TITLE: Diametrically Opposed
AUTHOR: mountainphile
RATING: NC-17 in some chapters for language and adult sexual
situations. Please read responsibly.
CATEGORY: MSR, X-File
FEEDBACK: mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask to link this story, as I like to
know who and where in case I want to visit. Since it was
originally written as a work-in-progress subtle changes may
have occurred along the way in various chapters... or not.
UNIVERSE: Anything goes from seasons 1 through 7. After Je
Souhaite, be prepared to enter a Requiem-less timeline.
"Diametrically Opposed" is set four months after the events of
"Seeds Of Synchronicity", the previous story in this universe,
in which the partners share an intimacy that goes far beyond
friendship.
SETTING: "Honor isn't about making the right choices. It's
about dealing with the consequences."
Scully and Mulder investigate the mysterious disappearance of
a college student in Ohio. Circumstances demand that they
work the case from divergent ends of the spectrum, unearthing
old wounds while opening new doors to the truth.
DISCLAIMER: All things XF, after all this time, still belong
to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions. I think.
NOTES and ACKNOWLEDGMENTS at end of story.
************
Chapter 1
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 10, 2001
1:20 AM
It hovered like a phantom firefly in the night.
Three sets of eyes tracked the craft's sinuous progress over
the countryside until it nestled just beyond a dark silhouette
of treetops. Overhead the melon-slice moon grinned and a
galaxy twinkled through marbled cloud cover, but from their
vantage point in the meadow this distant unnamed thing
eclipsed the whole universe with its potency.
Speaking in whispers behind their bush blind they handed off a
pair of binoculars to one another. The first two men took
quick looks and muttered in awed, hushed expletives before
passing the glasses on.
Biding his time, the third observer sat aloof, exempt from
their exhilaration. He focused in and froze, committing every
aspect of the thing's flattened triangular shape and movement
to memory. Even as he watched it grew blurry with vibration,
brighter by increments, until he grit his teeth at each
distant ominous pulsation.
Near his elbow, a hoarse mutter and cottony gusts of air.
"Dude, is it where I think it is?"
"Same as last time," said another, repositioning himself on
the cold, dry weeds matted under their knees. "What d'you
think?" he asked the keeper of the binoculars, who remained
mute and glued to the mesmerizing show. As they stared the
craft descended into the treetops, stabilized, and emitted a
greenish-white beam toward the earth beneath it. Branches
swayed, either from the shaft of hazy light or the wind that
began to whip the grass and bushes around them.
For the space of several minutes they viewed it in stunned
silence.
"I know exactly where it is, and what it's doing -- and so do
you two aces." He growled out the words and shifted to glare
at each of them in misplaced anger. "Am I right?"
Obedient nods and eyes glazed with shame, fear, and
comprehension. Yes, they knew.
"We together on this?"
Firmer agreement, whispers potent with renewed solidarity.
"We're with you all the way, Tusk."
"Yeah, man, what's the plan? We gettin' down and dirty?"
"It'll return, like it always does. Tonight we just get the
fuck outta here," answered their leader, already crawling
backward combat-style on powerful arms and wide shoulders.
The others followed him, inching through the wild grasses with
stealth and precision until they reached a gradient that
sloped downward into weedy shadow. Nearby two parked cars
crouched, masked by shrubbery and loose haystacks of deadfall.
"I still want somebody standing watch 'til it leaves," he
said, lunging to his feet. "Report back exactly what it does.
Where it goes. How long it takes." His eyes glinted like
flint. "So, who's it gonna be?"
"I'll stay," offered one of the shorter men after a pause. He
shrugged and tugged at his sparse mustache. "My turn, I
guess. But I ain't getting much closer than the top of this
rise. Not when I'm by my lonesome and out in the open."
The man called Tusk smiled. Like a death's head in the thin
moonlight, his face and teeth gleamed and he clapped a strong
hand on his friend's shoulder before sliding it down into a
firm handclasp. "My man! Stay cool; be safe. Talk to you
when you get back. In the meantime," he beckoned to the other
as he slipped into the driver's seat, "I gotta make a phone
call quick."
"Use your cell phone, dude," said his passenger as they crept
away in low gear, headlights off as they navigated the hard
ruts of the meadow.
"Won't work when that thing's around. I'll call soon as I
catch a decent signal."
Left behind, the lone sentinel pulled on padded gloves,
secured the strings of his parka hood, and assumed his station
on the chilly lip of the ridge. Straw-like stalks lashed his
cheeks and he huffed quick breaths of trepidation and
excitement. He hunkered down lower on his belly and pressed
the binoculars to his eyes.
The sonofabitch was still out there. It hovered and sank
lower, casting its greenish beam through the trees.
Yeah, he could do this. Even if it took all night and into
the morning.
************
Georgetown, Virginia
March 10
2:30 AM
"Say that again?"
Take nothing for granted because life can be more capricious
than one could ever dream.
Intimacy with her partner of seven years included, Scully was
realizing. Swathed in her bathrobe by the window, she'd
articulated to Mulder a very private request. Her throat
ached as she waited for their world to crumble.
"You don't want me in your bed?"
Propped on an elbow in the middle of tousled blue sheets, he
seemed lost at sea, bewildered. As though he'd surfaced from
sleep to find her abandoning ship or putting through a
transfer behind his back instead of simply taking a respite
from what had become conjugal license.
She pivoted on bare feet, thankful that this stance veiled her
features in the blessed anonymity of shadow. Not so the man
on her pillows. Mulder's voice emerged drowsy and flat, but
she could see by the moonlight's glare that his lips curled
into a smile of sick incredulity.
This was all wrong; it wasn't her intention to wound him or
mar the closeness they'd nurtured. Last April their long-
standing attraction for one another had finally overridden any
reason not to indulge and ultimately nudged them over the
line. Infrequent, tentative lovers for half a year, the
November case in Missouri quickened their mutual exploration
to a higher level of intensity. Since then, as the wounds
she'd acquired on that case were healing, he'd become a
fixture in her bedroom.
"Mulder, that's not what I said. You make it sound so much...
harsher than it is."
"Sugarcoat this baby for me then."
"I think it would be beneficial for *me*, right now," she
qualified with a step nearer, "if you didn't stay the night as
often."
"What, do I hog the blankets? Fart in my sleep?"
"Be serious."
Energized, he sat up, chest broad and exposed, a target in the
moonlight. "What are you not telling me, Scully? How long
has this been an issue?"
Those things had never been issues, she knew, steeling her
resolve. Rather, his over-protective presence during this
important last stage of her convalescence.
"Mulder, please hear me out. It's just for a little while,"
she said, gentling her tone to placate and salvage
credibility. "Until I get a better handle on some residuals."
"Nightmares."
"More than that."
Physical injuries sustained during the case had mended under
her doctor's care. All of them -- the head gash, abrasions,
cracked ribs, and significantly, the deep chest cuts --
repaired themselves with speed appropriate for a healthy woman
her age. It was the human psyche that was rejuvenating too
slowly and incrementally for her timetable.
She had trouble pinpointing when his best intentions became
more stifling than welcome. During her convalescence he was
caregiver, protector, comforter, and when she felt able,
gentle lover. Nothing escaped his notice, even during sleep.
She'd been unable to count how many times in the last months
she startled from a dream, sweaty and desperate, to find his
arms ready and his murmur soft in her ear. It was a godsend,
then, knowing he was with her. That his automatic succor,
relentless in its devotion, could ease the terrors that still
stalked her by night.
Since then, they shared her bed with clockwork regularity, a
far cry from the days when sex between them was novel and
winsome in its exploration. His nightly surveillance over her
began to usurp important inner resources that begged to try
their muscle.
She watched Mulder climb stark and loose-limbed from the bed,
drawn toward her through the luster from the window like a
star man. As he'd done countless times before, his hands
claimed each hip through her robe, fingers stroking deftly as
though willing away any encumbrance between them. Affirming
his alpha right to such intimacy, he tugged her lower body to
his and she squinted into the blinding glow of light.
"Scully, I *want* you to lean on me," he countered gruffly.
"It's my job, my joy to watch your back. I think I've proven
myself."
"You have. Oh, God, don't misconstrue what I'm asking." She
almost whispered the words, casting him a look raw with
emotion before laying her cheek against his chest. Her arms
encircled him, the man who'd won her loyalty and slowly opened
her eyes to the unexplainable. "Mulder, I love you and
everything we have together. But I also need breathing room."
The entreaty seemed to strike home, calming him with its
frankness and logic. A sigh into her hair, then one of his
hands snaked to the back of her head. He held her against his
skin like a fragile treasure, waiting.
"I can't regain my balance or my confidence if you're always
protecting me. You're too good at it," she continued,
grateful that he grunted at this irony. "I'd benefit from
more time alone, at night especially."
Dreams of Emily were fewer and surprisingly gentle when they
occurred. She had the epiphany in Aubrey and Benjie Tillman's
singular neurosis to thank for that. Yet other demons had
invaded her sleep, a ghoulish cast from various cases that
marked her deeply, including a new specter: a grandmother
named Alice Marshall. Prescribed Bureau counseling had helped
to some degree, as did the slow passage of time.
"Should my opinion matter, I think you've made a great
recovery, all things considered," he said.
"I'm not so sure."
She paused, sensing his bewilderment. Cradling his face
between her hands, her thumbs tried to smooth away the
distress she saw in his eyes. He should understand, as she
did, that they were still -- and always would be -- a couple.
That it was non-negotiable fact after all they'd shared
together and what they had become.
"Mulder, listen to me. Four months ago you told me that we
loved one another no matter what. I trust in those words
implicitly despite what you may think now. Nothing essential
has changed in that regard. *We* are okay; please believe
me."
Squaring his lower lip he exhaled her name and his hands slid
down to dangle at his sides. "And you think policing my time
between your sheets is the solution."
"I *do* want you with me. Just not ev-ery, si-ngle night,"
she enunciated, grasping his hand as though that simple act
could steer him toward capitulation.
"Next bad dream, you'll wish to high heaven I was tucked in
there with you."
"I've also got to fight them off myself. Deal with it on my
own. Sorry to burst your bubble, Mulder, but you're not the
only one with quirks." She tilted her head sadly, watched his
expression soften. "I know this seems selfish at your
expense."
His fingers hovered, combing away her protective fall of hair,
and she closed her eyes to the sensation. They moved with a
blind man's surety over eyebrow, eyelid, down the cool ridge
of her nose. Playfully his thumb brushed across her lips
before he cupped cheek and chin, suffused with warmth, in the
nest of his hand.
"Wrong," he said. "The greater truth is, I'd be selfish
standing in the way of something this important to you."
This was ever her undoing, the exquisite, tender selflessness
he bestowed upon her in private, like a gift. Especially so
tonight, making allowance for a personal dynamic that loomed
large and palpable between them.
"Thank you," she murmured, blinking to focus through a glaze
of tears.
"Bear in mind... if I'm denied for weeks at a time and find
myself resorting to five-fingered chokeholds, we'd better re-
evaluate."
"Agreed. I love the sex as much as you do; that doesn't
change."
"Just logistics?"
"Um... frequency, a little. A few days, for starters."
"Damn. In case you hadn't noticed, I've developed quite an
attachment to my Scully Posturepedic."
As proof his head tipped forward, lips seeking hers for a
languorous kiss before he enveloped her in another embrace.
They clung together for support, Mulder's nose buried deep in
her neck and shoulder while she nodded gentle concurrence.
Yes, with a little faith and work they could handle the slight
stagger backward, this simple amendment to their nighttime
agenda.
"Since that's settled," he said, coming up for air, "why don't
you haul your quirky little ass back into this bed? I'm cold
as hell and would appreciate getting under the covers before
my nuts shrivel away to obscurity. Unless I'm being cut off
as we speak."
"I'm not quite *that* ruthless."
He grabbed the blanket's edge, lifting it with a gentlemanly
flourish while she shrugged off her robe and slid naked toward
the center of the mattress. Bathed in moonlight they reached
for one another under the bedding, navigating more serene,
familiar seas.
Would she regret this arrangement, however temporary? She
felt a flicker of remorse when he mouthed her earlobe, his
teasing an obvious camouflage. "Care to pencil me in after
work tomorrow?"
"Mulder..."
"Y'know," he mused, "nooners might be a nice switch."
"Oh God." She shielded her eyes in mock chagrin, but dimpled
at the prospect and sniggered quietly along with him. Other
senses took precedence as blankets trembled around them in the
semi-darkness. She inhaled the intimate comforting smells of
night breath and musk, of his body and hers commingled.
Unseen but felt, his hand first traced her nipples, urging
them erect, then skimmed lower to browse through fur and
fleshy softness. She sighed against his chest and shoulder,
lips parting at the delicious, liquid tingle of Mulder's
fingers flexing and working their magic.
"Question," he mumbled against her brow.
"Hmmm?"
"Why tonight? Why wait until now to tell me this?"
Distracted, she groped for a reply. "Circumstances, I
suppose. I dreamt, woke up, and you were already holding me.
Mulder, I haven't had the chance to fight them myself,
something I need to do."
"I can't help it if I'm Johnny-on-the-spot."
"This alteration in our, um, routine... you won't hold it
against me, will you?"
He captured her hand with his larger one for answer, pressing
it low to his bare skin. This effort to salvage what he could
of pride and machismo was transparent enough to elicit a smile
and a few tears. Obliging, she stroked his fuzzy sac, warmed
and looser now, before her fingers closed around the denser
girth of an incipient erection.
"Scully," he whispered in her ear, "I'd be happy to hold it
against you any time you say the word."
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 10
1:45 AM
Birdlike, Cricket cocked her head as she listened.
Again, a sharp tap-tapping clanged through the heating pipes
of the old dormitory, echoing across the length of her room
before fading into nothingness. She'd heard it before, this
same noise at other ungodly hours, but felt no automatic
prickle of fear, even when the register thudded an answer in
eerie staccato. Cricket knew a secret or two. It was also
the reason she was alone again and a third roommate had
vacated in as many months.
Her room, 412 was supposed to be haunted.
According to avowals of past residents and urban legend, that
is. Small wonder few freshman girls ambled the halls of
Wilson at night, as college students were wont to do during
exam week. Instead they holed up in pairs and groups to
study, usually in the rooms of students on the lower floors or
under the bright lights of the dorm lounge at ground level.
The majority ignored the rumors, going about the erratic,
driven business of academic life. Others kept their eyes and
ears peeled for anything outright strange, though the
superstitious crowd risked speaking openly about purported
sounds, sightings, strange lights, and cold spots.
Cricket remained the exception. Her short, spiked black hair,
tattoos, and face jewelry singled her out for another academic
quarter as the freshman dorm's resident punk and pariah.
Ostracism wasn't objectionable. Rather, it brought with it a
degree of funky notoriety. Most of the students left her the
hell alone, which she, being a loner, preferred anyway.
The fabled possession extended beyond Cricket's small haven on
the fourth floor. She'd been aware that sightings and weird
noises were reported in all parts of the dormitory and also on
the surrounding grounds by generations of spooked students.
Common knowledge alleged that nearly every building on the
historic campus boasted of some supernatural claim and could
produce a myriad of baffling eyewitness accounts. Par for a
private college founded at the turn of the nineteenth century
in old Ohio River territory.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed before an opened textbook, she
rubbed her eyes, yawned, and then stretched celery-stick arms
above her head in an effort stay alert. At the movement, the
floor creaked and a lamp beside her elbow flickered, throwing
splashes of light against the wall. Two final exams loomed:
one at nine a.m., the second at one o'clock, right after lunch
when the world begged to snooze. With a flash of panic she
knew she wasn't prepared yet, hadn't crammed enough of the
essential crap into her brain. And technically it was already
the morning of test day.
Caffeine would help, she decided, peering into the tall
Styrofoam cup that sat empty, stained with residue and lip
marks. But coffee demanded another trek downstairs, into the
limelight of the student lounge.
More thunks emanated from the register. She climbed from the
bed and peered out her window, wondering what was afoot this
cold night. Frost edged the pane, a thin crust of white she
scored idly with a purple-enameled fingernail. Her nose left
a damp, icy spot on the night-black glass, but nothing else
seemed evident except a fretful wind, darkness, and the
winking lights of uptown Hocking.
The stairwells, dim and deserted, smelled of old wood and
decades of brown varnish. Cricket hummed tunelessly, scuffing
each step downward in her slippers. Ahead, the lounge blazed
and buzzed with fluorescent overheads and table lamps. By the
look of it most of the dorm was up studying. She squinted
from the far hallway and decided they resembled a gaggle of
forlorn detainees. That, or disaster victims gathered
together for sanctuary in some semi-public place, with their
tumbled backpacks and winter coats piled around them, dressed
in everything from jeans to pajamas.
The usual scene on a night before exams. She also felt the
presence of a hushed tension over the room, an undercurrent of
paranoia. Clusters of students sat with their noses stuck in
books, napped, or talked quietly. Fewer than usual scrounged
cigarettes and donned their coats to disappear out the back
door for a nicotine break. Too cold outside? Or fear of
something unknown?
She could do this -- stroll in, score coffee and candy, and
slip away before anyone noticed. She had nothing to say to
any of them, especially jittery Lynnie, the last one to bail
from 412 only a week ago. The girl sat apart with a wide-eyed
audience, conducting a heated, whispered discussion that drew
in a half-dozen slack-jawed listeners.
"--moaning and a light at the end of the hall. I swear to God
it moved along the baseboard right toward the window."
Gasps ensued, evidencing both awe and disbelief.
"Car headlights, maybe..."
"A reflection?" someone suggested.
"No way." Lynnie was adamant. "I know what I saw. And
heard. That's why I got my sweet ass out of there."
Cricket gave a derisive snort as she passed, and a dozen pairs
of eyes flicked over.
"What's your problem, freak?"
She ignored Lynnie's query and scanned the available drinks,
frowning, feeling the burn of antagonism at her back. No more
coffee, cocoa, or Coke. Irritated, she stabbed the A&W Root
Beer button, waited for the drop and slam of the can, then
browsed the depleted snack machine.
"*Hell-o*? I'm talking to you."
Cricket took her time and wore her patent infuriating smirk.
She halted in front of the seated group, soft drink and candy
bars clutched to her skinny middle. Compared to the other
reasonably conventional students she resembled an elf-urchin
gone wild with black eyeliner, scissors, and heavy metal. She
tongued her lip ring to heighten the effect and further
provoke their disdain. "So talk."
"I want to know if you've heard anything strange up there on
Fourth. Like, tonight, a little while ago. Some of the girls
on Third thought they did."
"Like what?"
Lynnie looked around the circle for support. "Uh, noises.
Banging and weird stuff. Even the RA thought she heard
something."
"Everybody's kinda nervous," another girl confessed quietly.
"Well, geez. In that case..." Cricket bent toward them with
an air that bordered on friendliness, lowering her voice
conspiratorially. "You guys can do me a really, really huge
favor."
"Sure, what is it?"
"Be sure to call me down... as soon as the Blair Witch shows
up. In the meantime, I gotta study."
"Oh, fuck you!"
"Yeah." Cricket twirled her middle finger at the small,
panicky cluster of faces and said over her shoulder in
parting, "Not my fault I don't wuss-out after midnight like
the rest of you pumpkins."
Jeers and curses nipped her heels down the hall and up the
first flight of stairs. Confrontation over, she felt little
relief. Instead, a singular new level of urgency dogged her
and escalated all the way to the fourth floor.
Cricket's narrow hallway remained as she'd left it, dim and
deserted. Nothing unusual; her room remained the only one
with a strip of light gleaming under the hardwood door and
through the pane of the overhead transom. She passed the hall
phone just as it trilled, shattering the silence and making
her swear and jump. A candy bar landed between her slippers,
so she slung the whole load onto the carpet before answering.
Only one person would call at this hour of the morning anyway,
so it was fated that she be right here to pick up and halt the
racket.
"Hey," she said into the mouthpiece.
"Cricket?"
"Who else? I should get work study credit for being their
answering service up here."
The caller paused. "Just wanted to clue you in about
something."
"What's up?"
"Another visit."
"No shit?" Needles of apprehension ringed her hairline and
she scratched a temple. With effort she smothered the emotion
that leached into her voice, stifled it by mumbling into the
receiver. "So, what's the deal? People've been hearing
noises tonight around here. Even me --"
"Keep inside 'til morning just to be on the safe side."
"D'you need me for anything? I'll be doing an all-nighter.
First exam's right after breakfast."
"Nothing's happening, so stay put. Call me sometime tomorrow,
got that?"
"Got it," she echoed, as her scalp prickled in earnest and she
directed another look back over her shoulder. As though cued,
the distant tapping and clanging recommenced, boiling up from
somewhere within the creaking bowels of the building.
************
End of Chapter 1
Continued in Chapter 2
************
Chapter 2
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 12, 2001
4:00 PM
"I called this meeting," began the moderator, acknowledging
the small group with a slow movement of his hand, "because we
have a new problem at the campus."
He'd purposely chosen this spot for clandestine gatherings.
Late afternoon sun poured through the slender double-paned
windows. Their rounded cornices and a high Victorian ceiling
lent an air of mellowed charm and antiquity to the room.
Much better than the sinister, stale offices he'd known during
his father's tenure. A big man, he craved space. In his mind
light conveyed openness. Openness bred confidence, insured
trust, all of which were to his advantage.
The meeting convened on a third floor, with a view toward
Hocking in the distance. Ringed by the lazy Hocking River and
a jumble of residential and public buildings, the city lay
amidst the more historic structures of Putnam University. At
this time of day the old brick and glass gleamed like bronze
from the rolling hills on which the town was founded.
A circle of well-dressed men nodded to him in understanding.
To an onlooker they would seem a mismatched group, like pieces
forced together from disparate jigsaw puzzles to make an ill-
fitting whole. Most possessed that calm, disassociated aspect
of the long initiated. The minority, displaying less inner
circle savvy, seemed guarded but eager to learn whatever rules
were required of them in this strange apprenticeship.
"You may already know," the big man continued in his thick,
husky voice, "that another student has gone missing. On
several levels, this news disturbs me."
"When did it happen?"
He shifted his body on the brocaded upholstery chair and
gestured to a member of the group. "Give us details,
Provost."
"It happened the day before yesterday, some time in the middle
of the night." Uneasy, the man eyed other solemn-faced
members of the gathering, with their cold eyes and creased
suits. "The student never showed up for breakfast or exams
and hasn't been seen since. It's been kept quiet, except for
the report called in to the national database for missing
persons... and to the police."
"Which ones?" another snapped.
"Campus security police, of course. But the report was then
forwarded on to the city and county departments. It's
procedure," he added, with a dab to his forehead, "and the
only way we could satisfy the parents."
"Who was the last to see her?"
Random questions appeared, lobbed like firecrackers by the old
timers.
The big man grinned, recognizing a test of mettle, noting that
the Provost quailed slightly before responding. "That's
unknown; no one's come forward."
"Is anyone suggesting foul play or kidnapping? Or is it
simply another runaway scenario?"
"The student has been listed as a missing person, nothing
more, but --"
"Push the runaway theory," interjected a third voice, "so no
one can accuse the university of negligence or foul play in
connection with the disappearance."
"Who was it?"
The Provost cleared his throat. "A young woman from
Cincinnati named Amanda Carmichael. Freshman class, music
major, blonde, oldest child of three. Her parents are
understandably frantic. The university has assured them that
everything possible is being done to locate her."
"Then the parents could be problematic. Where are they?"
"They arrived in town yesterday," said the Provost. He began
rubbing his palms together as he leaned forward. "The new
Dean of Students met with the Carmichaels and is doing what he
can to alleviate their distress."
"Explain to us what that might entail."
"He's seen them, naturally, and accompanied them to file their
report and speak to police. He's offered comfort and made
arrangements for accommodations at the Inn. He's even
contacted a psychic in the area, at the parents' request.
Beyond that, there's nothing that should cause concern."
"Acceptable, under the circumstances," said the big man. "But
aren't we being too cavalier about this Dean?"
At his tone, all movement ceased except for a few who traded
looks. The Provost swallowed.
"I would disagree. So far we've had local urban legend and
the irresponsibility of youth on our side. It's a given that
college students often kick up their heels when they're free
of the home environment, right? Who's to say this young woman
hasn't run off to Columbus with a boyfriend or hitchhiked a
ride to San Francisco?"
Unconvinced silence.
"Understand that President Gladstone shares your concerns
about exposure," he continued. "He intends to keep the whole
business out of the news at any cost. That means TV, radio,
newspapers."
"Hogwash, his motivations are nothing short of political," an
older gentleman snorted. "Fawning over a handful of
prospective vice-presidential candidates, because in two years
the university launches its bicentennial."
"I can convince him. He won't want the black eye."
"As he shouldn't," said the moderator. "See to it he gets
guidance, because I won't tolerate a media circus. Our people
will assist you. And keep watch over that new Dean, as well
as the parents and any others who may enter into the
investigation."
Standing, the big man put hands into his pockets. He turned a
broad shoulder to the group and stared from the window, a
signal that the meeting had reached its conclusion. As one,
the members quietly vacated the room -- all except for a tall,
stern-faced individual who moved to remain beside him. The
two waited in silence until the door clicked shut and distant
footfalls evaporated.
The big man spoke, his gaze never leaving the gleaming campus
in the distance.
"It's a botch," he muttered. "Sloppy, ill-timed. Extremely
poor choice to involve another student instead of some
homeless bumpkin. The fools."
"We'll take care of it," assured his austere companion.
"My father warned me mistakes like this could happen. He knew
that ambition and greed would make even the most powerful and
invincible of men grow careless. I should have been more
circumspect from the beginning and listened." He turned his
head, his big jaw tight. "Keep these new ones stupid. We
already run too great a risk for exposure."
"Of course. We'll use intimidation all around. Play up the
usual smokescreens at campus. The psychic angle, for example,
can be used to our advantage."
"Good. Then I'll leave it in your hands." With the sunlight
diminished he tore himself from the window, rubbing his ample
jaw. "And now, even though it's early... I could use a
scotch."
************
Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
March 13
1:10 PM
Winter waxed and waned, each month bringing a successive
blanketing of white to the city followed by intermittent thaw
and release. Outside the Hoover Building, ploughs scraped
pavement with square-cut fingernails, clearing traffic grit
and mag-chloride slush. It lay rutted and heaped in earthy
furrows, reminiscent of fields hungry for seed, growth, and
the healing rays of spring.
Lunch hour found Scully on the FBI exercise track, beating her
own way back to wholeness.
Mulder, who preferred to jog in the prehistoric anonymity of
early morning, had urged her to join him outside her building
before work. So far she declined his invitations to pummel
the icy, treacherous pavements of her neighborhood.
Completing their loop at the crack of dawn and parading her
breathlessness in front of passersby or neighbors was not an
option, especially before coffee.
For the first time in years she'd felt inept, soft from months
of desk duty and carryout food. Age might also factor in, she
thought grimly, more so than during previous recoveries. In
black leotards, shorts, and tank top, she'd lost count of how
many mindless rounds, how many miles were logged this session.
Her pulse pounded and sweat ran in rivulets down the sides of
her face and body. Strands of hair clung to her cheeks like
cobwebs.
Surprisingly, the track saw only sparse activity during lunch
hour, for which she was grateful in her present state. Since
her metabolism and morale both needed the jump-start, the
indoor runs were beneficial as they were convenient.
She wondered whether battling back one more time from injuries
sustained in the field had garnered respect or contempt from
other agents at the Hoover. Not that it mattered. "Exiles
with our X-Files," Mulder had once sniped, summarizing their
position. Public discussion of the more fantastic case
details she credited to the ubiquitous grapevine. Sequestered
in the basement they customarily strove to keep their own
business private, their friendships discriminate.
Glancing at her wristwatch and noting the time, she slowed her
pace and sought the side rail for a cool-down. Stretching had
become pure pleasure now that her ribs were sound.
Luxuriating, she fell into an easy rhythm of forward and back,
adding lateral bends and twists as her wind returned and her
muscles responded.
Tossing her hair aside for another lunge sideways, she found
herself gazing up into a somewhat familiar, though upside-down
face.
"Jesus! Agent Sloan?"
"Agent Scully, I didn't mean to startle you."
The man took a shuffle backward to give her space, white knees
knobby below green jogging shorts. The blush on his cheeks
seemed more the result of embarrassment than exertion.
Special Agent Al Sloan possessed a gawkiness she still
associated with Pendrell and the quiet fastidiousness of
Byers. Pre-maturely grayish tufts sprang out from his Wilson
sweatband like damp milkweed fluff.
"Um, I'm afraid you caught me at an awkward moment," she said,
straightening, tugging up the sloped neck of her tank top. No
telling how much of a free show she'd put on seconds ago,
flashing sweat-stains and cleavage. Small wonder he stood
flushed as a lobster with a crooked grin.
Mulder, if he were here to witness such a scene, would have a
field day with it.
"I, uh, noticed you've been making use of the facilities
lately."
"Yeah." She felt a prickle of irritation to be singled out.
"A lot of us do; that's hardly remarkable."
He shrugged. "I guess it's not, if you look at it that way.
I, uh... just think it's really a nice change, seeing you come
up for air. Especially after taking such a hit this past
fall."
Something in the choice of words made Scully question his
agenda. A glance upward told her he'd noted with interest the
storied mementoes on her upper chest. Though healed, the cuts
inflicted by Alice Marshall's razor were now a pale pinkish
vee of scar tissue that would eventually melt to
insignificance, if the plastic surgeon at Aubrey General
proved to be worth his salt.
"That's my business, thank you," she said, stepping back from
further scrutiny and wiping her brow with a forearm.
"Please don't be offended. It's just that the X-Files seems
like a hell of a rough division to work in."
"We're all in the same CID boat, Agent Sloan."
"Yeah, well... pardon me for sticking my foot in my mouth, but
I doubt half of us have taken the beating you and Agent Mulder
have over the same length of time. I swear to God --"
"Is there a point here?"
His flush returned. "You're right, I'm overstepping myself.
What I really wanted to ask was a favor."
"What kind?"
"If you're not too busy this afternoon, I could use your help
on a case I'm trying to crack."
In place of verbal reply, she arched a brow and waited.
"I know it's a little presumptuous of me. Lab results came
back on the victim and don't jive with the MO or the evidence.
Can't quite put my finger on it."
"So you're stumped."
"You got it. I usually don't solicit help from another
agent's partner, in case I'm caught stepping on any toes." He
grinned again from self-consciousness. "I just know you've
got the knack for spotting what a lot of others can't in the
forensic arena. And I'd really like to nail this perp fast."
"I'll consider it."
"Anything you can do would be appreciated. If Agent Mulder
doesn't mind you doing a little moonlighting today... "
For a man pushing forty-five, he looked boyishly hopeful as
they walked off the track toward the locker area. The
respectful request and those god-awful tufts of hair spoiled
the hard line she'd wanted to maintain. It was true, though,
that nothing new had materialized in the last day and she was
restless from more than simple desk duty.
Fighting a smile, she decided that she could step outside the
box for a change. That solving someone else's forensic riddle
would be preferable to creating tasks out of thin air, what
with Mulder zinging pencils at the ceiling panels followed by
frustrated innuendo in her direction.
"Actually, I have no pressing projects," she said, sounding
offhand, "and I expect my partner will be lost in fast food
heaven for a while. Give me a half hour and I'll have a look
at those lab results."
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 13
1:30 PM
It was chilly for a sunny day in March, but Dave Hostetler
perspired as though July was in full swing.
He parked like a valet on speed and loped to the front door,
quickly locking it behind him. Once alone, he slung off his
suit coat and leaned back, eyes closed to regroup. As calming
as it was to be at home instead of in his office, he couldn't
shake the memories that haunted him from the last few days.
First and foremost, he recalled his time spent with the
Carmichaels. The mother's sobs, the father's tearful
protests. The indecisive run-around from the authorities and
their obtuseness, though he couldn't really fault them for
that. Amanda Carmichael wasn't the first young person who'd
ever taken off unexpectedly, shocking her family senseless and
leaving no breadcrumbs to speak of. Nor was this the first
time he'd soothed frightened parents during his short tenure
as Dean of Students, or served as go-between for
administration and the media.
But this time was different.
In the first place, the scenario was out-of-character for a
sheltered girl like Amanda, especially one who lacked a
boyfriend and was shy to the point of introversion. Secondly,
the pressure from above was excessive, felt too intensely,
when they warned him that his job would be on the block if
publicity about Amanda's disappearance went haywire.
And lastly, the rumors that drifted through the student body
like second-hand smoke spooked him with their strangeness as
well as their familiarity.
People were speaking up, students coming forward with accounts
of ghostly sightings in the dorms, of fear and noises, terrors
in darkness as well as in the light. Some even claimed UFOs
dotted the night sky.
Personally jarring was the realization that he himself might
be crossing that paper-thin line from morbid curiosity into
tangible belief. The supernatural stories were too numerous
to be dismissed lightly and spanned many decades. Was it
possible that some of this paranormal hoopla might be
credible?
If so, where should he start?
He moved to his bedroom office in a pall of indecision. His
eyes darted as he weighed his options. Email someone? No,
the desktop computer had a university ISP. No calls from his
home phone, which could be bugged or traced. His cell or a
pay phone on the edge of town would suffice.
Calling the L.I.F.E. organization yesterday had been the first
step in the right direction. The parents demanded it and the
administration reluctantly agreed, so he hadn't burnt any
bridges. 'Living In Fear Ends' had chapters in every state in
the nation. Call and they could recommend a reputable psychic
in your area to investigate and perform exorcism if necessary.
Done with discretion, it was worth a try since the Carmichaels
were so insistent that something supernatural was responsible
for their daughter's disappearance.
Still, the university wanted everything kept low-key to avoid
publicity. They'd had their share under one of the former
Vice-presidents, when the Fox Channel aired a TV Halloween
special listing Putnam University on its roster of most
haunted places in the country. A flurry of phone calls, many
of them from parents and prospective students, followed the
broadcast. The next day sensationalist headlines emblazoned
local newspapers.
Rumors circulated soon after that the veep responsible was
forced from office, though nothing overtly suspicious was ever
verified or explained to anyone's satisfaction. Too many
things were kept locked up or stifled, Hostetler felt.
Unnamed heavy hands wielded too much pressure, and to what
end?
Sweating, he rummaged in a desk drawer for his secret folder.
It lay flat and obscure beneath his other hanging files, and
would be cause for sick embarrassment or ridicule if ever
discovered. To it he'd added articles, pictures, and printed
copy whenever he stumbled across something that tickled his
fancy.
In essence, he'd managed to accumulate a scrapbook's-worth of
data on supernatural phenomena.
He began filling it years ago when family friends back in
Indiana experienced an unexplainable haunting in their home.
In whispers they told of glowing orbs and strange noises,
pounding feet, and the heavy air that signified ghostly
presences. He hadn't experienced any of it personally, being
too far on the fringe, but the possibilities were nonetheless
fascinating. Ironically, he found himself working in a
literal hotbed -- a university in rural Ohio reputed to have
strong ties to the bizarre.
Rifling through his folder in earnest, his fingers flew.
Somewhere among the articles on UFOs and Roswell, Mothmen and
Bigfoot, vampires and possession, the answer lay hidden. He
remembered filing away an old magazine photo and caption from
a conference on the paranormal. One of the keynote speakers
was a government agent, an actual violent crimes profiler who
specialized in cases of the unexplained.
Hostetler held up the clipping with shaking fingers to check
the date. The man he needed in his corner was an FBI agent
out of Washington D.C. A man with the improbable name of Fox
Mulder.
************
Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
March 13
3:38 PM
Scully hadn't come close to solving Agent Sloan's problem.
Instead, she'd merely pointed out factors that were overlooked
and had potential for lifting his investigation to a higher
level. Close enough, though, to earn him a high-five from his
partner and renewed interest from the forensics lab. He'd
shown his gratitude with an impulsive clasp to her arm, a
gesture necessitating one of her vague self-conscious smiles.
Reasonably content in the aftermath, she clipped down the
hallway toward their office when the cell phone in her coat
pocket trilled and vibrated. The door, she discovered at the
same time, was locked tight.
"Scully," she parroted, fumbling to separate her office key
from the jangled wad of metal with one hand.
"I wanna speak to the sexiest little redhead in the FBI."
Infrequent as they were, Mulder took such liberties only on
his cell phone. Breezy traffic din garbled his speech, so she
deduced he was driving back from who knew where. To his
credit he'd been relatively undemanding, innuendo aside, the
few days since they last slept together. And though she
missed the comfort and refuge his body provided, the sheer
potency of recent dreams confirmed that her reasons for this
time-out were sound and warranted.
Her cheeks warmed, she unlocked the door to their office and
spotted several piles stacked atop his blotter. Nothing else
seemed amiss, though Mulder's reading glasses and briefcase
were no longer evident. Curiosity piqued, she disregarded his
flirtatious overture and stalked to the desk.
"Mulder, where are you?"
"Pursuing an impulse. I thought it'd be the thing to do, now
that we're no longer joined at the hips in the biblical
sense."
"I believe the term you're referring to is 'one flesh'."
"Correction -- the significant lack thereof."
"Mulder, it's only been three days, for God's sake. Two
nights, technically."
"D'you know what happened on the third day of creation,
Scully? Still speaking biblically."
"Well, give me a moment to think... God created the seas and
the sky --"
"'And God said, "Let there be an expanse between the waters to
separate water from water." So God made the expanse and
separated the water under the expanse from the water above
it.'"
Phone pressed to her ear, she looked up at the plethora of
gouge marks and Damoclesean pencils he'd left dangling over
her head. "Feel free to bring it home any time," she said.
"The third day is all about division and disconnection,
Scully. Partition and separation. Something I'm experiencing
in a big way, for obvious reasons."
"Well, consider point-of-view. Day three is also about
genesis, birth, beginnings: God's miraculous creation of a new
and beautiful world out of void."
"Then fast-forward me to day seven when I can ape Adam and
fill my own Eve's void -- or there could be hell to pay in
paradise."
"Surprising sentiments, coming from a man who let opportunity
fritter away for nearly seven years," she quipped. "You know,
Mulder, I *am* inclined to," she glanced up again, "pencil you
in for tomorrow, which happens to be day four. I'm getting a
little hungry to break this fast, too."
"No can do, Scully."
"Why not?"
"Business before pleasure. My plane to the Buckeye State
takes off within the hour. I was asked to investigate a
disappearance... one with paranormal overtones."
"When did this happen?"
"While you were out decoding lab analyses for the competition
this afternoon."
"You don't need my help?"
"Is the Pope Catholic? Check the files on my desk; I've
outlined the research I'd like done ASAP. Keep it under your
hat, though; I'm supposed to keep the profile low. I'll call
you tonight."
The cases, she noted quickly, involved ghostly phenomena
spanning the years of their partnership. He'd also scribbled
out his destination on a yellow sheet of ledger paper, above a
listing of paranormal and exorcism websites guaranteed to make
her nod from monotony after ten minutes.
"Accompanying you to Ohio was more of what I had in mind," she
said into the cell, frowning.
"Scully, consider point-of-view: while I'm gone you get
unencumbered solitude. Reprieve with no guilt. Both pillows,
first dibs on the Banana Fudge Swirl, the remote, and the
toilet seat down. Knock yourself out."
************
End of Chapter 2
Continued in Chapter 3
************
Chapter 3
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 13, 2001
7:05 PM
Standing room only at the Union. Tusk crossed his arms,
leaned back against the buffed wood at the end of the bar, and
smiled.
