

"Sorry, Langly," Byers stated, the ice blue eyes now conveying distress as he searched the dark-ened room.  "We're dead in the water.  You're on your own."

 

 OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

6:35 A. M.      

 

Richard Langly pulled himself together and burst into the great room amidst questioning stares from his guests.  He ignored them, searching for her- -refusing to believe he'd seen a ghost.

"Where the hell is she?"

"Who?"  Ms.  Johns demanded. 

"One of your kids."  Langly  went on to describe her, but as he slowly realized that Johns knew each and every child present, he countered, "I counted eleven kids when you got here.  She may  be

downstairs."  Langly took another head count as did Johns.  "There's only eight."  He barked. "You're missing three."

"I'm missing two." The black woman was adamant.  However, she appeared to be searching the 'boy's side' for someone in particular.  After several passes, she found him.

"Front and center, Jacob," Johns barked.

The downy folds convulsed, then rolled one way, then the other as a blond boy about thirteen eventually emerged from the opening and yawned. 

"Cut the dramatics, Jacob," she intoned.  "Where's Akeem and Todd?"

Abashed, the blond youngster simply pointed an index finger downward.  

 

HAVEN HOME FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

6:36 A. M.

"I thought you charged these?" Frohike growled, pocketing his now dead cell phone.

"As is procedure," Byers returned defensively, reloading his camera.

After ending their conversation with Langly they checked on the dog they'd rescued from the roadside.

  Following a quick dinner of two fast food hamburgers, he had become a little perkier and not as willing to stay in his box.  Byers had tied him up just out of reach of the camera trip cords, but it whined essesively as the two Gunmen continued through the building, monitoring the air currents with hand held thermometers.  They documented severe temperature drops and rises.  They also reset both video and still cameras, as well as other equipment as needed.  The necessary move had ended all too soon when it was discovered both recently charged cell phones had simultaneously died.  Their communication between them gone, they'd returned to the computer room and booted up a spare laptop.  It too was dead.

Byers looked evenly at the little man- -this had been his department. 

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

6:40 A. M.

 

Akeem, Todd and Jacob were seated on 'Old Red', eyes watching warily as the blond Gunman paced.  By the looks of it, Ms. Johns wasn't willing to offer clemancy either. 

"What were you doing?" she finally demanded of the first two boys. 

Ignoring her momentarily, Akeem challenged Langly. "You know those girls that died don't you?"

The Gunman looked to Johns for help, but he was clearly on his own.  "I might.  At least one of


them.  But it doesn't excuse your snooping around."

"Does that include your excuse to do the same?" Todd managed.  At Ms. Johns' stern expres-sion, he cowered slightly and was silent.

"At Ms.  Johns' invitation," Langly clarified. "We looked through your electric wiring to make sure it wasn't a safety hazard."  Then added in a contrite voice, "We all saw and heard things that we're hoping to clarify now."

The taller boy couldn't contain his excitement. "You saw and heard our ghosts, plus one of your own?"

       Christ!  I'm dealing with a mini-Mulder!  Langly thought, unsettled.

"I warned you about that, Akeem," Ms. Johns attempted what was obvious suppression of a

very delicate matter.

Langly whirled on her. "You've seen them too- -at least the first three kids?"

She caved in.  "Yes, Mr.  Langly.  I have heard them and seen them all on occasion .  I've even cursed them for the building's failings.  At risk of losing the only place these kids have, I don't say

anything."

This surprising admission bolstered Langly's failing courage considerably.  Exhaling deeply, he stated, "I think it's about time we pursued things on this end- -Byers and Frohike have done all they

can on theirs."  Langly motioned Akeem back to his computer and sat down at a terminal across from him  "Show me your stuff, little bro."

Akeem re entered his earlier hack and pulled up the fire article.

Langly dialed Byers and Frohike.  Their phones were still dead, but he left the line open.  He again requested and got the Saltville Guardian 's obituaries.  At a third monitor- -actually an old Sony portable television- -he reached under the table and keyed up a hidden VCR.  The machine whirred as he rewound the tape.  The counter retraced the last three hours.  He stopped it and ran it forward at real time.  He seemed to be searching for something in particular.

