“Ok the Scranton P.D. says Trout’s not at home, so they’re staking out his house. I can’t…I have to just find these missing people, so I’m going to let them handle that. Bob, listen to me. There’s something weird about the basement in this building. Do you know anything about…”

“What is this, what’s going on?” Dwight interrupted, bursting through the doors of Vance Refrigeration and barreling toward the two men standing at reception, causing Mulder to take a step back and clench his jaw in visible frustration. He sighed and glanced at Bob Vance.

“Nothing’s going on, Dwight, I’m just asking Mr. Vance a few follow up questions,” he explained.

“What are you doing here on a Saturday?” Bob wondered aloud. Dwight let out an incredulous chuckle and shook his head as if Bob Vance was a complete idiot.

“I’m here to help the Federal Bureau of Investigations in their hunt for your missing employees,” he told him matter-of-factly. “I am Agent Mulder’s backup.” Mulder eyed him curiously, but was too tired to argue and decided the best course of action was just to act like Dwight wasn’t even there. He turned back to Bob Vance and offered up a flat kind of expression.

“What do you know about the basement?” he asked.

“The basement?” Dwight repeated, stepping forward so that his shoulder bumped against Mulder’s, causing Mulder to shift away in impatience, quickly losing his cool and struggling to suppress the urge to strangle Dwight on the spot.

“You have to give me some space. Right now,” he ordered harshly. Dwight frowned and licked his lips, his head starting to shake in a negation of the command.

“But you’re asking about the basement and I…”

“Dwight,” Mulder interrupted, “Please give me space.” Dwight pressed his lips together in thought and perched his hands on his hips.

“I’ll go get you a cup of coffee,” he decided and Mulder raised his eyebrows in response, watching as Dwight made his way back to the Vance Refrigeration kitchen and began to brew a pot of coffee. He sighed in relief and turned back to Bob.

“Ok the basement. What do you know?” he asked and felt something inside of him sink heavily when Bob started to shake his head.

“I don’t know anything about the basement, I’ve never even been down there,” he admitted, reaching down to yank on his belt and shifting on his feet in discomfort. Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose and felt himself starting to lose it, and he realized he could really use that cup of coffee Dwight had mentioned. He held a finger up to Bob Vance as if to tell him to hold on a second, and headed back in the direction of the coffee pot because otherwise he wasn’t sure what he would do or say. He pushed the kitchen door open and rolled his eyes when Dwight straightened from the refrigerator and slammed the door shut, as if he’d been caught doing something illegal by snooping through the shelves.

“How’s the coffee coming?” Mulder asked quietly and Dwight glanced over at the percolating pot which hadn’t even started to fill yet. He sighed and looked down at the floor in defeat.

“It isn’t finished yet,” he admitted. Mulder nodded and moved toward a folding chair that sat around the small make-shift kitchen table. He sat down heavily and rested his forehead against his palm in exhaustion. This was an absolute nightmare. “Having trouble solving the case?” Dwight wondered, his voice consolatory and soft. Mulder inhaled audibly.

“If I could just figure out what the deal is with the goddamn basement in this building, it’d be solved,” he mumbled almost to himself, rubbing at his eyes and trying fruitlessly to clear his sleepiness from their hazel depths.

“Hm,” Dwight hummed, crossing his arms and nodding, “You’re talking about the bomb shelter,” he stated simply. Mulder sat up straight and looked at him in disbelief, his hands hanging mid-air and his mouth hanging open in shock.

“The what?” he wondered, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

“The bomb shelter. They built it back in the fifties, I think, but nobody has ever had to use it.”

“I was down there,” Mulder breathed, “There was no bomb shelter.” Dwight nodded again and licked his lips.

“They walled it off,” and before the explanation was even out of his mouth Mulder was up and out of his chair as if his ass had caught on fire. “What are you…” Dwight began, but as Mulder pushed through the kitchen door and took the Vance Refrigeration offices at a full-out run, he could hear Dwight calling out after him, “I’m right behind you!” and he thought maybe he heard Bob Vance hit the ground and grunt in pain, but was too preoccupied to turn around and look.

He took the stairs two at a time and arrived at the basement in something like thirty seconds. Dwight was hot on his heels and Mulder held up a finger to his mouth, signaling that Dwight should stay quiet. Dwight held his hands up and nodded.

“Show me the false wall,” Mulder whispered, “Point to it,” he instructed, and Dwight did, following diligently behind as Mulder made his way over to it and placed his hands on his hips, assessing how exactly to either knock it down or get it open. Dwight tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward a lever.