His sharp eyes absorbed every detail of the narrow, packed
watering hole. Patrons, many of them his acquaintances,
billowed smoke, laughed loudly, and slurped their beers and
cocktails. The place never had enough booths and tables for
the usual crowd of townies and college students. Some, like
Tusk, didn't mind the wait. They drank, talked, flirted, and
took occasional peeks at the TV screens fastened high at each
end of the bar until a stool freed up or a table sat
abandoned.
Dark eyebrows, broad shoulders and shaved head gave him the
look of a bouncer or convict rather than just another customer
thirsty for beer. Tattooed biceps stretched the sleeves of
his tee shirt taut and other vestiges of body art peeked from
beneath the neckline.
In reality he waited for someone.
A few glances around told him that tonight, though loud and
busy, seemed different. Exam week always took a toll on
uptown business, including his own next door, so the locals
outnumbered the kids after dark. When all-nighters were over
and the books tossed, that was the time he'd reap some benefit
as students quickly sought to memorialize the milestone before
starting up another academic quarter.
A few of his closer associates sat crammed like sardines
around one of the smaller tables. Footer, Mole, Needlenose, a
few giggly girls they'd lured to join them, and Mason, his
main man at the shop. Grinning, he went over to schmooze and
spread goodwill.
He touched, they responded; that was his way. Hard
handclasps, pats, squeezes to shoulders of his buds, kisses on
the cheeks of the young women who drank in the attention. He
stood for an obligatory beer and smoke while his friends
shucked off the stresses of the day and mellowed out against
the seat backs.
Beaming down at them he felt as a father would, or even a big
brother: protective, proud, grateful, pleased. He loved this
crazy bunch, knew their strengths and weaknesses, valued their
quick allegiance and rogue instincts. Few leaders -- or
friends -- could ask for much more than that.
He'd finally managed to snag a few stools at the end of the
bar when he saw her at the door.
As Tusk had done earlier, the young woman glanced over the
loud, smoky room with practiced poise, assessing the scene.
The group at the table also spotted her and waved.
Smirking, she scuffed over for a few minutes of chat, then
raised a hand in farewell to them as she made her way toward
the back.
They embraced as usual, exchanged kisses on the cheek. In his
arms Cricket felt exactly like her name, spare and wiry. Her
spiky hair scratched his chin and smells of patchouli and
cinnamon gum engulfed him.
She pulled the rusty-colored lump from her mouth and stuck it
to a napkin, slipped off her coat and sat. Fresh beers
descended from nowhere out of the din, landing with a smack on
the hard wood.
"Thanks, Trace," Tusk said, and the bartender, sporting a
fresh tattoo on her pudgy midriff, smiled and moved on.
He regarded Cricket for a moment, draped an arm around her
bony shoulders, and bent his head closer as he spoke. "How's
my best girl doin'?"
He knew her body language. A scoff and a half-hearted shrug
told him she was a little tense, but okay.
"One more exam," she said between sips, "and I'm outta there.
Out of that fucking dorm and away from those loons 'til the
end of winter break. I'll have more time for, you know...
more important stuff. Stuff that *means* something." She
discarded his arm with sudden impatience and frowned at her
coat pocket. "Hey, I'm out and could really use one right
now. I've got some news."
"Guess you talked to Val."
She nodded. Fishing out a pack of Camel Filters, Tusk shook
out two cigarettes onto the bar and waited while she lit up,
drew deep, and made clouds.
Valerie Pinkerton was a goldmine. By day she was clean-cut
Secretary-to-the-Dean and a contact Cricket set out to
cultivate during the previous quarter. Months of good-natured
probing had also revealed that prim Val, when away from the
confines of the Dean's office, sometimes indulged in a
popular, though illegal, campus herb. Several discreet home-
rolled gifts had sealed their unlikely acquaintanceship and
opened up a valuable channel for information.
"No press," said Cricket, "everything hushed up. Somebody's
leaning hard on Dean Hostetler. Nothing new on that Amanda
chick either. But Val thinks he might be meeting with a guy
from outta town tonight. Some kind of investigator or FBI
dude."
"Somebody useful?"
"Could be; I'll check in with her tomorrow. And I have this
weird vibe they might want to talk to me when they come poking
around. You know --" She made another face and took a sip.
"The 'haunted dorm room' thing."
"You okay with that?"
"Sure," she said after a pause. "Yeah, I can handle it.
I'll just tell 'em what I think they need to hear."
A grin split his face at her resiliency, his heart swelling
with a burst of pride. He pulled at one of her many dangly
earrings in a juvenile show of affection. "Have I ever told
you how much you rock?"
"Tons," she said, but her eye-roll revealed a sudden glassy
glint as the end of her nose pinked. Within seconds Cricket
turned from tough punk to vulnerable little girl and she
shifted toward him to hide her face from the crowd.
Tusk knew the reason. He felt it, too, but quashed his own
emotion and waited. When her cigarette smoldered into ash he
stubbed it out without a word. His big hand found the back of
her neck and rubbed it gently until some of the tension eased
and she took a long breath. It had nothing to do with hormones
or rag time, but everything to do with an impending
anniversary date and the secret that had altered both their
lives.
"Hey, don't go back there tonight," he blurted. "Come out to
the house. There'll be a fridge full of food, 'cause I don't
think Needlenose or Mole have a snowball's chance in hell of
scoring over there."
Tusk watched the shadow of a smirk flit over her face as
composure returned. Tilting her dark head she flashed a look
at the noisy table near them while she weighed his proposal.
"Nope, not yet. I've still got one more exam. After that...
I'm right back in with the rest of you guys."
***********
Putnam University, Ohio
March 13
10:27 PM
"Thank you for coming, Agent Mulder."
The man looked like a student himself, medium-height, young
and sandy-haired. Much less imposing than the stiff
administrative suit Mulder had thought would meet him in front
of Putnam University's Johnson Hall. But his manner was as
expected: guarded, apprehensive, with a nervous stutter to
certain words he could only attribute to a man walking far
beyond the well-worn perimeter of his comfort zone.
When Dean of Students Dave Hostetler shook his hand a moment
later, Mulder's palm came away clammy.
"I got the next flight out from Washington," he said. "If it
hadn't been for your directions, I might still be cruising the
highways for a place to stay."
Hostetler allowed himself a smile. "It can be confusing at
night for a newcomer. I've brought along maps of the campus
and other materials that will help you get around while you're
here. The student residences are divided into 'greens'
according to compass direction, with most of the
administrative offices and classroom buildings at the hub.
We're standing on the East Green right now."
Cloud cover didn't permit much moonlight to penetrate, but
Mulder was able to scan the brick buildings around him by the
yellow glare of streetlamps and strategically placed security
lights. The air held a frosty haze, fed by the river nearby.
Listening, he heard strains of rock music, thumping bass
vibration, and numerous shouts that indicated students were
awake and active. A patchwork of dorm windows blazed around
them.
"This isn't ground zero, I take it."
"No." The Dean paused. "These are just your accommodations.
We have guest suites here at Johnson, which the administration
felt would be more suitable for you than the old Super 8 Motel
near the highway."
"I saw a fairly plush hotel on the way called the University
Inn," said Mulder. "College-owned?"
"Yes, and booked up for the week, I'm afraid, because of board
and alumni association meetings."
"Then shall we talk inside?"
For answer, Hostetler stepped closer, within whispering range.
"No, I wouldn't advise that yet. I think we should take a
drive. Then I can at least explain a few things and show you
where you'll be concentrating your investigation."
Mulder grimaced. "Sounds like Johnson Hall might have bugs
even Orkin can't fumigate."
"That's my own paranoia talking."
"Trusting no one?"
"Trusting selectively, for my job's sake. For the time
being."
They climbed into Mulder's rental car, Hostetler guiding him
back to the main roads that ran through campus. Dim, sparsely
lit avenues melted into brighter, busier strips of uptown
activity. The streets buzzed with cars and pedestrians,
restaurants and shops alive with restless people spilling onto
the sidewalks.
"We've just passed the College Green," said Hostetler.
"Mostly classroom and administrative buildings."
"How green do we get?"
The car wove its way down a brick-paved thoroughfare flanked
by old trees and newer buildings. "Our destination is the
West Green, Agent Mulder. On the outskirts of campus and
'spook central' as the students call it. Take the next right
turn."
"I printed out some of the website material for my flight.
'Haunted Hocking Ohio' is an entertaining read. Would you say
these stories are warranted?"
The Dean chewed his lip, drumming nervous fingers on the dash.
"The parents of the girl were the ones who initiated the
psychic investigation, because of rumors that her dorm is
haunted. And the administration bowed to the inevitable, but
wants to bury anything that implies negligence or danger to
prospective students."
"Nobody wants Casper for a roommate." Mulder scoffed and
popped a few seeds.
"You'd be surprised at what's 'in', Agent Mulder. Some
students get off on flirting with the bizarre. We've got
Goths, Wiccans, Satanists, Urantians, White Supremacists,
Scientologists, Deepak Choprans, Children of God... "
"The Hare Krishnas must be 'out' since I missed them at the
airport."
"The University Airport is private; security keeps that sort
of riff-raff off-limits. Anyway," said Hostetler after
another pause, "I understand you're the expert and have quite
a few bizarre investigations under your belt."
"My partner would agree with you."
"That's why I asked you here. Imagine my surprise when I
realized the FBI actually had a division for this type of
paranormal phenomenon."
Restless, Mulder tried to squelch the probing. "Point out the
dorm."
"It's right over there -- Wilson Hall."
"Built smack dab over an old Shawnee Indian burial mound, if
I'm not mistaken."
"You've done some homework, Agent Mulder."
Palming the steering wheel Mulder gave a neutral grunt. He
slammed the door shut and wandered alone beneath the trees
into deep shadow. Better to further scope the territory and
wrap his faculties around what might have happened here.
Concentrating, he absorbed the atmosphere, tried to sense the
pattern from what he'd been told. To see a vision.
Scully, if she were with him, would have that little wrinkle
he knew so well branded over her brow. But despite her
skepticism and penchant for viewing everything first through
the lens of science, she'd always been an invaluable sounding
board. Her rational approach to his theories and leaps in
logic gave him a sense of balance, of completeness when facing
the unknown.
It could prove needful, now that he felt the old clench in his
gut.
While he lingered and peered up through shadow, time shifted.
In his mind's eye he was swept back to the La Pierre home
where he saw Amber Lynn's opaque smile. To April Air Force
Base and childish handprints hallowed in cement. The somber
Piller boy, beckoning. A smell of death rose from dozens of
small shallow graves, opened like grimaces near Santa's woods.
Other young victims came to mind, who had been violated by
cruelty, robbed of their innocence and trust. Benjie Tillman
most recently. Kevin Cryder, Michael Hovey. Scully's little
Emily ended up losing her life.
He remembered thin flannel, valentine shapes fanning out like
flowered playing cards across the palm of his hand. Older
victims: Lucy Householder, Amy Jacobs, and now Amanda
Carmichael. A coed in her late teens, he knew, still hadn't
tiptoed very far from childhood or the nest that fledged her.
Finally, his memories flat-lined on the lingering heartache
that would remain with him. Nostalgia with a sucker punch.
There were significant changes in his private, more profound
thoughts about Samantha these days. He'd made no noise about
it, not even to Scully, who had her own demons to wrestle
after the November case in Aubrey.
But after deliberation and the passage of time, his
convictions were faltering. The notion that his sister was
transmuted from traumatic death by beings called 'walk-ins'
had lost some of its integrity. Research he did in secret
after the La Pierre case had pricked a tiny hole in that
balloon, causing a slow leak he was powerless to stop.
Pushing him back toward square one, into emptiness he'd been
fanatical about filling most of his adult life.
Samantha had been the all-encompassing kernel in his quest for
truth. She might be fated to remain so, now that he felt
misgivings about the authenticity of their starlit encounter a
year ago.
He winced as clouds parted the night sky, whitewashing the
earth in luster. Footsteps crunched on the ground nearby.
For one wrenching moment he wished that Scully, her strong
fingers entwined with his, stood close by his side instead of
this stranger.
Driving both fists deep into the pockets of his coat, he
masked the hurt with brusqueness and looked away from
Hostetler. "Have the police found any evidence of foul play?"
"No, I'm not aware of any."
"And no history of mental illness." It came out as an
indictment, and Mulder pivoted to look accusingly at the man.
Hostetler shook his head. "None to my knowledge, or that the
parents shared."
"So what's the popular theory? That Amanda Carmichael was an
irresponsible runaway? Or was she so frightened by some sort
of spook show it drove her, against all reason, to disappear
in the middle of the night during exam week?"
"That's been suggested."
"I don't buy it."
"You don't think there's anything supernatural going on?"
Mulder's lip curled. "That's not what I said. But I do know
I want my partner's help on this case."
Bathed again in shadow, he sensed an unconscious flurry of
backpedaling from the Dean.
"Agent Mulder, listen -- I went out on a limb by calling you
in myself, unofficially. That, in itself, brought a
reprimand. If two FBI agents show up to work in tandem it
would be considered overkill and my goose may get cooked."
"Then make it unofficial; I'll call her in as a consultant."
"That won't be necessary. You, uh... you already have one."
"Come again?"
"You already have a consultant to work with you, Agent Mulder.
A partner, if you want to call it that. The Carmichaels
requested that a psychic be present at all times while you
investigate their daughter's disappearance. She'll be meeting
with you tomorrow morning."
***********
"Jesus, Mulder, just tell me her name isn't Bambi."
He grinned up at the slivers of moon, envisioning Scully's
expression and her supine position on their bed. No, it was
*her* bed; she'd made that crystal several days ago during the
post-midnight shakedown, but he could defer that setback until
later.
Subtle nuances in her voice told him she was not mightily
amused. He envisioned her alone in the apartment, naked under
the blue blanket and propped against both pillows. Her legs
would be loose and comfortably splayed, the fingers of one
hand fanning her hair back while she murmured into the phone.
"How does Madame Yappi grab you?" he teased. "Or Miss Cleo?"
"You're lying through your teeth, but with those monikers
she'd be the least of my worries."
He snorted. After Hostetler left, Mulder combed the Johnson
Hall suite for bugs or wires and had come up empty. Instead
he found regulation dormitory furniture hidden beneath a
plusher line of Martha Stewart bedding, complete with dust
ruffle and shams. All the accoutrements shouted motel mock-
up. Chintzy prints festooned the walls and the coffee maker's
carafe was the size of a jelly jar.
In the end he opted for a little more night air while he made
his call to Scully.
"She's supposed to be a 'townie', as the homegrown locals are
called here. The Dean said he thinks her name is Willow."
"Mulder, explain to me how 'Willow' is any improvement over
'Bambi'?"
"I - I haven't actually met her yet," he stuttered, surprised
by her quiet agitation while at the same time relishing the
sweet sound of her voice. "She's the psychic recommended by
the organization I mentioned, 'Living In Fear Ends'. The one
that's committed to grassroots spirit detection and
housecleaning."
"Ghostbusting, you mean," she mocked softly. "Has anyone even
heard of her? If you want I'll run a background check."
He paced the dark sidewalk, phone glued to his ear, his breath
coming in plumes. "Don't worry about it. I want to use my
internal radar for the time being."
"I'd inspect the back of her business card, if she has one.
You know what I think of self-proclaimed purveyors of psychic
ability, Mulder."
"How well I know," he jibed, remembering Scully's disdain for
Harold Piller's flimsy credential and the obscure foreign
references the man had furnished. "Which is one reason I
think you should get out here ASAP."
"I'm way ahead of you: my flight leaves first thing in the
morning," she told him. "I also did some more digging after
you left. Looking back over the last five years, Amanda
Carmichael isn't the only person to come up missing in the
Hocking, Ohio area. There have been numerous unexplained
disappearances of locals, transients, and patients at both
nursing home and mental health facilities."
"Keep going," he said, pacing faster. "Any other missing
students?"
"There were a handful attributed to drug use and subsequent
dropping out."
"I can dig it. The old hippie 'tune in, turn on, and drop
out' syndrome."
"You're not cute, Mulder."
He chuckled anyway.
"Because," she explained, "there were also several deaths --
in the dormitories -- which were blamed on either psychosis or
drug-induced suicide in the same period of time. At least
that's what the official reports stated after I dug them out
and blew off the dust."
"Bodies should have been recovered in those cases," he argued.
"That's true, they were. But it strikes me as odd that in one
five year period at a progressive, respected, and nearly two-
hundred year-old institution two students could off themselves
on the premises while several others simply disappeared
without satisfactory explanation."
"You're on a roll."
"And though you're no doubt familiar with some of the research
by now, be aware that you're standing in what's known as a
veritable nerve center for paranormal activity. Not the least
of which includes UFO sightings, Indian burial grounds, ley
lines, witchcraft, a formerly controversial mental hospital,
apparitions in the dormitories, haunted graveyards, Civil War
specters, animal mutilations, and bizarre cultic activity."
"Scully... you're giving me serious wood."
Her voice softened to a whisper. "Will you pick me up at the
airport tomorrow?"
"First tell me where your right hand is."
"It's wrapped around the remote."
His dick twitched and he blew a cloud of frustration into the
frosty air. "Are you wearing anything?"
"Mulder, I asked *you* the question."
Sensing fresh disgruntlement, he reviewed and explained the
rules of the game as Hostetler had presented them.
"That means you're on your own as far as car rental and motel.
Call me on my cell when you get here. The way things stand we
can't be seen working too openly together."
"Is that to our advantage? Remember, I need access just like
you."
"I'll prepare Hostetler for your involvement," he promised.
"Tomorrow we're hoping to interview a freshman student by the
name of Kirsi Toskala. You should have a piece of it."
"Gender?"
"Female. Which reminds me... this is a college town."
"Obviously."
"My point being, Scully, you're working mostly incognito this
trip. I'd suggest going easy on the total G-woman look.
Coed-casual is on the 'in' list around here."
************
End of Chapter 3
Continued in Chapter 4
************
Chapter 4
************
Putnam University, Ohio
March 14, 2001
7:50 AM
By morning the East Green spawned like a living organism
around Mulder. Students began swarming the walkways as doors
slammed. Dorm rooms clattered, quaked, and belched laughter.
Though it was the midst of exam week several open windows
blared a cacophony of noise barely recognizable as music into
the outdoors.
They were essentially kids, he reminded himself in the shower,
with no parental influence around to modulate juvenile
shenanigans and enforce consideration. He'd hoped to swallow
his first cup of coffee in peace while looking through his
small cache of information, but the R.A.s in charge and the
Lilliputian coffee maker all seemed worthless to that end.
Desperate, he threw on his coat and sought java uptown.
Once he found his way to Union Street parking was plentiful.
The college girl behind the counter graced him with a smile as
he took his Starbuck's Grande in tow. Embracing the cool air
and light fog, he opted to walk the distance down the sloping
brick road toward the West Green.
Vague uneasiness dogged him. He was itching to attack this
new case with both hands, to find what had become of the
missing girl using his own brand of expertise. Scully would
pitch in when she arrived, providing backup information and
insight, complementing his eclectic rhythm. Yet Hostetler
intended to hobble their efforts with ambiguity fostered by
his own paranoia.
Mulder felt a mixture of resentment and compassion for the
man, knowing how it felt to stand in such lonely shoes.
Now, he'd been saddled with a psychic detective. He shook his
head at the irony, knowing that any other time he'd be
intrigued, even jazzed by the prospect. Today he wanted only
Scully's input and familiar presence.
He'd lost more than a few hours of sleep flopped on the couch
in his usual sprawl in front of the TV, running tapes in his
head. Scully's distaste for "purveyors of psychic ability"
hadn't quite mellowed, but he couldn't fault her quick prep
and willingness to dive into the paranormal confines of this
case. Maybe her recent exposure to Harold Pillar and Benjie
Tillman had been beneficial after all.
She'd arrive in Hocking later this morning, bringing with her
the two things he craved most: research and her tender
responsiveness. It was, after all, day four.
Tall oaks denuded by winter spread protective fingers over one
end of the West Green as students buzzed around him. In the
light of morning Amanda's dormitory looked less imposing, even
hospitable. Brick construction, four stories. Bell towers
capped by old-style copulas, which Mulder assumed hadn't been
used for decades. A women's dorm; ruffled, colorful curtains
scalloped many of the tall windows.
Sipping his coffee, he focused on the third floor, which was
Amanda's. At the same time his peripheral vision caught
someone else in the act of watching the same building, her
arms and hands outstretched in a gesture of benediction.
She was nearly tall as Mulder. Thin as a display mannequin,
the woman wore charcoal gray and black. Her long skirt
swirled with each movement, as did the billow of crimped
elbow-length hair. He couldn't decide if it shone blonde,
gray, or a feathered blend of both in the thin morning light.
He assessed, paused. Took a few steps closer before he shot
into the dark. "Willow Nightingale, I presume?"
When the woman turned to face him, Mulder saw that her eyes
had been closed; opened they were soft brown, dreamy from
absorbing whatever it was she sought the moment before. Her
loose coat swung askew, offering him a glimpse of burgundy
cloth and tight cleavage. He blinked, flicked his gaze
higher. She wore makeup that accentuated the brown of her
eyes. Face pleasing, not pretty. Age indeterminate, but on
the basis of skin alone he put her somewhere over forty.
"Willow Wind Nightingale," she clarified, extending her hand
and shaking his free one with a tight grip. The stipple of
pressure on the side of his palm told him that every one of
her fingers bore a chunky ring. Her voice was undulating, a
clear warble.
"An early bird."
"In like company," she smiled. "I was expecting you to show
up unannounced this fair morning, Agent Mulder."
He nursed a smirk, feeling slightly second-guessed.
"By virtue of ESP," he asked, "or from the mouth of Dean Dave
Hostetler? Last night I told him I'd be doing a little
scouting around Wilson before we met up at his office with the
student."
"Whichever impresses you or enhances my value in this
investigation. It doesn't really matter, does it?"
"What matters is finding Amanda Carmichael alive and
unharmed," he said firmly.
"I agree."
Hand to hip, Mulder continued his scan of the building. "Can
you tell me what were you were doing a minute ago?"
"I was sensing that Amanda had been very unhappy. She was
thrilled about attending college, but afraid of separating
from her family and childhood home. Those feelings increased,
the good feelings destroyed by the bad. She was... very
insecure here." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Yes, this
place was frightening to her."
"Sounds pretty much like a typical reaction for most girls
leaving home for the first time," he quipped.
"Are you accusing me of 'shotgunning', Agent Mulder? For the
record, I don't stoop to using such a common ploy."
He knew the term was insulting, had wrangled over it with
Scully during the week of the LaPierre incident last year.
She'd accused Piller of the same manipulative technique when
he stammered out generalized statements and claimed "hits"
when in fact there was nothing substantive. His observations
were vague and ambiguous enough to prove true for anyone at
some point in time. Yet, there were things he'd observed
about Harold Piller that Scully, in the midst of debunking,
hadn't observed.
His face warm, Mulder took too big a sip of the hot coffee and
ended up burning his tongue. "Sorry. No offense intended."
"And none taken. But we should understand one another since
we're to work as a team."
"That goes both ways, I hope."
The woman called Willow nodded in concurrence. "If you
research the history of these grounds you'll find that the
Shawnee tribe used this very spot for burial and worship.
Centuries ago they were driven out, cheated by U.S. treaty,
and robbed of their lands. The university followed suit and
further desecrated this sacred ground."
"Tell Hostetler that and you'll piss off more than just dead
Indians."
"Numerous spirits are restless here; I felt it as soon as I
arrived. Such electricity! It's remarkable how distinctive,
how powerful, this area is."
"Apparently the Dean hasn't done all his LIFE homework either.
He's under the impression you're a longtime resident of
Hocking."
"Standard FBI background checking should have told you
everything you'd want to know about me," she one-upped,
looking back toward the building, "but I can see you haven't
felt it necessary. I was born in southeastern Ohio, which
makes me reasonably local."
"You're supposed to be clairvoyant. Psychically gifted."
"True. However it appears I've yet to prove myself to you."
She smoothed a mass of hair back over one shoulder.
"Parapsychology is a curious mixture of science and
supernatural endowment, Agent Mulder. It also requires some
suspension of our usual human perceptions. I do hope you're
prepared for both in the days ahead."
Mulder gave a half-hearted grin. "Bring it on."
"I like that attitude; the work you do in the FBI sounds
fascinating. Dean Hostetler shared a bit of your background
with me so I'd have some preparation for this assignment. And
for you, as my associate."
"I hope he showed a little restraint."
Willow turned to face him, her expression compassionate as she
sought eye contact. She reached out a jeweled hand to grasp
his arm.
"Your work and belief in the paranormal impresses me," she
said, "because I see that you're an intelligent man with an
open mind. That's a rare thing. You're willing to explore
phenomena that are usually unperceived by other people in the
natural world. In fact, your insight and perspective on this
case will be invaluable if we're to uncover what's become of
this poor girl and the forces that are at work here."
"Do you suspect foul play?"
"I favor... other probabilities, which we'll discuss after
touring the dormitory. I'll know more then."
Compelled by her intensity and the kindred flavor of her
speech, he moved closer. The mindset was refreshing,
undemanding, and stroked his ego.
He felt his guard relaxing.
"Sometimes I see a natural, but extreme progression outside
the realm of what's considered normal," he confided. "Bizarre
possibilities waiting to be explored. Doors that open to
other doors. I dunno, call it a 'blue sense'." He gave a
cynical chuckle. "Most of the time it gets chalked up to
either luck or plain lunacy."
"That's unfortunate. By the FBI in general? Or your partner
in particular?"
He took a slow step away from her grasp, in order to snap the
physical connection between them without appearing rude.
"Our cases require a balance between paranormal hypothesis and
cogent scientific proof. I'm grateful she makes me fight for
honesty and truth on every case we're assigned."
"I sense otherwise. But well said, Agent Mulder. It seems
loyalty is another one of your attributes."
He paused for emphasis, distressed. "It goes beyond loyalty -
- I trust her with my life."
"Commendable," Willow conceded, "but do her skills have a
place in this particular investigation?"
"What are you implying?"
"I'm wondering whether her presence here is really needed. So
does Dean Hostetler, apparently."
"She's my partner; it's non-negotiable."
"Well, then," Willow said with a complacent toss of her hair,
"let's discuss the task ahead, especially since we've been
placed under such severe restriction by the Dean."
"We?"
"Usually I have a team member with me to videotape and take
electronic readings while I become sensitive to the area. We
bring in sensors, thermometers, and special devices to record
visible and UV spectrums. Aura monitors, negative ion
detectors, oscilloscopes, spectrographs, and other delicate
equipment. So you see, Agent Mulder, during a paranormal
investigation the scientific aspects would be extraordinarily
covered, as well as the supernatural ones."
"I suppose Hostetler's put the kibosh on all that."
"Yes, sadly. So we'll need to use other resources, you and I.
Our wits, intuition, and talents. Perhaps you'll find other
answers along the way -- to questions you've been asking
yourself."
Mulder felt his throat tighten. "About what?"
"A female person you love, who's very close to you."
His mind flew to Scully.
"Not a lover," she cautioned, as though reading his thoughts.
"Nothing fleshly or sexual. Someone before... younger,
frightened... a sister, perhaps."
"I never mentioned anything about family to you."
"Perhaps it was the Dean again," Willow said with a sigh.
"He's done some background checking as well, for his own
personal interest."
"My life," stated Mulder tersely, "is nobody's business."
She paused to close her eyes, as though savoring the awkward
dark wave that rushed between them.
"You don't have to say anything now," she murmured. Her voice
was low, melodic, strangely soothing his agitation. He forced
himself to count to ten, then waited until her eyes opened to
hold his gaze. "Please, Agent Mulder, be prepared for the
unexpected."
"You're fishing," he accused, knowing the word would rankle.
"No." Graceful fingers rippled through the mass of hair and
she smiled with compassion. "I merely touched you several
times while we talked. Remember?"
************
Outskirts of Hocking, Ohio
March 14
8:35 AM
Being incognito had its drawbacks, Scully decided. Her only
compensations were comfort and clear weather.
Waiting for a rental car and the lengthy drive from the
airport had gobbled precious hours. It was frustrating that
the flight to Wood County Airport, West Virginia was the only
one available on such short notice the previous night.
Mulder, on the other hand, had received preferential treatment
from the administration. Flown by private plane directly to
the university airport, he'd arrived in a fraction of the
time.
She weighed Mulder's suggestions about wardrobe, but drew the
line at appearing on campus looking like an overage
adolescent. Instead, she felt at ease and sultry in indigo
jeans and a thin sweater that hugged her curves. Chunky-
heeled boots and her black leather coat completed the
ensemble.
If Mulder didn't approve, that was his problem.
Half an hour from Hocking, her cell rang with a call from a
furious partner. He growled that there had been a change of
plan. The interview at Dean Hostetler's office was to be
rescheduled, taking place before her arrival. He assumed it
wouldn't be lengthy and would fill her when she joined him.
"Why am I not surprised," she muttered, only slightly appeased
by his annoyance on her behalf. "Listen. Since my motel is
on the way, I'll check in first when I get into town and be
right over to join you."
"Next on our agenda is a tour of Wilson Hall's hot spots.
Spooky shit, Scully. We'll be over there next if you miss
us."
"You've met Willow, I gather."
"Yeah. I'll be interested in comparing notes tonight, among
other things. Do you need directions to Cutler Hall?"
"I can manage," she huffed, as she rummaged on the seat beside
her for the motel address. "But it'd be nice if you could
call when the interview's over and save me the trouble of
tracking you down."
She heard hesitation in his voice, mixed with sheepishness.
"That may not be possible, but I'll try."
"For God's sake, Mulder. Are we talking tremors in the force
here? Will you be shattering some sacred 'aura' by using your
cell?"
"Maybe something like that. I'll see what I can do when the
time comes."
"No, don't bother." She muttered a curt farewell and hung up.
The Hocking Super 8 was no different from any other Scully had
experienced over the past seven years. Sandwiched between a
pizza joint and the laundromat, she found it looking chipped
and tired. She detected faint smells of smoke and burnt
coffee when she entered the check-in office.
The manager read her impatience and bustled into action behind
the counter. His eyes stayed mostly on paperwork, but she
noticed furtive peeks as he checked out her breasts between
the gaping edges of her leather jacket. "Will one key do it
for you, ma'am?"
"No, make that two, please," she said, her voice crisp. She
scribbled her signature and shoved the slip toward him. A wad
of free area maps lay in stacks nearby, including a campus
directory. Snagging one of each and the key cards, she made
to leave.
"Sure you don't want a nice double up on the second floor?
Non-smoking, too. I notice most of the ladies prefer not to
be on ground level."
"Thanks, but no. Room one-twenty-three will be fine."
"Whatever you say," he said amiably, tidying up and offering a
smile. "Coffee's always hot and I set out donuts every
morning."
For a split second Scully saw vestiges of Al Sloan in his shy,
apologetic grin and salt-and-pepper tangle of hair. She
decided she could turn a magnanimous cheek and forgive the
ogling, as she had at the Hoover gym.
"So," she began, turning toward the window and keeping her
tone light, "how far is campus from here?"
"Oh, just a hop, skip and a jump up Richland Avenue. You ever
been here before? 'Cause if you need to know anything, where
to eat, what to see, how to get there, I'm as good as you'll
get. Lived here all my life."
"A townie?" She tossed out the scrap of lingo, hoping Mulder
had it right.
"You got it, born and bred. My great granddaddy even laid
some of the original brickwork over at the old loony bin when
they expanded it in 1924."
Scully threw him a look. "You mean the old mental health
center?"
"Yup, it's about a half mile from here, up Downey Lane. But
no more loonies in there now."
"Why?"
"Shut down about five years ago when the university purchased
the whole property. Cost 'em millions. Turned it into high-
end administrative offices and some kind of art museum. Now
all the mental cases go over to the spiffy new regional
facility near Albany. Everything's squeaky clean."
"And what was it before?"
Her interest piqued, Scully gave him her full attention and
leaned elbows on the counter. The time span he'd mentioned
seemed significant considering what her research had uncovered
the night before.
"Shit, I could tell you tales that'd make your hair curl," he
whispered, leaning toward her. "That thing's got history out
the old wazoo. Before it closed down it got a lot of
attention for treating some famous multiple personality guy.
But in the old days there'd be hundreds of patients. Inmates
I called 'em, men and women both. At night you could hear 'em
screaming from a mile away, wanting outta that place. Rumors
were, they'd torture the poor devils with inhumane treatments,
then lobotomize 'em afterward. You know what that is, don't
you?"
Though she gave no outward sign, Scully's scalp prickled as
her mind flashed back to the bowels of a musty trailer. Her
fingers grew numb and rubbery from duct tape clamped around
each wrist. Panic seized her throat. Before her, Gerry
Schnauz's eyeballs wiggled, his breath stank. He closed in
with the glistening leucotome, all the while extolling his
urgent, appointed need to silence the screamers in her head.
"Yes," she said dryly, tucking the maps under her arm. "I
know what that is."
"Don't mean to run you off with weird stories. But like I
said, if you need information about local history I know it
all. The name's Glenn, at your service."
"Thank you. I'm... Dana. And if you could tell me the
quickest way to get to Cutler Hall I might take you up on that
offer sometime."
************
Hostetler's Office, Cutler Hall
March 14
8:43 AM
Dave Hostetler was clearly nervous, stammering as he spoke.
Willow turned away as he wedged both hands into his pants
pockets and put on a brave face.
"Agent Mulder, I -- I apologize again for the change in plans.
The student you're to speak with has an exam scheduled for
this morning and I have another obligation to take care of.
We'll need to get it over with as quickly as possible."
"Don't screw this up if you want our cooperation," Mulder
fumed. "My partner's almost here and you're not cutting her
out of the action, Hostetler."
"If I could delay this I would, believe me. We all have to be
a little flexible under the circumstances."
"So you and the job stay under someone's thumb," finished
Mulder with a sneer. "Am I right?"
"I'm sorry if it seems unfair, but that's the way it is. I'll
try to explain later."
"Oh, one more thing before you go and this student arrives --
you've got a helluva big mouth."
Hostetler's face fell. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Later," said Mulder pointedly, clapping a hand to the door
and inclining his head in dismissal.
The Dean left just as a student entered the outer office and
spoke to the secretary. Here comes trouble, Mulder thought
wryly.
Looking like every parent's nightmare the young woman slouched
in the doorway of the Dean's office. She read the room with
glances that seemed almost feral. Wearing an insouciant
attitude of disrespect, she scuffed her Doc Marten boots into
the room and waited.
He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd flipped them the bird
by way of introduction.
More outrageous was her fashion sense: dark eyeliner, short
stiff hair, an overabundance of jewelry, some of which adorned
her face and ears. The pencil-thin legs of her jeans were
torn at one knee. Deliberately, he guessed. Her smallness,
crossed arms, and pouting defiance reminded him of Scully's
demeanor when cornered -- lifted chin spoiling to meet the
world head-on.
In a show of courtesy he smiled and extended his hand. He
introduced both himself and Willow, and indicated where the
girl should sit.
"So this is what FBI looks like." Her voice was high-pitched,
unimpressed. She plopped on the edge of the seat and spread
her knees like a man, as though to dispel any impression of
femininity.
"Like a door-to-door salesman, I've been told. You're Kirsi
Toskala?"
The girl returned his stare. "For legal and ID purposes,
yeah. But I answer to Cricket." She cast a look of
undisguised contempt at Willow Nightingale. "What's your
story? The Dean make you park your broom outside?"
"Hey, now..." said Mulder, his tone placating despite his
surprise. "Let's keep this friendly."
The psychic smiled. "It's quite all right. I'm simply here
to observe."
"My ass," the girl muttered. She swung her attention back to
Mulder.
"You know by now that one of your dorm mates, Amanda
Carmichael, vanished a few days ago," he said. "I need to ask
you some questions concerning that disappearance. Please tell
me anything that you think could aid in her recovery."
Cricket shrugged. "I'd be within my rights to refuse, but go
ahead. I have nothing to hide because I don't know anything.
She didn't even live on my floor."
"Your floor," he echoed. "You mean the fourth?"
"Yeah, what of it?"
"According to Dean Hostetler everyone in Wilson Hall thinks
your room is haunted. What do you think?"
"I think it's their problem; it doesn't bother me and I'm
still here."
Leaning forward with his fingers laced together, he masked a
smile, impressed by the girl's spirit. She was sharp-eyed and
intelligent, but a tricky read. He tossed out more questions,
trying his best to keep it casual and engaging. Push too hard
and Cricket was sure to clam up on him or walk out. For the
sake of the case he took care to tread lightly on the sharp
crust of this young woman's gritty defiance. If necessary, he
could arrange to speak with her at another time and place.
To her credit, Willow sat quietly apart, internalizing her
impressions. She'd deferred to Mulder from the outset, even
with Hostetler, and let him work without interference. A team
player. Something he could appreciate and took for granted
after years with Scully. There was a smooth effortlessness
about the way this interview progressed that made him feel the
arrangement, though peculiar, had possibilities after all.
While he interacted with the girl, a quick glance told him
that Willow's eyes had closed. Her mouth was curved bow-like
into an expression of serenity, and the light through the
window blinds haloed her face and silvery hair.
He blinked at the illusion. For one fleeting moment she
appeared more pretty than pleasing.
************
End of Chapter 4
Continued in Chapter 5
************
Chapter 5
************
Cutler Hall, Putnam University
March 14, 2001
8:55 AM
Late winter died a slow death, melting into spring. It was a
time of evening hoarfrost and days longer on sun. Of morning
fog over the river, when new growth awakened as students took
a break from their studies.
A time when funny lights hovered in the night sky and people
vanished.
Cricket peered at the bell tower across from the College
Green, knowing that nine chimes were imminent. Timing was
crucial as she awaited a connection. She sat cross-legged in
the sunshine outside the Dean's office, tracking movement
across the grass. A sentinel.
For success, interception must happen and quickly. She willed
herself to stay patient and lit up a smoke.
Her last exam began in less than ten minutes and all the way
toward the South Green. The professor might growl, but she
hoped he'd cut her some decent slack if she were forced to pop
in late. At least this Agent Mulder character hadn't wasted
her time. He'd released her after determining her non-
involvement with Amanda Carmichael the night she'd
disappeared.
Someone else, she knew, would be much less forgiving if her
judgment this morning were off, should this particular contact
prove to be bogus and throw the whole plan into jeopardy.
She felt like a blend of genius and maverick on a rogue
mission, knowing a break was crucial.
She shot a look at her wristwatch, then at the clock tower
again. In reality, she'd made this decision on the fly only
minutes earlier after speaking with Val Pinkerton.
Val was easy in more ways than one. As soon as the FBI agent
left the building with his psychic sidekick, she'd turned into
a literal blabbermouth of information. That wasn't
surprising; Val always chatted up a storm after spending
covert nights at her boss's place, reveling in sensual details
and swearing Cricket to secrecy.
From these whispered talks, something else had become apparent
during the last few months: after a shitload of stress,
several bottles of wine and a good fuck, Dean Hostetler also
felt the need to unburden himself to the closest sympathetic
ear.
Cute, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Maybe that's
why he'd earned this morning's unexpected appointment up
Downey Lane.
She started, dropping her hand and narrowing her eyes when
someone emerged from the parade of students crisscrossing the
green. It was a small woman in slim jeans and black leather
marching toward Hostetler's office with purpose. Sleek hair
bright as a penny in sunlight, dark glasses, no-nonsense
attitude. Clomping in small strides, the corners of her mouth
bent into a sour twist.
Right on schedule.
Calculating, Cricket waited until the woman stood several
yards away from the entrance before stubbing out her cigarette
and slouching to her feet. "If you're looking, they already
left for Wilson Hall," she said. "Both of 'em together."
