Skin : the X-files (19 page)

“Thailand is the only country in Southeast Asia never to have been a European colony,” Scully commented.

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“Christianity never gained a foothold here.” Mulder turned away from the church and gestured toward an object just in front of the clinic. It was a small wooden dollhouse set on top of a cylindrical post. The miniature house was three feet long and half as high, and had obviously been constructed with great care. The walls were painted in bright colors, and the roof was tiled in strips of what looked to be pure gold. The tiny windows had polished glass panes, and even the doorknobs had been molded out of brass. Someone had recently placed mounds of fresh garlands around the base of the house, and two long sticks of incense leaked smoke past the tiny glass windows. “Christianity never had a chance. The indigenous religion is too strong.” Mulder started forward toward the little house and the entrance to the clinic. His shoulders involuntarily arched forward against the warm rain. “It’s a spirit house, Scully. They’re a common sight in any town in Thailand—even in Bangkok, the most sophisticated city in the country. They serve as the homes of the resident
phis
—spirits—of the particular building nearby.” Scully raised her eyebrows as they passed close to the spirit house. She leaned over the beautiful pressed flowers that peeked from the tiny windows. “You seem to know a lot about the Thai religion, Mulder.” Mulder smiled as they reached the door to the clinic.

“I have an enormous respect for the Thai—always have.

Their spirituality is extremely individualistic. In fact, the word
Thai
means ‘free.’ Their beliefs aren’t a matter 188

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of doctrine—but of day-to-day observation. If they choose to placate a certain spirit, it’s because they’ve witnessed the results of having that spirit become angry. Not because someone has told them it’s the right thing to do.”

Scully glanced at Mulder. He knew that she was trying to gauge whether or not he was serious. His face gave her no clues as he reached for the door to the clinic. “There’s something to be said for a culture that’s remained inde-pendent—without even a single civil war—for over eight hundred years.”

The door came open, and Mulder felt cool air touch his wet cheeks. He ushered Scully out of the rain and shut the door behind them. They were standing at the edge of a wide rectangular hall with plaster walls and a cement floor. The place was well lit by a pair of fluorescent tubes hanging from the high tiled ceiling, and a crisp, antiseptic scent filled the air. More than a dozen litters were set up along the two sidewalls, complete with IV racks, medical carts, and the odd EKG machine. The litters were modern, with chrome frames, steel wheels, and thick hospital bedding. At least half the litters were occupied.

Buddhist monks in orange robes moved among the patients, followed by nurses in white Red Cross uniforms. Mulder noticed that the monks were wearing latex gloves and many had stethoscopes around their necks. All things considered, the place was sparser than a Western clinic, but seemed modern and efficient. Com-189

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pared to the rest of the sleepy fishing village, the clinic was almost cosmopolitan.

Scully touched Mulder’s shoulder, pointing toward one of the litters. Two monks hovered over the chrome rail, watching as a tall, blond Caucasian woman leaned close to the patient’s chest. Mulder noticed that her jacket was different from the ones worn by the Red Cross nurses, longer in the back with an open front. Beneath the jacket, the woman was wearing light blue surgical scrubs.

“Looks like she’s in charge,” Scully said. “That’s an MD’s jacket. And the way she’s wearing her stethoscope—she’s trained in the U.S. At least through her internship.”

As Mulder and Scully approached the litter, the woman stepped back, letting the two monks have a better look at what she had just done. Mulder’s eyes shifted to the patient. The man was mid-forties, conscious, with his shirt tied down around his waist. A thin line of fresh sutures ran from his upper abdomen to just below his collarbone. Mulder could see the approval in Scully’s eyes; the woman had done a good job closing the wound.

“We’ll put him on antibiotics for three weeks,” the woman said to the monks. “He should be as good as new. Unless he gets in the way of another swordfish hook.”

The monks nodded vigorously, and the woman turned, noticing the two agents for the first time. “You two look like you’re from out of town. I’m Dr. Lianna 190

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Fielding. Is there something I can help you with?” Mulder slid his ID out of his pants pocket, watching Fielding’s expression as she studied the FBI seal. She was tall—almost Mulder’s height, with sharp features and narrow blue eyes. “I’m Fox Mulder, this is my partner, Dana Scully. We’re U.S. federal agents, and we were hoping you could spare a moment of your time. Are you a full-time resident of Alkut, Dr. Fielding?” Fielding pulled off her latex gloves and tossed them toward a plastic waste bin. “Actually, I’m attached to the local division of the Red Cross. I make a tour of all of the towns and villages in the area, teaching and assisting as much as I can. U.S. federal agents? You’re rather far from home, aren’t you?”

