One Flew East Part II (1/?)



 Part 1/?

disclaimer in part 1

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Part One

A man appears out of nowhere in a small town, changes the lives of 
everyone he touches and then disappears.  It's an old story made new.   
Except this time the man has been taken.  There is no Miranda Carr.  Or 
Dr. David Myers.  They do not exist.  So two people who do not exist 
managed to successfully kidnap a man with no memory.  This is *not* part 
of the story.  Or at least it shouldn't be.  The story is supposed to go 
this way:

After weeks of intensive therapy, the lost and despairing J. D. finally 
recovers his memories with the help of the kindly psychiatrist Sam 
Doyle.  J. D. goes home to his wife and kids and the bad guys who hurt 
him go to jail.  Sam testifies at their trial and even though hypnosis 
is not usually accepted as evidence they make an exception for Sam Doyle 
because of his spotless reputation. 

J. D. and his wife have a happy reunion and all is well again.  Sam is 
slightly envious of the superior life J. D. has, but is proud he was the 
one to help him back to it.  Sam and J. D. part ways, promising to keep 
in touch, but they don't.   After all, they no longer need each other.  

J. D. has been healed and Sam is finished healing him.

Everything returns to normal.

And all is as it was meant to be.

But that isn't this story.  

--------

That night he went to Alicia's apartment, but when he got there he 
didn't knock.  Instead he listened to the sounds, *her* sounds, that 
floated from the door.  The sound of her bare feet shuffling across the 
room, the tinny sound of water filling a kettle, the click of the stove.  
He could even smell her favorite tea, chamomile.  Tea.  How very Alicia.

He slumped against the door.  How did he feel, he asked himself, doing 
a silent inventory.  Tired.  Empty.  Ashamed.  

Guilty.

If he didn't close his eyes, he could remember J. D. so clearly (Sam 
refused to think of him as Henry), but when they shut, the strongly 
defined features of the man metamorphosed into the as-yet-unformed face 
of Patrick Doyle.  After all, he had only been twenty-one when he had 
died.  The adult character of the face had not set in yet.

It was also ridiculous to compare the two men.  One was crazy.  The 
other was not.  One was his brother.  The other was not.  One had been 
his burden.  The other...the other had become something else entirely.

With the delicious clarity of hindsight Sam knew that his brother had 
developed Post-Adolescent Schizophrenia.  They hadn't known then.  
Madness was madness.  What did they know about it?  

It had started when Pat was seventeen.  Sam had been home for 
Thanksgiving and had made it almost three hours before he and his father 
went at it.  It was never the same, sometimes it could be Sam's haircut 
or his shoes or something ridiculously trivial as the Evil of 
Capitalism.  Usually during one of their fights his mother would pretend 
it wasn't happening and turn into super-mom.  She would freshen drinks, 
serve seconds, clear the table; anything *but* admit the overpowering 
feeling of resentment, hate, and love in the air.  His mother was 
terrible with the concept of ambiguity and love.  Love for her was love.  
Aggression and anger had no business interfering, thank you very much.  
Patrick had always shaken his head sadly, but would then smile serenely 
at the two of them.  'Give peace a chance,' he would say jokingly.  
Well, that year when Sam and his father got started (he believed they 
had been arguing about Reagan Economics), Patrick took his mother's 
silver lighter and set the curtains in the dining room on fire. 

He could remember now with something close to amusement they way he and 
his father had stood gaping at the smoldering fabric, their eyes 
traveling from it to Patrick.  Patrick, who had stood admiring his 
handiwork, a blank happy viciousness in his eyes.  Their mother never 
got over the shock.  Her sunny, sweet young boy had disappeared to be 
replaced by some stranger.

That night Sam drove to Alicia's house in his father's Cadillac to tell 
her that Patrick had been taken away.  To someplace where he wouldn't 
hurt himself.   To a place that could bring him back.  He remembered the 
way she had smiled at him when she opened the door, the warm happy feel 
of her house; he could hear her family's laughter, the clinks of wine 
glasses being toasted.  Her smile faded when she saw his face more 
clearly.  She closed the door behind her, shutting the warmth and 
easiness inside, and stepped out into the darkness and cold.

She took it as he had known she would.  With her head held high, her 
eyes empty, her body rigid.  With strength and love and, more 
importantly, resolve.  She *knew* she was the one who could bring him 
back.  Sam pitied her then.  And envied her wonderful delusion.  He had 
already given up, which would later be the decision that would haunt him 
the rest of his life.