The woman halted, one foot poised on the first step. Close up
she seemed no bigger than Cricket, but classy and very adult.
Irritation had marked little creases above one curved eyebrow.
She removed her sunglasses to get a better look at the girl.
"Should I know you?"
"Not really, since you blew the big meeting. But I know who
you are," countered Cricket, "and why you're around."
"You must be Kirsi Toskala, then."
"And you're that FBI jerk's real partner."
"Enough of that," came the tart response. "What's your
involvement here?"
Cricket returned the woman's cool stare. "I can't tell you
that right now. But... " She paused, then plunged. "If you
cooperate with me I can get you information. Show you things
-- stuff I can't give to him."
"You mean Agent Mulder?"
"Yeah, he just finished with me. I can't trust him, not when
he's working with that Nightingale witch out in the open."
"Her last name is Nightingale? I'm not surprised," the woman
muttered in disgust. Her expression turned cynical. "But you
can trust *me*, whom you've never met. Explain that."
"You're trained FBI. You work in some department called the
X-Files and investigate paranormal shit and conspiracies.
You're a doctor; you do autopsies and top secret stuff.
You've been Agent Mulder's partner for a long time and he
trusts you."
"Who told you all this?"
Cricket ignored the question. "You uncover secrets about
aliens and spaceships and know how to keep your mouth shut
about it. You don't always agree with your partner's opinions
and aren't afraid to say so."
"None of which concerns you."
"Yeah it does. I wanna know if you always have to tell him
everything you see and do. If *everything* shows up in your
reports. Because if that's the case..." Cricket shook her
head and tongued her lip ring, "you don't have a mind to call
your own, Agent Scully. It means I was dead wrong and this
conversation's over."
The woman called Scully stood agape; she tilted her head
slowly, a hand rising to her hip.
"I know other things about you too," continued Cricket,
stepping closer. "Things you keep hidden. Things you don't
like to talk about or have anyone else find out."
"Such as?"
"They abducted you, for secret testing. Didn't They?"
"What?" The woman's face froze, registering shock and
incredulity. Her hand snared Cricket's wrist in a grip so
quick and strong it took the girl by surprise. "Whoa, wait!
Who the hell are you working for?"
"Nobody important. And I'm offering you something big, but
only if you promise to keep it to yourself, away from *him*.
Can you deal?"
"I'd need time to think about it."
Cricket's heart thumped. "Think fast or my offer's gone and
so am I. And I swear to God I'll blow your cover all over
town."
"What's in it for you?" Agent Scully's eyes flashed.
"I want the same thing as you do." Tears stung Cricket's
eyes; she willed them back, focusing instead on what was at
stake. "When it's all over, you can tell your partner
anything you want." She paused. "What'll it be?"
The first toll of the hour boomed from the clock tower. They
stared at one another, locked in stalemate, breathing heavily
while seconds drained away and the heavy cadence continued.
Scully's grasp eased on Cricket's arm, though her eyes flashed
dangerously and her voice sank to a husky whisper.
"Okay, suppose I do agree. What happens next?"
"Here." Flushing with reaction, the girl shrugged off
Scully's fingers and fished in her coat pocket. She withdrew
a business card and pen, scribbled on the back, and held it
out. "Meet me at this address at two o'clock. He'll be
waiting for you."
"Who will?"
"You'll find out then. I've gotta go, I'm already late.
Don't breathe a word of this, except to say you might've found
another lead. Got that?"
"Maybe," Scully grumbled, snatching the card, "but I'll need
convincing."
"One more thing. Don't call me Kirsi anymore; the name is
Cricket."
With the echo from the ninth toll ringing in her ears she set
off at a trot toward the South Green. Glancing back over her
shoulder one last time, she saw the agent still examining the
back of the little card. A frown remained on Scully's face.
She glanced around her before heading back across the maze of
walkways toward her car.
************
Wilson Hall
9:22 AM
Mulder shivered from the buzz. When supernatural phenomena
lay ripe for scrutiny or manifested in ways least expected,
the old feeling seized him.
Time and again he'd ventured forth into the shadowy unknown, a
thrill freak walking close to the edge on so many cases. In
retrospect he'd tempted powers, flirted with danger, played
with too much strange fire in his day.
Usually Scully stood point, watching his back. She tiptoed
along the periphery of his enthusiasm, but would invariably
leap in to join him, carried in the wake of his quest. This
morning, however, she was absent and a psychic detective named
Willow Wind fluttered close to his side.
Thanks to Hostetler's dictum he saw no equipment, no
electronic machinery capable of revealing the paranormal.
Nothing with technological significance to aid Willow in her
mission except a simple cloth tote with a bulge. Mulder
didn't inquire as its contents or what she was sensing from
the area, nor did she offer explanation.
Her fingers rippled through unseen breezes outside the
dormitory. Palms open, eyes closed, her face composed as a
statue's. Mulder found himself entranced, intent on every
move. Breathing when she did, he kept synchronous pace,
feeling like a shadow.
From what he knew of old residence halls, women's dormitories
were fortresses back in the day. After dark, housemothers
would lock up from the inside, caretakers from the outside.
Unlucky was the young woman who, running late, found herself
barricaded outdoors until morning.
Though such restrictions were extreme and now antiquated for
modern colleges, freshman women still felt the pinch of
curfew. Society, he realized, had a strange habit of
sequestering its women under the guise of male protection and
gallantry, of imposing its will for their collective well-
being.
He felt a glimmer of insight. For many months he'd been
casting his net of protection over Scully with the tenacity of
a poacher; apparently the weight of such altruism coupled with
their new intimacy had combined to smother her.
He thanked his lucky stars that she seemed amenable to ending
their four-day fast. He felt more than ready to belly up to
that table.
Exam week was nearly over as well, and Wilson Hall emptier
than he'd expected. He flashed his badge to the RA inside and
explained their purpose, discovering the Dean had taken the
liberty of phoning ahead. No shouts of "Man on the floor!"
preceded them, for which he was grateful. Instead they had
free rein to explore as long as they kept a discreet profile
and the remaining students weren't disturbed.
He smelled perfume and woman-scent beneath the varnish and
furniture polish. The building was old, the lounge area
bright and appropriately decorated. Willow wandered for long
minutes, Mulder ambling with her. Several coeds sat studying
on one of the sofas, watching them and whispering; he smiled
back and winked to alleviate suspicion.
"Agent Mulder, over here."
The psychic spoke with such urgency that Mulder moved closer,
nerves tingling. "What have you found?"
"Fear and unrest. A sense of anguish, despair. So much
sadness. It's as though -- oh!" She groaned and put a hand
to her forehead, intent on the unseen.
"What is it? Amanda?"
"Yes -- and there's more. So many voices are clamoring to be
heard that it's difficult to separate them. To focus on the
correct one."
"What's their main complaint?"
He wanted it succinct. Sooner rather than later, if at all
possible. Glancing at his watch, he saw that fifteen more
minutes had evaporated and chewed his lip at the snail's pace
she kept.
"Please, not so fast. Haste impedes thoroughness," Willow
chided, "and spiritual things are discerned only through slow,
patient concentration and faith. Unbelief and antagonism can
also hinder by disturbing the spirits, the light force around
us." She kneaded her temple, closed her eyes. "Ultimately,
we all desire to know the truth. Don't we... Agent Scully?"
Mulder wheeled in surprise, saw her silhouetted in the sunny
alcove behind them. Conflicting emotions of relief, love, and
apprehension carried him the short distance to where Scully
stood with crossed arms. From her expression and body
language he surmised she was neither pleased nor awed by
Willow's observations.
He gave her the once-over, grinning, and slid a hand onto her
shoulder. Soft leather over the slim angularity he knew so
well. Hidden from view, his thumb brushed the warm skin at
her neckline. His glance flicked downward, noting with
pleasure how the sweater accentuated the shape of her breasts,
the color of her eyes.
"Hey, nice outfit, partner."
"Collegiate enough for you?"
Her frustration was obvious, but he had every intention of
appeasing a large part of that later in her motel room. "No
question, you've sold me. How was the trip?"
"I've had better."
He scanned her face for clues, decided now was not the time to
push it. But he sensed a barrier between them, a prickle of
discontent in Scully, which he attributed to the day's
aggravations and her distrust of Willow.
"C'mon over here, then. Let's make nice."
Pursing her lips, she took a place at his side. The three
formed an odd huddle, with Scully the shortest corner of the
triangle. Since introductions devolved to Mulder he used the
opportunity to reel the two women in. He spoke softly, so the
nearby students couldn't eavesdrop on their conversation.
"This is my partner at the FBI, Special Agent Dana Scully.
Scully, this is..." He paused, wincing inwardly at the
peculiarity of the words, "Willow Wind Nightingale, from the
LIFE foundation."
Scully offered a patent, civil smile and a nod.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Willow, extending
jeweled fingers. Her open palm beckoned, waited. "You
needn't be fearful of touching me."
"That's reassuring, Ms. Nightingale."
From long experience he recognized the grit in Scully's voice
and the tiny flare of her nostrils as warning signs. Firm
handshake summarily delivered, she nipped the challenge in the
bud and swung her attention back to Mulder.
"So, what have I missed here besides interviewing the student
over at Cutler Hall?"
"Not a whole lot. She had no direct involvement with Amanda
that could be determined, other than living in a reputedly
haunted dorm room in the same building. But the 'tude and the
punk 'look'... Scully, they were priceless. You really missed
something."
She pondered that for a moment, her expression bland as
oatmeal. The invisible wall rose higher, reminiscent of what
he'd observed when they worked with Harold Piller last year.
Not exactly foot-dragging, but a brusque lack of enthusiasm
that teetered toward rudeness. She glanced around the lounge
and let out a sigh.
"What?"
"It's just that I thought by now you'd be upstairs checking
room 334 -- Amanda's room," she said, the accusation barely
couched.
"We're, uh, just about there. I think."
"Should I go there myself?"
"Wait on that."
"Agent Scully," said Willow, "as I intimated when you arrived,
these things take time. I'm sure you can appreciate the need
for care and precision on such a sensitive case."
Though they spoke together in near-whispers, Mulder picked up
the subtle condescension. He assumed Scully had as well.
"In my experience psychic talent hasn't proven to be all that
precise."
Willow flicked a glance toward Mulder first, then smiled down
indulgently. "Please humor me, then. I only ask for your
cooperation over the next few hours, or however long it takes
to discover what forces are at work in Amanda Carmichael's
disappearance. Surely we can agree on that?"
"Personally, I'm not convinced we're even looking in the right
place."
"Scully..." He grinned, made light of it to disguise her
borderline disrespect and his own chagrin.
"Well, her parents are in still in town, aren't they? I
assume someone other than the Dean has taken time to talk with
them and find out why they wanted psychic intervention in the
first place."
"Hostetler made it clear they're off-limits for the time
being," said Mulder.
She shot him a scandalized look, hand to her hip.
"Please, no anger. No added discord here. We're all doing
our part to abide by the Dean's wishes," Willow said with
finality, "and it's expected that you'll do likewise." She
moved away toward the staircase.
"Mulder --" Hushed outrage.
"Eas-y," he cautioned, hoping Scully would take the hint and
not interpret this collaboration as lack of backbone or an
abdication of his principles. Her animosity was already
enough of a concern to send up a red flag. Even two. "What's
wrong? Have you found something in her background check?"
"What background check? That's something else long overdue."
"Listen, we'll discuss it tonight. Relax, I'm still on my
game."
"It looks to me like she's already rewritten the rules,
Mulder. At least as far as it concerns you."
He tipped his face closer, seeking eye contact, but she eluded
him. Shrugging off her coat she followed Willow toward the
stairs.
************
The Knoll
Administrative offices
9:30 AM
Dave Hostetler hated waiting.
He made the drive up beautiful Downey Lane in record time,
arriving five minutes ahead of schedule. Nerves jangling, he
felt damp with sweat, as he always did when a threat loomed or
someone breathed down his neck. The same sense of dread that
kept him rooted to the chair also risked catapulting him out
the front door like a crazed sprinter on a run for his life.
Crazed? He wiped his face and gave a nervous chuckle. How
fitting, since here he was, cooling his heels in a wing of the
former Hocking Lunatic Asylum, later renamed the Mental Health
Center. Now, purchased and renovated, it was known as the
Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum.
In the end he chose to sit with laced fingers and ponder his
surroundings.
He had passing familiarity with the property thanks to common
knowledge and his own curiosity. Built in 1874 it was listed
on the National Register of Historic Places. High Victorian
style architecture, brick construction, central hub with
adjacent wings. Designed by the man who propounded the
Kirkbride Plan for moral treatment of the mentally ill, known
for its sunny, stress-free and ordered environment.
Day-to-day the truth played out differently, history revealed.
Rational behavior had been rewarded with a room near the
center, on an airy upper floor. Violent insanity merited only
the lowest levels, the dankest rooms farthest away from the
hub.
As for the treatments -- Hostetler had read of tortures
unspeakable while the psychiatric community experimented over
decades with ways and means of restoring mental health.
Rumors persisted of clandestine, nighttime interments at the
old cemetery near the Knoll. Narrow white slabs, numbered and
nameless. Unmourned, forgotten, and now objects of
desecration by local vandals.
No wonder people claimed the place was haunted. Hell, the
whole town gave him the creeps these days.
"Dean Hostetler?"
He jumped up, obedient as a schoolboy.
"Please follow me, sir," said a tall grim-looking character,
guiding him down a magnificent arched hallway and up a flight
of stairs.
"Has the Provost asked to see me?"
"They're expecting you."
He had no idea who "they" could be.
The massive oak door swung open before him and he blinked.
Morning sunlight slid golden shafts through the room,
illuminating the high ceilings and rounded cornices of old
Victorian windows. A private parlor by the look of it, not an
office at all. If he remembered details of what he'd read
about the layout, it was the original apartment that housed
asylum superintendents over the last century.
He took a hesitant step forward and heard the door click shut
behind him, effectively barring any retreat on his part.
"Dean David Hostetler?"
In the center of the spacious room two men waited on plush
upholstery. The nervous one to the right he recognized as the
university Provost, Carl Mellingham. That was good.
The other was a complete stranger, but Hostetler assumed by
his appearance and manner that he was the one who'd requested
the meeting. He was immaculately suited, a stocky bulldog of
a man with a squared jaw and deep-set eyes. His commanding
glower drew Hostetler forward, almost against his will, as
though by powers beyond the natural.
My own paranoia, he thought, heart pounding. Plus, his brain
was still foggy from slight hangover and too much indulgence.
But this whole FBI-psychic-administration situation was
getting out of hand. More pressure than anyone should have to
handle for what he was paid.
A slight nod of recognition from Mellingham jerked him back to
reality. Hostetler's mind raced for several seconds as
survival instinct kicked in. He took a cleansing breath to
ground himself before starting toward them. With a polite
smile frozen to his face he realized he could tough this one
out. After all, hadn't he cooperated so far?
"Please have a seat, Mr. Hostetler," the big man said in a dry
husky voice. "I've looked forward to meeting you."
************
The trip to the fourth floor was an interminable journey of
false starts and stops as Willow tuned in to her surroundings.
First, she demanded complete silence. She placed hands on the
walls, slid them lovingly over and down the banister rail in a
way that made Mulder's loins quiver. She paused often to tap
whatever spirits might be lurking around them. Head bowed,
then face lifted towards heaven, hands and mind opened to
receive.
Climbing the stairs at a snail's pace, Mulder knew that Scully
found the whole scenario ridiculous. He hoped something of
substance would materialize to steer her toward acceptance.
Some powerful authentication, in light of his recent
suspicions concerning Samantha's fate.
Amanda... the name sounded similar, the college girl's
disappearance as much of a mystery. It gave him a vague
feeling of kinship, an unexplainable connection to this case
and to the victim. He felt driven to find this young woman
and restore her to her parents using whatever means were at
his disposal. Perhaps in doing so he'd gain insight into this
new restiveness concerning his own sister's fate.
The world of the supernatural marbled through waters dark with
mystery. Starlight and the odd visions he'd experienced --
were they genuine? Using his old catchphrase, he *wanted* to
believe in their veracity, wanted it desperately. But he
found himself clutching at straws, with only fuzzy
recollections of what had happened that night in the clearing
near Victorville.
Like a mosquito bite nearly healed, he'd gone and picked that
scab open again. Already it itched and oozed doubt. It
occurred to him that he'd still made no mention of this to
Scully. In time he'd remedy that.
But not yet.
The staircase showed its age, dark-stained wood absorbing the
minimal westward light that shone through the narrow
windowpanes. A mere few thousand feet above sea level and his
breathing felt labored, the air heavier in his lungs. Light-
headed, almost to the point of euphoria, he opened his mouth
to suck in more oxygen. As they gained the fourth floor he
glanced down at Scully, to see if she was similarly affected.
She plodded alongside him like a trooper, her lips sealed with
nothing more than discontent.
Willow turned, spread her arms to halt their progress in the
dimly lit corridor. Her large eyes gleamed as though
awestruck.
"What is it?" His heart thumped.
For answer she dug into the tote she carried and drew out a
wad of pale aqua material. A nightgown, feminine, lacy.
Murmuring to herself she swayed while she clutched the fabric
to her chest.
"Amanda's," Mulder breathed in recognition, and the psychic
nodded, closing her eyes. Her pale hair billowed like a
cloud. "What are you sensing from it?"
"*I'm* sensing we need to be on the third floor, checking her
room." Curt words from Scully. "I mean, that would have been
the most logical step, and you passed it up."
Her reading disturbed, Willow frowned. "This isn't about
order or logic, Agent Scully. It concerns life energy and
communication. Amanda's aura residue is guiding me, yes. Not
to the third floor, but here, to this area..." She raised her
arm and pointed a long-nailed finger down the hall. "... to
that room."
"Room 412," murmured Mulder to Scully.
"I suppose that's Kirsi Toskala's room?"
"Better call her Cricket or else," he corrected. "Like I
said, you missed out."
Scully's color deepened and she glanced away. "Whatever,
Mulder. It's still what people are referring to as the
haunted room. Am I right?"
"On the money."
Mortified, he watched as she strode over to the door, past
Willow, and jiggled the knob with vigor. "Looks to me like no
one's home. I don't suppose you have carte blanche to jimmy a
student's lock and invade her personal space?"
"Perhaps something can be arranged," said Willow stiffly.
"Better check with the Dean first; you wouldn't want to
disrupt the protocol." Scully spun to face them. "So where
is she, Ms. Nightingale? And I don't mean Cricket," she
added.
"There are many contradictions, but I feel Amanda's in a place
that's full of light. She wants to come back, yet she's
uncertain how to accomplish it. Because of obvious
disturbances my spirit guides haven't been free to reveal her
present location to me at this time."
"My better sense tells me up front that you're wasting our
time here."
"Scully --!" Mulder was close enough to grasp her upper arm,
tugging her aside with more force than he'd intended. He felt
her bicep contract under his fingers, saw her eyes flash up at
him in silent warning. New consternation swelled within him.
"Tell me what's going on," he hissed. "What the hell's gotten
into you?"
"I could ask you that same question."
"She should leave," urged Willow. "I knew there would be
interference."
"Just give us a minute," he said sharply, eyes not leaving his
partner's face.
Unwavering, Scully glared back.
"Listen to me, Mulder. You two go ahead and work out the
psychic angle between yourselves here. Because I came to solve
a case and to find a missing student -- and I want the whole
truth."
With a quick twist she broke his grasp, turned her back, and
took the stairs down, disappearing beyond his reach.
************
End of Chapter 5
Continued in Chapter 6
************
Chapter 6
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 14, 2001
11:28 AM
The door to Room 334 was unsecured, something Scully found
more irritating than suspicious. Crisscrossed ribbons of
police tape merely designated it off-limits, the yellow "X' a
mockery that left a sour taste in her mouth after the charade
that had occurred one floor above.
Ducking quickly beneath, she entered the unlocked door and
shut it behind her.
Drawn blinds striped the little room with ragged bands of
shadow and light. An ordinary dorm "double" with walls an
unsavory shade of scrub-green, a few glossy posters she
couldn't identify, and furniture no doubt scuffed from years
of heavy use. While her eyesight adjusted to the muted light
she took careful steps, sensing obstacles in her path.
A flick of the wall switch and she frowned.
Amanda's side of the room lay in shambles. Gutted drawers,
spilled notebooks, rumpled bed linens, clothing and
possessions piled and scattered like a flea market sale. Such
violation was pointless. Scully assumed the combined hands of
local police and campus security, perhaps even her parents,
were responsible for the chaos. It could also explain
Hostetler's desire to head off any outside investigation.
Had Amanda Carmichael ever been assigned a roommate? If so,
that student was long gone. The second bed was stripped down
to metal frame, mattress and lumpy pillow form. Another
closet sat barren, a desk nude and dusty, unoccupied.
She made a mental note to check with the police station and
security office. There was no excuse for such disorder.
Outdoor surveillance tapes might also be available for Wilson
Hall on the night of March 10. Evidence. She wanted to speak
with the Carmichaels as well, to get their take on the
paranormal elements they suspected were responsible for their
daughter's disappearance.
And surely other students in the dorm had something more
substantial to contribute than the mysterious spike-haired
girl who'd ambushed her outside Cutler Hall. The information
she'd whispered with such urgency still made Scully's flesh
crawl; the business card scorched a hole in her pocket.
She needed more facts from both Mulder and Hostetler. Time
was slipping away from them since Amanda Carmichael
disappeared four days ago.
Like a slap of cold water in the face, it struck her that the
investigation was, in essence, engineered to circumvent her
involvement. Designed to bypass her, to keep her out of the
loop.
The case was Mulder's bailiwick from the start, she knew,
slipped to him under the table like dirty money. Since
Scully's presence in Hocking was unofficial she'd been
included only through his insistence, to aid him while staying
undercover without tainting the Dean's fragile position with
his superiors at the university.
From her perspective Hostetler and Willow both seemed part of
a larger, more sinister game. Protecting Mulder and locating
Amanda were priorities, in that order.
She thought of the two o'clock appointment tempting her, which
brought to mind the second motel key card in her pocket. The
one meant for Mulder. In the tension of the last hour it
hadn't changed hands as planned.
A long pause while she slid her thumb along the edge of the
plastic card, contemplating the mild hurt and the risks that
lay ahead like mines lodged beneath a field, volatile and
unexpected.
Interests besides duty and professional loyalty kept her
attentive to Mulder's back, though subterfuge at his expense
wouldn't win her any gold stars or candlelight dinners, she
knew. He'd made that abundantly clear after her road trip
with CGB Spender last year.
Snapping off the light, she made her decision and left the
room.
The Super 8 was situated in close proximity to Wilson and the
West Green, sloping down past the Hocking River. At the
check-in office she quickly penned Mulder's surname and her
room number on a motel envelope. Sealing the key inside, she
handed it over to Glenn behind the counter, who watched her
preparations with something akin to envy.
"One lucky guy," he mumbled.
She gave him an arch glare. "Just see he gets this."
Back in the parking lot her cell phone trilled before she had
the chance to dial his number. She clapped it to her ear,
knowing whom she'd hear on the other end.
"Scully... you okay?"
"Of course." She pacified his familiar baritone while
contemplating traffic on the Richland Avenue Bridge and the
little city beyond. "So tell me, Mulder, what did the spirits
say to you back there? I hope they were friendly spirits."
He gave a quiet scoff into the phone and left the bait alone;
Willow must be at his elbow riding on every word or he'd have
already snapped back either a rebuke or a suggestive repartee.
"They see pizza in our future and want you along for lunch."
"Is that the best you can come up with?"
"We still need to talk. Sooner than later."
"Not with Madame Yappi within earshot."
"Where, then?"
She hesitated, appreciating Mulder's understated but
persuasive concern. At the same time the appointment on the
business card signaled from her pocket. She knew pre-
cognitively that following its trail would demand secrecy, a
deeper pull into divergence away from him.
If only she could turn back the clock, or rewind life's tape
of the last week to erase its contents and begin again. The
little virus of discontent she'd felt would have quietly run
its course, disappearing into oblivion. Instead she'd
medicated the situation with too much haste and a heavy dose
of self-protection. Stupid, though it could benefit them both
now, considering the strange parameters of this case.
"I need to check something out first."
He was silent for a moment, digesting this bit of information.
"Nothing like diving right into the pool. Or we could go and
get wet together."
"She's listening, isn't she?"
He grunted an assent.
"Mulder, I'll be downtown for awhile this afternoon, looking
into a lead." It was all she dared give him until she knew
more. "Chances are it may amount to nothing at all. Meet me
at the Hocking Super 8 this evening, room 123. There's an
envelope at the front desk if you get there before I do."
"What time?"
His tone and the question evoked images of what the coming
night might bring. She anticipated heated sparring about the
lag in the case, Willow's credibility, and Scully's over-
reaction at Wilson. They'd come to an impasse, then surrender
by increments to solace and settlement. First, Mulder's hands
on her body, followed by his mouth, a preamble to unrestrained
lovemaking.
He wasn't the only one hungering for intimacy after days of
self-imposed deprivation. She swallowed, realizing with a
pang that she missed the smooth firmness of his skin, the wet
meanderings of his tongue, and his generosity in their bed.
Sensual warmth stirred within her at the prospect of taking
him wholly to herself again.
Unexpectedly a cool breeze slipped fingers beneath her collar,
raising the fine hairs along her neck.
"I'm not really sure yet," she hedged. "That's all I can give
you until later."
With Glenn's campus map unfolded on the car seat beside a fast
food salad container, she found herself cruising the small
city of Hocking in an effort to memorize streets and
landmarks. The layout of each green in relation to the
student union, the classroom buildings, campus security
office, police station, and finally the downtown mecca. It
could prove useful in the long run.
Students of varying ages and maturity levels appeared in
clusters, dribbled away, were replaced by other groups when
she passed by the same areas. Continual shifts of activity in
the busy microcosm of campus life.
Mulder, she guessed, hadn't had that luxury before he blew
into town and dove headlong into the case. With time at her
disposal, it seemed the logical way to whittle it down before
the clock struck two and she took this first solo step into
mysterious terrain, with only a business card to guide her.
She'd mentally prepared herself for the address in question.
14 West Union Street: Art Apocalypse, Tattooing and Body
Piercing.
A half-block distant, she parked close enough for stake out
purposes without being obtrusive. After contemplating her
wristwatch and cell phone, she punched in a number by heart
and directed the switchboard to connect.
A tired male voice answered, "Sloan here."
"This is Agent Dana Scully," she whispered. "Sorry to bother
you so soon."
She heard Al Sloan's tone lighten in surprise, newly
energized. "Hey, no bother at all. In fact, it's a rare
pleasure. What can I do for you?"
"I could use a favor, actually. Background check on a name
and an organization, but please keep it quiet. I'm not able
to access from my present location."
"I hear you, Agent Scully. Just a sec," and she detected
shuffling as he grappled on the other end for paper and pen.
"Okay, fire away."
No questions asked about her partner's whereabouts, for which
she was grateful considering Mulder's present alliance.
She fed Sloan the data in increments, wincing at the
ludicrousness of pronouncing the name "Willow Wind
Nightingale" several times for his benefit, and concluded with
her cell number.
"Got it," he replied, all business.
Her gaze flicked to the tattoo parlor down the street. "Wait,
I have one more. See what you can find on the name 'Kirsi
Toskala', please. She should be listed as a Putnam University
student in Ohio."
"Spelling?"
"You'll have to give it your best shot. Sorry about that."
"Right-o, I can handle it. Be back to you as soon as I dig
something up."
************
Pizza Shack, Hocking
12:35 PM
With Scully occupied elsewhere in town, they'd walked the
length of Court Street in search of a quiet spot for food and
discussion. The usual restaurant chains were primarily
student hangouts, too exposed and noisy for private talk. In
the end they chose a smaller and far less-frequented pizza
place off the main thoroughfare. Nondescript, with no hype or
flash.
Hype, flash and dazzle were the things Mulder had hoped for
back at Wilson Hall. The spooky shit he'd promised Scully on
the phone went bust. In actuality, nothing unusual had
materialized other than the psychic's vacuous observations and
Scully's antagonism.
"You seem disappointed, Agent Mulder," said Willow.
He'd selected a round table in the corner, isolated from the
noon sun and the few students who stopped in for a bite
between exams. The atmosphere seemed restful and the food on
the table teased his hunger until he felt gluey tack beneath
one of his shoes. A sheen of grease on the tabletop also
prompted him to lift his elbows and sit back in defeat,
realizing that nothing of much good had gone his way all
morning.
"You mean was I there for the special effects? Expecting
something with a little more climactic value? More bang for
my buck?" He shook his head and felt his lip curl. "Tell
me... how was it for you, Ms. Nightingale?"
"In keeping with your metaphor, it was extremely satisfying,"
she replied.
His slice of pizza, on closer inspection, looked undercooked
and lacked sufficient mozzarella to tempt his palate. Instead
he retreated to a dark corner of his mind to ponder Willow's
rejoinder.
What had he hoped to see this morning in Wilson? Ectoplasm
and strange lights? Vindication for permitting himself to be
led by the nose during this case? Something incorporeal,
ghostbuster-worthy, comprehensible? But such manifestations
might also confirm that Amanda Carmichael was already dead,
and that was unacceptable.
He was reminded of last year, when he allowed the milky
specter of a small child to grasp his hand and lead him into a
misty otherworld. When time fell away and Scully's clear
voice turned to drone. When he left her far behind on a
singular, personal journey into starlight.
Lightheaded and numb, he'd waded through a throng of ghost
children, dead, yet visible as 'walk-ins' on some supernatural
plane of existence. He saw Amber Lynn's timid wave, heard the
tinkling laughter of kids at play. Luminous bodies parted and
his sister ran toward him from the secret past.
She was an older Samantha, but one who recognized his face.
Loving him back with hugs and the dreamy stares of adolescent
worship, they reunited under the stars. Not like Samantha-of-
the-Diary, who scarcely remembered she'd even had a brother,
what he looked like, or anything about their lives before she
was taken away so long ago. Not like Samantha-the-Squirt,
bane and balm of his boyhood years.
Parcheesi and Battleship, pigtails and practical jokes. The
press of her little body, trembling, after strange men had
visited their parents and fights loudly erupted downstairs.
Devotion between an older boy and his younger sister, siblings
toughing out hardships together... before she disappeared and
he spent half his life in search of her.
True closure? Last year, yes, or so he'd thought. He had the
visions and diary to support it, though he struggled
reconciling the apparition and the writer as being the same
little girl he'd known growing up.
Now doubts stirred again, as though waking from a fitful
dream.
He shook off his languor and came back to the present, to the
lousy food and the woman across the table with the wild, pale
hair and death-grip on the jar of parmesan cheese. She
powdered her slice of pizza until it mounded over the plate
like snowdrift.
"Is she alive?"
"To whom are you referring, Agent Mulder?"
Her eerie response pulled him up short, made him wonder
whether she'd read his mind again. "I think it's obvious.
Scully was right when she said we should speak with Amanda's
parents before they leave Hocking."
"I'll concede that if the Dean allows it. We should also
investigate the local cemeteries, since they account for much
of the supernatural power in this area."
"Explain."
"Five privately-owned cemeteries surround the city of
Hocking." With a long fingernail she drew a line across the
table between them. "Connect them like dots. Using invisible
lines, called ley lines, you'll see they form the shape of a
pentagram. I want you to tell me what you think lies in the
center of this pentagram. In its very heart."
"Wilson Hall?" Mulder felt his scalp prickle, Scully's
research springing to mind.
"Precisely, with the dormitory situated over an Indian burial
ground, as you know."
"I'm not clear on how that's relevant to Amanda's
disappearance. Other than the fact that you 'sense' there may
be a valid connection."
He noticed Willow's mouth tighten. "Please don't be
insulting. The fact that I've sensed it should be evidence
enough for someone with your background and openness to the
paranormal. At the very least we can visit the individual
cemeteries so I can do a reading at each one. You know,"
Willow said with distaste, "you sound very much like your
partner sometimes."
He felt a tinge of satisfaction. "Is that problematic?"
"Agent Scully is a doubter," Willow said succinctly. "Forgive
my bluntness, but she has no place in this investigation."
The comment rankled, kicking his irritation into higher gear.
They needed to focus on the missing girl and the facts of the
case, not his partner's perceived shortcomings or any backlash
from her earlier hostility in Wilson Hall.
"I've learned from experience to respect Scully's instincts.
She usually has good reason for her actions."
The psychic smiled and pressed a fork through the powdery
mound of cheese. "From experience," she echoed, fondling the
words, voice soft with sarcasm. "Experience can be deceptive,
Agent Mulder. What we experience in the world is often
insular and subjective, received through the senses and
emotions, and is therefore untrustworthy."
"Now you sound like Scully," he jibed. "You know of something
better?"
"Naturally. By reading what an individual can't think to hide
or has the ability to control -- by an aura."
"Electromagnetic energy surrounding a person's body,
reflecting their emotional and physical state," he parroted
from memory, leaning toward her. "Seen as colors, which are
then interpreted to have certain meanings and significance."
"Very astute, Agent Mulder. But then, as I mentioned before,
you have more than a passing familiarity with such paranormal
phenomena."
"You're telling me you read my partner's aura today."
"I'd be happy to share details with you... if you promise to
maintain objectivity and don't readily take offense."
"You get no promises. What did you see?"
"All right then." She sat back, swallowing the bite of food.
"Red... I observed a predominance of the color red."
Mulder smirked. "She comes by it honestly, wouldn't you say?"
"You misunderstand me. Not the bright color of her hair or
what you see overhead in this silly excuse for a chandelier.
That would have positive meaning -- energy, courage, and
action. No, unfortunately. The red Agent Scully emits is
muted, dulled with negativity, except for intermittent spikes
of brighter tones."
"Meaning?"
"Come," she teased, "I dare you to play tag-team with me,
Agent Mulder. Allow me to share what I saw and you, from your
hidden storehouse of accumulated knowledge, can interpret
aloud after me."
He squandered a minute before replying, weighing the dangers
and benefits of such an exercise, wary of what could be
construed as betrayal on his part. It preyed on his mind that
after the confrontation at Wilson Scully was sniffing out a
mysterious lead without him.
"Red, from a negative perspective, connotes anger," he stated
suddenly, "or even repression."
"An admirable start. And you are quite correct. In the case
of your partner, I also detected dark clouds over her head and
face. Here," she brazenly indicated her ample bosom, "on the
chest and midsection."
He shook his head, baffled enough to overlook the flirt.
"On her abdomen as well. That rings no bells? You see, dark,
broken patches usually denote physical illness or damage of
some kind. I daresay your partner has suffered many injuries
in the line of duty -- or will -- in those specific areas.
Externally and possibly... internally at some time?"
"Drop it; skip ahead," he said gruffly, resenting how
carelessly she intruded into territory that was sacrosanct and
hallowed. He and Scully had paid a hefty price, inestimable
dues for their battle scars, which were no one's business but
their own.
His internal radar beeped and he sat back, realizing there
were ways other than psychic to ferret out such privileged,
personal information. He kept a mental grip on Scully's
protective mantle, prepared to fling it like a shield if
necessary.
"As you wish. To continue, her reds were banded with an
opposing color, with shades of green."
"That makes sense," he said, seizing the tangent. "Green
represents healing power. Scully's a doctor and a scientist,
a seeker and nurturer. As a partner, she's loyal as they
come."
Willow's features drooped into sad lines of pity.
"Yes, I remember you said you'd trust her with your life. A
touching sentiment, in theory. Yet the green I observed
surrounding Agent Scully appeared weak and pale in hue, mixed
with yellow. Riddled with yellow, I'm sorry to tell you."
"This game's done for me," he said flatly, pushing back again
from the table.
"I understand how unsettling this must be, but you should
realize what you're facing. The green in her aura speaks of
emotional dependency and buried resentment. Now, the infusion
of yellow --" She stopped, gave him a rueful smile. "I
interpret that to be a spirit of dishonesty and paranoia.
Secretive manipulation at work..."
"And that's bullshit," he retorted.
"Agent Mulder, things are not always as they seem -- or should
be. Even between the most intimate of friends."
"I'm asking you one more time: is the girl alive?"
With her fork Willow cleaved the buried slice of pizza, cheese
making a powdery cloud over her plate.
"I believe she is," she answered simply.
************
Art Apocalypse, Hocking
1:55 PM
Illustrations papered every wall of the tattoo parlor, from
the innocent to the demonically garish. Flowers, naked women,
Celtic and Asian symbols, spidery etchings in black outline,
some with splashes of red, blue, and yellow. Soft Eastern
music and indirect lighting.
The sharp tang of ink and chemicals pulled Scully back to the
dreamlike past.
If she closed her eyes she'd find herself seated in that low
chair again, the night air teasing her spine. Scrape of the
razor, cool sting of alcohol. A soothing whine and buzz of
machinery before the thing bit into her back flesh like so
many angry bees feasting in succession. Hours spent enduring
tiny, red-hot barbs and reactive gooseflesh. One man crouched
behind, at work. Another stood before her as she leaned
toward him in wonderment, gasping to control the pain and
holding his gaze, drunk with forbidden pleasure...
She swallowed, reliving the sense that she was again crossing
some dangerous, exhilarating threshold, immune to the
consequences. Coming full circle, like a snake gnawing its
own tail...
She approached the stocky full-bearded young man at the front
counter. Colorful pictures marked his forearms, rose from
beneath his collar like vines in search of light and air.
Silver balls, bars, and assorted metal jutted from his
eyebrows, ears, septum, and lips in blatant advertisement of
his craft.
"Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for someone by the name
of 'Tusk'. Is that you?"
He grinned. "Nooo, not even close; my name's Mason. But
you've sure come to the right place if you're lookin' for
fancy needle action. Tusk gives great tattoo."
"Afraid I'm not interested. What I need is --"
"Hey." His eyes narrowed as he squinted down at her, then
slapped a button affixed to the side of the counter. An echo
buzzed in a far recess of the shop. "Better wait right here,"
he advised. "Boss'll be free in a minute."
New sounds captured her attention, wafting from behind a
purple curtain across the room. Murmurs and moans, not of
passion, but from pain and complaint. A low masculine voice
overrode the whimpers, coaching, rumbling husky words of
comfort. After several minutes the curtain rippled aside and
two men emerged.
The first was a college student, slight and wobbly on his
feet, dabbing gingerly at a new piercing through his right
nostril. Each tentative touch to the silver ring provoked a
groan of awe to match his loopy smile of satisfaction. Only
then did Scully notice another glint, also of silver, imbedded
in the very center of his tongue. Small wonder the dizziness,
she thought, with two fresh jolts to the nervous system.
The second man brought her up short, his size and sheer
intensity overpowering.
Heavily muscled, tall and shaved Kojak-bald, he displayed less
noticeable metal than his associate, though more black and
color seeped from beneath his taut tee shirt, coiling
snakelike along his biceps and arms.
"Mason, my man!" The voice rang gravel-deep, resonant with
authority. "This dude wants to bequeath us some more of his
hard-earned allowance. Take good care of him; I sense a
repeat customer."
"You got it."
But his big hand, heavy with reassurance, remained draped over
the student's shoulder as he guided him toward the cash
register. All the while he administered squeezes of
encouragement, in his low voice gave further instructions on
aftercare, healing, and safety. He seemed attuned, attentive
to his client's well-being and present vulnerability.
Admirable bedside manner, Scully thought. Pity it's wasted
here.
Mason, as though scripted, led the client outside to banter
near the front door with other passers-by. Only then, when
they were alone, did the bald muscle-bound man turn to regard
her as his hands gripped his hips and he stared her down.