Scully had stepped next to the litter and was surveying the stitches. The two monks were next to her, conversing in quiet Thai. Mulder noticed that Scully was being careful to keep a respectable distance between herself and the monks, as Buddhist law dictated. “From your cross-stitching, Dr. Fielding, my guess is you trained in the States. Is that right?”

“Chicago. Are you a doctor?”

Scully nodded. “Forensic pathology. But I’m not here in that capacity.”

“We’re investigating a case that goes back fifteen years,” Mulder interrupted. “We’re interested in finding two men connected to the MASH unit that used to be located on this spot. Emile and Andrew Paladin—” Fielding coughed, then glanced at the two monks, 191

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who had both looked up at the mention of the names. “If you’re federal agents, I’m sure you must know that Emile Paladin died a long time ago.” Mulder’s instincts kicked in as he watched the two monks whispering to one another. Something about Emile Paladin’s name had struck a nerve—fifteen years after the fact. Lianna Fielding noticed the change in Mulder’s eyes and made an attempt at explanation.

“Emile Paladin is a part of this town’s history, Agent Mulder. His MASH unit was many of the townspeople’s first real contact with the outside world. And as you probably know, the Thai have an extremely—creative—

way of thinking. Things that are different inspire stories, legends—and fear. And from what I understand, Emile Paladin was indeed different.”

Mulder felt his muscles tense. “How do you mean?” Fielding started to answer when a commotion broke out near the doorway to the clinic. Mulder turned and saw an old man being half-carried toward a litter by two younger men in fishing gear. The old man was moaning in obvious, excruciating pain, clutching wildly at his leg. Without a word, Fielding quickly grabbed a fresh pair of gloves from a nearby cart and rushed past the two agents. She shouted something in Thai to one of the young men, and received a high-pitched response.

Fielding reached the litter a few steps ahead of Scully.

Mulder saw that the old man’s pants had been torn away below the knee. His right leg had turned a strange purple 192

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color and was speckled with circular blisters. Fielding spoke quietly to the man, trying to calm him, as a monk handed her a vial of clear liquid. She poured the liquid over the purple area, and Mulder caught the distinct scent of vinegar.

“Jellyfish,” Scully commented, watching Fielding work. “Maybe a man-of-war. Incredibly painful, sometimes even fatally so. The vinegar fixes the nematocysts—stinging cells—onto the skin, to prevent further encroachment.”

Fielding began applying a dry powder over the wound. “Meat tenderizer,” Scully explained. “It makes the nematocysts stick together, and neutralizes the acid venom.”

Fielding reached for a scalpel from a small tray held by one of the monks. She carefully began to scrape the top layer of skin off of the old man’s leg. The man’s pain seemed to lessen as she shaved away the nematocysts.

Still, he seemed dazed, nearly catatonic. Mulder’s thoughts drifted back to Perry Stanton as he watched Fielding work with the scalpel. He remembered the wild look in Stanton’s eyes as he leapt at him in the subway tunnel. Stanton had been completely out of his mind, in agony—not so different from the old man on the litter.

Both were trapped in the torment of their own skin.

Finally, Fielding set the scalpel back on the tray and began to rinse the wound. As the patient settled back against the stretcher, Fielding turned toward Mulder.

“As I was about to say, I’m not really the person you 193

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should be talking to. I’m not a native of this town—and I have no personal knowledge of either of the Paladins.

But there is someone who might be able to help you.

Allan Trowbridge, one of the clinic’s founders.” Scully had her notepad out of her pocket and was shaking rainwater out of the binding. “Did Trowbridge know Emile Paladin?”

“Allan served as an orderly with the MASH unit during the war. He decided to settle in Alkut after the war ended. He helped set up this clinic—and was responsible for getting the Red Cross to send much of the equipment.

He’s very well respected in the community.”