Aleesha Johns stared at the screen.  "What are you doing?"

The blond explained.  "We all saw and heard those apparitions.  A whimpering puppy, a teddy

bear and a girl.  In addition, I saw a second girl- -my dead sister- -both here and at the facility.  That's why Byers and Frohike wanted to set up cameras and spectral analysis equipment at Haven Home.  We needed to find out what their motive was.  Perhaps they've been trying to protect you all this time by sabotaging lights or whatever." He looked first to his own terminal screen and Drucilla's picture, then to the Sony's screen.  "I don't know why she's coming through, however."

"Are your folks still living?" The woman asked him.

Langly blinked at her sudden compassion.  "Yeah.  But we haven't spoken for about twenty

years- - Not since I left that damn farm."

Aleesha Johns tipped her head toward the images, "Maybe that's why she's here?"

Langly snorted, suddenly the nonbeliever.  "Why now?"

 

"Langly?"

Byers' familiar tenor crackled over the cell phone's speaker.  They had gotten the phones work-ing again! "We've heard everything, Langly," he added.  "Your sister may not have had the strength to come through until now.  Tapping into those kids' backgrounds may have provided that ability."

"This is too weird, with or without Mulder," the blond commented.

"See what you got on surveillance cameras," Frohike ordered.

Silent, Langly continued staring at the blur of light moving through the warehouse loft and around him at both his computer and the couch.

Langly suddenly collapsed into a chair, oblivious to his audience and swallowed back the raw emotion in his throat.  "I got her."


 Aleesha Johns motioned the boys upstairs, and they obeyed without argument.

 

"Langly?" It was Byers again.

Silence.

"Talk to us, buddy," Frohike begged.

Langly shook his head, unable to speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away.  Aware of Ms. Johns, he suddenly bolted up the stairs to the privacy of his bedroom. 

Aleesha Johns picked up the phone.  "If you two are done there, your friend needs you back here."  She closed the line.

 

The cell phone rang.  She answered it without hesitation. "Yes?"

"Uh, yes ma'am," came the apprehensive voice on the other end.  "This is Kim Belmont.  I'm looking for Richard Langly . . .?"

The woman asked if she could deliver a message.  The voice on the other end gave her a phone number and thanked her, before hanging up.  She scribbled the number on a piece of paper, and

with a last look to the video, headed for the stairs.  Heedless of her charges' questions, she slipped the paper under Langly's door.

        The blond stared at the number until it was permantely burned into his memory.  A good

thing since his tears were producing the paper to a soggy mess and causing the ink to run.

He picked up his cell phone and held it for nearly an hour.  It was probably four or five some-thing back home.  His father would still be milking those damned cows and his mother would be fixing breakfast . . .

. . . pancakes and sausage. . .

He dialed.

A voice as nasally as his own, but deeper with age, answered, "Langly residence." 

"Dad," he managed.  "This is Ringo."

 

OFFICES OF THE LONE GUNMAN

CHRISTMAS EVE

10:30 A.M.     

 

Haven Home had been condemned by the Fire Marshall after they'd found too many structural and electrical violations.  Ms.  Johns and the kids had spent an extra night at the Gunmen's ware-

house without incident- -save for a few surprises left by the dog during the night.  Despite the

kids' efforts at advertising, no one had claimed the animal.  After some heavy negotiations, Ms.  Johns allowed the kids to keep it.  

Along with some heavy finagling by their resident fibbies, Reyes and Doggett, another building had been secured within hours and just two doors down from the Gunmen's warehouse.   It had been on the market for some time, with no immediate buyer interest.  For now it would suite the needs of the kids, as well as Ms. Johns and her staff- -not to mention, allow the bureaucrats involved in their care and employment, some clemancy- -until another facility could be found and questions answered.

"I can't believe the desk jockeys acted so quickly on this," Aleesha Johns stated, as she looked

over the Gunmen's set of Haven Home pictures and notes. 