Dark brown eyes. Brows wide and shapely for a male, drifting
toward the exotic. Mulder's, by comparison, grew straight and
sure, framing an intuitive gaze, a face brushed by kindness
and sincerity. This man threw off sparks without even
speaking.
She took a step closer, at the same time reaching for her
badge when his arm shot out to halt the gesture. "Ssstt!" He
jerked his hand downward in a cutting motion. "Not here."
"What?"
"You heard," he whispered down, so close she could smell the
musk of his sweat. He jerked a thumb at the large front
windows where Mason and several cronies stood outside, clearly
visible. "If you're who I think you are, you'll know when to
shut up and stow it. Stay cool -- we're going to the back
office."
She was inured to men moving into her personal space
uninvited. Exerting authority over her as this one was now
attempting, testing her mettle in a dangerous arena. It came
with the job and had been a characteristic of Mulder as well,
especially in the early years. He'd measured loyalty to his
cause by her lack of intimidation and impressive bravado, by
the pace she kept alongside him and the reports she doctored
for their mutual benefit.
"So you must be Tusk." Seasoned, Scully lifted her chin and
stood her ground.
"Back over here," he urged again, his sharp eyes sizing her
up. "And don't worry," he added as she brooded over the
command. "I don't bite."
"I can't say the same."
"Love that in a woman." The hint of a smile softened his
features.
Curiosity piqued and patience tested, she followed him past
the door into the room designated 'Office.' The door shut
behind them and she made quick inventory of her situation,
nerves and muscles taut. They stood surrounded by the usual
clerical accoutrements, in the dark except for the single
light in a corner that was set at low dim.
Pivoting in the shadows she held up her badge, staying close
to the door.
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI. Why all the cloak-and-
dagger?"
"Security issues, my choice. Take your pick."
"Something wrong with the lights?"
"Maybe I want to see how you handle being in the dark."
She huffed her annoyance. "I don't have time for this. Give
me one good reason why I was handed an anonymous note to
contact someone by the name of Tusk."
"You found me, didn't you?"
"And because this seems to be my day for unlikely names, I
suppose yours must be the real deal too?"
"Real enough," chirped a feminine voice behind her.
Scully wheeled in surprise as overhead lights blazed, blinding
her vision with white brilliance. A split-second later she
discerned a familiar figure leaning near the door they'd
entered, finger on the wall switch. The girl stood frozen in
place, breath drawn, her dark eyes glazed with alarm below the
spiked hair.
Only then did Scully realize she'd instinctively reached for
the service weapon holstered under her coat.
"Chill the fuck out, lady," whispered Cricket.
"A woman of action," Tusk rumbled approvingly. "I like that
too." He stood like a massive shield between the girl and
woman, heavily illustrated arms crossed, eyes flashing. "My
name's a derivative of Toskala. Risto Toskala, owner of this
funky den of iniquity. And since you've already met my little
sister, it'd be a shame for you to waste us both at the same
time."
************
End of Chapter 6
Continued in Chapter 7
************
Chapter 7
************
Downtown Hocking, Ohio
March 14, 2001
1:55 PM
It was a ditch that made him proud. One that in earlier times
might have drawn hushed expletives from Scully, were she in
Willow Nightingale's shoes.
Willow, as fate would have it, was busy in the Pizza Shack's
ladies' room when Mulder had opportunity to hightail his way
back to the car, coat flapping, tie swooping like a kite in
the cool breeze.
It was carpe diem or nothing, he told himself. Hostetler,
panting into the phone from exertion, fear, or both had gasped
out the message. Before the man's next breath Mulder flung a
ten-dollar bill on the table and was out the door. He dodged
book-laden students and strolling locals in true quarterback
fashion, cell phone clapped to his ear.
"Agent Mulder, go talk to the Carmichaels! Just you. Do it
now, as soon as you can!"
"Why the rush? Your big meeting go bust?"
"I'll explain later. All I can say is, Amanda's parents are
leaving town any minute and this is your only chance to talk
to them in person. Are you alone?"
"Willow-free," Mulder replied, shooting a quick glance over
his shoulder. "I sense something must've put the whammy on
her."
"Uh... okay. Go to the University Inn, room 211, if they
haven't already checked out. Down Route 33, the road you took
when you came in last night. He's tall, she's short, both
blonde. Try not to talk in the hotel. Too many eyes and
ears, if you catch my drift."
"Surveilling the distraught parents? How kosher is that,
Hostetler?"
One-handed, Mulder had the car started, in gear, and was
already shooting away from the curb. His blood pulsed with
electricity. Screw seatbelts and pedestrian right-of-way. He
willed the stoplight ahead to stay green, green, green as he
picked up speed. Hoped that nature's innocent call or the
crappy restaurant pizza Willow had consumed with such relish
was working its own black magic to keep her occupied for some
time to come.
"They went over my head, I swear. Listen to me," whispered
Hostetler, "I shouldn't even be talking to you right now.
Don't let anybody know we spoke about this. That includes
her."
"Which 'her'?"
"The psychic's who I meant. Christ! Did your partner finally
make it into town too?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Aw, Jesus..." The man whimpered into the phone as though in
real pain.
"Buck up, Hostetler. Get a grip," Mulder advised.
Straightening the quiet curves along Lancaster Street toward
the highway he drew glares from pedestrians and a few middle
fingers speared the air in his direction. "Do you feel you
could be in any physical danger right now?"
"What the hell? Are you serious?" The Dean sounded aghast, as
though any thought of vindictive bodily retaliation had never
entered his head. "No! God, no!"
"Then I'll call you on your cell when I'm finished and find
out something more."
His sense of urgency was tempered by the realization that
Scully should be at his side for this meeting, the way she'd
been in Aubrey last fall. He remembered her gentleness with
little Benjie Tillman, her finesse when reasoning with his
pain-in-the-ass father, the lieutenant. In fact, this sudden
invitation in Willow's absence might go far in redeeming him
for the faux pas at Wilson Hall earlier this morning.
It was worth a try. By late evening he hoped to add some
creative spice to both his night and Scully's. Her room at
the Super 8 was a safer bet than his awkward, noisy digs on
campus. Day Four was fast careening into afternoon, burning
like a comet's tail, with little to show for it.
Using his thumb he speed-dialed her number on his cell and got
a "missed call" message that told him the phone was
unreachable. Strange, since the tower signal in Hocking
seemed strong.
Or she'd shut it off, something uncharacteristic of Scully.
The possibility set him on edge and he nudged the gas peddle,
chewing his lower lip as he mused over her mysterious
whereabouts, the lead she was pursuing out there without him.
Where could she be? And who with?
************
Bright searing light made Scully squint and shade her eyes.
The adrenaline surge over, she released her gun with something
close to chagrin, fingers relaxing on the handle grip.
"No one's getting 'wasted'," she muttered as she watched the
tension drain from Cricket's face, though her sarcasm was
directed primarily toward the man.
Illustrated arms crossed like a genie's, Tusk seemed a
veritable wall of muscle, impenetrable. She realized he'd
shown no sign of agitation when she went for the weapon,
except to shield his sister and present a barrier of ironclad
self-control.
A distinct family resemblance emerged, now that the two
Toskalas stood side by side. The same brand of mouth and
expression, curve of lip, ear, and jaw. Identical eye color
and upward angling of dark brows. But the girl was mere
shadow to his mass, a kink of barbed wire next to her
brother's wrought iron presence.
That he was pure testosterone-driven male became apparent in
the slow glance he dragged over Scully's face and figure.
"Gee, I feel safer already," his deep voice rumbled in
repartee.
The visual caress and smart-ass remark were irksome after what
she'd been forced to tolerate this morning. "Then let's cut
through the crap," she snapped. "I'm tired of wasting time
and want some answers."
"Have a seat; we'll talk." He indicated a folding chair by
the desk.
"I prefer to stand."
Cricket, however, climbed up on the varnished surface and
folded her thin legs beneath her like a loose-jointed monkey.
Her eyes flicked from Tusk to Scully and back down to the
holster that peeked from beneath the leather coat. Scully
watched the girl's eyes gleam.
"You," she said, accusation frosting her tone. Cricket stared
back with keen attention. "I want to know how you got this
information and who you're working for."
It became clear that Cricket's position was crucial, but
subordinate. Before she could respond the man had stepped to
her side, butting his lean hip into the desk.
"Okay, Miss FBI. It might have been my sister's idea to drag
you into this, but it's my call in the end," he rumbled. "I
determine whether it's worth the gamble to include you -- or
not."
"You know it is," Cricket hissed to him. Was it Scully's
imagination, or did unspoken communication pass between the
two Toskalas? Invisible vibes. A telepathic understanding
similar to what she often experienced with Mulder, a product
of loyalty, sync, and close association.
"You haven't answered my question," she reminded them sharply.
Tusk gave a patronizing glare. "First of all, we're unknowns
and we work for ourselves. Just little guys outside that big
bad world of conspiracy and crime you're used to dealing with.
Nothing worth getting your pretty panties in a twist about."
Scully crossed her arms, arched a brow at the dripping
chauvinism; Cricket threw her brother a look of disgust.
"Second, our information came from a pretty reliable source.
Namely, the Dean who called your partner into town."
"I find that hard to believe."
He shrugged. "Sis, fill her in."
"It's not rocket science," the girl responded, as though
explaining to a child. "Just booze and stupidity. This Dean
Hostetler guy runs at the mouth when he's drinking and fucking
his secretary. The dude doesn't know when to shut his trap
and I get as much detail as I want from her afterward.
Simple, see?"
Tusk put out a hand as he took over the thread.
"He's obsessed with the paranormal, which explains why he
called your partner into town when that girl Amanda
disappeared. Maybe he felt the situation warranted someone
with background and history in that area. I figure he did
some in-depth research of his own to justify going out on a
limb. Or maybe," he smirked, "your partner with the strange
name thought it might be reassuring to allude to your history
and his, in misplaced confidentiality."
"What sort of allusions?"
"About alien abductions and UFOs. Something called 'X-Files.'
Conspiracies that focus on human test subjects. You know,
everyday shit like that."
"Allusions can be purely hypothetical," she said, prepared to
denigrate what he implied. Unless Mulder felt such details
were germane to the case, it was unlikely he'd find the need
to divulge many personal facts to a stranger. Yet private
history had a way of becoming inextricably entwined with the
infamous cases in their file cabinet the longer they both
worked in their division.
"You could be right," he amended, watching her expression.
"Maybe he wasn't so specific after all. But it gave Cricket
enough bait to fish with. Judging from your reaction, we
must've hooked into something meaty."
Scully turned her head, lapped the edges of her coat with
vigor. "That's it. I'm leaving."
"Not before I hear the truth from you."
The dangerous edge in his voice brought her up short. "What
truth might that be?"
"That a conspiracy really exists involving abduction and
secret testing on humans."
"More conjecture on your part, Mr. Toskala?"
Tusk loomed closer, forcing her head back to maintain enough
distance to focus.
"You don't get it, do you? Well, Amanda Carmichael does," he
growled. "While the FBI and the university sits on its
collective ass dicking around with pseudo-psychics and
bureaucracy cover-up, she's probably being tortured by those
bastards as we speak. Along with others."
His cynical accusation held faint echoes of Mulder when he
went for the jugular, stripping away the bullshit. For
chilling seconds she saw lightning-flash images of her own
abduction. The drill, a spinning blur, and white-hot needles
of pain. Acute suffocating fear. Emily resonated in her
subconscious, calling her to the surface, touching her hand.
Scully blinked, an effort to stay focused. "Do you have
evidence?"
"I know what's happened in the past, if that's any indication.
If my sister's right, then you're the only one who can help
us."
Jaw squared, he ducked his head, a precursor to unforgivable
tears, to weakness. He rubbed his forehead in a nervous
gesture, then swept a palm over the shaved expanse of his
crown. Beside him, Cricket's eyes swam, her face a fragile
mirror of her brother's.
"Just tell me what's involved," Scully said evenly, with less
antagonism than before.
She waited while he smoothed emotions that had bristled during
his rant, tucking them away again into some secret, protected
place that men keep hidden. Unexpectedly he turned to the
girl, mouth to her ear.
They spoke together in whispers so low Scully could barely
discern the words, but opposing viewpoints emerged in the
hushed, fierce discussion that followed. Cricket grasped his
arms, her thin hands and fingers like those of a perching
bird. Through the tee-shirt Scully saw the muscles in his
deltoids and quads bunch, relax. Bunch again. Relax.
Consultation finished and unity restored, he faced Scully, one
arm draped over his sister's shoulder.
"Okay, here's the deal. Since knowledge fuels power, you
throw in with us. Lend us your expertise, help us accomplish
what needs to be done. Then, 'quid pro quo': maybe we
actually find this Amanda girl at the same time. Stranger
things have happened."
"The clincher?"
"Nothing gets said to your partner. No details until it's
over."
Scully twisted her lips into a grudging purse. "Well, that's
the deal breaker then, isn't it?"
"Seriously, we can't risk his involvement while he's
compromised by a psychic bitch who watches his every move.
Trust me when I say his investigation is under close watch,
controlled by masterminds who manipulate the college admins
like puppets. I doubt even this Hostetler dude knows how deep
it goes. Listen to me..."
He approached again to loom above her. This time his face and
manner were softer, conciliatory.
"Any other time I might not ask for your help. But believe
me, something bigger than all of us is coming down within the
next few days."
"Touchdown," intoned Cricket mysteriously.
"See for yourself. Come with us for a drive and then decide.
But yea or nay, blab anything to your partner and his psychic
friend that'll tip our hand -- and all bets are off. We deny
everything."
"You wouldn't be the first," Scully said dryly. "And what
happens to Amanda Carmichael then?"
Shoving his hands into too-tight jeans pockets, his eyes
reminded her of coals, glowering under dark brows.
"She'll most likely be out of our reach... and on your
conscience," he said.
************
Outskirts of Hocking
2:15 PM
They reminded Mulder too much of Bud and Billie LaPierre.
With their blonde looks and teary stoicism, they were brave
and supportive of one another amid tragedy. But instead of
facing him from a living room sofa in teeming Sacramento, Ray
and Linda Carmichael occupied a park bench near the banks of a
river in Ohio, near their missing daughter's college.
Of all the cars in the parking lot, the dusty Dodge mini-van
struck Mulder as being the likeliest choice. Their name was
stamped all over it, from the new Putnam University decal on
the rear window to the license plate frame proclaiming
"Gifford Motors, Cincinnati."
They'd emerged from the University Inn, suitcases in hand, to
head for home and prolonged vigil. Minutes later they were
tailing him.
He gave them credit for their willingness to accompany him on
just his word and government credential. The Carmichaels were
cooperative, but traumatized. Several times Mulder waited
while the woman pulled fresh tissues from her purse to blot
her eyes and red nose, unable to speak. The facts of this
case and the similar appearance of those involved gave him a
sense of deja vu, of pressing the replay button to an old
videotape.
Introductions out of the way, he got straight to the point.
"Mr. And Mrs. Carmichael, I realize you've spoken to police
and university security in the last few days, as well as to
the Dean of Students, so I apologize in advance if some of my
questions seem repetitive."
Tearful and acquiescent, they nodded.
"That said, I've had a lot of experience with cases like
yours, but very few that have involved a request from the
parents to call in a psychic detective. Was there a specific
reason for it?"
As the woman's eyes filled, Ray Carmichael leaned close to
give her a kiss on the temple. "Take your time," he
whispered.
Pausing first to collect herself, Linda Carmichael began her
story. "I had gotten up to use the bathroom, about one a.m.
Ray was still asleep and I felt restless. For some reason, I
decided to take a peek into Amanda's bedroom. She was
supposed to come home this weekend when her exams were
finished, so we'd bought her a new bedspread as a gift.
Quilted, in calico prints and her favorite colors. I wanted
to have another look and imagine how pleased she'd be when she
saw it."
"Amanda's our oldest child," added Ray.
Mulder nodded encouragement, giving them time, as grief
allowed.
"The hall light was on. And when I looked into her room... I
--" More tears, dabbing. "I saw her layingg on the bed."
Mulder's gut clenched. "You saw a vision?"
"That must have been what it was. Almost like having a dream,
but I know I wasn't dreaming. I really saw her."
Ray Carmichael continued. "Linda said Amanda was flat on her
back, on top of the new bedspread. Wearing her bathrobe and
slippers. Then she looked over..."
"And she called to me," sobbed Linda Carmichael. "Moving her
lips. There wasn't any sound, but I understood. I knew she
was saying 'Mommy, Mommy' and when I went over to her --"
"And the vision suddenly disappeared," Mulder finished.
"Yes, she wasn't there at all! I was so upset I went and woke
up Ray to tell him what I saw. About six hours later we got a
call from the school and drove right out."
"Did you tell the police about this vision? Anyone else?"
She shook her head, ashamed. "After we learned that Amanda
was missing, we explained to the Dean that something unnatural
must've caused it. I mean, just those strange stories about
her dormitory being haunted. There has to be *some*
connection."
Ray nodded. "A friend of Linda's had told us about her
experiences with the Living In Fear Ends foundation so we
wanted the Dean to have someone with psychic ability on hand.
Is there?"
"I've been working with that person," he assured them
delicately.
"We felt it was important, just in case there really is a
supernatural connection the police might've missed."
"Or discounted," threw in Mulder.
"Yes, exactly." They nodded, tearfully encouraged by his
perception.
Pursuing a hunch, he probed further, maintaining gentle eye
contact. "Did you find any sort of handwritten note in your
home? Something in a familiar script, indicative that a
family member could have written it?"
The question appeared to baffle the Carmichaels. They shook
their heads at one another, puzzled, before Linda replied.
"You mean, a ransom note? No, we found nothing like that, not
even in her dorm room. It didn't take long to look around,
because Amanda's so organized about her things. Always neat
as a pin."
"I'd like to see a picture of Amanda, if you have one with
you."
The photo Linda Carmichael tenderly furnished showed a gangly
young woman in shorts and tee-shirt. Coltish legs, long
blonde hair pinned back by barrettes. Her expression was shy,
more self-conscious than pleased by the camera's attention
during a backyard family barbecue.
"May I borrow this?"
"Of course, if you think it will help you. We had a few other
prints, just of Amanda's face that were given to the police
and the missing persons people. Not to the newspapers,
though. The Dean told us it was best to keep things quiet
during the search. No reporters at all. Just in case..."
She faltered; Ray resumed. "She means in case we came under
suspicion for some kind of wrongdoing. You know how the media
blows things up and then the police have second thoughts and
assume the parents are guilty by association. My wife
couldn't bear that kind of treatment, not after what we saw
happen last year."
"Explain what you mean."
"Oh, that awful case in California," Linda Carmichael sniffed.
"Last year or so, the little girl who disappeared out there
and was never found. We watched it on TV. Amber something.
I about cried when I heard how the police held those poor
people for questioning, as if they'd actually harmed their own
little girl. And the whole time being devastated by such a
terrible loss --"
"Criminal," affirmed Ray, arm around his shaken wife.
Mulder's lips tightened. It would serve no useful purpose to
expose to the Carmichaels the depth of his involvement in the
Amber Lynn LaPierre case. Not now, at any rate.
"I'll make a suggestion as well. For now, tell no one you
spoke to the FBI, to me. I promise I'll be in touch." He
jotted down their phone numbers and offered a business card of
his own, scrawling his cell number. "And please be sure to
call me," he urged, "if you should have any more visions or
impressions. Anything similar to what you've already shared
with me might be valuable in locating your daughter."
"Of course. We have to believe that Amanda's alive and
unharmed, somewhere..."
"She is, somewhere," Mulder echoed. And even as he offered a
hand warm with comfort to Amanda Carmichael's distraught
parents, his heart grew cold and his thoughts stole away into
a place of mesmerizing starlight.
************
Intuition and experience told Scully she was safe amongst this
odd little clutch of humanity that had sought her out with
such forethought and deliberation.
She'd switched off her cell phone after Al Sloan's return call
over an hour ago, wanting no other disturbance hampering her
concentration as she investigated this lead. Besides, she was
armed and had seen firsthand the effect of the weapon under
her coat.
("I'm trusting that you'll be able to make sense of this.
Please try and understand. I weighed the risks. I couldn't
divulge these plans without risking them, and I promise you
that I weighed everything.")
Desperate words from a tape she made for Mulder in a gas
station restroom hounded her. A microphone itched her
cleavage and the devil himself stood outside the door near the
pump, smoking his Morley. It seemed eons ago, that car trip
from hell, but the memory played audibly in her head,
persistent and eerily relevant.
Against her better judgment, she found herself riding 'Bitch'
beside Tusk in his dark beater of a car, consigned to only a
forward view of their progress across Hocking and into the
rolling countryside. Cricket, taking a 'Shotgun' position,
perched to Scully's right and partially screened the passenger
window, while Mason and another young man called Mole occupied
the back seat.
"Where are we going?"
"All in good time," Tusk humored.
The drive was mercifully short. Sunshine held shades of gold
when the car turned off into what resembled a hayfield gone
fallow, with more bumps and dings as they chugged through
ruts, clumps and tall grasses.
Tusk cut the engine. Musky maleness, stale cigarette odor,
and the cloying reek of patchouli from the girl permeated the
closed space around Scully. Her tolerance unraveled in the
stillness.
"Now what?"
"We get out, you stay with me. There's something over here I
want you to look at," Tusk told her, waiting while she scooted
across the driver's seat to stand beside him. Cricket guarded
the passenger door until the front seat was clear, then joined
Scully and the rest of her male cronies at the bottom of a
small hill.
"Why the secrecy?" She grew tired of asking questions into
the cooling air; answers were what she needed, and soon.
"Up there." Tusk jerked his head toward the top of the rise.
"We crawl to stay under their radar, on our knees and bellies.
Just like Indians. Or like they teach all you special agents
at the Academy. Let's see how good you are at it, Miss FBI.
Yo, Mason!"
The man nodded up at Tusk, alert.
"Stand point by the car and wait for the others. Mole,
Cricket -- flank us. You," he inclined his big, bare head
toward Scully, "stick close to me and keep quiet."
Training and grit gave her the speed and agility required in
order to keep up with him. She thanked God for the recent
sessions on the track at the Hoover and leather elbows on her
coat. The new jeans might show some wear-and-tear, at the
knees especially, but Mulder wasn't in the habit of looking
lower than hipline these days. She felt foolish and
irritable, squirming through the weeds and brambles beside
these strangers.
In less than a minute all four gained the crest, bodies
pressed low to the ground.
"That set of buildings out there," Tusk whispered, his lips
near her left ear. She craned her head away, blowing hair
from her mouth.
Showcased in full sun, the stately Victorian mansion rose from
the forest like a relic. Smaller structures, also of brick,
ringed it, fanning out from the main hub. Far beyond stood
the city of Hocking and the university. For the first time
Scully realized they'd driven in a loop, approaching the area
from its hidden backside.
"It looks like the old mental health center. So?"
"It's a lot more than that."
"Getting' down and dirty pretty soon," enthused Mole quietly.
Scully glanced to her right at him. "What's that supposed to
mean?"
"Get a good look," Tusk ordered under his breath as though to
distract her. "Commit what you see to memory. That strip of
road on the far side is Downey Lane. You've got the main
complex and residential patient wings on either side.
Attached to it are a lot of other structures once used for
maintenance, storage, dormitories, therapy, and research."
She scanned the horizon, his words directing her gaze from one
landmark to another. The visual tour continued.
"Over to the side, you'll see what looks like dense forest.
It's actually the old asylum bone orchard, where they've been
deep-sixing patients for over a hundred years."
"How is this pertinent?"
"I'm trying to tell you that burials still happen. Sometimes
they hide 'em deep, sometimes they dig 'em up." Tusk glared
out at the spot and Scully saw a pulse throb in the smooth
flesh of his temple. "And sometimes they don't bury 'em at
all," he added.
"I thought the university owned the property now. Haven't
they renovated it into an art museum and administrative
offices?"
"That's the word on the street... and what they hope
everyone's believing. The truth is much more interesting.
It's no accident that people vanish every so often... and no
one knows where."
"According to my research so-called UFO sightings aren't
uncommon in this area."
He chuckled in disdain. "Get real. It's not the Army's
latest hovercraft over that graveyard every spring, beaming up
cargo. Only night owls like us know what it is and when to
expect it."
"How?"
"Surveillance. Patience. Right over there, above those
trees..."
A sudden tug on his arm from Cricket and he motioned to the
others. "Time to adjourn," he whispered to Scully, "so we'd
better move quietly. Back toward the car, the way we came.
Then we'll talk turkey."
As the three slunk backward down the hill she had no choice
but to follow, retracing her line through the crushed grasses
on her elbows and stomach. The motley bunch lounged against
the car, waiting. All eyes watched her gain her feet and
brush off the dry field lint from her knees and elbows.
Another car. Two new faces had appeared in her absence, one
sporting a mustache under his long thin nose, the other
dressed in camouflage fatigues.
"We have a tyro at the party, folks," Tusk announced. "Make
her feel right at home so she'll stay for the duration."
But instead of pursuing the conversation he'd promised, he
turned toward the group by the car. Ambling from one person
to the next he rewarded each with a smile and a touch or pat
of recognition, though his accompanying narration was for
Scully's benefit alone.
"Meet Mason, our ground and prep man, along with his
apprentice, Needlenose. Been with me a long time. Our scout
and cartographer, Mole. Footer over there usually buddies
with him."
"Why 'Cricket', of all names?" Scully demanded, diverting
attention to the student-turned-guerilla.
"Have a look at her." All eyes swiveled to Cricket. "She's
tiny and she chirps."
"Fuck you," sneered the girl in her high-pitched voice,
twirling her middle finger. Yet the corners of her mouth
twitched in pleased embarrassment while the men around her
snickered and Tusk's arm looped her shoulders.
"Nah, seriously," he teased, giving his sister a tighter hug
of affection, which she reciprocated. "Cricket here is a
sensor. Personally, I think she's a little bit psychic. Have
you ever seen a cave cricket? They're hard to spot and quick
as lightning --"
Various comments and allusions they'd made coalesced in
Scully's mind, gaining some semblance of order and logic. She
started in sudden comprehension as the facts clicked and a
light went on in her head.
"You go underground," she declared, hands on her hips. "Down
into the utility tunnels."
Tusk beamed to the others. "Give this woman a gold star." He
looked pleased by her mystified expression. "Infiltration's
the only way to travel undetected, if you know what you're
doing and how to cover your tracks. What's your experience
with the underground? Claustrophobic any... Dana?"
Without going into detail, she wanted them to know she was no
wuss. Though it wasn't expedient to recount tales of air
ducts, man-eating fungi, Mothmen, or dank crawl spaces, it was
high time she set something else straight.
"I've been through the Academy and had some specialized
training -- and opportunity to use it. But before we go any
further, I insist on at least a smattering of professionalism
here. I am Agent Scully to you."
The group shared a muffled guffaw, which Tusk squelched. "You
throw in with us, you play by our rules. Short first names
only. Nothing fancy that can't be remembered in a split
second emergency."
"I haven't agreed to anything yet."
"Then it's high time."
How far dare she go without deepening the interpersonal breach
between her and Mulder, before a chasm of distrust and
distance, like scar tissue, formed between them? How far
before compounding that scenario into something negative and
opposing? "There are consequences for everything we do on a
case, for good or ill," Mulder once said, in a fit of
frustration.
She remembered the aftermath of her perilous ride with CGB
Spender, Mulder's simmering disappointment over her
recklessness. How only months ago jealousy about Tillman had
affected his judgment. To compound the negative, for several
days their most intimate encounters were being carefully
regulated, at her request.
Bad timing.
She kneaded furrows of tension from her forehead before
lifting her chin toward these strangers.
"I need to know why you're doing this. Details. The truth,"
she pressed, "or I walk."
Quiet fell over the gathering. They looked first to Tusk,
their acknowledged leader, then the girl. Tusk and Cricket,
the ones who shared an uncommon name and, Scully suspected, an
even darker secret. She felt mild gooseflesh erupt beneath
her warm clothing, as though she teetered again on the edge of
a risk-ridden abyss she'd later regret.
"The truth," she reiterated, her voice harsher. "I have to
know what's going on. Now."
It was Tusk who broke the awful stillness, his voice a choked
whisper.
"The bastards said he went berserk one day. Cut and ran
before one of his treatment sessions. That was five years
ago. Five years. Not a clue or a follow-up when the place
shut down. But we know he's still in there. A prisoner." He
spat the words. "A fucking guinea pig --"
"Who?"
Cricket huddled against him for comfort. "It's our brother,"
she sniffed, dabbing tears of humiliation across her sleeve.
************
End of Chapter 7
Continued in Chapter 8
************
Chapter 8
************
Hocking, Ohio
March 14, 2001
3:10 pm
Scully felt power behind the love that stood before her,
unwavering after five years.
Passage of time was irrelevant; Mulder was handed a mere
ninety-six hours and had succeeded in traveling three-quarters
of the globe and a snow-white wilderness to find her. He'd
broken her icy prison, injected the antidote, chafed her to
consciousness, and hurried her all the way out to frosty air,
freedom, and theoretical safety. That a brother and sister
would bide half a decade for the right window of opportunity
in a Midwestern university town seemed just as credible.
The two Toskalas pulled their toughness and composure into
place and awaited her decision. Perhaps the fate of a young
coed named Amanda hung somewhere in the balance.
Scully, her mouth tight, turned toward them. "Okay, I'll help
you -- but I accept the conditions under protest and subject
to further negotiation."
"We'll see about that," said Tusk. But his eyes shone and he
turned to the rest of his little army with a thumbs-up. Now
that she understood the connection between Cricket and her
brother, she wondered what glue bound the others so closely to
them. At his gesture a tremor went through the group, akin to
electricity. Scully noted shy grins and limbs that grew
restless in anticipation, like a team of sled huskies eager to
hit the trail.
Tusk briefed his troops. "Meet Dana, folks. Outside of
Hocking she's an FBI agent who deals with far-fetched cases
and the paranormal. Isn't that what you do, you and your
partner?" His head swung to look at her. "Look into 'X'
files no one else wants to bother with?"
"What's your plan?" she said coldly.
He gave her demand grudging assent. "Not too far from here
there's a tunnel entrance. Abandoned for decades, refurbished
by us. Follow it underground to where it forks. One
direction goes to the graveyard, where deliveries and pickups
happen. We saw the first one this year a few nights ago.
March tenth."
"The night Amanda Carmichael disappeared," she said slowly.
"Big surprise? Welcome to the surreal. After delivery,
victims are hauled down to the labs."
"Located where?" She felt an uneasy familiarity speaking so
easily about such things, as though it should be Mulder
standing before her and not this tattooed muscle man.
"In the other direction, below the complex itself. Every
institution in the country, old or new, has a system of
underground tunnels. That's where we'll end up, after doing
recon. To get my brother out of there."
"When?"
"Soon, when the time's right. Cricket'll let us know."
Scully flashed a look at the girl's porcupine head and surly
bearing. An improbable barometer. "What about the missing
student?"
"If she's in sight we'll bring her out too."
He made Amanda sound like an afterthought, a benign appendix
to be retrieved at their convenience should they discover her
in the midst of their invasion.
She shook her head. "It's your conjecture she's even in the
same location. How do you propose to accomplish this...
rescue? The people you're dealing with don't turn their backs
on the inevitable. They have no conscience or compassion, and
certainly no mercy. Are you armed?"
"Trick question, right?"
"No, logical necessity. You may encounter resistance. What
then?"
"I'd say our chances just improved tremendously." He moved
into her space again, head lowered toward her like a straining
bull. "You have a gun. You're a trained agent and doctor,"
he continued, ignoring her disclaimer, "which is a big plus
for our side. There's only so much I can do on my own when we
take the occasional hit."
"Something wrong with the local hospital?"
"When you're injured storming the castle and they monitor the
ER with cameras, goons and guns, hell yeah. Just ask
Needlenose. Dude," he ordered, "let's see it."
The man with the thin nose complied, shucking off one sleeve
of his parka and yanking down the loose shirt neckband
underneath. He stood motionless, waiting for Scully's
inspection.
"Fucking barb wire got me first," he complained, "before I
could bite it back with the clippers." Across the back of his
shoulder she saw the three-inch slice. The closure wasn't ER
quality, but looked clean and well sewn considering the
damage.
"Not bad," she observed, speaking of the workmanship.
"We do what's necessary. Now we have you." Tusk's gravelly
voice loomed behind her. It was close, too close, his musky
breath near enough to ruffle her hair and warm the rims of her
ears. She turned to meet the front of his coat, lapels eye-
level, and looked up squarely into his face.
"Then I'd appreciate hearing the whole story behind your
purpose here. Right from the beginning. It would be proper
briefing and a courtesy to me."
He hedged. "What's your hurry?"
"'Quid pro quo'." She flung the words back, putting several
feet of distance between them. "If you want my cooperation I
need to know the whole truth. That includes everything,
including your brother's involvement."
************
Dave Hostetler answered Mulder's call with a voice smooth as
silk, a far cry from the panicked call of an hour before.
"I apologize for losing it back there," he said. "Paranoia
from too little sleep, I guess. Were you able to catch the
parents before they got on the road?"
Scully's number remained unresponsive, aggravating his
uneasiness over her whereabouts considering their
unsatisfactory parting at Wilson Hall, not to mention her past
exploits.
Topping it off, Hostetler's new demeanor was a hard sell.
"We talked," said Mulder brusquely, steering his thoughts back
on track, "and it was enlightening."
"You know, I had the feeling they were holding something back
from me when I spoke with them. Especially the mother."
"Maybe she was just following the advice she was given."
The Dean gave no response.
"Someone," said Mulder, "told her to clam up for the cops and
press corp. Who could make it sound enough of a threat that
Linda Carmichael would keep her mouth shut about pertinent
evidence? You? Or the same people who called you in this
morning?"
"What evidence? About Amanda?"
Mulder directed a sarcastic smile out the car window. "Lest
we forget the purpose of this investigation."
"I don't understand what you mean by a threat. We both know
the restrictions I'm under for whatever reason. But if Mrs.
Carmichael held anything back, that's news to me. I did what
they both asked -- and believe me, they were frantic over
their daughter's disappearance. I called the LIFE number and
arranged Ms. Nightingale's involvement. I even addressed my
own concerns and brought you in, set up the meetings -- "
"And then fed your superiors what they wanted to hear. You're
one hell of a multi-tasker, Hostetler, you know that? Ping-
pong must be your game because cloak-and-dagger obviously
isn't. As for threats --"
"Were you serious about me being in danger?"
"I'll let you know when you're ready to drop the bullshit. In
the meantime, I have a fence to mend."
************
After casing the streets he finally spotted Willow's tall
silhouette inside the University bookstore, several blocks
from where they'd parted company. Her face was partially
obscured by a poster taped behind the plate glass window, but
that shock of long hair and dark draping garments could belong
to no one else.
He tapped the glass with a knuckle, smiled in apology when her
head tilted to the side of the obstruction. No startle in her
gaze, eye-level with his, but her lips curled and she nodded
as she turned away to join him outside.
"Well, well," she began, buttoning her coat against the cold.
"Is that all out of your system now?"
He dismissed the thought that he could in all likelihood ask
her the same question, fearful that such indelicacy might be
read without his knowledge. "Don't tell me you knew where I
went."
"It doesn't take psychic ability to figure it out," she said
with disdain, bringing color to his face. "You had an
opportunity to speak with Amanda's parents directly and you
took it. By the way, thank you for leaving the ten, which
more than covered our tab. Shall we sit and talk?"
Across the street benches dotted the College Green. They
chose one near a Civil War Memorial statue, where opposing
brick walkways met and intersected, forming a definitive 'X'
in the grass. Fitting, he thought, considering what burdened
his mind, but where to begin...
"Here," said Willow, adjusting herself so she faced him and
their knees touched. She placed a hand over his fingers,
surprisingly warm since she wore no gloves, pulling them to
rest closer to her, on his thigh. Her grip was tight and her
gaze sincere. Warmth emanated from her flesh into his and he
felt his guard slip.
"Something's troubling you and I want to know what it is. It
didn't start with your visit to the Carmichaels, but only
exacerbated it, that much I feel. I'm sensing again that it
has to do with someone who's precious to you. Perhaps the
same female person you were thinking of earlier today?
Young... and a family member?"
He blinked and looked away, but allowed her touch to remain.
"I'd rather not discuss it," he said.
"Then why seek me out again?"
"We have a missing girl to find."
"Yes," she said sagely, "which is an old story for you, isn't
it? In your line of work you're always searching for that
missing piece of the puzzle, the evasive key that opens the
door. The final solution."
"I want only the truth."
"Then ask the questions that disturb you now. I know
something weighs heavy on your heart."
He turned his head to see whether the sincerity he heard was
real or imagined. Willow's gaze met him, liquid and tender,
and she squeezed his hand.
"I bet you say that to all the FBI agents you're partnered
with," he deadpanned, delaying the unavoidable.
"No, this is a first for me. I tend to work alone or with a
scientific crew. Usually it involves a poltergeist, strange
lights and noises in a room where a murder's occurred, or a
family whose child senses a supernatural presence somewhere in
the house. I never imagined that an agent from the FBI would
have such sensitivity. Or such a talent as you do."
"What talent is that?"
She smiled. "Don't denigrate your abilities. You sense the
unnatural, the extraordinary. Your logic and profiling
ability show your connection to another plane of reasoning.
You refuse to exist within the proverbial box. Reality has
shown you otherwise. Life lessons."
"Right. Sometimes no cheese exists and the box is only in
someone else's mind," he joked, but her words struck a
vulnerable place within him. Gently, he extricated his hand
and clasped both between his knees, looking out at the late
afternoon with a sense of loss. Soft tendrils of anguish made
him chew his lower lip as he stalled. Ironic, he thought,
that this case could stir his emotions to such a pitch, but he
only blamed the passage of time and decades of secret
turbulence.
"I'm pondering a theory," he began, "about Amanda Carmichael's
disappearance." He took a cleansing breath and chanced a peek
at Willow's face, which showed only compassion and rapt
attention.
"I'm listening."
"Have you had any experience with a phenomenon known as a
'walk-in'?"
She made a noise. He thought at first she mocked his question
until he saw the moistness in her eyes and the ripple of
emotion she sought to control. A quick pat on his arm and she
collected herself with a sigh.
"You are indeed a surprise, Agent Mulder. Yes," she
whispered, taking a small sniff, "I have great familiarity
with what you call a 'walk-in,' though the term isn't entirely
accurate, in my mind. Probably one-half of all the children
who go missing in any given year and are never found have
experienced such a rescue. I prefer to call it a
'translation,' almost in the biblical sense. They're removed
to a place of safety by benevolent beings that have mercy on
them, who want to spare them indescribable torment in this
life."
"They're dead."
She hesitated. "I believe they transcend to another plane of
existence. Not life as you and I know it... but survivors."
"Your experiences," he muttered. "Tell me."
"A child living near Parkersburg, West Virginia disappeared
about fifteen years ago. Seven years of age, a little girl
not prone to wandering. Vanished! After the official police
investigation turned up nothing, they and the family called me
in. I was given one of her toys to hold -- a doll, I think --
and was able to follow her aura to an old trailer in the woods
nearly two miles away. The man living there, if you pardon my
candor, was a drunk and inbred pedophile who wanted nothing
more than to perform unspeakable atrocities on that child. I
felt her presence in his home, so strong I could scarcely
breathe. Of course police interrogated him. Roughly, I might
add, as rural law enforcement does while defending its
womankind. They dug up the yard outside the trailer as well.
But his story held firm that he hadn't harmed her and he had
no idea whatsoever where she'd gone. As it turned out I was
the only one who believed him."