Life, in its stubborn way continued.  Sam visited Patrick at the 
psychiatric hospital in Baltimore almost once a month, when he could 
manage.  Alicia went once a week as his mother did.  His father went 
once in a while, but appeared to have cut his losses.  At least it 
looked that way to Sam.  At twenty-one he was still as unforgiving, 
arrogant, and wrathful as he had been at eighteen.

Home almost a year and a half after the *incident*, as they called it, 
Sam was serving his mother tea in bed when they finally spoke about 
Patrick as if he were a real person, not an experiment.  Her face thin, 
weary, and white, she talked about her two sons to her eldest.  
To her charming, bullheaded son.

"He was always such a happy baby, I never worried about him the way I 
did you."

Sam didn't say anything, feeling a dark flush of shame infuse his face.

"Oh, darling.  You were fun to worry about.  Every mother should have a 
son like you to worry about."

"Mother, that's ridiculous."  Although he was more pleased than he 
would ever admit.

"You were so headstrong, even as a little boy.  You used to *insist* 
that you be the one to pick out your father's ties before work.  I used 
to *plead* with him not to wear those awful things into the bank.  He 
just said, 'If it's good enough for my boy, it's good enough for me.' "

Sam felt the tears, but blinked them back.  "Tell me about Pat.  As a 
little boy."

"He used to sing and  hang around my leg as I cooked.  I think he was 
afraid of Dad.  He was so big and always smelled like tobacco."

"I always liked the smell," Sam mused thoughtfully.  His mother smiled 
at him hopefully, as if she was waiting for a revelation to hit her son.  
When instead Sam stood up to refill her tea pot, she sunk back to the 
bad, her eyes distant and her body shrunken with disappointment.  She 
died six months later in the bed she shared with Sam's father, that her 
own parents had shared and died in before that. 

On the day of the funeral Sam took the train down from New York and 
picked Alicia up at Towson State, where she had decided to attend 
instead of Georgetown to be close to Patrick.  It was a terrible day, 
beyond grief, beyond feeling.   As the years passed, the memory of the 
day had become hazy and faded, a fact Sam thanked God for every day of 
his life.  After the funeral he and his father had returned to the empty 
old house that Sam's mother had loved beyond reason.  They looked at 
each other and his father led him to his den, his library, his sanctuary 
and poured both of them a hefty drink.  Scotch?  Bourbon?  Sam couldn't 
remember what it was, only the sickly burning taste of it.

And again life went on.  Visiting Patrick a year or two after that COMMA he 
found Alicia in the waiting room.  She informed Sam that she had dropped 
out of college and was now in nursing school.  Sam had begged her not to 
do it.  She was young still, there was no reason to let Patrick's 
madness shape her life.

Coldly furious, she told him exactly what she thought of him.  As she 
expanded on his selfishness, his utter lack of humanity, Sam sat and took 
it as punishment.  For being the one his mother worried about.  For 
being the one his father loved more.  For being sane.

She had only just gotten started when a shadow fell across both of 
them and they looked up to see Sam's father, his face white with fury, 
an avenging angel in Brooks Brothers towering over them.  A few curt 
words later, mostly describing Alicia's martyr-complex and her 
disgusting piousness, and Alicia finally broke.  Sam watched, desolate, 
but with control as his father and Alicia cried in each other's arms.  
After a moment, he silently stole away to meet Pat, where he gave him a 
Columbia sweatshirt.  Patrick had seemed to like it.

Eventually Pat too died, although not from natural causes.  In a 
horrible parody of his mother's funeral he and his father again sat down 
in the library, staring at each other across a desk, drinks in their 
hands.  Sam was twenty-five.  Pat had been twenty-one.  His father's 
face that night was pale grey, his skin crumpled and translucent.  Old.  

In a surprising show of fury Sam ruined one of his mother's oriental 
rugs by pouring his drink on it and then smashed his glass against the 
wall.  He remembered his father's strong arms encircling him and the way 
they sat on the rug, covered in alcohol and glass all night until the 
sun rose.

Not long after Pat's suicide, Sam had decided on psychiatry.  Alicia 
had been pleased and supportive.  Sam's father seemed proud.  Sam had 
ceased to recognize himself.  He had changed into someone unfamiliar, a 
cool stranger.  He lived in the house with his father and managed his 
residency by commuting to Baltimore.  He tried to avoid Alicia, because 
she only reminded of things better left alone.  Pat had ceased to be a 
real person and had become a rallying cry for Sam's career.  His quest.