Identical document, pictures and videos had been presented to Reyes and Doggett, along with the borrowed equipment, for further analysis.  Most of the pictures and tapes were underexposed or blank.  In others, the respective lenses seem to have captured movement, or what appeared to be swirls, patches of light, or shadows.  One set of still pictures taken by a ring of cameras showed something indeed moving through the scene from different angles, but curiously, failed to pick up the other cameras in their field of vision or their collective flash.  Audio tapes had been filled with both whimpers of the mysterious puppy- -though not it's live counterpart- -children's cries of terror and simply the hiss of 'white noise'.

Frohike gave Aleesha Johns a smug grin.  "Understand the corrupt corporate mind, my de- -" he suddenly blanched and corrected himself, "Ms. Johns."  With a magician's flourish, he whipped out the latest issue of The Lone Gunmen for her inspection.  The front page read SPECTRAL WATCH-DOGS SAFEGUARD HAVEN HOME ORPHANS.  Below it was the more credible subtitle blaming corporate fraud and misconduct for the facility's misfortune- -or fortune, as it were. "Your gooey storey as promised.  Somebody was covering up those violations, due to the cost of fixing that place up- -or sadly, they figured these kids were expendable and not worth the effort to do so.  They got away with it up until that fire thirty years ago, but still managed to sweep things under the proverbial rug."

"My efforts to jump through bureaucratic  hoops, be damned," Johns seethed.

"And the D.A., Chas Reynolds, et al, were all part of it," Byers added, warming everyone's

coffee cup from a freshly made pot.

"How's Richard?" Johns suddenly asked.

The name caught the two men by surprise, until it dawned on them she'd meant Langly.  "He's

probably trying to get used to waking at dawn again- -as in five a.m., not noon," Frohike chuckled.  "We appreciate the loan, by the way." 

Aleesha Johns shot them a haughty look.  "And I'll be sure you'll all pay it off, with interest."

Byers looked to Frohike, then to her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You don't mind if we wait until Langly gets back, do you?  After all, its his plane ticket you bought."

"Tell him, I expect him bright and early the day after he gets back." 

The men promised. 

She got up to leave.  "You guys are coming over later?"

"Like we have a choice?" the little man grumbled.  "We still got hours to ful fill."

"That's right," Johns stated, brazenly.  "Then I'll expect you about six.  The kids managed to find a tree- -and I didn't ask where."  As they escorted her to the door, she looked mournfully over the clutter of electronics and steel shelving. "You do have a better place to spend Christmas?  Right?" she asked.

Byers groaned, tired of her persistence.  "Yes, ma'am.  My father invited us."  His tone turned genuinely appreciative.  "Thank you though.  And, Merry Christmas."

"The same to you."  She suddenly reached out to hug and kiss them both, then gave Frohike and

extra peck on the cheek.  "That's for Richard," she explained. 

"Trust me," he mumbled. "I'll let you deliver one of those personally."

 

WARREN AND ARLENE LANGLY'S

RESIDENCE

SALTVILLE, NEBRASKA

CHRISTMAS EVE

3:13 P. M.  MST

 

Richard Langly had climbed into the attic of his parents' home- -mostly at their invitation, as well has his own curiosity and his desire to 'know' his sister, Drucilla.

From an old trunk, he pulled several worn scrapbooks and opened the first.  They seemed to

be out of order, as he flipped through pages of school awards and other citations.  Drucilla was the

smart one academically- -like Byers- -while he himself embraced the practical skills. 


Maybe that's why his folks had suppressed their memory of her?  He was the screw-up- -the pro-

digal son. 

Now more then ever.

"Keep going, son," his dad's voice prompted behind him. 

There was a long silence as Langly leafed through the next scrapbook.  The first page contained a birth certificate and a stack of photos still in the original sealed envelope, dated January, 1969.   He read the name and date on the certificate aloud, "Richard Warren Langly, born July 29, 1968." Without awaiting his father's permission, he ripped open the envelope.  In the majority of the photos, she wore the same paisley dress from the warehouse- -and held a baby .

"I kept blaming you at first.  Then realized it wasn't your fault- -never was.  Dru got mixed up with some older boy in the next county."

The sudden realization hit the younger man like a ton of bricks.  Blinking back tears, he whis-pered, "Drucilla wasn't my sister was she?"