"What happened?"
"He was released because there was no tangible evidence to
hold him, though I knew he was grossly guilty of intent. The
child was never found. Nor shall they ever find her," she
murmured. "She was one of the fortunate ones, spared more
than her share of hell on earth. Rescued at the crucial
moment of horror by the benevolence of supernatural beings."
"Her fate's still hypothetical if there's no verification."
She smiled, eyes swimming. "You haven't allowed me to finish,
Agent Mulder. While the pervert was being interrogated, I
crouched down at the spot where the child's aura lingered on
in that trailer. That's when she appeared to me."
His heart pounded and he lifted a hand to rub his mouth.
"Describe it."
"She looked exactly like the picture her parents gave to me.
The same sweet smile, laughing eyes. But an apparition I
could see, cloud-like and vaporous. I felt transported to
another place."
"What about touch?"
"No, I didn't think to reach out to her. She's the one who
touched me. No words, just her tiny hand on my arm, then my
hair, stroking it. Solid and real as life. I sensed she
wanted me to communicate to her parents that she was in a
place of safety, though forever apart from them. She was the
first. After that, I was privileged to see more, at other
times."
"All children?"
"No. Several were young adults. One was a pregnant woman in
her early twenties. I also saw her unborn child that time.
Most unusual, that one. However, not something even people
who believe in ghosts and the paranormal are apt to accept as
authentic or true."
She gave a sad chuckle to break the lingering silence between
them. Waiting, he felt, for reciprocation she knew might be
forthcoming by the nature of his earlier question. Angling
his head, he ceased chewing his lip and stared into her eyes.
"I've seen someone like that. A whole damn convocation, in
fact."
"Recently?"
He scoffed and rubbed his face. "Time is relative. It was
last year, during another missing persons investigation."
"You saw a child?"
"I saw children playing, a whole crowd of them. And," he
swallowed, "I saw 'her.'"
"The missing child?"
He nodded his head. "Yes, but not just any child. It was...
Samantha."
With a look of serenity, Willow smiled. "So that's her name.
Thank you for trusting me with that. I sensed three
syllables, something very feminine, yet strong. Samantha is
your younger sister, is she not?"
"Yes," he rasped, "but unlike you I have reservations about
the whole experience. That it really happened the way I
remember it -- or if it was her at all."
************
Tusk and his cohorts were methodical about preparation, Scully
soon discovered. As afternoon ripened into evening he
directed the two vehicles down a narrow dirt road into a
densely forested ravine.
"Welcome to the homestead," he announced while the rest of his
crew tumbled out and headed into the ranch-style house. Wood
sided, it was shadowed by old forest growth and the gloom of a
setting sun, small windows set low and designed to elude
reflecting rays. A camouflaged hideout, by the look of it.
Inside, she cast around her, impressed by the tumult when she
observed they all moved with purpose. Well-furnished, the
rooms held stale odors of incense, cigarette smoke, and
sandalwood-scented candle. She heard a toilet flush behind
her and took the opportunity to use the small but clean
bathroom after Cricket's exit.
"Better get in while the seat's still down," advised the girl,
jerking her head toward the activity in the other rooms.
"It's a real sausage fest around here, lemme tell you."
"No other women?"
"Not for this," was the girl's tart answer.
"Everybody takes water," Tusk ordered loudly when Scully
emerged, thrusting a plastic bottle of Aquafina into her hand.
"Dana, you want food? Anybody else hungry? Now's the time,
people."
Most of the men had already converged on the kitchen in a
whirlwind, but Scully shook her head. Refrigerator doors
creaked, cupboards slammed, tap water ran with a rough hiss,
the toilet flushed in quick succession. Tusk appeared without
warning at her elbow, beaming his approval.
He pointed back toward the ruckus. "Before you get the idea
they're all a bunch of undisciplined loons, let me tell you a
little bit about them and what they do on a vad," he offered,
guiding her into what looked like the TV room.
"On a what?"
"Vad. Old D&D term for invader or infiltrator. MIT geeks
coined it to describe computer hacking. You do any kind of
unauthorized urban exploration -- tunnels, abandoned
buildings, drainages, elevator shafts, basements -- you're a
'Vadder.'
"But now we're down to real business. Mason's my lieutenant.
In my absence or if something happens to me he's head honcho
in charge of decision-making. He did a stint at the
university's physical plant and knows structure, tunnel
conditions, and logistics. Does all the asbestos and
biohazard testing for us. Most important, he knows how I
think."
"I'll have to take your word for that."
"Make you uncomfortable?"
Scully ignored both the question and his grin. "What else?"
"Take Mole over there." The man, hearing his name, glanced up
quickly and then continued rifling through a cardboard box on
the table. "My scout and eager beaver. Thrives on
exploration. Locks, motion detectors, security devices -- he
can disarm anything designed to keep trespassers out. Funny
thing about Mole, though: show him a pit or a hole to nose
around in, you'll think he's in heaven. But lock him up in a
dark closet and after five minutes he'd be psycho with a load
in his pants."
"Dude, you got that right," the younger man said with
conviction, rocking restlessly on the balls of his feet as he
worked.
"Needlenose and Footer are latecomers, but they're reliable.
Footer is Mole's little brother, by the way. Needlenose is
just good with tools and his hands, so I let Mason ride herd
on him."
"And Cricket?"
"A roamer, helps where she can. Fearless, when somebody's not
pulling a gun on her. I depend more on her instincts and
inner radar, since her investment's as big as mine is."
"Speaking of which, I haven't heard that story yet," Scully
reminded him.
"Tomorrow. Let some of the excitement die down. Tonight we
do recon and give you a short tour. One step at a time,
Dana."
Her name in his mouth and the perceived condescension grated
on her nerves. As they finished in the kitchen and bathroom
the men filtered out to congregate at Mole's table, poking
among the items he'd grouped there. Cricket motioned Scully
over beside her.
"Pick up your AMEX," she said. "You got pockets?"
"I'll handle it," said Tusk, intervening. "And she doesn't
mean a literal credit card," he clarified for Scully. "AMEX
is your top four 'Don't Leave Home Without It' gear.
Flashlight and the extra batteries are self-explanatory.
Gloves protect against fiberglass-coated pipe or any funky
caustic shit you might come across. A knife for scraping,
cutting, popping latches open, you name it."
"I understand the drill."
"Not as many steam pipes or major obstructions, like under the
university, but it's still a rough tunnel. We won't go as far
as the fork, maybe a few hundred yards. Stick close and don't
do any James Bonding on your own until you get a feel for it.
Just simple common sense for someone with your experience."
"So how long will this take?"
Tusk's eyes slowly searched her face, lingering on each
feature. "Not too terribly long," he answered, his voice
soft. "Nervous about the dark?"
"Of course not."
She felt his eyes stray over her, evaluating her attire from
head to foot, where they stopped. He stared and his forehead
puckered in sudden concern. "Cricket! You got an extra pair
of Vans? Bring 'em over here now."
"Hey! You're asking a hell of a lot, you know that?"
Flicking her cigarette ash, the girl appeared bearing a near-
new pair of sneakers in one hand and malice in her eye. "These
get trashed even a little bit and we've got major problems
here."
"High heels just won't cut it on this expo," Tusk said to
Scully, enjoying her discomfiture. "Lucky thing my sister has
spares -- and you've got those tiny little feet."
She eyed the snazzy footwear critically, resenting the
imposition and pressure he exerted. Then bowing to the
inevitable, she bent down to unzip the expensive leather
boots. "Don't think you're the first to ever tell me that,"
she snapped.
To her astonishment the shoes fit perfectly. Nor was the
irony of it lost upon her as she gathered her equipment and
followed the others out to the car.
***********
Super 8 Motel, Hocking
10:13 pm
It appeared the home fires might be burning, or so Scully
hoped. Bluish muted flashes in her motel window signaled that
she would not be alone this night.
She glanced around the motel parking lot, cheery red and blue
neon flickering from the pizza place nearby. Any one of the
cars scattered here could be Mulder's rental. How long had it
been, she wondered, since he'd claimed his envelope from the
front desk and set up camp in her room, clicking the remote so
the channels hitched and advanced with splashes of light
against her curtains?
Hindsight told her she should have immediately called him on
her way back into town. Checking her cell she'd discovered
four, no, five messages from Mulder. Yet the impact of what
she'd seen and learned today stayed her hand on the drive to
the motel. Her phone lay tucked in a pocket while her eyes
had wandered many times from the road ahead toward the
glittering heavens.
This night she came back harboring secrets, the old sin of
nondisclosure. An issue of negativity between them, it might
rear its head as a sore spot.
Positive or negative, how would it be perceived this time?
With his bent toward Jungian philosophy, Mulder might identify
her maverick behavior as a classic tug-of-war between
opposites and equivalents, reacting in a sudden outpouring of
energy. Like two poles of a battery sparking juice or the
violent splitting of an atom.
Outside room one-twenty-three she smoothed back her hair with
slim fingers and gave her clothing cursory perusal. Clean
enough to pass muster. She sighed, squared her shoulders. If
there were to be repercussions, she'd find out soon enough.
Sliding the key card she pushed the door open to another flash
of light as the channel switched. A familiar sight greeted
her: Mulder lounging on her bedspread against the pillows,
shirtsleeves rolled and one arm propping his head. Shoes and
socks discarded, tie gone, lower lip jutting toward the TV
screen, the room's only illumination.
"Hey there," she said with nonchalance, tossing the leather
over his suit coat on the chair. She drank in the sight of
him, then flicked on the entry light in afterthought.
"The prodigal returns. I was beginning to think you'd gotten
a better offer somewhere else."
"I had a lead to check out."
"You said that earlier. Must've been some lead." He swung
his gaze toward her, still thumbing the remote. "You're
phone's been off most of the day."
"I know."
In a moment he was up, a smooth roll to his feet and a short
stride toward her. His shirtfront pressed her breasts and she
felt his arms surround her, hands against her sides.
Fingertips skimmed her ribs, appraising the sites of her most
recent injuries. "Suppose you needed backup?"
"I had my weapon."
She replayed the two o'clock scene in her mind, the flash of
light and Cricket's stare of shock. Tusk's quick move to
intervene...
"I missed you. Where'd you go today?"
"I told you all I can right now without... betraying a
confidence. It concerns the case. Mulder, I'm sorry, but
that's all I can say. Please understand."
Dangerous words. Similar to those she'd said before, in
another place and time.
No, it wasn't her imagination at all when his breath stilled
and his arms relaxed around her. She knew he was pondering
the implications of her refusal, weighing her silence against
his pride, possessiveness, and his own unquenchable zeal.
Would they be found wanting? Or would he accept her
conditions as valid, and move forward?
His heart beat under her cheek, a steady thump. She found
herself longing for his acceptance, support, and tenderness
after the physical exertion and stress of this day.
She returned the hug. "Mulder, I was okay. Really. Probably
a lot more secure than you've been this afternoon."
"I spoke with her parents, Scully."
She pulled back to look at his face. Reflective, but not
sulky, he appeared to be mulling the day's events as he was
wont to do, sharing what struck home.
"I thought the Carmichaels were off-limits," she said in
surprise.
"They are, Hostetler arranged it on the sly. I wanted you
with me to hear what they said, to give me another
perspective. You missed an important window."
The veiled accusation made her pull away, but she covered by
bending over to unzip and remove her boots. "Not all of which
was my choice, Mulder. I was cut out of the first meeting
after busting my ass to make it from DC on time, and then was
practically run out of the second. Or have you forgotten?"
"Speaking of asses --"
She straightened and pushed the boots and thin socks away.
"What?" she demanded, bristling.
"You have mud on yours. Looks like mud. Hold still."
Curious as always, he ran inquisitive fingers over her
backside, brushing off the offending dirt with hard little
flicks. It felt too much like chastisement, a symbolic
spanking, and she huffed with irritation. "By the way, I ran
a background check on your new associate this afternoon," she
said, facing him.
His brows lifted.
"Don't worry, there's nothing overtly objectionable to spoil
the investigative karma you've got going with Willow. In
other words, no cause for concern."
"I have one. A big one."
"What?"
"I don't have a quiet place to sleep."
She closed her eyes briefly to mask her surprise and relief.
"That's a shame. And here I thought you were reveling in wild
campus life over on the East Green."
"It sucks big time, Scully. No beer parties or frats. Not
even one decent panty raid and the snack machines were all
cashed."
"Dire."
"Makes a man long for some of life's simple pleasures."
Was it her imagination, but did she detect entreaty in his
voice? Sharing his warmth, he insinuated his body against
hers, so close that their thighs and bellies pressed together.
Questioningly her hand rose to cup his scratchy jaw.
"Are you requesting your own personal panty raid?"
He hummed concurrence, a tiny smile curving his mouth.
"What are you saying, Mulder? That you want to alter prior
arrangements and come sleep here, in my bed?"
"Isn't that what you want?"
"I -- I'd like for us to be together, like before. With no
restrictions this time," she added, planting a tender kiss on
his mouth.
His reciprocation was instantaneous, hands framing her face,
prolonging the melding of their lips and tongues. "Lo and
behold, the ban's been lifted," he breathed. "Why the change
of heart?"
"It's Day Four. And it wasn't fair to you. Or to me."
He smiled, squinting down at her, bringing color to her
cheeks. "Ah, there's the rub. You go off in a snit and come
back a horny wild woman. Must've been quite a day."
"Mulder!"
It was a rebuke wrought of affection, born from shared life
experience and deep understanding between them.
When he mimicked her name in answer, the syllables soft and
seductive, peace enveloped her and they sank to the bed. She
inhaled the scent of his skin, as familiar to her as her own,
and his hair, burying her nose in its dark thickness.
Memories ticked through her mind, of the years spent bonding
with him before she could trust herself to acknowledge the
special union they shared in an honest, decidedly personal
way.
He cleared his throat, licked her taste from his lips. "You
know, we still need to talk."
"Later. Not now," she whispered, stroking his neck and
velvety earlobe. "We both need this first."
He groaned agreement, nuzzled his big nose against her front,
nipping with his teeth. Already she felt his fingers working
the bra clasp, seeking her breasts. Together they lofted the
clothing over her head, exposing her skin to the cool dimness
of the room. With a groan of pleasure he tipped his head to
claim a nipple, swirling it with his tongue, the alternating
tease and hard suction sending sparks of arousal throughout
her body.
"Day four," he murmured, coming up for air. "Wanna know what
happens?"
"Only if you don't go reaching for the Gideon over there."
Chuckling softly, he craned to take her mouth again. A slow
zipping sensation down her belly, and the unerring creep of
his fingers into her clothing, fanning the hidden flame
between her legs. So close, then closer, the brush and fiery
flutter of his fingertips. She waited, shivering under his
caresses.
"It means lights in the sky, Scully. Illumination, separation
of light from darkness."
Hovering lights in the night. Glowing lights, malevolent,
beams searching...
"And the sun, the greater light, to rule the day."
She closed her eyes, pushing errant thoughts and her slacks
away at the same time, helped Mulder fumble his pants down to
his ankles. Shirt and boxers followed, flung away, his
swollen cock hot and branding her palm.
"What else?"
"The lesser light, the moon, to rule the night," he huffed in
breathy monotone while he eased her panties down and her knees
apart, exposing her labia, exploiting her willingness and
vulnerability. Feathery nuzzles along her inner thighs and he
was there -- yes, right there. Mouth on her slick flesh,
massaging the petal-like layers with his tongue, circling
around to flick and toy with her clitoris. Her head fell back
and she panted into the air above them.
"Oh, God..."
"More?"
"I, um... yes!"
"Cave of the moon. That's what they call this little tunnel,
Scully." She felt a finger slip inside, exerting sweet
pressure against its tender inner walls. The hot melting
tingle built to a crescendo and she clenched her muscles to
stall the inexorable explosion of pleasure.
At least there was one thing they could do in tandem today.
Don't think, just feel. Make it happen.
"Please. Now," she gasped and spread her legs into a straddle
around his waist, shoving her wetness against him in
desperation. His hands gripped her hips, thrusting his hard
length deep. Obliterating the void between them, dispelling
any sense of division or parity.
She cried out and succumbed to his forceful timeless rhythm,
following him into the night.
************
Mole grinned at Tusk, teeth gleaming unevenly in the smoky
yellow light of the porch.
"Goin' like gangbusters. Couldn't see anything with the
curtains closed, but what we heard --" He shook his head in
awe. "Man!"
Footer nodded. "Mega sex romp, dude. Definitely the same guy
the pizza chick said she saw waiting around since dinnertime."
All three, cigarettes red-tipped in the low light, turned
toward the sound behind them. Cricket leaned against the
door, bed hair like a pincushion, eyes drowsy from broken
sleep. She yawned and rubbed her nose on a forearm, her
breath cottony in the chill air. "You guys been messing
around the Super 8?"
Snickers and winks among the men.
"They were just doing a little recon for me. Checking out the
boundaries," explained Tusk.
"Yeah, sure. Right." They guffawed at Cricket's expression
of unbelief, her nose wrinkled when she turned away. She
tugged at the rumpled shirt that had slipped from one bony
shoulder. "Sheesh, can't you pigs ever give it a rest?"
"So sue me for having a dick," Tusk called after her. "I
happen to think she's hot." His cronies laughed again.
"Don't do anything to fuck this up, bro. I mean it." She
waved him off in disgust, disappeared into the house and
slammed the door.
"Just needed to know what my boundaries are," repeated Tusk,
this time quieter, with soberness, as he blew a slow cloud of
smoke and watched it rise into the night sky. "Now I do."
************
End of Chapter 8
Continued in Chapter 9
************
Chapter 9
************
Hocking, Ohio
Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum
March 15, 2001
6:10 AM
The grim-faced man began his rounds of the facility before
dawn.
Above the treetops a few stars hung, tiny twinkling lights,
like summer bugs suspended in flight. Reminders of what the
coming night would portend, he quickened his step accordingly.
His breath fanned the air with plumes of white as he marched
from one building to the next in the cold near-darkness.
Recruited from one of the toughest prison systems in the
country, it had been over a decade since he'd seen petty guard
duty. Now that he assigned it to others below him, it still
remained his prerogative to snatch control back for security
reasons and peace of mind. This morning was such a time.
Anton Krieg was a tall man short on mercy. He'd been ripe for
picking by the individuals who were known as the Consortium,
or in some circles, the Syndicate. His reputation had spoken
volumes to those seeking out operatives with his brand of
ruthless methodology. Under their covert and extreme tutelage
he'd been schooled, indoctrinated, tested, and sometimes
tortured. Few but the strongest, the most gifted, could
survive such training, and only by cunning, endurance, and the
luck of the draw.
In order to rise through the ranks Krieg had to play the game,
learn the hierarchy. Determine through willing reassignment
which of the top members would fold, which would succeed, and
he aligned himself accordingly.
Strughold, for being a cutthroat leader, going straight for
the jugular. The brooding bulldog of an Elder. CGB Spender,
the impervious smoker, for his complexity and cold
omniscience. The stiff old Brit, whom he thought to be a weak
sister, had surprised him with brilliant subterfuge and style,
by his willingness to doom an entire operation at the cost of
his own life.
'98 was a definitive year for Krieg. He'd worked several
agendas concurrently, juggled more masters than he cared to
during the Antarctica operation. "You must take away what he
holds most valuable, that with which he can't live without,"
Strughold had finally ordered, referring to the redheaded
skirt, partner of that pain-in-the-ass FBI agent called
Mulder. Fox Mulder, the fly in everyone's ointment, tolerated
and deemed untouchable. Son of that washout, Bill Mulder,
weakest link of all.
Spender took the German's recommendation and placed Krieg in
charge of the Hegal Place kidnapping. By wiring the agent's
apartment in advance, they intercepted the emergency call and
nabbed the woman. Easy pickings. He'd even dared to buck
authority by blowing that stupid fuck Mulder away and got to
inspect the little cupcake at close range before her delivery
to Spender's transport.
Except, when Fox Mulder survived his so-called martyrdom
everything in Antarctica collapsed anyway.
With a need for insurance and bargaining power, Krieg managed
to confiscate the remaining bone fragment samples in Dallas
before he disappeared. Eluding multiple assassins, he holed
up until the right offer came in the form of a covert summons
from the First Elder. For a specific purpose, of course.
Those bastards never trusted one another, still couldn't. The
smart ones, like the crusty Brit, had a strategy already in
place, a secret agenda planned before El Rico blew up in their
faces.
Only those with foresight outlived the attack and
conflagration in that doomed hanger. After all, the Plan was
unalterable, not foolproof. Survivors had to anticipate any
deviation like the mutating virus, or any attack from without,
and stay primed for it. Spender and his ilk remained in a
special class, guarded and impermeable, duping everyone at the
fringe. Men like them endured.
As the saying goes, shit floats.
************
Super 8 Motel
Hocking, Ohio
6:15 AM
This is the way life should be, Mulder thought in sleepy-eyed
contentment. Waking with the chickens, a naked Scully tucked
up against him.
She breathed evenly, still out like a light. No doubt
exhausted from travel, a long day, and only she knew what
else.
As he'd done innumerable times for the past year, he played
the voyeur, seizing this opportunity to watch her at length.
Relaxed in sleep, she displayed a guilelessness that was as
rare for her as a Bigfoot sighting. Fragility that was
atypical during her waking, working hours when everything
about her seemed brusque, practical, and business-at-hand.
Yet unlike other mornings, he decided now was the time to view
her through a different lens, in a way that transcended mere
sight and appearance.
Narrowing his eyes to slits, Mulder focused on her motionless
outline, clenching his jaw with the effort until his molars
met and scraped enamel. No aura, haze, or colors misted over
her. Nothing close to ethereal or supernatural surfaced from
Scully's body that could make him question either her
allegiance to this case -- or to him. No, while he cradled
her from behind, his lover slept on, yielded and trusting.
She was the nucleus, the constant in his too-often
dysfunctional and lonely universe. And what he observed of
her without benefit of a squint made him smile.
Locks of rumpled hair more rust than red in the half-light,
lips a soft unconscious pout. Long lashes veiled her cheeks
like a girl's. Above the sheet, the ivory slimness of her
shoulder sloped to meet her neck and throat. Its pulse
throbbed near his face, a tantalizing velvety flutter.
Farther down he felt the smooth flare of bone and muscle
molding into his loins, her feminine ass and hip exerting
delectable pressure on his swollen dick. Heat radiating from
both their bodies bonded them together, her skin cleaving
damply to his.
Eat your heart out, World, he thought. As her life partner of
choice he was the lone, lucky recipient of Scully's passion,
loyalty, heart, and most personal attentions. One privileged
guy. Blessed beyond belief.
Enthralled, he craned for a closer look.
Her breasts lay compressed as she slept halfway on her side,
creating a depth of cleavage possible only in such a position.
Lifting the sheet aside to discern their contours, he fought
the temptation to reach down and run a fingertip over her
silky aureole, to tease the tender pink nipple at its center.
From experience he knew it would plump and perk under his
touch with a mind of its own while the rest of Scully
slumbered on oblivious.
Yes, like the biblical pronouncements following each new day
of creation week, it was good. In fact, it was A-Number-One,
mind-blowing good. Small wonder he awoke rock-hard most
mornings with a head full of cotton, ravenous for more of her.
The power her body exuded over him was a potent narcotic, the
warm, pungent tang of sex and spent arousal that emanated from
beneath the sheet an opiate clouding his brain.
It dawned on him that over the last year she'd been spoiling
him rotten, beyond retrieval. A few Scully-less nights alone
in his bed left him feeling bleak to the point of
restlessness.
His present hunger, he admitted, encompassed more than mere
sexual need. There were things he wanted to know in a bad
way, secrets he needed to learn in order to watch his
partner's back throughout this investigation. Scully's
unexpected, sporadic impulses to work apart and play the
maverick brought back red-flag flashbacks that made him sweat.
Too many risks and consequences accompanied these episodes.
Her ill-conceived road trip across Pennsylvania with Cancer
Man. Philadelphia, when she... hell, he wanted to eradicate
the Philly incident altogether. Padgett's manuscript, an
exercise in erotica with "a priori" overtones. That time she
remained in DC reconnecting with a past life he knew nothing
about. Most recently, the wicked injuries she'd sustained
apart from him in Missouri, at the hand of Alice Marshall.
Risks, all.
Red flags sent up by Scully set him on edge. Though she might
also have a personal agenda sneaking below the surface in this
investigation, like he did. Some private issue. The least
they could do was to talk things over -- clear the air and
establish an understanding.
Beside him, she whimpered from the shallows of REM sleep.
A tug of protective want seized Mulder, raw longing that
spilled over to the supine woman he knew with such intimacy.
Ending his covert scrutiny, he bent, closed his eyes to the
inevitable, and pressed his mouth against her neck.
"Hmmm?"
Scully shifted in a slow stretch to face him, her heated flesh
peeling from his, an arm settling over his ribs. Warm breath
at his throat followed by a lazy half-hearted brush of her
lips. Thighs loose, her bush tickled his erection with
languid familiarity as her eyelashes flickered against his
chin.
He gathered her to him. "You awake?"
"Thanks to you."
"Are you sure? I need to ask you something."
She slurred, snuggled in closer. "You wanna know if it was
good, Mulder?" Her hip slid against his. "Well, it was
pretty wonderful, as usual. Can we go back to sleep now?"
"In a bit. We need to talk first," he pressed, brushing the
tangled hair away from her forehead. It was useless trying to
communicate the urgency he felt without alarming Scully to
some degree. Even half-asleep she could be sharp as a tack
and his patience was already wearing thin. "I want to know a
few things."
In the circle of his arms he felt her back and arm muscles
tense, then thaw as she absorbed the request and made her
decision concerning it.
"I told you all I could. There's nothing more to tell."
"Better rethink that. There's too much I know you're *not*
telling me."
"How so?"
"Try this: the ground's frozen solid outside, but you came in
here late last night with mud smeared on your ass. Mud,
Scully. I want to know where you've been. I need to know
you'll be safe this time around."
She smirked. "Mulder, don't forget that I'm the one who's had
to go undercover here."
He lobbed back. "It wasn't my plan to steal your thunder or
force you underground."
Stupid, asinine thing to say, he berated himself, when her
cooperation and trust were crucial if he was to learn anything
substantive. She faltered as though offended by his
inference, but recovered in the blink of an eye. Fully awake
at last, she touched his cheek, her clear, intense gaze
seeking his.
"I know that, and please listen to me. Consider it fortunate
that I found an unexpected contact despite being cut out of
most of the action. That's to our advantage. You and I are
simply starting at opposite ends in this investigation and
working toward one another until we meet somewhere in the
middle."
"How opposite are we talking?"
"Does it matter? Trust me... when I feel it's appropriate or
absolutely necessary, I won't fail to bring you in. Or to ask
for your help."
The determination her words conveyed froze his jaw, hindering
his snide comeback. "That's me," he sniped after a few
moments, "your Johnny-on-the-spot partner."
"Stop it. We both know there's a conspiracy of some kind
going on in the upper university echelons. Trust me, Mulder.
I realize there are risks and I'm prepared for that
contingency. To be honest, I'm more concerned about your
safety than mine right now."
Groaning, he sensed payback. "Not that again..."
Scully pulled herself to a sitting position, her nipples a
pair of dusky eyes staring at him accusingly. "Yes, that
again. Willow What's-her-name. Don't let your guard down for
a minute, Mulder. Promise me."
"You said she checked out."
He felt her huff and pull away. Watched the globes of her
perfect rear recede toward the bathroom, undulating with each
defiant stride, veiled in pale shadow. The toilet flushed,
followed by sink noises. A minute later she was back, still
naked but with hair brushed from her temples into a neat, long
oval framing her face, skimming her bare shoulders. Eyes blue
and unreadable.
Guard back in place. Scully armor of old he recognized and
understood.
"She did check out," she affirmed shortly, jerking the sheet
back over her legs and picking up the thread of discussion,
"but admit it, Mulder: her methods are flaky and there's no
rational way to test their veracity."
"Scully," he argued, "She has a gift."
"Of what? Manipulation? The dramatic? Can she realistically
stand in an empty dorm room, close her eyes, and divine what's
happened to Amanda Carmichael?"
A classic argument with merit, but he had little tolerance for
it. He sat up to face her, tamping down his rising annoyance
at her intentional deflection and stubbornness. At least
*something* was still on the rise, since his dick hung limp as
chicken skin now.
"You know it's not as simplistic as all that."
"It never has been. Apparently it never will be." She lifted
her shapely brows and gave one maddening tilt of her head,
daring him to debate the issue.
"I'd feel better if I felt we were playing on the same team."
"We always wear the same uniform. This time we're just
playing different parts of the field for a little while.
Those happen to be the rules of this particular game."
"Scully, it's too soon after Aubrey; there's too much risk
involved."
"For whom? Mulder, we had a version of this conversation
several years ago and I had a hard time swallowing it back
then. And like it or not, we've just traded opposing points-
of-view."
"'What's good for the goose', eh? When was this?"
"You, in Warwick, Rhode Island, your bloodstream laced with
the drug ketamine, your brain racked by seizures. Is this
sounding at all familiar? Little holes drilled into your
skull by a quack psychologist and your weapon aimed at my head
in Quonochontaug. Remember?"
Scully's voice had softened to a whisper when he dragged slow
fingers over his eyes to squelch the shameful memory of a
personal quest gone awry. Waking up disoriented in a blood-
soaked shirt. Slapped behind bars while his partner used
every resource at hand to protect and vindicate him. The
dangerous rabbit trail he'd followed against all reason. The
uncharted fog he'd bushwhacked through to discover what was
truth and what was fiction concerning Samantha's long-ago
disappearance.
The risk he assumed at her expense. Scully, ultimately
endangered and at wit's-end, had defended him, steadfast to
the end.
He felt her hand slip around the back of his neck as she
pulled him toward her. Only inches from his, her beautiful
face creased with regret, compassion, concern... and no sign
at all of capitulation.
"I know you feel strong negativity about it, Mulder, like I
did then," she murmured. "But this time -- it's my risk to
take."
************
Only four, she knew, would venture into the tunnel proper
after sunset, a change from the previous evening's lineup:
Tusk, with Scully by his side, Cricket, and Mole. According
to their timetable, tonight was only the beginning of serious
business. Mason and Needlenose planned to guard the perimeter
near the parked cars, which would be tucked within the deep
undulations of the field's topography. Footer, nursing his
wound, was to stay behind at the house manning walkie-talkie
communications, just as before.
She'd been impressed by the size of the renovated tunnel and
the distance they could venture before Tusk halted progress
and called it a night. Exploring the unknown was
exhilarating; it made her heart quicken. Throughout her brief
sojourn into darkness, lit only by the bright yellow streams
from their flashlights, the walls shone earthen and
mysterious, the air organic and yeasty.
They'd stood below frost line, Scully soon discovered.
It was a midwestern March, harsh and reluctant. By day
sunshine teased the earth with warmth, but by night the
surface refroze and frosted over. Underground, however,
humidity and moisture had thawed the rough-textured tunnel
beyond expectation.
Like the others, she'd been careful to circumnavigate the
muddier spots in her path. Several times she wiped away soft
clumps of dirt, brown daubs and spatters from the sleeves of
her leather coat that fell from above. Afterward, in the cold
air outside, Tusk gave her the once-over and a damp rag for
cleaning off any remaining vestiges from her clothing and
boots that might divulge her whereabouts.
He also gave her orders to come prepared with appropriate
tunneling attire.
One thing he neglected to do, however, was to check the seat
of her jeans. At any other time she'd consider that a damn
good thing, except for questions the errant smear had later
provoked from Mulder in her motel room.
She'd explain everything to him in due time. Sooner, if she
required his help, despite Tusk's mandate.
But she was impressed by the smooth way Tusk, a self-appointed
general, prepared his ragged little army for their mission.
All had assignments according to their strengths and
expertise, knew their drill, and carried out their orders.
For her part, Scully was to report to the Union Street shop
early in the day. There, at Tusk's insistence, she'd receive
additional briefing and familiarize herself with Mole's maps
of the tunnel system.
None of which she could share with Mulder, of course. Not
yet.
Preparing for the day, she was sure he had his own agenda that
included the wily psychic and a hazy world of paranormal
guesstimates. He revealed nothing to her besides his usual
dogged persuasiveness during their morning shower together and
when he tugged yesterday's clothes back on afterward, hair wet
and unruly as a boy's.
"Mulder... hold still," she said, seizing her brush. He stood
before her in his stocking feet, dress shirt a wrinkled mess,
fly half-zipped while she reached up to tame his damp locks
into some semblance of order.
He grinned, leaned down to capture her mouth in a gentle kiss
of thanks. "Do I pass muster now?"
"Only on a college campus. I imagine with exam week finished
all the students are pretty much gone. You'll get that quiet
you needed."
She watched his long fingers form an effortless, loose knot in
his tie and heard the dissenting grunt as he stepped one foot
at a time into his shoes.
"Doesn't matter," he replied, throwing her a pointed look. "I
don't plan on spending much down time there anyway."
************
When it came to complimentary breakfast, Glenn was a man of
his word.
Mug in hand, Scully appeared at the check-in office while most
of the other guests still slept. She decided to forego the
small thick inner tubes of glazed, iced, plain, and chocolate
that lay boxed on the counter. What Mulder didn't know
wouldn't hurt him. Instead she sipped from a cup of rank drip
coffee she'd made for them earlier in her room.
"I get 'em over at Spudnuts," Glenn said with obvious pride.
"Not your garden variety donut, no sirree. Potato flour's the
secret. Keeps 'em nice and moist." He hefted the box like a
weightlifter. "I tell ya, these babies have substance."
Well expressed, she thought with wry amusement, coming from a
man whose forebear laid brick for a living.
"Thank you, but I'll pass."
"Not much of a breakfast eater, huh?"
"I've had all the breakfast I need," she said, browsing for a
morning paper.
The sudden screech and backfire made them jump and turn as one
toward the window facing the parking lot.
Scully recognized the silver Sentra. Only minutes before,
Mulder had complained to her about the rental car's
performance and considered exchanging it for another. The
back wheels spat gravel and the engine popped and roared as
she watched the car jerk its way into early morning traffic on
Richland Avenue.
Mulder, blazing his way into another new morning. Even worse,
loudly announcing his presence and departure to the motel at
large.
She took a deep breath and looked the other away, disowning
the spectacle.
"Looks like your other keycard that stayed over," Glenn said,
squinting from the window and giving a low whistle. "Guess he
don't need any more breakfast, either."
The implication, if Scully caught the right drift, was boorish
on his part and embarrassingly unprofessional on hers. Yet
she hadn't revealed anything specific except her name and
credit card while checking in yesterday. Exasperated, she
grabbed for the half-filled carafe and topped off her cup,
blowing hard at the hot liquid.
Warmth stung her cheeks.
"Since there's no fresh fruit available, I'll settle for just
coffee right now," she said succinctly, deflecting the
imagined impropriety.
"Ho, knew I forgot something." Glenn fished behind the
counter, resurrecting a basket containing an assortment of
apples, oranges, and bananas. "Here you go, breakfast of
champions. That better?"
"Not by much." She snagged an apple and headed for the door.
"Hey, hold on there a minute! Please, um -- Dana?"
Rolling her eyes, Scully spun on her heel at the threshold.
"Now what?"
He blinked at her like an apologetic big brother, but one
harboring new respect. Again the tousled grayish hair and
rueful demeanor brought to mind Agent Al Sloan. Another
individual of recent acquaintance cursed with shyness, a big
heart, and a similar strain of foot-in-mouth disease.
"I, uh, thought you'd want to know about the university's big
art exhibit. Well, today's the last day it's open, at the
museum up on the Knoll. Main building. Hours are ten to
four, costs five bucks a head."
Her mouth tight, she stared at him without reaction and
processed the information.
"I just thought you'd like to, uh, know that. Night manager
said your friend showed him a badge -- um, FBI, I think -- and
I just figured... you know, in case you two needed to check it
out for any special reason," he ended lamely.
"I might."
"I can keep quiet about it and all, I promise. And I'm, uh,
sorry about that before --" He jerked his head toward the
parking lot, abashed. "Hell, it's none of my business."
Correct the first time. She felt another rush of heat to her
cheeks. "Are we done here?"
His big, curved shoulders moved in a slow shrug and he tamped
down the lid covering the box of donuts. "Shoot. Guess I've
messed things up enough for now. Same-old, same-old." He
looked beseeching. "Hey, is it still all right for me to call
you 'Dana'?"
"Don't push it," she snapped, letting the door clang shut.
************
Hocking, Ohio
Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum
7:10 AM
The complex lay like a gray, sleeping giant turned to stone.
As Anton Krieg again threaded the walkways that connected one
antiquated building to the next and looped the whole, his gaze
took in as much detail as the faint light and security lamps
allowed.
He appreciated the economy the design afforded, not the beauty
of the architecture. Beauty, rather, was found in a well-
executed mission, drawing first blood from an enemy, a clean
getaway, or a woman at his mercy.
Though the First Elder had sizzled away with the majority of
the Syndicate, his legacy didn't end there, like it did for so
many others. His foresight included a contingency plan. So
Krieg followed the strict, clandestine orders he'd been given
to protect an heir who stood outside harm's way, waiting in
the wings. Ensuring that another generation of the Consortium
family survived to face the delineated future.
They called his current boss the Big Man. Groomed for years
in secret and a much younger replica of his father the Elder,
he'd inherited the same cold cunning and distrust for the
Smoker. The patriarch had already set the machinery in
motion, utilizing a defunct century-old mental health facility
in rural Ohio, with the local university as cover. A mirror
of what he did years before at the leprosy colony in Perkey,
West Virginia, where Doctor Zama labored for the Plan.
The trick was to pull the university's strings in such a way
that only a select few, under threat of death and with
monetary payoff, knew enough of the real score. Intimidation
would keep the others in check.
Or, if that failed, Krieg would.
He admitted this location was a sweet setup. There was fodder
to be found in former patients, homeless bums and rednecks,
runaways... and the occasional college student for variety's
sake.
It was dangerous, dicey work, coordinating an operation
between Syndicate operatives and their alien contacts.
Numerous pick-ups and deliveries at the lab had to be timed
well in advance, to carefully coincide with astrological
calendars and superstitious phenomena: smoke screens for the
sky-watchers, curious locals, and paranormal whack-jobs that
sometimes threatened security.
And due to the handful of nitwits supplied by other
operatives, things had gotten careless around the little town
of Hocking of late. It compounded Krieg's job just when he
needed things tight and by the numbers.
He halted at the edge of the facility, looked east toward the
pink and yellow fingers of dawn streaking the sky. The
distant river misted, adding its languid haze to the cooler
morning air. With the end of an academic quarter, the
university and town slept in, undisturbed, enjoying a brief
respite from the teeming and energetic student body.
Still, the timing was fucked. He agreed with his boss that it
had been too soon, too foolhardy a risk to take another
student. And thanks to the clueless new Dean of Students, now
Fox Mulder in the flesh was sniffing like a hound around the
vicinity of Hocking.
Krieg grunted and turned away. He was experienced at handling
unwanted curs and had already acted accordingly.
By throwing out a meaty bone, you kept a dog ignorant and
occupied.
************
The end of Chapter 9
Continued in Chapter 10
************
Chapter 10
************
Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum
March 15, 2001
9:27 AM
The morning air was steamy from coffee breath as patrons
cluttered like pigeons outside the building, anxious for one
last viewing of the campus art exhibit before winter break
commenced. Cheers and laughter erupted when their
enthusiastic turnout forced the museum into opening its doors
early.
Within this cadre of locals, students, and their doting
parents Scully willed herself to anonymity. Shorter than
most, she bundled along with them on another clandestine
journey into the unknown.