“That unlocks the wall and then you have to push it,” Dwight explained almost inaudibly. Mulder sighed a thank you and told him to go upstairs and call the Scranton Police Department and ask them to send some squad cars for backup. Dwight nodded and headed toward the stairs as Mulder held his breath and pulled the lever. A thin crack about two inches wide appeared in the plaster and Mulder thanked whatever deity might exist, knowing instinctively that Scully was somewhere on the other side. That thought made him lose some of his inhibitions and he pushed the wall aside without even noticing the amount of noise it made. He brushed his hands on his pants and looked down the dirt tunnel with shining, victorious eyes, at the door at the other end, which looked like a door to a vault. Impatient, Mulder took the tunnel at a jog, pulling his weapon out of its holster and holding it out in front of him haphazardly, reaching the door and unlocking the bolt with cold and clammy fingers.

The door to the shelter slid open and he pointed his weapon into the dim lighting, announcing that he was FBI and that he was armed. The first thing he heard in response was his name and he almost fainted in relief.

“Mulder how the hell did you find this place?” she asked him, and he re-holstered his gun, his shoulders sagging and a grin splitting his face at the way that her expression was a mixture of seriousness and humor. He chuckled quietly.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, offering a nod to Pam, “But I think we should all get the hell out of here,” he told them, scanning the room and taking a mental count to be sure everyone was present and alive. They were, and it was like some kind of fairy tale that he couldn’t quite believe.

“You didn’t catch Trout yet?” Pam wondered, inferring correctly that if Mulder thought they should hurry to escape he must still be on the loose. Mulder shook his head and waved toward the entrance to the tunnel.

“No, so come on let’s go, everybody stay calm and file out as quickly as possible.” Scully stood and maneuvered her way to stand next to him, offering up a knowing look full of concern and dusting off her pants at the same time. “Are you ok?” Mulder wondered quietly as everyone else in the room started to stand and organize themselves into a single file line. Scully started to nod, but the simple motion was interrupted.

“What the hell is this?”

The voice made them all stop dead in their tracks and Mulder glanced down at Scully in confusion, reaching back to grab his gun at the look of worry on her face.

“Don’t even think about it,” Trout warned, stepping into the low lighting and pointing Scully’s gun directly at Mulder’s face. Mulder’s eyes widened and he slowly raised his hands above his head.

“Ok, everybody just stay calm…” Mulder suggested, feeling the quiet sort of automatic coddling kick into play that he had learned once at Quantico and that he’d used more times than he liked to count. “Why don’t you hand me the gun?” he offered, taking a careful step forward and slightly to the right, slipping into place in front of Scully, subconsciously protecting her with the width of his chest and the unthreatening stretch of his open and empty palm. Trout’s face was red with anger and his wrist shook slightly with the weight of the gun in his hand.

“Shut up,” he warned, and Mulder watched, part of him fascinated at the way that Trout’s eyes filled with tears. He was always full of a certain kind of guilt because of how interested he could still be by the intricacies of the criminal mind…by the way that this man was still so human even with lives hanging in the balance and desperation nestled into his behavior. Mulder wanted to discover what it was that made that desperation reach this point…partly because of his clinical interest…and partly because he sometimes thought he needed to be careful, be aware, he sometimes thought he needed to know that moment or that certain thought that changed everything because desperation was his life, and he was terrified of turning into someone else, someone with this crazed look and this shaking arm and these tears in his eyes. Mulder nodded his agreement to be quiet, and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the hostages who were lined up along the back wall, terrified and quiet.

“You’re in charge here, Michael. You’re the boss, just tell us what you want us to do and we’ll do it,” Mulder instructed, careful to group himself in with the rest of the captives and careful to assure this guy that he was the one holding the cards. Careful not to mention the backup that was probably already outside and the way that in minutes this would probably all be over. “Nobody needs to get hurt,” he promised.

“Just shut up,” he murmured, his voice low and cool and the kind of sound that sent a chill sliding down Mulder’s spine because usually low and cool was much more dangerous than loud and angry. “Jesus,” Trout breathed, readjusting his grip and shuffling his feet a little. Mulder and Scully stared at him warily, Mulder with his hand still out and Scully with her eyes wide and her breathing shallow. Trout flinched at them and Mulder reached his other hand back slowly, carefully, tapping Scully on the thigh and hoping that she knew he meant for her to take his gun out of its holster. “I’m not some kind of crazed lunatic, you know?” he mumbled and Mulder nodded.