"She was your mama, son.  She had you three days before her sixteenth birthday.  She was going

up to [                ] with friends to celebrate, while we watched you." The voice wavered.  "They had a wreck on the way home . . .         

"We never meant her achievements to overshadow yours, Ringo," his dad- -No! Grand dad! stated. "It wasn't fair to hold you in comparison.           

"You tried so damned hard!  They held you back twice, because they thought you were 'slow'.  It was because you had your own agenda, Ringo- -that was her nickname for you.  She loved the Beatles, especially Ringo Starr- -" he immediately returned to his train of thought.  "It took us awhile to realize that your calling was computers, not cows."

Warren Langly leaned over the trunk and carefully pulled out several back issues of The Lone Gunman from a separate compartment and handed them to his grandson.  The younger Langly alternated rifling through the papers and fighting tears.

"And now, here you put out this paper," his grandfather continued. "It ain't the New York Times, and people have talked- -some respectable, others not."

"We seem to have that influence everywhere," the blond stated.  "Even in D.  C."

       Warren Langly chuckled; appreciative of his grandson's humor, perhaps for the first time. "It

took me forever to realize that your opinions and concerns in the LG ain't no worse than any

other expressed by man over the years.  You three care about people and make them listen."

"My room mate, John Byers is going through the same healing process with his dad."

"What about the other guy?"

"It's just him now- -I mean real family-wise."

 

Langly's grandfather returned their attention back to the scrapbooks, "These pictures were de-livered from the pharmacy a month after she died. Your grandma and I could never bring ourselves to open them." 

Richard Langly pulled one of the photos from the stack.  "Can I have one?"

"As many as you want," his grandfather insisted.  The younger man pulled out several, while  his grandfather pulled one of his own from the collection.   He then returned the rest to the scrap-book from which it came, replaced everything- -including the papers- -into the trunk and closed it. 

       "I saw her," Langly admitted apprehensively; still convinced his grandfather would not under-

stand.

He didn't.  "I see her all the time, Ringo," he said.


The younger man suddenly moved past him and descended the attic ladder.  Fearing he had again erected barriers that had driven his grandson away twenty years ago, Warren Langly charged after him.  Ringo had returned to his old room and pulled a newspaper from his suitcase.  It was their latest issue explaining the apparitions' role in saving the Haven Home orphans from the corrupt city officials entrusted in their care.

"Drucilla- -mama- -was there, da- -grandpa," Gads!  He was never going to get used to this! "She helped those kids in her own way- -just as she helped get us back together!" The younger man insisted. 

Rather than disbelieve or patronize, the elder Langly stated, "I'm not surprised.  But why in the

hell did she wait so damn long?"

       Void of his usual cautious nature, Langly revealed, "My room mates and I theorized that

 whatever kept Dru's . . . mom's . . . spirit- -soul- -or whatever, on the other side, she couldn't cross over by herself.  She gained the ability to do so when we inadvertently accessed what turned out to

be local obituaries.  Hers and two kids who died in a fire about this time- -thirty years ago."

The elder Langly absorbed his grandson's theory with his usual condemnation, "That's pure crap, boy!" Before adding a supportive, "She was just protecting her son." 

Richard Langly all but crumbled into his grandfather's arms.  The older man held him tightly

as they wept.

 

BETRAM BYERS RESIDENCE

CHRISTMAS

1:15 P.M.

 

Bert Byers was well into a stiff bourbon and water, when he answered his front door.  In keeping with the spirit of the season and hospitality protocal, both Gunmen came bearing gifts.  Once inside, John Byers pulled the borrowed teddy bear from the bag he carried.  "I told you I'd take care of him, dad."

"And you would have had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, if you hadn't," the older man stres-sed again.  He gave the teddy bear a place of honor in a chair next to a small Christmas tree he had erected since his son's last visit.  "Its small . . ." he all but apologized.

". . . But it's a start," John Byers commented.  "Its nice, dad. Really.  Thank you."

Frohike pulled a bottle of scotch from the bag he held.  "I brought my own Christmas spirit."

The little man poured the libation for all, as Bert Byers inquired of the missing Gunman.

"He went home for Christmas."

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