The local Dollar Store started business even earlier than the
museum, she discovered, taking Tusk's dictum on skulking
attire seriously. Hence the hooded and lined denim jacket and
faux-leather gloves. Dark navy jeans and black and white
Converse mock-ups completed the ensemble. She looked less an
agent undercover and more like one of many local denizens
inching toward a common goal with cash in hand.
The line shuffled beneath a Victorian arch that dated to the
late nineteenth century. At the same time Scully's stomach
rumbled in discontent. She remembered with wry envy the
pastries Glenn had offered her back at the motel: moist,
sweet, and spurned from force of habit. So typical of her to
discount a food indulgence, yet here she was investigating his
art exhibit tip on a whim. Should this visit to the Knoll
shed valuable light on the case, she'd owe him one.
Too bad Mulder couldn't see her looking more undercover than
either of them had anticipated.
And if Tusk and Cricket spoke the truth, these people around
her had no clue they were forking over honest money to access
enemy territory. Close to a decade in the basement office had
taught her the harsh lesson that an alternate level of reality
always pulsed beneath the surface, like a toxin leaching from
subsoil or a metastasizing cancer.
The present circumstances felt wrong, had forced a wedge
between her and Mulder. She was increasingly out-of-sync with
him here in Hocking and nondisclosure made her edgy.
"Five dollars," barked an androgynous voice to Scully's right.
She pulled the cords of her hood tighter and passed a folded
bill over the desk. With hair matted flat, her scalp prickled
from sweat and apprehension. Now only a partial profile would
be discernible on the surveillance camera she knew existed.
She squeezed her shoulder holster tighter, Sig solid and
reassuring against her ribs before moving forward.
Pictures flecked each wall with color and the crowd migrated
through the grand reception area, clustering before the
various works on display. She skirted the crowd and began an
obligatory round of the paintings. Every few feet she feigned
enthusiasm and awe, all the while assessing the scene around
her.
Sensing presence overhead Scully peered from the edge of her
hood. Men in suits ambled the floor above and shed ambivalent
glances over the railings. Security detail, she guessed, from
their blank expressions. Tabbing through pages of memory she
found none of the faces familiar and wondered whether Mulder
would have had better luck.
Stringent security measures made it impossible to drift
farther away from the noise and bustle of the main room
without detection. Chrome stanchions defined the perimeter,
their woven belts restricting foot traffic to the front half
of the room. Everything else appeared off limits to the
public.
Scully heard a voice in the crowd request restrooms and for a
split second her hopes lifted. But when the museum employee
directed several young women to a door within the designated
boundaries, she knew her work inside the building was
finished.
She snagged an informative brochure about the Knoll and its
history before stepping outside. A deep breath of the fresh,
cool air cleared her head and diluted her anxiety.
For the first time since arriving she focused on details of
the grounds, on the rolling lawns, walkways, and the distant
view of Hocking from this promontory. Smaller but substantial
structures spread out from the hub of the facility. The
University had done an outstanding job refurbishing most of
these Kirkbride-designed structures into what appeared to be
usable office or storage space.
She wandered the concrete and flagstone paths, musing over
attractive, well-crafted signage that honored each
transformation from past to present. The former laundry
building, she observed, now housed the University's print and
upholstery shop. What had been a geriatrics wing was home to
the facilities planner and the department of campus safety.
The old kitchen held communications and network storage.
Receiving area: technologies and enterprise. Cottages for
male and female patients: science and research labs.
But where were the hospital wing and the mortuary Scully knew
had existed in this facility and every other one like it?
Where was the cemetery she'd spotted from a grassy ridge and
from another direction only yesterday, elbow-to-elbow with a
pack of subversives bent on invading its borders?
Turning a corner, chain link fencing abruptly ended her self-
guided tour.
Out of reach and far beyond the metallic barricade several
buildings sat decrepit and isolated, disintegrating from age
and disuse like the cobbled pathways that crept below the
chain link and disappeared into the forest. Hidden by foliage
most of the year, they lay stark and uncomfortably exposed to
view against the surrounding trees and uneven ground. Most of
the windows were boarded up from the inside. Others, like
dark eyes with shattered corneas, glared back at her.
The pamphlet mentioned nothing of their former use, nor gave
any indication they ever existed.
She frowned up at the fence. Five taut strands of wire ran
along the angled apex, strung between metal posts that loomed
higher than the fence itself. Insulators and brackets told
her it carried significant voltage, a precaution that seemed
overkill for a university property acquisition.
High atop the post loomed a surveillance camera. Scully
tucked her head down, scalp prickling in alarm.
"Excuse me -- is there anything I can help you with, Miss?"
Avoiding eye contact with the man who appeared out of nowhere
behind her, she angled her face away. She shrugged and played
along, forcing her voice to sound light and girlish.
"Uh, I was just curious about those buildings over there. In
the trees... " She pointed through the fence with a gloved
hand. "For some reason I can't find them in this brochure."
At his pause she glanced down toward the man's lower legs and
noted blue jeans and Nubucks. Not a suit or official uniform,
nothing that cried out security. Nor was anything suspicious
in his tone and the way he appeared to follow the invisible
line beyond her finger.
"I'm not sure what's out there. This place has been
undergoing preservation in stages," he said, "and a lot
depends on what the university allocates for renovation in any
given year. That's been my understanding."
"Oh." She hesitated, feeling her way around this man. Sighed
and pretended disappointment. "But somebody must know what
those old buildings were used for... back in the day. And why
they're inaccessible now."
"I agree; somebody must. But I do know the caretakers are
kind of particular about who wanders around here alone or
unsupervised. Wouldn't want anyone to accidentally get hurt
and slap them with a lawsuit now, would they?"
He took a step closer and she felt a shiver of apprehension.
"I guess not. Do you work here?"
"Sure do." The stranger gave an embarrassed snort. "In the
new-and-improved sign shop. We make all those irritating 'No
Parking', 'Keep Off The Grass', and 'No Smoking' signs you've
probably noticed all over campus. See? Here's the official
badge they make me wear for admittance."
All too clearly Scully knew the credential this man waggled
from his label would lure her face upward, into full view of
the surveillance camera. Nor was it happenstance that his
hand, in a more-than-friendly gesture, brushed over the right
spot on the back of her shoulder, as though seeking armament.
Affecting nonchalance, she arched away.
"Listen, excuse me, but... I have an appointment. Nice art
exhibit, though," she added, putting distance quickly between
her and the man as she strode with purpose back toward the
parking area.
************
Putnam University
Campus Security Office
9:30 AM
Mulder had seen the type before. Neat and poker-faced meant
suspicious as hell. These were threatened men, bought men,
with shiny badges and starched white shirts. If attitude was
any indication, he knew that cooperation from these college
cops would be akin to pulling teeth.
Protocol mandated that this office and every man in it were
sworn to assist the FBI in whatever way deemed necessary for
investigative purposes. Their primary jurisdiction was the
rambling campus of Putnam University. Yet it was common
knowledge they also served with local police for the city of
Hocking, monitoring crime investigations on and off campus as
needed. No doubt they had done their part in censoring leads
and smothering evidence crucial to Amanda's disappearance.
An ingratiating smile pasted on his face, Mulder held out his
badge. Explained in simple terms his name, presence,
requirements, and the speed at which he wanted answers
delivered. Lightning glances between the men, but no crack in
the armor.
Pocketing his credential, Mulder's grin eroded along with his
patience.
"Looks like somebody here forgot to pick up donuts this
morning. I want to know who's actually in a charge -- you or
some faceless suit higher up in the chain of command?"
"We've been told to wait for orders."
"With a young coed missing? What's the pay-off? Money?
Diamond Club membership at the Great American Ball Park? Or
is it flat out coercion? Which door should I pick, Monty?"
The older cop spoke. "Sir, you don't understand. It - it's
gotten complicated around here."
"Then how about we make a deal... while I simplify it for
you?"
He twisted the screws tighter. Turned up the heat with his
personal brand of graphic intimidation. Watched the officer-
in-charge grow white-faced and finally cough up something with
substance.
Minutes later he was outside the building with a modest cache
of information. After such a power play he experienced
elation and an eagerness to bask in Scully's approval. Or
scorn, depending upon the situation.
What he didn't expect to see was the tall figure of Willow
Wind Nightingale leaning against the passenger side of his
Sentra.
Her dour presence disrupted his sense of order, exacerbating a
battle that raged within him since yesterday morning when they
first met. Did she warrant cooperation that went against his
better judgment in order to find a girl and solve the case?
Or should he make nice and play the game by Hostetler's rules
-- to extract whatever information he couldd about phenomena
that still rankled him on a private level?
At what point would he be sacrificing his integrity in this
case? Scully would've already drawn the line hard and deep,
but she didn't carry the burden of doubt, the nagging secret,
that he did.
Willow held a travel mug with jeweled fingers and eyeballed
him warily. "Let it be known here and now that another
evasive maneuver would not become you, Agent Mulder," she
advised.
"Psychic premonition?"
"Try your appalling lack of communication."
"Believe it or not, I think I've heard that complaint before,"
he said.
"Wise-cracks won't go far in strengthening our rapport either,
Agent Mulder."
He felt a twinge of impatience, resenting this woman's
interference and dogged participation. "In any case, I hope
you're up for a drive over to Chillicothe right now. Truce?"
"It appears I don't have much choice in the matter. But yes,
a truce would be welcome." She hoisted her mug in a weak
toast over the car at him and watched him unlock the door on
the passenger side.
While he peered out the window and chewed his lower lip,
Willow rearranged her voluminous skirts, tucked a purse near
her feet, and lapped her seatbelt. Extricated from its
parking space, the car roared a complaint into the quiet
morning and headed west out of town.
"Cryptic," Willow murmured. "I assume you forced the security
office into relinquishing more information to you. How?"
"Maybe it was my threat to arrange a shakedown visit by the
Ohio Field Office and have OPC bust their asses for non-
compliance. And deny them benefits. Spring cleaning over
Break seems apropos."
"It sounds more like bluff and bluster."
"But effective."
"I won't argue that."
"You tracked me down this morning," he said suddenly,
pulverizing the sunflower seeds he'd popped into his mouth.
"How?"
Willow cleared her throat, marking him with a stare. "You
mean, since you weren't at your own designated coordinates in
Johnson Hall last night -- and you neglected to share your
cell phone number with me?"
Negative implication irked him as much as surveillance did.
Reaching for a cardboard cup nestled in the console between
them, he took a sip from the opening in its lid and seared his
tongue on the dark scalding liquid. "Where I am at any given
time is nobody's business."
"Yet it's *her* business?"
He squinted out the window irritably, gauging traffic.
"That's how we work."
"I'd grant you that, except this time you and I are supposed
to operate as the designated team."
"So you admit you've been tailing me?"
Willow tapped at the Starbuck's logo on the side of her travel
mug and offered a soft smile. "Nothing so covert or
suspicious. We happen to frequent the same coffee shop
downtown and I waited until you showed up this morning.
There's no magic in that, Agent Mulder."
************
Chillicothe, Ohio
346 Rogers Parkway
11:45 AM
Refreshing, though Mulder, that the young woman on the other
side of the coffee table represented a sane, youthful middle
ground. Her streaked hair was tucked up into a banana clip
and she wore a trendy top over jeans with flip-flop sandals.
He put Lynnie Briscoe somewhere between Kirsi Toskala's
street-wise panache and the wholesome girlish naivete he'd
seen in the photo of Amanda Carmichael.
They were fortunate to find her home alone this Saturday and
not at all conflicted about speaking with them despite the
heavy gag order Hostetler had imposed on everyone related to
Amanda's disappearance.
With the carefree indiscretion of youth Lynnie justified her
noncompliance to authority and preened for Mulder while
introductory questions were asked. Her name, major, year in
school, plans for Spring Break, willingness to be interviewed
by the FBI for the case at hand --
"Your room assignment was Wilson Hall, room 412," Mulder
stated, "until a few weeks ago. I understand you're the third
roommate Kirsi-- uh, Cricket's had this past semester."
"Yes, that's about right."
"And you lasted five measly days."
She hesitated, looked from him to Willow and back again.
"Ye-ah?"
"So what's the initial attraction -- before the big turn-off?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Mulder knew he'd muddied Lynnie's big moment in the spotlight.
The girl's smooth forehead creased with annoyance at the shift
in focus away from her.
"It sounds like a lot of unnecessary traffic to me, that's
all," he clarified, leaning forward. His long fingers laced
together between his knees. "Why would everybody vie for a
hike all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor? To live
in a haunted room -- with a roomie everyone took pains to
avoid?"
"I don't know. It seemed okay... at the time. That floor's
supposed to be really quiet and I figured I could get more
studying done up there. Besides," sniffing with disdain,
"that was the room they assigned to me. It's not my fault
*she* was in it first."
He smiled to win her back. "You're right. So, what was the
real problem? The roommate... or the room itself?"
Lynnie tapped her foot against the coffee table leg,
considering.
"Both, I guess. The room made really weird noises and felt
cold all the time, no matter how much I turned the heat up.
And she hated that. Cricket did, I mean. Then there were,
you know... all those nasty rumors and stories. About some
student who'd killed herself up there a long time ago."
"It's the real deal."
"Seriously?"
"1972, Wilson Hall, room 412. One Gretchen Lansburgh, a
sophomore student in fine arts, committed suicide."
"Why?" The girl's startled gaze flew to Willow, who gave a
miniscule nod of confirmation. "I mean... how? Not to sound
morbid or anything, but did some kind of drug force her to do
it?"
"Pretty close to the truth; records show she used rope to hang
herself."
Lynnie wrinkled her nose in revulsion, squirmed slightly on
the couch cushions. "God, that is SO disgusting! I mean, I
*lived* in that room almost a whole week, you know. Ugh!"
"Tell me about Cricket."
"What about her? She glared at him. "She's a creep, a loser,
a total freak job. Goth or punk or something worse. Have you
seen what she looks like?"
"I have had that pleasure," said Mulder evenly.
"Then you know *exactly* what I mean. People started treating
me like *I* was un-cool just for living with her, so I got
outta there fast. Went down to the second floor. You know,
everybody was switching rooms by then anyway. Moving down to
the lower floors where they felt safer."
"Safer from what?"
"I don't know... ghosts. Noises. Feeling nervous."
"Did you see Amanda Carmichael the night of March 10? Have
any interaction with her?"
Lynnie considered and decided his question had merit. "I
remember she was with us down in the lounge, studying for
finals like everybody else. We were all feeling pretty scared
and freaky that night. Amanda too -- she even said so."
"Did she say why?"
A shrug. "Some of us got tired of cramming and got to talking
about the weird stuff we'd noticed around the dorm. You know,
the lights and noises and stuff nobody can explain.
Especially since after finals we'd be going home for Break and
sort of getting away from it all for a while." She paused,
thinking. "Anyway, more girls came over to listen and
everybody ended up kind of freaking-out about it."
"But that's not all that happened," prodded Mulder, fishing.
Lynnie's brow wrinkled. "No. Because then *she* came down
and made it worse."
"You mean Cricket?"
"Who else? She came in the first time for candy or something.
Then she was back down about ten minutes later, telling us all
we shouldn't go out. Even the smokers, can you believe it?"
"Did she give a reason? If you know something, now's the time
to say it."
"She -- she said if we valued our miserable skins we'd listen
to her and stay inside. Everybody figured she was goofing on
us again. A little while before that she teased us about the
Blair Witch showing up. You know... from the 'Blair Witch
Project'? That *majorly* creepy movie that came out a few
years ago?"
Mulder shook his head, though not through lack of
understanding. The film was bound inseparably to a time in
recent past, a mélange of mislabeled hospital files, crop
circles, jet lag, green tea, fatigue and rumination. Then, in
the cool windy hours before dawn, an epiphany of flesh and
soul, cementing a bond between him and Scully.
When Willow cleared her throat, he yanked his attention back
to the present. "I know what you're referring to, but haven't
seen it myself. Do you remember what Amanda was doing then?"
"Well, she hung around for a while listening to everybody talk
about the dorm being haunted. She even told Cricket we were
all kinds of nervous. That was the first time the freak came
down."
"And after the second time?"
Lynnie gave a helpless shrug. "Search me. I don't know
*where* Amanda went after that. She wasn't one of the
smokers, so she didn't go with that crowd. Maybe she went
back to her own room. Or maybe she just went out to grab a
snack."
"Even after Cricket's warning?"
Mulder sensed this well of information was drying up fast. He
leaned back and shot a look toward Willow.
"You know," mused Lynnie, "when you're hungry from nerves and
you can't sleep, you might go to the snack machine that's out
back. Near Treudley. Ours was about empty."
"Treudley is another dormitory?"
"Yeah, for the honors students. They finished up finals
earlier in the week." She sighed and looked perplexed. "But
for all anybody knows... Amanda might even've gone up to
Cricket's room."
"Now why would she seek out Room 412?" Mulder was already
rising from the cushions to his feet.
"Amanda could be dorky that way. You know the saying... if
something scares you really badly, then confront it and you
won't be afraid of it any more? Well, maybe that's what she
did."
************
Art Apocalypse
West Union Street, Hocking
12:15 PM
After parking in the alleyway, Scully slipped through the rear
door as instructed the night before.
Mason waited in the back office where maps with the crisp curl
of papyrus littered a table. Tusk had produced them in an
effort to familiarize her with the area's elaborate tunnel
system, most of which crisscrossed beneath university
property.
She felt a sudden need to touch base with Mulder, should this
afternoon's homework assignment put a choke hold on later
communication.
"He won't like it," Mason insisted. His voice was low and his
whiskers quivered. "But if you want to risk tangling with
Tusk over a phone call to your partner, that's your problem."
His warning only fortified her decision. "What's he doing out
there now?"
As Mason turned the doorknob sounds seeped through the gap,
mystifying as white noise. She heard murmured conversation
over a backdrop of New Age music and, engulfing all, the
buzzing whine of Tusk's needle gun.
"Same thing he's been at for a couple of hours now. It's a
realistic fineline in a touchy area. Tusk's a master at that.
You don't want the colors bleeding under the skin and blurring
details. He takes regular breaks during a tatt like this."
"Why?"
Svo, the Russian tattooist in Philadelphia, clung to her flesh
until the entire hours-long process was completed to his
satisfaction. She remembered how her nerve endings burned as
she'd fought against the exquisite rush of pain, muscles
clenched. How her body and psyche worked in tandem until
agony and ecstasy embraced to achieve the sexually charged
euphoria that precipitated her downfall later that night.
Such a bad business. Ed Jerse cautioned her in different
phraseology that marking a moment doesn't always bring about
the desired panacea. Dealing with the aftermath of her
impulsiveness had been unpleasant. She suspected Mulder still
felt residuals, as she did, and smothered a pang of guilt.
Like a phantom limb, the hidden whorl on her lower back
throbbed in empathy to the noise in the next room. Scully's
respiration became rhythmic from remembered pain, each short
intake, long exhale marking another grab at control --
At that moment the buzzing mercifully ceased.
"See, what'd I tell you?" Mason eased the door shut. "He's
headed this way."
She pocketed her cell phone and in the same smooth motion
stood beside the map-laden table, leaning over it with elbows
locked. Tusk entered and, latex gloves already stripped off,
took in the scene. He grabbed a can of soda from a small
refrigerator in the corner.
"You stopped," noted Scully, her gaze ambling the layered
table. "Any reason?"
Tusk grinned, popped the can's top, and took a long chug.
"Customer needs another break."
She peered up at him without raising her head, askance.
"The pain factor," he explained as though to a child. "Better
to do short bursts so it's a bearable experience. This tatt's
in a pretty sensitive area."
"And where might that be?"
"Since you asked... lower abdomen, mons, bikini line. She
wants fire coming up from her snatch, so that's what I'm
giving her. Red, orange, and black flames. It's looking
awesome against the Christina I put in a few months ago."
Their gazes held and Scully knew his intent was to provoke
her. She had, in fact, examined such a genital piercing
before, on Chantal, a prostitute in the LA morgue.
The placement and protrusion of metal seemed more than a
little discomforting.
"I don't doubt it," she countered, deflecting his bait. "I
also have better things to do with my time, so somebody here
please make this worth my while."
"Mason, get her started. Glad to see you came dressed for
serious work tonight, Dana."
Scully closed her eyes. Her first name was becoming a raw
source of irritation to her, as was this man's patronizing
behavior.
"Got it, Boss." Mason joined her at the table and the door
fell shut. A minute later the buzz of the tattoo gun eclipsed
all other background noises. "He really loves what he does,"
said Mason. "Tusk isn't bad as he comes across."
She ignored his diplomacy and seized the moment.
In a low voice she demanded, "Then tell me how this all
started, since no one else seems to have the time or
inclination -- and why you seem to feel that an alien
conspiracy is involved here. The more I know now, the better
our chances to accomplish something."
Hesitating, he obliged. From outward appearances they pored
with studious energy over one map and then another per Tusk's
orders. In truth, Mason supplied detailed commentary that
crossed boundaries into personal Toskala territory.
"They're Finnish, but I guess the names give that away," he
began. "First generation. Tusk's big brother to the other
two kids. Never seen family ties stronger than theirs, but
they suck you right in until you're part of it. You'll see
what I mean, if you haven't already."
Scully offered no assent; he shrugged and continued.
"Anyway, he moved here sometime in the mid-eighties to check
out the pre-med program. When that went bust he switched to
body art instead."
"What happened?" Genuinely interested, she turned her head
toward Mason. He seemed decent, with a gentle, helpful spirit
she could appreciate. His position as right-hand man
approximated that of Joe Darnell in Aubrey, who had been a
rich source of data on Tillman and insight into that previous
case.
"The usual: appearance, attitude, too independent. He's got
the smarts and the skill, but no patience for what goes along
with it. Same with Cricket. She would've made the honors
program here, except that her mouth and her out-there style
messed up any chance of that. Brilliant minds, but not always
smart enough for their own good, if you know what I mean."
"What about the other brother? The one they're searching
for?"
"Stefan? Middle kid, closer in age to Cricket. Couldn't
adjust to Hocking for some reason, so he went to the nut house
over there for day counseling. Nothing too serious," he added
when Scully's brows lifted. "Just emotional crap. Stefan's a
cool dude. Probably has the highest IQ in the family and
wasn't sure how to handle it or himself.
"Counseling turned into shock therapy when the doctors kept
him overnight a few times. Out of the blue they held Stefan
indefinitely after one of his treatments," he continued.
"Total lockdown, no warning. Docs wouldn't budge and had all
the official paperwork to back them up; claimed he was a
danger to society. Well, Tusk just went wild --"
"I can imagine."
"He threatened everybody over there, wrote to the authorities
and the state. Nothing worked, so he made plans to bust his
brother out himself. That's when he started vadding, to find
a way around the system. Then... they told Tusk that Stefan
escaped. Just like that, disappeared into thin air under
their noses. And that's how we found out --"
Mason hesitated. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Leaning an elbow on the table, Scully bent closer to the
somber man. "What?" she whispered. "What did you discover?"
Nervously he pulled at a clump of whisker on his chin. "You
know those stories about UFOs and lights in the sky around
Hocking? Well, they're real. We've seen 'em come every year
since then, right around this time. And we know what they do
while they're here."
"Tell me."
"They take people after the butcher doctors at the nut house
work 'em over and do tests on 'em. That's what Tusk thinks
happened to Stefan. Otherwise they wouldn't claim he'd just
run away, you know? There'd be a gravestone or a death
certificate. It seems like every year around this time
someone else comes back or goes missing." He blinked at her.
"I guess now it's that college girl you're looking for."
"That wouldn't be my first conjecture. But what else?"
"They rip up a few graves over at the asylum cemetery, only it
won't be local vandals doing the damage. It's how they hide
evidence. Some people survive for a long time, but others --"
He paused and shook his head. "So they dig up some really old
loony's grave, dump the test subject, and claim some cult's
been messing around at the bone orchard again. Or," he said,
pointing to the ceiling, "they take it to who-knows-where."
Scully found herself gripping Mason's arm as her mind stumbled
on the implications. The words swept her back to a horrific
time and place in West Virginia, an abandoned facility for the
treatment of Hansen's disease. Disfigured refugees were
slaughtered after hybrid experimentation and thrown into mass
graves. A member of the Syndicate tried to highjack her
beliefs while Mulder hurtled toward certain destruction, his
survival dependent on guesswork and a secret informant named
"X."
Not long after that, she learned what the chip in her own neck
was capable of.
"So where are the tests being done? On the ship or in the
facility?"
"Both, I think. But they start underground first. They've
got labs and old torture chambers under the Knoll that are
left over from the olden days. That's where they keep people
locked up for testing. It's where Stefan and the girl are."
She frowned. "Unless you have evidence, that's a big
presumption."
"Listen, wait. Here..." Mason grabbed one of the maps, spread
it out with wide hands, and directed her focus to the tip of
his finger. "This here's the tunnel system under the Knoll.
It was used for a lot of things in times past, including weird
treatments and shunting patients over to the labs in the old
contagious disease and hospital wing." His finger traced a
thick line, representing a passageway, toward the edge of the
map, outside the main perimeter. "That was the only way they
could quarantine in those days without spreading germs above
ground. Now it's how they keep the experiments secret."
Scully lowered her voice. "So the hospital and morgue are
separated from the main facility? Which would mean they
haven't undergone renovation, like the rest of the Knoll has."
"Maybe not on the outside," he admitted, "but underground it's
a whole new gig."
"What makes you so certain Stefan's still alive?"
"That's something you'll find out later -- from me," Tusk
announced from the doorway. "Mason, go help Trace at the
register. Her session's done and I have a twelve-forty on the
way over."
At some point during her avid questioning of Mason the heavy
drone of the needle gun had expired. However Tusk merely
halted his friend at the door with a warm squeeze to his
shoulder and a hushed "Appreciate it, man" in passing. Not
the rebuke she expected for disclosing family secrets.
She squared her jaw at what seemed like flagrant duplicity.
"Care to explain what *that* was about?"
"Mason didn't know it, but he was doing me a favor and saving
us all some time. Now you know the gist of the situation and
why you need to study up on those maps. Burn 'em into your
brain, because they could be your only lifeline below ground."
He moved closer to her and his muscled body shadowed the table
as he tugged several maps into alignment.
"These are the crucial ones: the University's physical plant
to the Knoll, beneath the complex itself, but this one... "
He tapped a third page with a finger for emphasis. "This one
only goes underground near the woods by the old cemetery.
That's our mission tonight."
"Mason and I weren't finished with our discussion."
"Looks plenty over to me."
Exasperation would only amuse Tusk, she realized. Presenting
him with her back, she stood with crossed arms and spoke over
her shoulder. "It appears you generally have the last word
around here."
"Is that bothersome? By the way, if you decide to make that
phone call to your partner, keep it short and very sweet
because I'll be here listening to every word you say."
Something in his tone drew her to face him. She saw his
expression alter, noted a darkening of eyes, the emotion
indefinable. But of greater importance was her need to
contact Mulder.
"Then I'll take it back outside," she said crisply. "I'm not
a hostage."
"Just don't forget that my brother still is... and so is that
Amanda girl you're trying to find."
************
The end of Chapter 10
Continued in Chapter 11
************
Chapter 11
************
West Union Street, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
12:40 PM
The alley looked devoid of the usual garbage and slime one
expected to find behind tattoo parlors and townie bars. Even
with a spike in temperature since early morning, Scully found
the conditions tolerable for a few minutes of phone
conversation.
Mulder answered on the second ring. He sounded cordial yet
preoccupied, with a dreamy ambiguity she recognized from
numerous investigations that had ultimately demanded
suspension of her beliefs.
Sporadic crackles of interference shot through the receiver as
her guard clicked into place. No doubt Willow sat within
earshot on the passenger's side. "You went where?"
"To Chillicothe, Ohio. An hour and a half out from Hocking.
We spoke with one of the students who roomed with Cricket
recently. She was in the dorm the night Amanda disappeared.
Gave me a new angle to explore."
"Such as?"
There was enough of a pause that she sensed him holding back.
Doing that mental shuffle while he rearranged facts into more
palatable presentation. With a prickle under her skin she was
reminded of a memorable jog several years ago across a DC
park, FBI surveillance vans in place. His vague responses
while undercover, a snapped finger and staged participation
with known terrorists. Covert associations that reminded her
Mulder could go to amazing and painful lengths in order to
halt a menace, pioneer a quest, or squeeze a hunch dry.
As could she.
"The haunted room could be key, Scully. It's..." he fumbled,
"it's feasible Amanda Carmichael might have gone up to
Cricket's room later that night."
"For two diametrically different people, doesn't that seem
unlikely to you?"
She caught the low, dry chuckle, always a bad sign. It was
obvious he had knowledge that indicated otherwise. That he
wasn't eager to share it was disturbing and set her at odds
against the two of them on the return leg of their day trip.
"I'll have to fill you in later," he explained, louder as poor
reception plagued them again. "Did you get that?"
She'd had enough patronization for one morning. Ignoring the
question, her voice grew tart with impatience.
"I assume you're covering all the bases in my absence. Have
you been able to access surveillance cameras of Wilson Hall
and the vicinity for March tenth? You also need to question
any residence hall staff that may be staying in the dorm over
Break. Obviously I'm not in a position to do those things
myself and you are."
"We're on our way over there right now; someone with a key
will meet us. Hostetler probably. It's important we get
inside that room to explore alternate possibilities."
"What kind of possibilities?"
"Supernatural elements in this case. The reason Amanda's
parents wanted psychic involvement in the first place." After
a pause his voice mellowed. "Scully... do you remember a
person named Kathy Lee Tencate?"
She spun on one heel, tried to squelch her alarm as the name
sank home.
Their visits to Idaho State Prison last year. Tencate, with
her short mousy hair, child's voice and bright eyes, claiming
ghostly beings had absconded with her little boy in order to
protect him. That she wasn't the one responsible for his
disappearance. The way she drew Mulder in, playing off his
vulnerabilities about--
"Oh God. Mulder... I know where you're taking this. And once
again you're trying to personalize this case."
"I'm not the only one who sees similar personal elements."
"Tell me you just didn't say that."
He gave no response.
"I was under the assumption that last year you'd made peace
with what happened to your sister. Otherwise, the events of
that night in California are meaningless. You said as much to
Harold Piller, that he had to let it go. You claimed you felt
closure, Mulder."
"False assumption."
On whose part, she wondered? Now static-free, the phone fell
silent for so many seconds she felt obligated to keep it alert
and revived, like a patient fading toward unconsciousness.
"Please, explain to me how this case is relative to that one?
Mulder?" She gazed up at gray empty sky between the
buildings. "Is Willow there in the car next to you?"
"It's a feeling I've had for a while," he mumbled in her ear.
"I hadn't told you yet. This case -- just intensified it.
And yes, to your last question."
What kind of couple were they, she marveled, that his sharing
of profoundly sensitive insights and history, that such
delicate, private theorizing with a despised third party could
impart the sting of infidelity?
He'd tossed her some hot potatoes through the years, one
suspect relationship in particular that had ended in that
person's death and quasi-redemption. Admittedly, Mulder's
motivations were usually justified or turned out to have
reasonable explanation at the time.
Let it rankle? Or shake off the hurt?
"Last year you said you didn't know what was truth and what
wasn't. That you were too close to make any kind of sound
judgment. Could your present company be in any way
responsible for this sudden intensification?"
"I'll ignore that. Except to say that once again your
blinders are getting in the way of your vision. 'True vision
is the art of seeing the invisible.' Jonathan Swift."
"If recollection serves me, he's also the great mind who
proposed cannibalism as a means to population control, so I'm
not impressed with your parallel. I'm even less impressed by
this rabbit trail you're bound and determined to follow."
"Satirical mind," he corrected. "And you didn't speak with
Amanda's parents; I did. The parallels bear out with
everything we learned on the subject from Kathy Lee Tencate
and Howard Piller."
"Learned about what?"
"The Walk-ins."
"My God, Mulder!" Unaccountably, angry tears stung her eyes
as his reference drove the wedge deeper between them.
"Scully, you of all people should realize that in the
scientific arena, eyewitness testimony is the worst form of
evidence there is. That's why I'm going further, seeking
beyond the tangible."
"But listen to what you're saying! You're so far gone, you're
beginning to contradict yourself!"
"At least I'm forthcoming with my game plan."
Out of desperation she absorbed the blow.
"I don't want to see you compromised or hurt again. Do you
hear me?" She whispered the words into the phone, then
swallowed hard, willing him to feel the love that suffused her
concern. "On any level, for any reason. Mulder, you know I
mean that."
"I know... We'll talk. Later." Also delivered in a murmur,
evasive even to Willow's hearing considering her propinquity.
That concession, however minuscule, felt like salve on sore
flesh.
She calculated ahead, stealing a glance at the door to Tusk's
shop. "Same time as last night?"
"Works for me."
************
Putnam University, Hocking, Ohio
Wilson Hall
3:12 PM
Mulder roared back into town, his spirits dragging like a rear
bumper on asphalt. To borrow a portentous expression from
Ricky Ricardo, he knew he'd have some heavy 'splainin' to do
back at Scully's motel room. Eventually.
That he could manage. Whether she'd accept his reasoning was
the unknown factor. It left a bitter aftertaste as he chewed
over the conversation he and Willow had shared on their return
trip from Chillicothe.
A few simple questions about the case had mushroomed into more
private speculation. The psychic had been gentle with him,
inquisitive and compassionate, as she was the previous day on
the College Green. Her understanding of his burgeoning
discontent encouraged him to reopen the wound, to discuss the
doubts he felt about his experience last year with ghost-
Samantha in Victorville.
Willow, he knew, possessed a similar depth of belief when it
came to supernatural, transcendental phenomena. In her
presence he felt less a fool and more like a sane, intelligent
man in need of specialized guidance.
And Scully? On the cell phone her reaction was what he'd
expected. Probably the reason he'd neglected saying anything
to her before now. Same old, same old when it came to the
baggage he'd carried around with him for years, the fuel he
thought was spent.
Yet she'd come to own a privileged part of his life and
loyalty, his confidence and trust. He blamed only himself for
the sense of betrayal she felt on his account.
Hostetler, meeting them outside the building, did nothing to
alleviate his discontent.
"I've got a master key for you," he said, slapping it into
Mulder's hand and glancing around them. "The dormitory will
be empty for a few days while the RA takes a break, so you
won't run into anybody now who'll ask questions. Housekeeping
doesn't start cleaning 'til next week."
But Mulder was striding with purpose toward the rear of Wilson
Hall, conscious that Willow had fallen into step behind him.
Puzzled, Hostetler trailed behind. "Hey, where are you
going?"
"Is that Treudley? Because if it is, I need to check
something out."
A snack machine hugged the wall near the back door, ground
level. Beside it sat a dark cylindrical ashcan, topped with
gray sand, dotted with the tar-infused filter ends of
cigarette butts. Accessible to both dorms, Mulder could
picture students retreating to this spot for fresh air and
respite from the heat of study.
He scanned the area. Nothing looked especially threatening,
from the trash bin, to several wrought-iron benches, to the
rocky landscaping and tangles of last year's garden growth
fringing the area. Lighting was plentiful, with streetlamps
looming like palm trees.
"Were these in working order on March tenth?"
The dean nodded with hesitation. "I can check on it."
"Agent Mulder?" Willow stood close behind him, arms akimbo.
"What is it you're thinking?"
Mulder chewed his lip in concentration, casting around from
one dorm to the next. "Truthfully? I'm thinking it's a bad
night to be playing Caesar's Palace."
The inanity sounded ridiculous as soon as the words left his
mouth. Hostetler blinked in confusion while Willow threw him
a droll smile.
"Only if you're the emperor Julius, Agent Mulder," she pointed
out. "For the record, the Ides of March hasn't much
significance outside of William Shakespeare's celebrated
play... and the catch-phrase that survived it."
"Perpetuated by legend and popular opinion, I presume?"
She nodded concurrence. "Please excuse me while I prepare."
As she'd done the previous day, Willow stood apart and raised
her hands toward Wilson Hall in dramatic fashion, eyes closed.
The gesture, now familiar and understood, no longer irked him,
though the dean appeared mystified.
"What's she doing?"
Mulder gave a tiny snort, knowing what the view looked like
from Hostetler's uninitiated perspective. "She's meditating.
Testing the spiritual energy in this area and looking for a
trail for us to follow."
"Aren't you going up to the haunted room anyway?"
"When she's ready. Which brings us full circle, you and me."
Nervousness shook the man's voice. "What do you mean?"
"It means, are you ready to drop the bullshit and tell me
about your meeting with the bigwigs yesterday? What's going
on behind the scenes around here that needs such a tight lid?"
"I don't know anything about it," whispered Hostetler.
"That's the God's-honest truth. They threaten and bully about
non-cooperation, but with no plausible explanation and no
specifics -- other than intimidating the hell out of everybody
when we're just trying to do our jobs."
"Up there!"
Both men started at Willow's exclamation. She pointed with
one long be-ringed finger toward the roof. Mulder was at her
side in an instant, gazing upward at the same spot.
"That's the fourth floor," he said. "In fact, that's
Cricket's window if I'm not mistaken."
"Not that," she insisted. "Higher. *There* is where we need
to look. I can feel it."
Like a winking eye embedded in the roofline, the tiny dormer
window caught a flash of afternoon sunlight. Mulder noted its
twin at the far end of the building, both positioned near the
disused copulas and obscured by tree limbs.
"Attic space?"
Hostetler shook his head. "Nobody's allowed up there. The
same holds true for most of the older dorms. Access is sealed
off for safety reasons and the students' protection."
Mulder looked back long enough to waggle his key at the dean.
"What say we unseal it?"
************
Outskirts of Hocking, Ohio
Toskala homestead
3:40 PM
The Maglite was black, slimmer than her FBI-issue flashlight.
It fit into the curve of Scully's hand pleasingly, snug as a
scalpel, so that the slightest tilt or movement brought
controlled illumination.
Activity roiled through the farmhouse, a stream of bodies in
prep mode, though the actual event was hours away. She
smelled eggs and bacon frying and the yeasty char of scorched
toast. Like before, hungry men had invaded the kitchen in a
noisy clatter of silverware on glass and rushing tap water.
Others flushed toilets, disappeared into back rooms, striding
in and out from car to house with economy and purpose.
Outfitted by Tusk earlier, she sat on the small loveseat to
watch the action and anticipate what the evening's foray might
bring. She had more to reflect upon than her phone call to
Mulder.
This time there had been no blindfold on the drive to Toskala
home base. Scully realized she could find her way back into
Hocking through the undulating countryside of field, forest,
narrow road and sloping vales. It was a gift of trust on
Tusk's part. Or of necessity, perhaps, should something go
terribly wrong.
Cricket emerged from a bedroom, her expression bland, eyes
dark and distant. A wave of Scully's hand motioned the girl
over to the sofa.
Without fanfare she pressed, "I'm going to ask you a question,
and I want the truth from you. Did Amanda Carmichael go
anywhere near your room on the night she went missing? Did
she pay you any sort of visit?"
"No-o." The answer came back in a sarcastic lilt; Cricket's
spiky head bobbed from incredulity and her lip curled. "Whose
lamebrain idea is that?"
"There's been speculation about it. So I'm asking you."
"So I answered; get off my back." Pinched and resentful, the
girl disappeared into the kitchen.
Tusk had appeared at the front door to observe the exchange,
he who missed nothing. A moment later he sat down, one
muscled arm pressing up against Scully's side, crowding her
space on the small couch. His deep voice was no more than a
rumble in the bustle around them.
"Next time you want an answer to a question like that, ask me.