“Is he here at the clinic?” Mulder asked, his interest growing.

“Today is his day off. You can probably find him at home—I’ll give you directions. A friendly warning, though; from what I’ve heard about Emile Paladin and his MASH unit—you aren’t going to be making many friends, bringing up that past. Some things are better left alone.”

Mulder raised his eyebrows. The cryptic statement was just the sort of thing to make him want to dig deeper.

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X Mulder’s face caught fire from the inside, followed by a shrill ringing deep in his ears. He quickly reached for his drink, but his eyes were watering so much he couldn’t find the glass. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but all he could manage was a fierce choking sound, somewhat akin to a chain saw cutting through bone.

His attempts at communication were met by a gale of laughter from the other side of the low wooden table.

Allan Trowbridge slammed his beefy palms together, a huge smile on his lips. “Like I said,
som-dtam
is an acquired taste. Even the Thais treat the northern dish with respect.”

Mulder finally found his glass of
bia
—Thai beer—

letting the harsh bubbles chase the fire away. He rubbed the tears out of his eyes and looked at Scully, who was 195

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seated cross-legged on the wood-paneled floor next to him, her chopsticks hovering above the oversize dish.

“Dive right in, Scully. Don’t let me suffer alone.” Scully paused for a moment, then shrugged and lifted one of the noodlelike strips to her lips. The moment she closed her mouth, her eyes sprang open and red cauli-flowers appeared on her cheeks. She coughed, grabbing Mulder’s glass right out of his hand. Mulder turned back toward Trowbridge, who was thoroughly enjoying the show.

“You know,” Mulder joked, “assaulting FBI agents is a federal crime. What did you say was in this concoction?” Before Trowbridge could answer, his wife sidled up next to him, bowing softly as she took her seat at the low pine table. Her appearance was a striking contrast to her husband’s. Trowbridge was a huge man, over six feet tall and at least 220 pounds. His barrel chest swelled against the table with each breath, and his bright red beard seemed to spring out over his square jaw like moss on a boulder. Rina Trowbridge, on the other hand, was a tiny woman—barely five feet tall, with thin, delicate features.

Her jet-black hair was tied back behind her head in a complex system of buns, and she was wearing an ele-gant, jade green silk smock, buttoned at the throat.

“First,” Rina said, her English draped in the velvet tones of her Thai accent, “we start with raw papaya.

Then we add lime juice, a handful of chilies, dried shrimp, and tiny salted land crabs. The finished product is pounded in a pestle, and served as is. I apologize for 196

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the lack of warning—my husband is a sadist.” Mulder laughed. In truth, Allan Trowbridge seemed to be a genuinely amiable man. Despite Dr. Fielding’s warn-ings, Trowbridge had not seemed upset by Mulder and Scully’s arrival—or their front line of questions about Emile Paladin and the MASH unit. Instead of displaying any anger, he had immediately demanded that the two agents join him for lunch. His wife had happily added two settings to the table.

Mulder’s gaze swept across the small living area as he gingerly scooped a small ball of
khao niew
—sticky rice—

into his serving bowl. The narrow, wood-walled room had a warm and friendly feel to it, from the loosely woven hangings to the plush, faded crimson oriental carpet that covered most of the floor. There was a tall rattan bookshelf by the door, filled with medical manuals and Thai-to-English dictionaries. In the far corner, there was a small Buddhist shrine, complete with a four-foot-high golden Buddha seated cross-legged, palms up, on a marble pedestal. The Buddha was surrounded by unlit incense and dried garlands, and there were two sets of cloth slippers beneath the pedestal. No doubt, Trowbridge had picked up some of his wife’s culture—and perhaps that accounted for his easygoing attitude. Along with their spirituality and superstitions, the Thai were also known for their relaxed way of life.

“You’ve come a long way to ask questions about ancient history,” Trowbridge said as he picked at the last remnants of his meal—finally turning the conversation 197

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back to Mulder and Scully’s entrance. “Emile and Andrew Paladin are a part of this village’s past—but certainly not part of its present. I haven’t spoken either of those names in a long, long time. And I don’t know anything about Andrew Paladin’s whereabouts. I’ve heard rumors that he lives up in the mountains—but I haven’t seen him since the war. So I’m not sure how I can help you.”