Until eight days ago when an annoyingly sane man had brought it all 
back.

Until that man had disappeared.  

Sam ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the door and struggled for 
the energy to move.  After a long minute he knocked, a hard unhappy rap 
against the door.

Alicia opened it a crack and for a second he was looking at a 
disembodied eye.  She closed the door and undid the chain and swung it 
wide open.  She was wearing worn jeans and a boys Orioles T-shirt, no 
shoes, which for some reason he found oddly endearing.

"Come in, Sam." Her voice was soft and imploring.

She led him into the apartment, closing the door firmly behind him once 
they were both inside.

--------
	
Sam was sitting in his office, in the dark, blinds closed, when there 
was a knock at the door.  He had been sitting there for hours, 
replaying the past few days in his head.  Rewinding certain moments, 
trying to piece together the clues.  Contemplating what was most 
certainly a kidnapping scenario...but twice?  Why in the world would 
someone be kidnapped twice?

"Come in."

The door opened and the harsh early morning light shone through the 
darkness.  It was almost blinding and he couldn't tell who was there.

"Dr. Doyle?"  The voice was uncertain, with a soft slurring Eastern 
shore accent.

Marie.

"Yes?"

"There's an FBI Agent here to see you."

The world tilted for a moment.  FBI Agent.  Otherwise known as Angels 
of Death.

"Show him in, Marie.  And Marie...please turn on the lights."

If silences had an emotion, hers was definitely relieved. She flipped 
the light switch on and Sam discovered the FBI Agent had been there the 
entire time standing in the doorway.  And wasn't a 'him.'  Which could 
possibly be the biggest understatement of the decade. 

She waited until Marie left, her sharp blue eyes assessing him coldly.  
She did not sit down, her body stiff and unyielding.  Instead she stood 
in front of his desk, her eyes as brilliantly bright as head beams, 
staring down at him.   And placed a photo on his desk, just out of his 
reach, her gaze never wavering from his.  Not a bad form of manipulation 
actually.

"Is this the man who was a patient at this hospital until yesterday?"

He didn't pick it up right away.

"You know it is," he said softly.

She seemed to blanch and then recovered, glaring at him.

"You already asked Marie if that was him."

He ignored her and picked up the photo.  A supremely bored man stared 
back at him, clean shaven and surprisingly real, even in black and 
white.  An identification photo.

"Did you find him?" he asked thickly.

"No," she said.  "That's why I'm here.  He's been missing for almost 
two weeks.  He's my partner."

J. D.  in the FBI?  The Federal Bureau of Investigation?  With a *gun*?

"I don't believe you."

She blinked.

"My name is Dana Scully.  Mulder has been my partner--"

"Mulder?"

"Yes, Fox Mulder," she answered impatiently, flashing her badge and 
finally condescending to sit down.  "We've been partners for almost five 
years.  What I want to know is what was wrong with him and why *you* let 
him go."

Sam studied the picture, the utter confidence of the man in it, and 
wondered how this man was different from the one he knew.

"He had--*has* psychogenic amnesia.  That's when--"

"I know what that is."  

"I didn't let him go, Agent Scully.  There is nothing I wouldn't have 
done to have  prevented that occurrence."

"How did he get out then?"

Silently, he passed her the police report which contained a description 
of both the woman and man who had taken J. D.  She scanned them in half 
a second and looked furious.  

"Marita Covarrubias," she stated icily.

Gesundheit? he thought.

"She is a contact of his.  A Special representative of BS and plausible 
denial."

An FBI agent with contacts?

"There was another occurrence also dealing with theft of evidence."

"Great."  A long pause, while she studied the report more carefully.  
Then she looked up. "What evidence?"

"During a...session of ours some...possibilities of what happened to 
J. D." --she looked startled-- "came to light.  I believed some evidence of 
the ordeal he had gone through would be on his clothes."

"What kind of evidence?"

He hesitated, wondering how this would sound.  "Black oil."

"Oh god," she said tiredly.  She rubbed her eyes and then seemed to 
crumple in on herself.  In a second the presence she seemed to radiate 
faded and someone younger and sadder seemed to inhabit her body.

"How was he?"

"Considering the situation, Agent Scully, he held up very well."

She nodded.  "Please, no coddling, I need to know."

"He fought, Agent Scully.  He fought very hard."

And although there was more that could be said, this was the most honest 
and kind and comforting thing he could ever say.

"Just Scully," she said.  Like a gift.  "Just Scully."

And he didn't doubt that it was just that. 


END 1/?