She's strung pretty tight right now and we can't afford screw-
ups."
"I suppose that's reasonable."
"Are you hungry? There's food out there."
Scully shook her head, inhaling his maleness at such close
quarters. She wished instead that he'd grant her a few more
inches of room before she took the liberty herself.
"Did you memorize those maps?"
This time she looked -- up, since Tusk was taller than Mulder
by several inches. Even sitting she was forced to direct the
angle of her chin higher for eye contact in such close
proximity. Once more she felt the potency of his stare, the
raw intensity he exuded.
"I've kept my part of the bargain," she pointed out, "so I
expect you to keep yours."
"I always do."
"Then tell me why you believe your brother is still alive."
He prefaced his answer with a grim smile. "The escapees tell
us."
"What escapees?"
"There've been a few. None survived very long. We found 'em
and hid 'em. Listened to everything they said until they
passed, then gave 'em a decent burial. The last one was eight
months ago."
"People from where? The mental health center?"
"Old Harry was the first," he said, nodding. "About five
months after the university took over and the butchers and all
the patients were supposedly relocated. I found him out in a
field, facedown and barely alive. Under-nourished, third
degree burns, strange cuts and puncture wounds. Bad internal
damage. Beyond recovery, like all of them since. We managed
to get him back here and he hung on for a day after that..."
Tusk fell silent, lost in memory. Scully waited a breathless,
respectful fifteen seconds. "What exactly did he tell you?"
"He told us about the cover they were using over there.
Described the experiments and gave us approximate locations
where they were being performed. Told us about the lights in
the sky, what they really were and what they came for."
"Didn't you think to get him to a hospital for treatment?"
"Too far gone and too much risk -- and Old Harry didn't want
to be recovered, dead or alive. None of 'em do. We buried
him in the woods afterward, where they'd never find him. When
this is over I'll show you and whoever else might be
interested."
"But," she was quietly indignant, glaring up at him, "wasn't
he suffering?"
Tusk glared back. His jaws clenched. "Of course he was. You
think I wouldn't take care of that? In my line of business
you rub elbows with a pretty enterprising level of society, so
finding the right narcotic to ease his pain wasn't a problem.
If you get my drift."
She ignored his scorn and the brazen illegality of the
implication. "He'd seen your brother?"
"Yeah. He saw Stefan and what they were doing to him. Gave
us approximate locations and some idea of the methods they
were using. They take their time with the younger ones... we
learned that later from some of the others who escaped. By
young I mean anyone under forty. Looks like you and I could
still be fair game. Old Harry was pushing seventy,
expendable."
"Did you know him personally?"
Tusk blinked down at her several times, a mere suggestion of
the emotion he clamped under iron control.
"Not before we found him. But someone else here did. You
see... " He looked away, out toward the kitchen where sounds
of cooking and male interaction continued unabated. "It
turned out that Old Harry was Mason's great-uncle."
************
Putnam University, Hocking, Ohio
Wilson Hall
3:55 PM
Mulder wondered how many times he'd gone this route.
Bushwhacking his way through mystery, pitted against
opposition and unbelief in order to locate an elusive truth.
Even with Scully's involvement, too often over the years he
felt like he'd been playing to an empty house or flying solo.
Willow led the way, her pace quicker than on the previous day.
Of the three climbing the stairs, Hostetler alone knew the
dormitory's layout, though Willow seemed drawn forward on a
bead of her own. They proceeded from one floor to the next in
fits and starts, but it wasn't the agonizing crawl up to the
fourth floor, the way it had been with Scully present.
A participant through default, Hostetler appeared watchful and
awed. "Shouldn't we turn more lights on?" he said under his
breath to Mulder.
"If it makes you feel better. But it's probably unnecessary."
Mulder indicated the FBI-issue flashlight he clutched in one
hand. "We'll have light when we need it."
The two men waited at intervals while Willow halted to feel
out the next leg of their trail. Each stop provided insight
to the next level of progress. Mulder became aware of the
grace in her movements, the care she took when ferreting the
unseen path before them. Her whispered commentary on what she
sensed and perceived seemed to mesmerize even Hostetler.
"So much unrest," she whispered. "So many voices, it's
difficult to focus on the correct... ones -- there!"
They hesitated in front of Amanda Carmichael's room, 334.
Police tape still sealed it, the yellow "X" an eerie reminder
in the half-light.
"Fear, unrest... the need for protection. Higher... "
"Attic high?"
Eyes closed, Willow nodded to Mulder's query. "Yes, we need
to go much higher to find the answers. All the way into the
attic."
They moved to the next stairwell. Progress quickened, though
Mulder once again felt the same breathlessness as they gained
the fourth floor and walked toward Cricket's room. A sense of
struggle he'd encountered yesterday when he'd neared this same
level.
"Damn," muttered the dean to Mulder, as though something just
occurred to him. "I hope the old elevator still works."
"*Now* you tell me there's an elevator?"
"That remains to be seen. It only goes from the fourth floor
to the attic, which used to be storage space for all the
duffels, crates, and heavy trunks students brought to school
with them and had no place to put. But that was years ago.
The attic, to my knowledge, is in total disrepair and hasn't
been used for over thirty years."
Willow held up a long hand. "Not yet; first we look in Room
412."
It proved to be a sparse room, decorated with a few forbidden
candles and a camouflage-print quilt thrown over the bed.
They flicked on the wall switch and saw that Cricket's
possessions were meager. The walls stood barren except for a
university calendar, the dresser and closet nearly empty.
"Here's one who packed light," Hostetler mused, glancing
around.
"Or travels heavy," said Mulder. The air, as Lynnie Briscoe
indicated, felt cool and electric. Knocks and echoes emanated
from pipes hidden in the walls and from the out-dated heating
register, which crouched below the window. "This place needs
a serious upgrade, Hostetler. Haunting aside, no wonder
students favor the lower floors."
Willow put a finger to her lips and the men fell silent. She
closed her eyes again and raised both arms up, moving wraith-
like toward the center of the small room, beneath an
antiquated lighting fixture. For long minutes they watched
until her body began to quiver and she gave a small moan.
"It was here. She hung here... not her choice... "
"Aw, Christ," muttered Hostetler with an imploring glance
upward. "Who -- Amanda?"
Mulder had already moved to Willow's side, her skirt brushing
against his pants leg in a breeze unseen but felt. Gazing
upward, he felt his own scalp tingle, the hairs on the back of
his neck lifting in concert with delicious apprehension.
"No." He shook his head. "The suicide."
Beside him Willow trembled and opened her eyes. "Where is the
elevator?" she demanded from Hostetler.
"Uh, should be right outside in the hall."
"Then we must go up!"
Mulder handed back the keys. It took sheer strength and two
sets of hands to pry the old door open after Hostetler,
fumbling, jiggled and forced the key to turn. Another door
slid sideways into a wall recess with a rusty squeal,
revealing the narrow antiquated interior of the elevator.
Dark within, it resembled a squat closet and the naked bulb
suspended overhead was cracked and blackened.
Mulder licked his lips. He switched on his flashlight and
looked to his companion. "You with me?"
Willow nodded, her eyes large and luminous.
"Hostetler, you stay here. We don't know how much weight this
thing can take and I'd rather err on the side of caution."
"Gotcha," agreed the dean. He looked relieved. "If the
buttons don't work for you, I can try the ones out here. Just
hurry the hell up, okay?"
To Mulder's surprise, the mechanism began when he touched the
button, though not without complaint. He held his breath lest
the cloud of dust overtake him on the short trip upward. As
they gained the top, he flicked on his flashlight, feeling the
cool breeze of open space on his face. Weak spears of
sunlight filtered through the tiny window to the side, its
glass thick, wavy, and overlaid with the grime of decades.
Wordlessly they stepped onto creaking floorboards, still
hunched under the low ceiling, while Mulder panned his beam
across the room.
Like a ghost crouching in deep shadow, Willow swam forward.
Her dark clothes rustled around her ankles, raising clouds.
She seemed driven in her exploration, no longer pausing on
this journey into darkness. But her silence segued into soft
murmuring, a mantra of unintelligible sounds that raised
gooseflesh on Mulder's arms.
Suddenly she stopped, arms outstretched. Aiming the light
beyond her, Mulder saw it.
Debris from a makeshift altar hugged the far wall. With gasps
for more air, he marveled at the dull lumps of melted candle
wax rising from the floor like ancient stalagmites. On closer
inspection he saw they formed a perimeter, each one marking a
point. The whole formed a familiar and discernible symbol
through the spiraling dust.
"Pentagram?" he wheezed, but Willow gave no response.
Grit in his eyes, Mulder saw only the dark smudge of a cross
on the wall, reversed and suspended. A needle of panic shot
through him as his lungs labored harder for lack of oxygen and
the room seemed to tilt and dip.
Vision blurred, his knees hit the floorboards. His last
conscious thoughts were of dark recesses, creeping ghouls, and
Scully to-the-rescue with her gun smoking.
************
End of Chapter 11
Continued in Chapter 12
************
Chapter 12
************
Wilson Hall, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
5:00 PM
In a frenzy of fear Mulder beat his way back toward
consciousness.
Juice from a giant fungus dripped down his face, green-gold
and viscous as olive oil. Reaching his throat, it morphed
into rattlesnakes and he screamed at the bodies slithering
over his skin, at the fangs sinking deep. Pain seared his
chest; he hacked out bugs that spiraled up into the light like
curls of smoke. Matreiya kicked his ass, the Living Dead
ripped his arm, mad scientists drilled his skull, and still he
yelled for a Scully who wasn't there, who never came. Who'd
thrown him over for a tattooed psycho, a doctor named
Waterston, an a priori writer, and that rat-fuck Smoking Man
son-of-a-bitch.
"Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder? Move over here, carefully..."
Strong hands at his armpits. Dragging him, guiding him.
Though his legs were jelly and he scrabbled like a deer on
ice, he was aware of gaining the elevator. His half-dreams
changed course, veered off into fresh waves of panic. Cancer
stalked Scully and he hadn't the strength to fight it off or
find the right vial. Bleeding and flat on his back in the
street he saw her whisked away by strangers. She lay over his
shoulder, hair in icy tendrils. Crimson soaked her neck and
white blouse on the floor of his living room.
"Christ, what happened?"
"He was overcome. Agent Mulder, can you stand if we both help
you up?"
... He sat brushing his goddamn teeth while she wrestled alone
with Pfaster. Slumped gut-shot in New York City when he'd
failed to stop Ritter's bullet in time. Was erased from
existence by a stupid, unspecified second wish...
"I'm..." Head like a bobble toy, he gasped out the word again.
"I'm okay. I'll be... fine."
"We're taking you back to your room in Johnson Hall where you
can rest."
He wanted to protest. Stumbling, half carried down what felt
like twenty flights of stairs with as many casefiles careening
through his brain, he fell against the backseat cushions. His
head lolled and he saw Scully's closed eyes, her earth-caked
hair and face. Two more doors slammed up front and the car
began moving.
With a reflexive jerk he flung out his arm to connect with his
partner, his woman, desperate to grasp her hand in his.
************
The Knoll
Administrative offices
5:15 PM
The Big Man stood to the side of the window, watching. He
frowned at the very last of the cars trickling toward Downey
Lane on their journeys home.
Timing was essential with a mission pending, and dealing with
the public was inconvenient. Though he despised mundane
handholding, he understood the need for presenting a routine
show of normalcy where the university was concerned. This
operation, however, spun on too delicate an axis for comfort.
A knock diverted his attention from the window and Anton Krieg
appeared, locking the door behind him. One look at the man's
grim face told him that all was not well.
"What is it? Has surveillance caught anything unusual?"
Krieg approached the TV equipment against one wall, slid a
disk into the player, and activated the screen to show a clip
of the day's activity downstairs. "The art exhibit," he
prefaced. Without warning, he froze the scene and zoomed in
on a hooded patron who stood close to one of the stanchions.
To the inexperienced eye there wasn't much to see except a
slight figure in dark jeans and denim coat. A hood shielded
her face from view, but not the curve of aquiline nose, the
pouting of her lips, or the posture both men had viewed
several years ago, when the same figure strode on video into
the Bethesda Naval Hospital morgue beside her associate.
Pushing other buttons, he switched the screen to an outdoor
clip. In looking upward at the fence, the figure gave the
camera a split-second flash of red hair and blue eyes from
beneath her hood.
"I believe this woman is Special Agent Dana Scully of the
FBI," Krieg said.
"Yes. Mulder's partner, the forensic scientist."
"Then we have a problem."
The Big Man took a step closer and studied the screen. "My
father told me of her; he talked to her at length once at the
operation in West Virginia. He'd felt it necessary to bring
her inside one of the laboratory box cars there in order to
defuse a situation."
Krieg's mouth twitched, his equivalent of a shrug.
"Your thoughts?"
"It was ineffective, sir," Krieg explained carefully, "and a
weak solution based on reason. A smokescreen that backfired.
History proves it didn't have the lasting impact your father
intended."
"My father, if you remember, sided with the majority after
Dallas. But he always felt, like the Englishman did, that
full sanction was too hasty. A foolish option."
"So foolish that Mulder and Scully remain a threat to this
day."
"You think like Strughold did," said the Big Man with a grunt
of derision. "Like Spender did after his presence at the
Hoover Building was jeopardized. They had no qualms about
crushing the two FBI agents like spiders. No finesse."
"Finesse is an extravagance we can ill afford."
Hooded eyes tracked the screen, grew thoughtful. "My father
also taught me that timing and knowledge were valuable tools
in this struggle for power. What was once perceived as a
threat might, in time, become an asset, a resource for the
future."
"We've been monitoring Mulder's activity. The woman's
presence here was unexpected."
"That's unfortunate. The new Dean made no mention of her?"
"I don't believe he knew when we spoke with him yesterday."
"You should have anticipated she'd join him at some point.
This is a bad time for surprises, Mr. Krieg. She's out there
loose. Find where she is and what her purpose is."
The two men turned to gaze out the window toward the forest,
the immediate focus of all their attention.
"They appeared very early on the tenth," mused the Big Man.
"Their way of giving notice it was time for another exchange.
Then for days, nothing."
"Preparation time, so the operation coincides with the vernal
equinox. It's important we perpetuate the UFO and pantheistic
charade, which has been our primary cover."
"Will the new subject be ready?"
"If not, there are others," said Krieg.
A sharp look. "They want fresh meat."
"Either way, it'll be handled."
"For the sake of everything we've sacrificed and worked
towards, I hope so. Much depends on it."
"Then how far would you have me go to solve the Agent Scully
problem?"
"I'm not advocating clemency, just wisdom."
Krieg said, "Loose spiders create paranoia, sir. They make
people nervous and careless." He verbalized the unthinkable
in a slow whisper. "The events of Antarctica could very well
happen again here."
Facing the window, the Big man continued his staring. After a
moment his chin lifted. "Do as you think best then."
************
Johnson Hall, Hocking, Ohio
5:22 PM
Scully hadn't come to the rescue after all, Mulder deduced,
opening his eyes. Nor had she languished on an ambulance
stretcher beside him, covered in dirt and fungal juice.
No, he was back in his room at good old Johnson Hall, strung
out on the bed like a frat boy after an all-night kegger.
Wiggling his toes and forcing a swallow, he realized his shoes
were missing and his collar button undone. His senses and
awareness remained far from acute as he watched the ceiling's
texture crawl and tremble.
But at least the panicked visions had abated. Now he
concentrated on scraps of whispered conversation from across
the room.
"I gotta go." Hostetler sounded shaken. "You think he'll be
okay here by himself?"
"Of course. I'll stay with him until I know everything's good
again. You needn't worry."
"What the hell happened up there anyway?"
Yeah, thought Mulder, closing his eyes. Elaborate on that
one.
Willow's voice was slow molasses, soothing the dean's
uncertainty. "He was overcome by a malevolent spirit, I
believe. Agent Mulder has psychic sensitivity to such
phenomenon, but lacked the tools to defend himself from its
attack. We invaded the stronghold and it reacted. That might
be one reason he asked you to stay behind."
"Well, jeez... Tell him I'll call in the morning, okay?"
"Yes, of course."
A door shut and Mulder detected rustling, muffled activity
beside him. His eyes flew open and he gasped at the clamp of
a cold washcloth over his forehead. Yanking it away, he tried
to sit up against the headboard and focus on Willow's tall
figure and billowing hair.
"Were you just feeding Hostetler a big plate of bullshit?"
"Not at all, Agent Mulder. Did what happened to you feel like
bullshit?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what happened back
there."
"Ponder it awhile."
"No, you tell me. What's your--"
He hesitated to verbalize an expression that had become
cliched from overuse, threadbare from bouncing back and forth
over the years between him and Scully.
"My 'theory'?" Willow smiled and sat on the edge of his bed.
"Your explanation. What you sensed, but not about me. Tell
me what happened to Amanda Carmichael during the early morning
hours of March tenth."
"By now I think you know."
Mulder's jaw squared; he lobbed the washcloth towards the
bathroom where it landed with a wet smack. "No riddles."
"Simply put, she was taken."
"Don't jerk me around, Willow; tell me something I don't
already know."
"Like your sister was," Willow repeated, her voice rising with
emphasis, "Amanda was taken in similar fashion to protect
her."
"Is this an example of an accurate hit?"
"At least it's not a snide remark."
"So," he said, warming up, "I've got to explain to my partner
that we can go on home because Amanda Carmichael was taken by
walk-ins to protect her from an evil force that, for whatever
reason, took up residence in the attic of her college
dormitory in Ohio? That it subsequently drove a student in
1972 to suicide and attacked me today? That Amanda's living
somewhere, someplace in starlight for the rest of eternity,
and her parents should accept the fact that their oldest
daughter can be nothing more to them now than a spectral
vision?"
"That sounds terribly cynical," said Willow softly, "coming
from a man with so much experience investigating the
paranormal."
Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe I have my limits
after all."
"No, I don't think that's the case."
"For years I searched for my sister. During the La Pierre
investigation I began to realize I was looking for her in all
the wrong places. Or so I thought until I met Harold Piller."
"You mentioned that name before," Willow said. "The psychic.
Tell me about him."
A picture of the short, earnest man swam in Mulder's memory.
Grief-stricken for his missing child, driven to action on
Amber Lynn's behalf and then Samantha's, his doe-eyed
intensity ran the gamut from comedy to pathos.
"He'd lost a son and concluded that the walk-ins had taken him
too. He said he began seeing other children in visions, who'd
been protected in the same way. But something bothered me."
"What?"
"For some reason he couldn't see his own son. Why is that?"
"His gift may be selective."
"Scully thought he was a crack-pot."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Though irritated, he ignored the comment. "After we found
Samantha's diary I hypothesized that time is relative and
nothing in the universe is truly ancient. That, though souls
like Samantha and the other children were dead here on earth,
they're consigned to traveling through time, looking for
homes. Living in starlight..."
Mulder regarded the woman's dreamy smile.
"But I'm not so sure now," he said shortly. "Maybe the
visions of my sister last year resulted from some sort of
walking sleep paralysis while in a hypnopompic state."
"Much too psychological."
"Or a confabulation, a fantasy that unconsciously replaces
fact, as in the retrospective falsification that commonly
results after regression hypnosis. Maybe she appeared to me
as an apophenic memory and I've taken the easy way out by
discounting synchronicities that have been cropping up through
the years."
"I don't think so." Eyes brimming, Willow took his hand.
"Bottom line?" He gazed back at her, swallowed hard. "I want
to turn back the clock. I want to believe my sister's still
out there, waiting for me to find her."
************
Hocking, Ohio
A field near the Knoll complex
7:50 PM
Dusk arrived at a frosty crawl and fog blanketed the
countryside, filling in slopes and weedy pockets with wads of
insulation. High above, stars began to glitter through scanty
cloud cover.
Scully pulled her hood off and shook out her hair, feeling the
breeze comb her scalp with chill fingers. Like the rest of
the team she breathed out plumes, though hers were of carbon
dioxide, not tobacco smoke.
She shifted her feet, huffing with impatience.
Still Tusk bided his time. He crushed out a final cigarette
with his boot and after a quick word to each member in his
group, ambled with long legs through the rocks and weeds
toward Scully.
As the afternoon waned she'd had opportunity to observe his
manner and methods. Her father's daughter, she was forced to
admit that as a team leader Tusk was impressive.
Alpha, perceptive, detail-oriented, he seemed committed to
encouraging his troops through communication and
individualized attention. Scully noticed how he played off
their strengths and skills but knew where they might falter
and protected them against those contingencies. He radiated
responsibility and self-belief, instilling the same in those
around him. Bound together by a common cause, his people felt
his care, strength, and his confidence in them through his
deep voice and frequent touching.
She also knew Tusk was attracted to her and felt the heat.
This free-sharing physical contact, Scully decided, had become
blatant to the point of discomfort.
A man of contradictions on a personal level, he could be
tender and hostile, complimentary and then caustic. He seemed
always to stand with symbolic sword poised against hers, steel
sliding back and forth in suggestive challenge. It was a
combination of qualities that through the years had sent mixed
libidinous signals to a place lurking deep inside her.
The risk. The dare. The seductive play toward consent and
culmination... She was loath to admit it, but the Smoking Man
hovered close to the truth when he told her that she was drawn
to dangerous and powerful men.
Watching Tusk's approach she was grateful for the benefit of
experience. She'd learned much from past mistakes. And
fortunately Mulder, a man who taunted the surreal and lived
consistently on the edge, had filled that void within her to
repletion in more ways than the psychological.
"Dana, you all set to go?"
"Of course."
"Remember the drill: we take the tunnel to the right fork at
the edge of the field. Then a quick jog until we're under
cover. Just like in 'The Great Escape'."
"Excuse me?"
"That old Steve McQueen war movie about a POW camp. They dug
an escape tunnel out beyond the barbed wire, thought it came
up in the trees and out of sight -- except the tunnel ended up
being fifty yards short and forced 'em to make their break in
the open. Just like we will."
Looking up, she tried to read his face in the growing darkness
and keep skepticism to low levels. "Do you really expect an
alien craft to appear tonight?"
"Not tonight, but it'll be back. Always does, and I want to
beat 'em to the punch. At the very least we'll find
disturbance at the bone orchard, so I need to check that out.
Just in case..."
Sorrow edged his voice. She felt a rush of compassion for
this man, so committed to recovering a lost member of his
family. "I understand; in your shoes, I'd do the same."
Tusk scrutinized her for a moment. Then he rubbed his hands
together, gazing out toward the horizon where the dark
silhouette of the Knoll loomed.
"I want us in and out of there like Flynn, clean, before they
discover we're on to them."
"That might be easier said than done."
"Tactical field maneuvers," he gave a small grim smile, "just
like in the FBI. Should make you feel right at home, Dana.
Let's go."
His enthusiasm was catching, and Scully fell into step beside
him as they marched toward the small, eager-eyed team that
waited. Tusk's pep talk drew his troops in, energized them,
priming them for their mission.
And out of the dusk, ensuring her inclusion in everything,
strong fingers clasped the back of her neck and shoulder.
They squeezed gently, instilling confidence.
Tusk's hand slid away before Scully even thought to protest.
************
Miffed at being left behind over a simple injury, Footer sat
instead with Needlenose to keep lookout near the cars and to
man the walkie-talkie. Mole went first when they unlocked and
swung open the heavy grate. Then Tusk, teamed with Scully,
followed him into the tunnel with Cricket and Mason bringing
up the rear.
They crept underground, crossed Maglite beams dancing like
mini-light sabers. The air smelled heavy and organic, pungent
from dampness and dirt. Grateful for the occasional wooden
supports, she followed Tusk's wide back into the darkness.
Fuzzy gray light signaled the tunnel's end. They ignored a
corridor that branched out toward the left and crept out on
all fours into the weeds. Before them lay the exposed stretch
of ground Tusk had mentioned, with forest gloom beyond.
Spotlights flared and arced from the distant left, painting
the far fringe of trees silvery with illumination.
"Security's awake," Tusk said, undaunted. "Spread out a good
ten yards apart. Go in intervals, on your bellies. From a
distance it should look like nothing more than wind blowing
the weeds around. Then meet up in the woods."
Their destination occupied several acres of land within the
forest. Ringed by old growth trees and barbed wire fence, the
graveyard hadn't been abandoned since the university's
takeover. Though no longer manicured for visiting family
members or a viewing public, Scully noticed that much of the
tall grass was newly shorn.
Nightfall lay fully upon them when Mole clipped the lower
strands of barbed wire and they scurried through the fence
like rats. By thin starlight she could see long rows dotted
with depressions, visual perspective pulling them together
toward one distant point. The sight reminded her of Arlington
and numerous other cemeteries, but with one glaring exception.
"Why are there no headstones?" she whispered to Tusk who
crouched beside her. His teeth and eyes, gleaming, caught the
light.
"D'you think they'd bother for a bunch of loonies? No names,
either, just chiseled numbers. Take a look at this."
He parted the grass before them and exposed a moss-covered
stone lozenge. Then another, a few feet away, until Scully
realized these graves were merely forgotten blotches in the
earth. By design, each respective patient, an embarrassment
to society while living, had been expunged from memory after
death.
Even in the impersonal confines of an autopsy bay, a toe tag
provided more than mere identification. It gave the victim a
shred of dignity and respect, of the right to enduring
personhood.
"They start over there," Tusk pointed, "to the left, closer to
the main building. Most of the books recording names-to-
numbers were destroyed in an office fire sometime in the
forties."
Rustling grass revealed Cricket, her lip ring aglow. "We need
to check that corner near the trees. I'm serious.
Something's weird over there. I can smell it..."
Scully squinted, detected nothing. "How do you know?"
"She knows," said Tusk. "Remember I told you Cricket's a
little bit psychic? Plus, she's got eyes like a cat's. Let's
go, people."
Touching each member of his team, he jerked his head toward
the spot the girl had indicated. Guerrilla-style, they hugged
the perimeter, flashlights off and cloaked in deep shadow for
what seemed like hours.
Mole, leading the way with Cricket, cursed aloud.
"Watch your knees," he hissed. "Looks like we've had
touchdown here."
Scully put out a hand and felt hard irregular lumps that lay
fused to the ground, the result of intense heat and cooling.
It felt similar to volcanic, pyroclastic residue, but not like
anything that could have occurred mere days before.
All around them the grass was scorched down to dirt. Trees
swayed overhead, most of their trunks blackened and split
apart, survivors of a secret firestorm.
Scully nudged Tusk. "Was there smoke on the tenth? Did you
see any indication of fire or sirens?"
"Nope, just the beam from their ship. It varied in intensity
and must've really cooked this spot good. No wonder this place
is off-limits."
While Mole and Cricket melted into shadow, continuing their
reconnaissance, the other members of the group brought up the
rear. Lights shone close to the ground, panning the area
under the far trees. Suddenly, one Maglite skittered and
flung its concentrated beam into the night sky before hitting
the ground.
"Fuck!" Like a crazed bull, Tusk charged forward.
Their position compromised, Scully's heart lurched as she
joined the others and took in the scene before her. Several
of the graves appeared ravaged, dirt and stone tossed into
piles. His hand shaking, Mole's flashlight pulsed over the
sprawling limbs of two corpses.
He breathed heavily to control his gorge. "It ain't him," he
said to Tusk, who hunched over the telltale beam in an effort
to shield it.
"Where the fuck's Cricket?"
"Over there by that old shed, puking her guts out. She
crawled over one of their faces, that's how we found 'em."
Even under starlight Scully recognized the blistered skin and
deep chancres to be radiation burns. Piled together, the two
bodies lay with their trunks agape from deep midline
incisions, ribcages fallen inward. Both were female of
indefinite age. She detected no smell of tissue necrosis or
formaldehyde that would be indicative of exhumation. The
internal organs were mush and the abdominal fascia had the
same edematous consistency she'd seen years ago on the victim
taken from the Federal building in Dallas.
It was signature damage that pointed only toward the
Syndicate. Apparently the push for alien colonization
continued unabated.
What minions besides the Smoking Man had risen phoenix-like
from El Rico's ashes to further this dark campaign? How many
innocents from around the world were still being salvaged for
inhumane testing, taken and returned by alien craft in some
sort of macabre lending-lab arrangement?
Agreement be damned, she had to communicate her discovery to
Mulder as soon as possible.
"Dana!" Tusk, also perusing each body with a forensic
detachment that surprised her, called her to his side in a
whisper. "Any of this familiar to you?"
"Too familiar, I hate to say."
"Could one of them be Amanda Carmichael?"
She scanned the bodies quickly for age-determining
characteristics. "No, neither. Amanda's eighteen. These
women appear older by at least ten years or more."
"The escapees we hid had serious skin burns and body cutting,
but none of the goop I'm seeing here. Man, this is sick."
"No shit," said Mason, averting his face.
Scully glanced back over her shoulder. "These two scenes are
unrelated. This dirt is freshly dug and the corpses
relatively free of decay, whereas the ground over there was
scorched much earlier. These are new graves for new
occupants."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying if the spacecraft came only once, days ago, then
these women died somewhere closer to home -- not in outer
space."
"Somebody do me a favor and check on Cricket. We may have to
bug outta here fast--"
They heard the hum of vehicles a split second before
headlights pierced the forest gloom. Scully knew that alone
and physically incapacitated the girl's responses would not
only put her in jeopardy, but might also endanger the entire
group.
"I'll get her. You lead the rest out," she panted, giving
Tusk a shove. He nodded, hesitated a fraction of a second,
then melted into the darkness with Mason and Mole in tow.
She moved like lightning, with instinct born from training and
desperation. Closing in on the broken-down shed, she saw
Cricket struggling from knees to feet, unaware that the
spotlights playing along the length of the old cemetery would
strike her at any moment.
Ducking as she ran, Scully knocked the dazed girl onto her
side and held her down. The beam of light missed them by a
scant few inches.
"Into the shed," she ordered, pushing Cricket ahead of her.
"Tusk?"
"He's fine. Move!"
Security jeeps had already swung around for a second pass.
The door, Scully discovered, was either locked or jammed, but
towards the back, the roofless, tumble-down structure had a
low open window obscured by weeds. At Scully's urging Cricket
eased through the narrow opening, taking far too much time as
headlights once again bore down on them.
With only moments to spare, Scully lunged like a diver on
adrenaline.
She felt cold air bathe her lower back as she dove through the
narrow space, followed by a hot stinging bite. Landing on her
elbows and stomach with a grunt, she shimmied close to the
ground and pulled Cricket's body against hers. Behind a heap
of splintered wooden boxes they held their breaths in the
darkness, hearts pounding.
Interminable minutes passed while security teams circled the
cemetery. They halted once near the scorched ground to
confer, several men making another brief sweep on foot before
returning to the bodies. Sounds of digging seemed endless
until the vehicles finally hummed back through the woods the
way they came.
"Thanks, but you can let go now," muttered Cricket. "Sorry I
fucked up back there." She pulled away, sniffing. "Hey... I
think I smell blood."
Danger past, pain blossomed like a hot rose on the back of
Scully's right hip. The slight, clammy dampness she felt had
become saturation. Reaching back to grope with one hand, she
tried to twist on her Maglite with the other.
"Here, gimme that."
Cricket, frosty again, held the flashlight steady. Using
tentative touch, Scully found the long tear that went through
both cloth and flesh. She stifled a groan and held out her
hand, fingers smeared shiny red in the slender beam of light.
"I think," she said dully, "it must be mine."
************
End of Chapter 12
Continued in Chapter 13
************
Chapter 13
************
Johnson Hall, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
10:05 P.M.
"Hostetler? For your own good, there'd better be no one else
but me breathing in your ear right now."
Mulder whispered into his cell phone. It was pressed tightly
between cheek and shoulder as he tied his shoes in the shadows
near the sidewalk at Johnson Hall. He was alone, abandoned by
Willow to what she'd assumed would be undisturbed slumber
until morning.
Fat chance.
Feigning sleep, he had another agenda in mind when she phoned
for a taxi, turned off all lights except the bathroom
overhead, and let the door click shut behind her. It took
only a minute of patient waiting behind the window curtain
until the cab door slammed and the vehicle hummed away into
the silence. Then he threw on his shoes, coat, and grabbed
his cell phone before seeking the safe and unbugged haven of
the outdoors.
The first call had been to Scully's cell. Her patent message
asked for name and number, which Mulder disregarded. No use
ringing her room phone at the Super 8. Considering his
exploits this night, he couldn't fault her for wandering in
late again with evasive eyes and mud on her backside.
Second, he called the Speedy cab company and asked for the
name, address, and destination of the woman who'd requested a
ride from the East Green.
Hostetler's number was third. Mulder stood up and filled his
lungs with the brisk air. Since switching gears, he felt
better, more like himself again. It was only a matter of time
before he'd ferret out all the angles and players in this
game.
"Agent Mulder? How are you feeling?"
"Like your average student: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and
hungry for a night on the town," replied Mulder. He cast
about in order to get his bearings in the dim, largely
unfamiliar landscape. "I'm leaving my car here at Johnson.
Pick me up at the north end of College Avenue in five minutes.
Keep quiet and make sure you're not tailed."
Rather than chance being seen on the street, Mulder took to
the dark hill behind the dormitory. From what he remembered
of the university map, his rendezvous point lay somewhere
close by, terraced above Johnson Hall. Bushwhacking his way
through dense, brittle foliage, he finally stumbled onto a
well-worn trail made by thousands of students bent on a
similar shortcut up the hill.
The moon cooperated, hiding most of its orangey bulk behind
the clouds as Hostetler's car approached. Mulder rushed to
the passenger side and got in.
"What's going on?" asked the Dean, giving the car gas and
Mulder a worried look. "Has Willow gone home?"
"That'd be my guess."
"I'd like to know what really happened to you earlier. Why
you were affected that way."
"That's what I intend to find out. Drive -- we've got a hot
date tonight at spook central."
"Huh?"
"We're going back over to Wilson Hall, just you and me."
"Godalmighty, why?" The man's voice shook and he clenched the
steering wheel in a stranglehold.
"To check out a theory I have. Relax, Hostetler. Even my
partner, after she questioned my level of sanity, wouldn't
hesitate to jump on this bandwagon. And in her absence I'm
afraid you're it."
"Lucky me."
Mulder grinned, dug into his coat pocket, and slipped a
sunflower seed between his teeth. "It pays to be careful what
you wish for."
************
Toskala home base
Late evening
They bore Scully from the cemetery, their pallid faces bobbing
like corks in the gleam of flashlights, sinking again beneath
a sea of darkness.
Mole sacrificed his flannel shirt to wrap around her hips to
staunch the bleeding. Tusk and Mason supported her on either
side until they met the exposed grassy area, where she rode
Tusk piggyback-style for the duration of the long journey
through the tunnel and back to the car. She clung to him,
white-knuckled with pain and dread, his big hands cradling the
backs of her thighs.
Throughout the drive home Cricket's face remained pinched, her
eyes glassy. At Tusk's order she scurried into the house to
prep, since the injury needed immediate examination in good
light. Inside, others helped Scully to shed her coat, gloves,
muddy sneakers, and socks. Then Tusk shooed everyone away as
he unwrapped the sodden flannel from around her hips.
His eyes flickered downward, taut expression unreadable.
Ushered into a back room, she saw that a large couch cushion
had been placed on the bed, firm and flat, shrouded by a clean
white sheet. Considering her injury's location, it would make
a serviceable examining area. But on a small card table
nearby she noted surgical scissors, sterile packets for
sewing, disposable hypos, a container of Betadine solution...
"What's going on here?"
Low, stinging pain told her she'd been damaged in a
compromising and personally inaccessible part of her anatomy.
She could only guess at the wound's severity and knew self-
treatment was impossible as reality hit home. With a heart of
lead, Scully realized that present circumstances disallowed
admission to the sterile ER at Hocking's county hospital or to
the student medical center on campus at Putnam.
The duties of field medic would fall to Tusk.
While Scully wavered beside the bed, digesting this
unpalatable truth, a hand clamped onto the waistband of her
pants. She felt Tusk's fingers secure a belt loop. "Okay,
Dana, unsnap and drop 'em."
"Just hold on a minute --"
"Your injury's waited too long and the jeans are history
anyway. Drop trou now," he repeated, "or I'll do it for you."
Lips tight with resentment, Scully unzipped her fly and pushed
the torn and bloodstained clothing down her hips to an
invisible line demarcating surgical necessity and the dictates
of personal modesty. She knew better than to hope Tusk's
inspection wouldn't include her backside cleavage or the
scalloped edge of her Victoria's Secret bikinis. By now they
too would be dark red, rather than the pale mauve she'd
slipped on this morning for Mulder.
Placing her holstered weapon on the dresser she quickly
reviewed salient facts of the situation.
An amateur medic in a rural isolated farmhouse would be
doctoring her wound. The Syndicate had resurrected itself and
set up covert operation here in rural Ohio. With her own eyes
Scully had examined two women's bodies ravaged by what
appeared to be an alien virus. Stefan Toskala and Amanda
Carmichael both remained possible victims of foul play,
thrusting Scully and these rag-tag rescuers into the midst of
a game more dangerous than she'd ever anticipated.
Worst of all, her meeting tonight with Mulder would be
postponed indefinitely. She'd been hurt and he was clueless.
At this last realization she wobbled. Her injury throbbed,
turning hot and then cold as air hit it and more blood
trickled. She shivered, gulped a cleansing breath to stave
off nausea and mild shock.
Out of nowhere big gentle hands clasped her ribcage, steadied
her.
"Dana, come over here. Face down on this. Stay still."
She'd heard these warm, concerned tones before, wafting from
behind the curtains at Art Apocalypse. Tusk's bedside voice,
a deep soothing rumble. Designed to comfort, disarm, and
reassure.
So be it. With help she reclined on her stomach, confident
that nothing untoward could draw his attention.
In the aftermath of the Jerse case, Scully had taken steps to
salvage her four inches of lower back flesh and a healthy
measure of dignity. It had cost her twenty-five hundred
dollars and seven laser treatments. Little haunted the spot
now except phantom nerve endings, easily stirred awake by
thought or touch, and the whisper of a watermark she passed
off as shadowy, uneven suntan.
Nevertheless, she made a final stab for control. "Is there a
mirror around here? Anywhere?"
Tusk disappeared from view behind her.
"I *want* a mirror," she stated to empty air, her voice rising
in volume. On her elbows, back and buttocks partially bared,
she could only imagine the spectacle she presented. "Right
now, in fact!"
For answer, strong fingers tugged her jeans, as well as her
panties, lower by several inches. Scully cringed.
"What for, quality control? Relax, little doctor; be a good
patient and trust me. I'm sure you can manage that."
Exasperated, she craned her head toward the back right where
Tusk had finished scrubbing into a basin of steamy water. She
watched him rinse in a second container, dry his hands on a
fluffy towel, and pull on latex.
"At least let me walk you through the procedure, step-by-
step."
"Not necessary."
"I disagree!"
Tusk gave a low chuckle. "Let's make a deal here. You don't
interfere, and I'll tell you exactly what I'm doing and when.
Okay?"
She ignored the question to call up what she knew of Tusk's
medical expertise. To her mind came the flash of Footer's
bony shoulder with its long neat seam. The edges of torn skin
had been laboriously mated, like teeth in a zipper, then
stitched together by patient and masterful hands.
"And because you're in such a vulnerable position, rest
assured that my powerful work ethic should prevent me from
fully appreciating the scenery from this angle."
"Oh joy," she whispered in resignation.
"Must've been broken glass at the edge of that window you dove
through, twisted in the frame. Caught you on the back of the
hip and rump. Looks pretty nasty, but you're lucky it's a
clean slice. I had a hell of a time repairing that barbed
wire tear of Footer's."
