favorites"—and to his even greater surprise, most of the passengers actually knew all the verses to "Camptown Races" and "Moon River."
Vladimir Rubicon had to shout to be heard over the singing. "My little girl Cassandra accompanied me on some of my later digs. Her mother left us when she was ten, didn't want to deal with a crazy man who spent his time digging in the dirt in uncivilized portions of the world, playing with bones and reassembling broken pots. But Cassandra was just as fascinated as I was. She went with me happily. I suppose that's what sparked her desire to follow in my footsteps."
Rubicon swallowed and removed his half-glasses. "Now I'll feel guilty if something terrible has happened to her. She focused more on Central American civiliza-tions, following the Aztec and Olmec and Toltec south-ward as they swept into Mexico, one culture overtaking and adopting the best parts of another. I never could tell whether Cassandra was doing it for the love of the work itself, or if she was trying to impress me and make me proud of her ...
or if she just wanted to compete with her old man. I hope I get the chance to find out."
Mulder frowned solemnly, but said nothing.
About an hour into the flight, the senior citizens per-formed an act that Mulder considered tantamount to a highjacking. One old man wearing a golfing cap stood up at the flight attendants' station and commandeered the telephone handset used for the plane-wide intercom.
"Welcome, everybody, to Viva Sunset Tours!" the grinning man said with a tip of his golf cap. "This is your entertainment director, Roland—are we having fun yet?"
The senior citizens let out a loud cheer that rattled the inner hull of the plane. Someone whooped, while other scattered individuals made rude catcalls.
"Think of it as a second childhood," Scully mur-mured. Mulder just shook his head.
Then Entertainment Director Roland announced that the flight crew had graciously agreed to allow them to use the intercom so they could spend the remaining hour of their flight playing a few rounds of Bingo. Mulder felt his stomach sink. Looking amused, the long-suffering flight attendants marched down the aisles, handing out stubby golf pencils and index cards printed with numbers.
Entertainment Director Roland seemed to be having the time of his life.
After a while, the intercom chatter ceased being entirely annoying and became instead a background drone, easy to ignore ... except when a plump old woman literally leaped out of her seat, waving her card and yelling "Bingo! Bingo!"
as if she were being mugged.
Mulder stared out the window, seeing nothing but the blue ocean and tattered white clouds. "I wonder if we're anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle," he mut-tered, then smiled to show he had just been joking.
If Scully had been sitting next to him, she might have elbowed him in the ribs.
Vladimir Rubicon munched on one of the bags of pretzels the flight attendant had distributed, sipped from his paper cup of coffee, and cleared his throat, turning to get Mulder's attention.
"Agent Mulder," he said, his words difficult to decipher above the roaring background noise of coach class, "you seem to carry a deep sadness yourself. A lost loved one? You still wear the pain like an albatross around your neck."
"The Rime of the Ancient FBI Agent," Mulder said. But the humor didn't work, and he looked seriously into Vladimir Rubicon's cornflower-blue eyes. "Yes, I lost someone." He didn't elaborate.
Rubicon placed a strong, blunt-fingered hand on Mulder's arm. To his credit, the archaeologist did not probe any further. Mulder was reluctant to describe his memories about the bright light, the alien abduction, how his sister had floated up in the air, drifting out the win-dow as he glimpsed the spindly, otherworldly silhouette that beckoned from the glowing doorway.
Mulder had buried those thoughts himself for a long time and had only reconstructed them through intense sessions of
Vladimir Rubicon had to shout to be heard over the singing. "My little girl Cassandra accompanied me on some of my later digs. Her mother left us when she was ten, didn't want to deal with a crazy man who spent his time digging in the dirt in uncivilized portions of the world, playing with bones and reassembling broken pots. But Cassandra was just as fascinated as I was. She went with me happily. I suppose that's what sparked her desire to follow in my footsteps."
Rubicon swallowed and removed his half-glasses. "Now I'll feel guilty if something terrible has happened to her. She focused more on Central American civiliza-tions, following the Aztec and Olmec and Toltec south-ward as they swept into Mexico, one culture overtaking and adopting the best parts of another. I never could tell whether Cassandra was doing it for the love of the work itself, or if she was trying to impress me and make me proud of her ...
or if she just wanted to compete with her old man. I hope I get the chance to find out."
Mulder frowned solemnly, but said nothing.
About an hour into the flight, the senior citizens per-formed an act that Mulder considered tantamount to a highjacking. One old man wearing a golfing cap stood up at the flight attendants' station and commandeered the telephone handset used for the plane-wide intercom.
"Welcome, everybody, to Viva Sunset Tours!" the grinning man said with a tip of his golf cap. "This is your entertainment director, Roland—are we having fun yet?"
The senior citizens let out a loud cheer that rattled the inner hull of the plane. Someone whooped, while other scattered individuals made rude catcalls.
"Think of it as a second childhood," Scully mur-mured. Mulder just shook his head.
Then Entertainment Director Roland announced that the flight crew had graciously agreed to allow them to use the intercom so they could spend the remaining hour of their flight playing a few rounds of Bingo. Mulder felt his stomach sink. Looking amused, the long-suffering flight attendants marched down the aisles, handing out stubby golf pencils and index cards printed with numbers.
Entertainment Director Roland seemed to be having the time of his life.
After a while, the intercom chatter ceased being entirely annoying and became instead a background drone, easy to ignore ... except when a plump old woman literally leaped out of her seat, waving her card and yelling "Bingo! Bingo!"
as if she were being mugged.
Mulder stared out the window, seeing nothing but the blue ocean and tattered white clouds. "I wonder if we're anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle," he mut-tered, then smiled to show he had just been joking.
If Scully had been sitting next to him, she might have elbowed him in the ribs.
Vladimir Rubicon munched on one of the bags of pretzels the flight attendant had distributed, sipped from his paper cup of coffee, and cleared his throat, turning to get Mulder's attention.
"Agent Mulder," he said, his words difficult to decipher above the roaring background noise of coach class, "you seem to carry a deep sadness yourself. A lost loved one? You still wear the pain like an albatross around your neck."
"The Rime of the Ancient FBI Agent," Mulder said. But the humor didn't work, and he looked seriously into Vladimir Rubicon's cornflower-blue eyes. "Yes, I lost someone." He didn't elaborate.
Rubicon placed a strong, blunt-fingered hand on Mulder's arm. To his credit, the archaeologist did not probe any further. Mulder was reluctant to describe his memories about the bright light, the alien abduction, how his sister had floated up in the air, drifting out the win-dow as he glimpsed the spindly, otherworldly silhouette that beckoned from the glowing doorway.
Mulder had buried those thoughts himself for a long time and had only reconstructed them through intense sessions of
Similar Books
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai: a Danger Cove Hair Salon Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 5)
Traci Andrighetti, Elizabeth Ashby