“We know that, Michael. We know,” he assured him, his voice matching the lowness of Trout’s and staying equally as cool and unaffected.

“I’m just making a point,” he explained, “I’m just, like…you can’t fire somebody,” he told them adamantly, his voice starting to tighten, to coil up and clench its fists. “You can’t just…you know? Jesus. And I’m not crazy, I gave them all blankets and I…” he sighed and seemed to deflate, his voice dropping down again, his hand still extended and the veins in his wrist outlined weirdly by his skin. Mulder felt Scully’s fingers at his back and he tried not to let his facial expression waver.

“We believe you,” Mulder promised.

“Please,” Trout murmured incredulously, “The FBI doesn’t believe anybody,” he declared and Mulder pursed his lips because he couldn’t exactly deny that, “Look at Lee Harvey Oswald,” Trout offered, and at that Mulder raised his eyebrows. Lee Harvey Oswald.

Fascinating.

Then his own self-control returned, as well as a splash of self-flagellation, now was not the time for useless profiling and psychoanalyzing, even if the mention of the infamous assassin seemed highly significant to what had made this fifty-something refrigerator salesman just totally lose his cool. Mulder nodded his agreement as he felt Scully silently unhook the snap of his holster.

“You’re right, Michael, but we’re here to listen to you, we want to hear what you have to say. Why don’t you let your friends go and my partner and I will stay so that you can explain this to us and we can maybe try to help you,” he offered, truly wanting to keep this situation from turning ugly. Trout licked his lips and readjusted again.

“You don’t believe me, you’re trained to say that. I’m educated, and I’m not stupid, so don’t even try your psychological bullshit with me,” he warned and Mulder felt something inside of him deflate because he would’ve preferred for this to have been over by now… obviously. Trout tightened his grip on the gun. “I’m a nice guy,” he promised, “I’m not a criminal or crazy I’m just a normal guy,” his gaze shifted to the line of hostages and Mulder felt himself react without even thinking about it, standing up straighter, readying himself for what might be coming. Trout’s aim shifted with his gaze and Mulder felt Scully grip his gun with sure, medical fingers. Trout licked his lips. “Ask Pam,” he muttered, and Mulder hazarded a glance over his shoulder at the receptionist and the way the barrel of Trout’s gun was aimed directly at her forehead.

“Pam will tell you I’m normal.”

***

Pam stared down the barrel of the gun and tried to remember what NBC network television had taught her about dealing with crazy men wielding guns and weapons. She tried not to cry and she tried to think of something to say but her mouth was dry and her eyes were full of saltwater and there was something about trying not to blink that made her head hurt with exhaustion. Finally she forced out choked sounding words, and somehow made herself sound calm…sound at ease…sound like Pam.

“We know you’re a nice guy, Trout. We know you aren’t going to hurt us,” she told him softly, and she could feel the eyes of the other eight, trained on her and afraid to look away, she could feel the way that Trout’s expression softened and she could feel his slow-spreading smile in the way her stomach roiled with disgust.

“See?” he whispered, and Pam nodded her head, realizing that the movement was a little bit jerky, a little bit frantic, but unable to help it. “See? Pam knows me,” he told them, his stare shifting icily to Mulder and Scully and his gun wavering, drooping so that it pointed just to the left of her shoulder and
Pam felt something about the way that she was standing deflate.

“Maybe you should give your gun to him, so that he believes you,” she suggested carefully and Trout looked back at her with wide and unsure eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“Just, if you give back that gun than the FBI will have to listen to you and believe that you didn’t mean to hurt anybody. It’s hard to believe you when you’re holding a gun, Trout. I believe you because I know you but they don’t know you,” she mumbled, feeling the way that tears were clogged down in her throat and the way that her voice was floating, unstable, above them…shaky and gravelly. Mulder re-extended his hand and nodded, and Trout’s arm sagged even more, his resolve visibly deflating.

“Maybe,” he muttered, and just as his finger started to lift from the trigger, just as he started to tip the gun sideways and hand it over, just as Agent Scully was pulling her hand away from Agent Mulder’s gun, there was a battle cry from somewhere in the dirt tunnel and a piece of potato came flying through the air, hitting Trout squarely in the back so that he grunted with the force of it…hitting him squarely in the back so that his fists clenched and his finger tightened on the trigger…so that the gun fired and a bullet ripped through the air and directly through Mulder’s shoulder, flying past Pam’s face and lodging itself soundly in the muddy wall beside her head.

…she’d thought of Jim.