With trepidation Scully felt him swab over the flare of her
buttock and the surrounding skin with cold disinfectant, then
apply enough pressure to make her blanch. "Bleeding's
lessened," he told her. "I'm going to put numbing medicine
into both edges, clean it out, then stitch it up for you."
"How deep is it?"
"Subcutaneous, but no muscle damage. About three inches long.
Piece of cake."
This news surprised and relieved her. Treatment would be
textbook-simple, if not a bit tedious to sew up, and Tusk
seemed confident in his abilities. She exhaled, knowing he
had taken great care to maintain sterility and exhibited some
knowledge of what was required to repair her wound.
Suddenly, her radar bounced, swung wild like a pinball.
Inquisitive fingertips were tracing the invisible circle on
her back, raising gooseflesh of alarm all over her body.
Tusk began chuckling to himself. "I knew it," he murmured.
"Knew what?"
"That you had a closet tat somewhere. I just couldn't
pinpoint where it might turn up."
"Don't be ridiculous. Nothing's there."
"I disagree." He mimicked her earlier retort but without the
same intensity, working as he talked.
The Lidocaine stung, four jabs in a row, with duplicate
injections still forthcoming on the opposing edge of the
wound. Scully clamped her teeth together.
"How're you doing?" Halting in his work, Tusk's forearm felt
soft and protective on the back of her thigh as he awaited her
answer.
"As well as can be expected, I suppose."
"I know tat removal's no picnic either. You must have a
redhead's legendary high threshold for pain."
She sighed, grateful for the shift in conversation, but
annoyed at his blanket assumptions. "Not necessarily. The
study you're referring to targets analgesic response, not pain
tolerance per se. It theorizes that the gene responsible for
fair skin and red hair is a better receptor for specific types
of pain medication. That's all it is."
"But it favors women with red hair, not men."
"True. The technique is called 'quantitative trait locus
mapping.' Researchers found that kappa-specific pain
receptors in the female brain are more responsive to a
particular medication. Pentazocine, I believe it was."
"Now you really sound like a doctor, or a scientist. You
retain all that medical shit."
"It's in my field."
"Or maybe you also have a fondness for certain invasive
procedures?"
Scully closed her eyes to his off-color sarcasm and the
memories of that dank apartment in Philadelphia, of primal
abandon and the resulting flames of judgment that had almost
claimed her as a result. In the aftermath had come
embarrassment, shame, and the mute betrayal and confusion
she'd seen in Mulder's eyes. His reaction, more than
anything, convinced her that if sexual intimacy were to ever
evolve between them, it would be sullied by the presence of
such a damning souvenir on her skin.
As a lover, he deserved better than that.
And she knew during their first attempts at lovemaking that
her foresight had been noted and esteemed. On that night,
Mulder had hesitated before lingering over the pristine map of
her back, his fingertips slow in the wonder of such unforeseen
discovery. His lips followed in what she could only interpret
as a kiss of mute understanding...
"I was highly motivated at the time," she quantified.
"Must've been a really big lifestyle change. That's the usual
reason people get rid of their tats."
The observation, combined with the second row of injections,
made her flinch.
They waited for the analgesic to penetrate her tissues and
take their soporific effect, an uneasy silence hanging between
them. Moving to the bed's head, Tusk sat and searched her
face, his eyebrows lowered, dark eyes narrowed in thought.
"I'm grateful," he blurted. "Your quick action protected the
mission and probably saved Cricket's life. She's in awe, by
the way. Everyone is."
Since response was unnecessary, he stood up to continue
treatment out of her peripheral vision. Moments later Scully
felt Betadine solution drip down her side from the wound,
detected only pressure when he patted it dry with a gauze pad.
"Squeaky clean. You feeling any pain from that now?"
She shook her head as he opened another sterile surgical
packet, a needle and silk thread purloined from who knew what
medical center, and stitching commenced. The pressure of
Tusk's hands on her skin meshing with his deft, repetitive
tugs on the thread convinced her he was a cut far above
amateur.
"I understand that at one time you pursued medical studies,"
she ventured, closing her eyes to the rhythm that played on
behind her.
"Mason must've given you the real lowdown this morning. He
means well, but has a bad habit of spilling too many beans."
"Well, it's an honorable profession. You have remarkable
skill and the right stomach for it, as well as an exceptional
beside manner. What stopped you?"
He grunted. "Everything. The scheduling and time
commitments. The program, the testing. The other med
students. All the dickhead med profs in their private
hierarchy." After a moment he added, "Everything about it, I
guess... except for the skin."
"Excuse me?"
"I studied skin. It fascinates me, always has."
"Why skin?"
"Why not? It's the human body's laminate and protective hull.
Our outer rind and decorative shell. Our *hipia*, strong,
elastic, and stratified. Yet for all its amazing strength,
it's thin and still permits invasion."
Rendered wordless by this eloquent soliloquy, Scully blinked
and listened.
"Skin comes in all colors and textures, that's the beauty of
it. It exfoliates, regenerates, heals, toughens, and ages.
Some people let their skin go to leather. Others are
fortunate to have skin that looks and feels like velvet.
Beautiful... soft and supple... a lot like yours is. And,
guess what?" he concluded. "Skin happens to be the ideal
canvas for self-expression."
"Define 'hipia'."
"Finnish for 'skin'," he said with a shrug.
She savored the word in her mind, remembering what she'd
learned from Mason about Toskala family roots. "So, instead
you became a tattoo artist--"
"Body modification and art, which includes tattooing in its
various forms."
"Do you feel the trade-off was equitable?" she probed.
"I make my own hours and can get creative as I want or my
clients allow." Tusk chuckled low into his throat. "Besides,
the female body in particular is already an amazing work of
art. And like physicians everywhere, I get paid to put my
hands on it. Can't beat that."
"It doesn't surprise me," she said dryly.
He paused long enough for Scully's nerve endings to tingle
again as slow fingertips retraced the shadow on her lower
back.
"Now let's talk about you," he purred. "For instance, why
would a comely FBI agent like yourself want to obliterate her
kinky private indulgence? Looks to me like it was some kind
of circular design --?"
"That's really none of your business."
Tusk resumed sewing and Scully envisioned the bemused smirk on
his face. "Professionally done, probably, with lots of detail
using multiple pigments, including orange and yellow. Those
are the toughest colors to eradicate, by the way, and it looks
like whoever zapped it did a pretty good job. But I'm more
intrigued by all the scarred tissue near it. Mighty
impressive. A gunshot exit wound maybe?"
Resurrecting details of the Fellig case with an outsider and
bandying about Peyton Ritter's hair-trigger finger was
unthinkable even on her best day. Lifting her head, she
scolded, "What is this, an interrogation? Can't you just drop
it?"
"Then I guess we're all done back here."
With a tinge of regret she felt the tug of snipped the thread,
which signaled the end of both the repair and further
discussion between them. Their conversation, for the most
part, had been enlightening. He taped on a gauze bandage and
stood back.
"How many are there?"
"I made it an even thirty. Should heal up good as new. And
I'd suggest a tetanus shot, but I assume the FBI keeps you
current with those."
A tap and creak at the bedroom door revealed Mole's face.
Tusk conferred with him in whispers, shielding Scully from
view. The brief exchange over, he shut the door and returned
to crouch beside her bed, his eyes radiating empathetic
concern.
"Mole says Mason went into town to check out talk on the
street. What I want right now is for you to rest awhile,
because you look strung-out as hell and need to be in decent
shape for tomorrow night. Blanket?"
"I'd appreciate one," she said, eyeing the door.
He complied, pulling it up and over her body from the bottom
of the bed. "I've got other stuff to deal with, but in about
an hour I'll drive you and your car to the motel and I'll
catch a ride back here with Mason. That sound okay to you?"
She nodded, feeling a combination of dread and relief. The
only immediate difficulty would be in explaining her injury to
Mulder without revealing too much of her activity or having
him go ballistic.
"I have a change of clothes in my car. The keys are in my
coat pocket. By the way, how's Cricket doing?"
"Holding her own. What happened tonight really threw her a
hard curve. She has trouble when it involves people she cares
something about... and there aren't many. Welcome to the A-
list, Dana."
Tusk rose to his feet and for the first time Scully noticed
dark splotches staining one side of his jeans and tee shirt.
Obviously the blood was hers. She grasped his tattooed
forearm with quick fingers and drew his gaze toward her.
"Listen," she said with sincerity, "I want to thank you for
patching me up tonight."
At that, he smiled and reached out to squeeze her shoulder and
neck, a signature gesture of affection. But she blinked in
sudden disquiet when Tusk's big hand slid up to rest for
several moments on her head, cupping it with tenderness,
smoothing down a few wayward strands of hair with his fingers.
He made for the door and turned abruptly. "Hey, the truth
now... you really think my bedside manner is exceptional?"
"Yes, you're very good."
"You have no idea," he said, giving her a roguish wink before
disappearing from the room.
************
Wilson Hall, Putnam University
10:22 P.M.
They slunk through the dormitory's shadowed halls to the
stairwell without benefit of electricity or flashlight. Moon
and security light filtered through the windows in hazy
shafts. Hostetler followed gamely, Mulder glancing back to
keep tabs on the man's widened eyes. On his breath, coming in
short nervous chuffs as they climbed each flight in near-
darkness.
"You winded?"
The Dean shook his head. "Scared shitless, is more like it."
Monitoring his own reactions, Mulder noted none of the
breathlessness he'd experienced previously. No
lightheadedness or pressure on his lungs. No pounding heart
or rapid pulse. Energized, his muscles tonight felt springy
and elastic, his reflexes and thought processes sharp and
clean again. In essence, he felt like his old self, like he
suspected he would, even when they'd reached the fourth floor
and faced the elevator.
It gaped open, the narrow vault within exposed.
"That's my fault," confessed Hostetler. "In all the confusion
of getting you outside, I didn't think to lock it up. We
didn't know what had really happened to you."
"Speak for yourself. I have a feeling our psychic friend has
more than an inkling as to what happened to me."
"What do you mean?" Dave Hostetler's voice held a panicked
undertone, much like he sounded when Mulder had asked whether
he felt himself in physical danger.
"When it comes right down to it, how much do you trust her?"
Mulder placed his hands on either side of the elevator door.
He looked sideways through the gloom, waiting for the Dean's
response.
"She was sent by the LIFE organization. Amanda's parents
insisted on that." Hostetler sputtered and grabbed for
answers. "I understand they recommend only the very best in
any geographic area, after thorough screening and a reference
check. True, Willow seems a little strange, but knowledgeable
to my mind. But when it comes to this paranormal stuff...
hey, what the hell do I know?"
"You knew enough to call me."
"Because a girl's life was at stake and I felt something fishy
was going on. It never occurred to me that Willow could be
part of that."
"She may not be. I don't have that much evidence. Though by
her own admission she's not a local resident."
"True, if you're referring to the city of Hocking. But I
think she told me she lives somewhere outside county lines.
In the country, near Chauncey. I -- I'm not really sure now."
"And how far away is that?"
"Maybe a twenty, thirty-minute drive?"
Mulder grimaced and shook his head, repulsed by the fact he'd
walked through the door wearing far too much trust on his
sleeve. Now the possibility existed that he'd been
hoodwinked, hornswoggled, used, and generally abused from the
moment he'd stepped off the plane.
Worse, for days he'd denigrated Scully's gut feelings about
the woman. A prideful, careless error on his part.
"I have it on good authority that she's holed up right in the
Hocking area. But we'll revisit that subject later." He
fought down a sneer, but let it seep into his voice. "What do
you say for now, Dean Dave... you ready to test the spirits
with me?"
Hostetler wavered. "I'd like to know who's gonna drag us down
to safety if something happens to both of us up there."
"Pray it doesn't," said Mulder, stepping into the small dark
space with his head bent forward.
He waited briefly until Hostetler mustered the courage to
follow. Once they were both inside, Mulder hit the button and
the ancient mechanism screeched to life again. Noise was
unavoidable, but light, more easily detected from the outside,
remained under his control.
"Don't worry, I've got a flashlight if we need it."
"If?"
As Mulder suspected, the narrow, ancient windows in the attic
emitted beams of outside light, sufficient for them to move
forward into the cramped space. The beams wavered, murky with
dust floaters, their slant and thickness dependent on air
current, passing cars, and outside illumination.
Against the far wall, undisturbed and cloaked in dust, sat the
decades-old altar. Hostetler grabbed Mulder's arm. "What the
hell *is* that thing?"
"Looks to me like somebody's supernatural playground, circa
1972."
"Is this what made that student hang herself?"
"That's one theory," said Mulder, "though a combination of
drugs, depression, and too many reruns of 'Bewitched' might be
my first guess."
He took a careful breath, testing his reactions. Still
nothing unusual, as his heart beat steadily and his head
remained bell-clear. But rays of bright light danced with
sudden vengeance across the narrow room like fairy dust,
drawing his attention toward a small window facing the West
Green.
"Looks like a bonfire out there," he said over his shoulder.
"Is that how students celebrate the beginning of Spring Break
these days?"
"What?" Sounding incredulous, Hostetler appeared at his side,
also bending to squint through the wavy glass. "No, there's
only one official bonfire sanctioned. It's in the fall
quarter, during Octoberfest. I don't know *what* that's all
about, but it's at the far end of Richland Avenue."
Mulder felt his stomach clench. "Near what?"
"Could be near the laundry mat and pizza place... or even the
Super 8 Motel."
************
Super 8 Motel
10:40 PM
Glenn paced the check-in office floor. All afternoon he felt
twitchy and by late evening his scalp prickled like nobody's
business, sure signs something was up or about to come down
hard.
His father and grandfather both had degrees of this uncanny
barometer for disaster during their lifetimes. Glenn first
began scratching his head when he was twelve, right before a
local mine tragedy in which five men died. After that, he
felt the "itch" to be more affliction than extraordinary
natural gift.
Much to his relief, occurrences had faded over the last few
decades. But then, his life wasn't particularly varied in
this quiet semi-rural community with its low crime rate and
status quo. Whatever remained of the "itch", there was little
opportunity for it to jumpstart in Hocking. The only real
excitement came from happenings on the university campus, and
lately, strange doings up at the Knoll.
Out of curiosity he'd hung around long after Jaime, his night
manager, arrived to take over the graveyard shift. Restless,
he wandered a few times into the half-filled parking lot,
noting the action -- or lack of it. Volume was down, though
occasionally he'd spot a Lookie-Lou pulling in to check out
the motel's appearance and room prices from the car before
driving back out to the highway in search of better digs.
It was their loss, since nothing much else was available at
this hour in Hocking. The snooty University Inn, with its
fancy remodeled rooms, on-site restaurant and indoor swimming
pool and Jacuzzi had the usual "No Vacancy" sign aglow.
Paycheck aside, he also felt protective of his modest turf.
With no hired security, Glenn felt drawn tonight to oversee
the place however long the itch and restlessness kept him
awake. Ordinarily he retreated to his manager's suite by nine
o'clock and was dead to the world by ten. Plus, it was a rare
night that he got to observe his unconventional night manager
in action.
Suave and whip-thin, Jaime wore colorful western-style shirts
and played computer games behind the counter when he wasn't
schmoozing the few guests that actually did check in after
dark. A slim black-haired young woman he called Yolanda
attended to previous guest requests for additional towels,
pillows, and the occasional crib or ice bucket. She bustled
about her evening housekeeping chores, disappearing from the
office for long minutes at a time after conferring in whispers
with Jaime.
"'No habla', that one," confided Jaime once to Glenn, who had
simply assumed the girl he'd trusted Jaime to hire was too
focused on her job for small talk. "A sister of a friend of
my brother's. But legal, man, I swear."
Glenn nursed another can of Mountain Dew and paced the floor,
evaluating the cars that wandered through.
Several guests had yet to return to their rooms for the
evening, so he took note of which ones seemed occupied. He
glanced at the backlit, yellowed window of room 123, where
Dana the FBI agent must have come home while he was busy in
the bathroom. A real looker, she was. With satisfaction he
detected no bluish flicker from the TV, like last night when
she'd had that stay-over guest. For some reason she must've
parked elsewhere, because her car was missing from the parking
space near her door.
It had been none of his business, but he still kicked himself
for the stupid observation he'd made to her this morning. He
wondered if she'd even bothered driving up to the art show at
the Knoll after all. Would she be friendly toward him now, or
disgusted and distant?
In the long run... did it matter?
Jaime looked up from the computer, the ends of his thin
mustache drooping in a frown.
"Hey, Glenn, why dontcha lay off the caffeine? Go to bed and
get some shut-eye, 'cause geez, you're making me nervous, man.
All that pacing around? You getting paid for being the
fucking night watchman too?"
"Can't leave," muttered Glenn. He made another restless
circle, his eyes sorrowful and his hand in his hair. "My head
itches too much."
"So maybe you should wash that mop sometime, man. You ever
think of that?"
"That's not the problem."
"Hokay... maybe you just got ants hiding up your ass then."
Jaime snickered at his joke and glanced out the office window
toward the sleepy motel annex. His eyes rolled and widened,
and when his mouth formed a big "O" he rose up from his chair
to point.
Windows blazed molten and long fingers of fire licked out at
the cold night. As they watched with stunned eyes, dense
smoke began to plume from the opposite building. Glenn felt
the floor tremble and a room seemed to come apart in a
brilliant shower akin to fireworks. Speechless, his itch
forgotten and his heart pounding, he slapped the door aside
and ran toward the desperate scene.
Amid guests' screams, billowing smoke, and blinding flares of
light, Glenn heard the approaching wail of a fire truck. It
barreled in from Richland Avenue, men springing from it into
action like fleas from a dog's back. A terrific, rolling ball
of fire belched outward, heat keeping them at bay momentarily.
Joined by Jaime, he hustled terrified occupants away from
danger and into the safety of the check-in office.
Hoses hissed while raging billows blackened under the deluge,
to become one with the night sky. Wrapped in winter coats and
bathrobes, guests swallowed their initial panic to watch the
scene in awe and with a fascination of horror.
From the confusion of people, bunched cars, and rescue
activity, Glenn saw a figure break away from the crowd.
The man wore a trench coat and suit, and grabbed onto one of
the fireman. After a wild, seemingly fruitless exchange, a
second figure wrestled him back from the smoking ruin before
he fell to his kneels on the wet asphalt like a broken toy,
hands to his head, facing the smoke and ashes.
It looked very much like the guy who'd asked for an envelope
at the counter yesterday. In a slow motion nightmare of
comprehension, it hit Glenn for the first time that the fire-
ravaged room before him was none other than 123.
************
End of Chapter 13
Continued in Chapter 14
************
Chapter 14
************
Super 8 Motel, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
10:45 PM
Spliced frames. Outtakes from a past perforated by intrigue,
near misses, and disillusionment. Blinding light and trial by
fire. Always featuring his desperate scrabble onto the scene
a hairsbreadth too late, to gape at the void she'd left
behind.
These were the tapes Mulder sought to erase from his memory.
Yet tonight it was Skyland Mountain, Ruskin Dam, and El Rico
all rolled into one, catching him unprepared.
He fell to his knees, knocked breathless by a gunshot of
ungovernable grief and despair.
Then, nonsensically, something shifted deep within his psyche.
A new stirring urged him to take stock and regain control of
his body, to inhale and wait. There was always the outside
chance that Scully had cheated death again, wasn't there?
They'd both set a precedent for survival that defied all odds.
His mind rambled and grasped, lurching from hope to hope.
Maybe she stepped out for ice cream or fresh air. Or coffee.
No, at night she'd want tea. Some frou-frou blend with no
caffeine and a fruity taste he despised. Unless she'd really
planned on kicking back, in which case a few bottles of Shiner
Bock or some other lager would hit the spot nicely for both of
them as the evening unwound.
He'd envisioned a preface of soft conversation in front of the
flickering TV, followed by more serious play when they took to
the bed. His hands and mouth roaming the familiar curves of
her skin. Scully matching his feints and shoves, her face
flushed, limbs splayed. Beneath him, the sweet lips of her
sex parted and expectant, musk perfuming the air...
His dream shattered like safety glass when the body bag came
wheeling from the ruins. He stumbled forward into the cold,
waving his FBI badge like a drunken man.
Wrenched by stampeding emotions, he demanded access. If it
were Scully, he of all people would know in an instant.
"Sir, believe me, you'd rather not see this," advised one of
the men quietly. His credential indicated he was a fire
marshal for the city. He ran interference between the gurney
with its tragic freight and a distraught Mulder.
"This may be someone I know. I need to prove to myself it's
not her, so step out of the way!"
The marshal shook his head. "Sir, I want you to understand
that forensics should have a crack at this first. Proper ID
is impossible under the circumstances. The remains are too--
"
Unheeding, Mulder made a grab for the zipper, caught it, and
yanked downward. The next second he'd crumpled to one knee,
fighting the grimace that precluded tears and the nausea that
prairie-dogged into the back of his throat.
It was far worse than he'd imagined. Like the victims at
Ruskin Dam and El Rico, this body was charcoal to the bone.
Seared into a short, slender-limbed twist of blackened cruller
emitting the smoky-sweet stench of death and finality.
He retched into empty air, tried to stagger back to his feet.
Hostetler caught him under one arm and led him away from the
sirens, smoke, and churning crowd.
************
Toskala home base
March 15, 2001
10:55 PM
Scully's mind meandered, unable to settle into anything
approximating actual sleep.
After a time she eased from the high cushion and stood
gingerly, testing her range of motion and the sensitivity of
the stitched wound on her lower back. Mobility wasn't yet an
issue because of the numbing medicine's effect, but her
tolerance could turn problematic later, when quick moves and
agility counted.
Pain, in its various forms, had a penchant for altering even
the best-laid plans.
Not to mention, her Dollar Store clothes were beyond
salvaging. Ripped and stiffened with blood, embarrassingly
cheap, she admitted they'd served their purpose. But until
someone brought in another change of clothing from her car,
she was stuck with tugging the stained waistband higher over
her bandage and underwear.
She stood contemplating her bare toes when a knock at the door
signaled Tusk's return. He gave no sign of surprise that she
was off the bed and pulled up short in front of her.
Once again her head arced backward, neck straining, in order
to meet his eyes. His stance and gravity set off immediate
alarm bells.
"Tell me straight -- who knew you were in town?" he demanded,
his voice a low rumble. "Who around here knows your name and
why you're here?"
"Why, what's happened?"
"Answer the question first."
"Then let me think for a moment." Her brow furrowed as, just
as resolutely, she returned his stare. "Besides my partner,
only the Dean of Students and Willow, that psychic woman the
university supplied for the case. Cricket and your group, of
course."
Prickles of apprehension shot up her back when, unsatisfied,
his expression never wavered.
"A handful of students who observed us in Wilson Hall the
other day," she continued. "Out of necessity, the motel
manager where I'm staying; I used my credit card there."
"Anywhere else?"
"No, for everything else I've paid cash. Why? What's going
on here?"
"Sit down, Dana."
His big hand encircled her forearm, but she pulled free,
resenting the physical contact. "No. Talk to me."
"I just got a call from Mason," he said quietly, "who happens
to be over at the Super 8 with half the town, checking out the
action."
"What action?"
"It appears that somebody went to a lot of trouble tonight
singling out your motel room for immolation and the ashes are
still smoking as we speak."
She digested the news, eyes widening in horror. "My God,
Mulder was --!"
"He wasn't inside it," Tusk countered brusquely. "Mason says
he must've shown up late, because he's out there right now
with the rest of the crowd, awed by the spectacle of your
demise. In fact, firefighters just pulled a body out from
what's left of your room, cooked beyond recognition."
She gasped, heart thumping in panic. "What? Who was it?"
"Unknown. But get this," he said with irony in his voice.
"Right now everybody out there thinks you're history."
"What about Mulder?"
"I won't lie to you; Mason says he's not taking it very well."
"Then I need to call him right away!"
"I'm sorry, but it ain't gonna happen, Dana."
Her first impulse was to knock Tusk aside and beat her way
back into town. This man had no idea, no clue what she was
capable of doing if provoked or crossed. Injury forgotten,
she fought against the thought of Mulder viewing such a sight
-- with his worst fears confirmed when a boody taken for hers
appeared from the wreckage.
To spare him, it was time to shove the door of secrecy open a
little wider.
Her glance shot to the dresser where her service weapon rested
less than an arms length away. Glowering at Tusk, she reached
out and laid one threatening hand over the sig.
"I suggest," she said icily, "that if you want my cooperation
from here on out, you get me a cell phone -- I don't care the
hell whose -- and you'd better make it happen fast!"
************
Ragged little pieces were falling into place for Glenn, as
though the ash in the dark air drifted down to complete a
strange puzzle only he could decipher.
His scalp, though not as itchy as before, still irked him.
More excitement -- or tragedy, he couldn't tell which -- must
be on its way.
However, the peak of tonight's disaster was over. Men in
uniform still hustled in the aftermath, and tired guests had
been shepherded into the vacant, far end of the building's
ell. The rooms there, untouched and waiting, were deemed safe
for occupation.
Twitchy, Jaime worked the desk, checking out a stream of
washouts that were eager to bail and hit the road. While
dealing with police, fire officials, and cranky guests, Glenn
also made mandatory phone calls to the motel chain's
headquarters and to their insurance company rep. Winging
obligations as they came his way, he was called hither and yon
to answer questions, solve problems, and assess damages.
And though he was no Sherlock, he took the opportunity to
gather clues, which all seemed part and parcel of the same
strange puzzle.
Funny how things worked out: his desire to insulate Dana
Scully by keeping the rooms surrounding room 123 vacant also
ensured that no one else got burned up or lost personal
property. Plus, Glenn knew cars. He surveyed the vehicles
parked along the front of the L-shaped building. He matched
make, model, and license plates to their owners.
After eyeballing the wreck parked outside room 123 and making
three separate passes, her car still came up missing.
Were police clueless that this blackened hulk wasn't her
rental? Didn't Dana's FBI lover realize that?
To be honest, the guy didn't appear hip toward much of
anything right now. Ignoring his sandy-haired buddy in the
suit who was urging him to get away from the noise and the
mess, he sat on a bench with knees wide, face in his hands.
Knocked on his ass by grief, probably. Every once in a while
his shoulders hunched and trembled.
Shit, Glenn hated to see a grown man cry. And dogged if he
wasn't going to have another one on his hands before long,
what with Jaime becoming more agitated all the time, looking
over his shoulder with bug eyes for a quiet little figure that
wouldn't appear.
"Hey, maybe she freaked out and split, man," he suggested to
Glenn when they crossed paths. "What with all these cucaracha
cops crawlin' around, you know?"
Glenn knew better. In fact, Glenn knew a lot of things no one
else did or had yet to piece together.
First and foremost, he'd guessed the burned-out hulk in front
of Dana's room was a plant.
Second, if someone had tried to off her here, tonight, then it
made sense she was safe somewhere else. He hoped...
He also remembered a list of housekeeping chores from earlier
in the evening, the last checkmark resting beside number 123's
request for more towels.
Vaya con Dios, Yolanda.
Now, like an itch that needed scratching, he felt urgency to
share his suspicions with the FBI guy slumped on the bench.
The one who probably spent all last night in Dana's bed, doing
things with her and to her that Glenn could only imagine in
his wildest dreams. Yeah, some guys have good looks and all
the luck...
But Glenn was no fool, and his itchy head was proof that
speculation could be dangerous if overheard by the wrong
people.
His mind in a muddle of indecision, he wandered closer to
Dana's friend. Mulder, the name on the envelope had read,
matching the name on his badge. But rather than approach the
man directly, Glenn stood back, waiting and watching, because
someone else had made the first bold move.
It was no one he recognized, this young bearded guy with green
and red tattoos showing through the open neck of his coat.
Glenn watched him crouch before the stricken agent in what
appeared to be a gesture of comfort, whispering to him. Then,
slick as snot, he slipped him a cell phone and stood up,
shielding him from view.
In another moment Mr. Beard had engaged Mulder's sandy-haired,
suited companion in small talk about the fire.
************
Route 33, outside Hocking, Ohio
10:57 PM
"Mississippi in the middle of a dry spell. Jimmy Rogers on
the Victrola up high. Mama's dancin' with a ba-by on her
shoul-derrr... The sun is settin' like molasses in the skyyy.
The boy could sing, knew how to move, everything..."
Valerie Pinkerton sniffed, one hand clutching the steering
wheel. She felt sorry for herself. Those streaks of orange
and pink immortalized by the song had faded hours ago when
she'd finally concluded, parked up the street from her boss's
house, that the Dean was a no-show.
For the very first time she'd been stood up.
Gunning the car homeward, her headlights punched white holes
into the blackness ahead, the only illumination along this
lonely strip of country highway. Her favorite song wailed on
in the tape player, words pretty, persuasive, and so full of
haunting pathos that tears filled her eyes again.
"Black vel-vet and that little boy smiiile. Black vel-vet
with that slow southern styyyle. A new religion that'll bring
ya to your kneees... "
He was smooth, all right, just like the words in the song.
Valerie was only human, and so what if Dave was her boss? His
hands were slow, his mouth deep and warm, with a way about him
that simply knocked her behind the knees whenever he smiled at
her from his office door. No way on earth could she deny
those pleading eyes, his little flirty kisses that wandered
all the way up her arm and across her shoulder while she drank
in the earthy scent of his aftershave...
"Black vel-vet, if you pleeease..."
She groaned in frustration. What red-blooded girl could
possibly stand up to that sort of pressure? Plus, he had a
house to die for, complete with wet bar and a shower with wall
jets.
To celebrate the first weekend of spring break they'd planned
another nighttime rendezvous at his place. Seven-thirty.
Valerie knew to be discreet and wait outside until Dave came
home and put on the back porch light for her, their pre-
arranged signal.
"Up in Mem-phis the music's like a heat-waaave. White
lightening, bound to drive you wiiild --"
He'd been edgy lately, consumed by his job, this Amanda
Carmichael investigation, a wacky psychic lady, and that FBI
agent he'd called into town. No, there were two agents,
because he said the man had a partner, a woman. After just a
few days with them Dave had begun keeping things from her,
shutting her out of the loop. Or was it right after his
meeting with the big shots up at the Knoll the other morning?
She couldn't quite remember the proper order of things, but
that didn't really matter.
Now her body ached at the unexpected change of plan. She'd
sat wilting like a cast-off flower a short while ago in the
front seat of her car, her rear end turning numb and her feet
freezing as the hours passed and Dave never showed. What
could be so all-fired important that he'd blow off a steamy
night of romance without the courtesy of a phone call,
especially since she was forbidden to make contact with him
outside the office?
"The way he moved, it was a sin, so sweet and true... Always
wanting mooore... he'd leave you longing fooor.... Black Vel-
vet --!"
BAM!
Valerie's head thrust forward from the impact, her nose
slamming flat against the hub of the steering wheel. In a
haze of terror and pain she clutched the rim, trying to keep
the car under control, blinded by headlights that blazed into
her rearview mirror from outside the back window.
But there'd been no one there! She'd been alone on the road,
hadn't even seen --
BAM!
Her face and lips dripping, Valerie screamed as the car sailed
off the stretch of curvy road. It leapt the guardrail with a
mind of its own, thumping and barreling down toward deep
blackness... toward a stand of trees that rushed up like thick
white columns to cut her off --
************
Toskala home base
11:08 PM
There had been a short, fierce impasse near the bed, a tug-of-
war of wits and desperation. Tusk's voice and demeanor
softened considerably, Scully noted, when he realized it was
foolhardy to call her bluff or stand in her way.
She slipped her hand from the weapon as a gesture of respect
and waited while, capitulating, he dug out his cell and put in
a call to Mason. "Go ahead," he ordered, holding it out
toward her. "This time you might be right."
Nodding her thanks, she clamped the phone to her ear, hearing
only the chillingly familiar background sound of disaster
scene activity.
"Hello?"
The stolen opportunity was more than she'd hoped for and worse
than she'd feared. No reply came, nothing to indicate someone
waited on the end of the line other than heavy, staccato
respiration. Either Mulder suspected trickery or he was
emotionally derailed, too stunned by events to respond.
Into the phone Scully spoke the three words she knew would
shake her partner from his stupor and breathe life back into
him.
"Mulder," she said clearly, "it's me."
The long silence was broken by a half-sob, dissolving into a
ragged, muffled chuckle.
"*Scully*?"
"Yes, Mulder, it's really me. I'm okay, please believe that."
She heard a shaky, lung-filling breath and the surrounding
noise flattened, went cottony in her ear. Her heart wrenched,
as she knew he must be on the move, seeking privacy from the
crowd while trying to absorb this bombshell out of the blue.
"Scully, what the hell --"
"I'm nearby. I'm somewhere safe, but don't let on to *anyone*
else that you know that. It's crucial, I can't emphasize it
enough."
"I thought you --" he mumbled.
"I know. I'm sorry for that, Mulder. I have no idea who that
woman was or why she was in my room. But for the time being
everyone must continue to believe that she is me."
At another time and place he might have paid snappy homage to
an ancient case bearing the same catchphrase. But she heard
only sniffing and then another long silence as he thawed to
the blessed reality of her survival.
She could picture him as reaction set in, forehead ruffled in
anguish, eyes crinkled. Upper teeth clamped to his pouting
lower lip, a glimmer of the sorrowing little boy that lurked
within the man. Mulder, his eyes fixed on what was left of
her blistered room, blinking back tears of raw relief.
"Hey, Scully... "
"Yeah?"
"Remember that time I said you always managed to keep me
guessing?"
She knew the case: a doctor's family, cruelly victimized by a
rural shaman named Peatie. "Yes?"
"Well, from now on, do me a favor and don't let it pack such a
wallop."
"Understood," she whispered, dabbing the corner of her own eye
furtively. "Unfortunately, this went way beyond anyone's
control."
He huffed into her ear. "Would using the word 'overkill' in
this situation be considered poor taste... under the
circumstances?"
"Not at all."
"So what happens now? Where are you?"
Uncertainty beat within her, deepened by the increasing level
of danger that overshadowed their movements. Mulder was the
one person she could bank on without question, a man who'd
fashioned distrust, single-mindedness, non-compliance, and
unorthodoxy into sciences. Yet she feared the unknown
repercussions from sharing too much with him too quickly.
"I can't tell you, Mulder. Not yet, anyway. I'm afraid that
would be imprudent."
"What's imprudent about me wanting to put my arms around you?"
She closed her eyes at the pain in his voice. "Don't make
this any harder than it is."
"Hey... I love you, remember? And tonight... Scully, I swear
it was down to the wire. I thought I'd fucking lost you
again."
A large tear ran to the end of her nose, hung there trembling
before she blotted it unashamedly onto her sleeve. The urge
to dash to her car, to drive away and rejoin Mulder felt
overpowering, but one glance at Tusk's bowed head wiped all
such folly from her mind.
"And I love you," she whispered, averting her face. "But
let's not forget to keep our heads about what's just happened.
Someone wanted me dead tonight, so to perpetuate the charade
you must appear to believe it too. You're probably under
surveillance as we speak."
"And here we thought this was just another missing persons
case with your typical psychic overtones..."
"It still is," she said with emphasis. "Put in a secure call
to Skinner as soon as you're able to. Explain that I'm deeply
undercover and it's critical the public believes I died in
that fire -- should an investigation try to prove otherwise,
which I doubt will happen."
There was a pause, broken by several sniffs and a groan.
Murmured talk with another party she didn't recognize.
"Mulder, what's going on?"
"I'm just endeavoring to stay in character here for my
audience. Hostetler's not more than six feet away."
"Great." She rubbed her forehead in exasperation. "Well, be
convincing enough that Willow Nightingale herself believes I'm
deceased. On second thought, you should stay the hell away
from her. Because until we know her true motives, we can't
afford her one iota of trust, Mulder."
"Do I get an Oscar nod when this is over?"
"We've both been there, done this drill before," she reminded
him, referring to his staged suicide years ago when she
battled her cancer. How she perpetuated that lie to Blevins
and Skinner in order to expose a covert government conspiracy.
"I hear you -- but can't totally justify the avoidance tack.
She'd know something was up."
"Make sure she doesn't touch you at any time then, Mulder; you
have no idea what kind of vibe she can pick up in close
proximity."
He made a muffled noise. "This night is full of surprises."
"You're supposed to be grieving," she warned softly. "The
person whose cell phone you're using... is he still there?"
"The Illustrated Man wannabe? Yeah..."
"It's too risky for us to talk using our own cells, so he's
our liaison for now. His name is Mason. Be nice to him, he's
someone we can trust."
"And you're where?"
"In a safe place, like I said before."
"Scully, at the risk of beating a dead horse, I need to know
how soon I can see you."
Hesitating, she hoped her show of strength hadn't insulted
Tusk's pride or damaged the uneasy rapport she'd gained with
him. He stood within earshot watching her, his arms crossed,
biceps taut.
She resented his presence amid this unforeseen fishtailing of
events, yet some small part within her welcomed the scrutiny.
A reality check, it provided the discipline to keep talk with
Mulder short, contained, and to the point considering the
dangers they all faced.
Her chin lifted, vision swimming from unshed tears, though her
voice held a new, hard edge of resolve.
"Mulder... please remember everything I've told you. Lives,
including ours, may depend on it. Be careful. I promise you
I'll stay in touch, so hand the phone back over to Mason now."
"That's it?"
"Well, you might consider how much better you'll sleep tonight
knowing I'm alive and well. That should count for something."
"Not even close," he breathed into her ear, a catch in his
voice. "It counts for everything."
************
End of Chapter 14
Continued in Chapter 15
************
Chapter 15
************
Toskala home base, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
11:15 PM
The call ended too quickly.
A single press of a button and Mulder's voice shrank to a mere
echo in Scully's mind. Had enough of the true situation been
conveyed to him? Or had she exposed too much in those
tremulous, tense moments of reunion?
She handed the phone back to Tusk and leaned her good hip
against the edge of the dresser for support. Reaction,
stirred by extreme events and a frustrating sense of loss,
began rising within her. A hunger for comfort and affirmation
brought fresh tears to her eyes as she felt her armor buckle.
Dana Scully, however, didn't make a habit of breaking down in
just anyone's arms.
Her mother's, before personal life became so entangled in a
web of FBI-related intrigue that she felt justified
maintaining familial distance. Abduction began a point-of-no-
return spiral, followed by Melissa's death, infertility,
Emily, and the litany of secrecy surrounding Scully's own
cancer.
Mulder's? In the past year, unequivocally, since they'd
bonded as lovers, and the horror of their last case in Aubrey
still hobbled her responses and invaded her dreams. But he
was physically removed by events in this case and simple
communication between them was restricted at best.
At that moment, peripherally, she caught Tusk drifting closer
as though he divined her inner thirst for consolation.
A part of her wanted to crumble, to pull down self-restraint
and lay her head against the warm table of his chest like she
allowed herself to do with Mulder, feeling strong arms
surround her. To absorb the strength, the security such
contact afforded, even from someone she'd met a scant few days
before.
Another part, more resistant, demanded that she keep herself
detached and balanced throughout this crisis. Why else had
she told Mulder, of all people in the world, that she needed
time and space in which to heal? To face opposition on her
own terms?
When warm fingers slid across her shoulder to the skin of her
neck, Scully found herself unwilling to accept his touch or
acknowledge the altruism behind it.
"Enough of that," she said too brusquely, pulling away.
His hand hovered beside her in what seemed like shocked
indecision before falling back to his side.
Her eyelashes wet, she felt shame for rejecting this offer of
comfort. For insulting a gesture that prior to this moment
had been commonplace, open-hearted, and even tolerable. "What
I'd really like is for somebody to bring in that change of
clothing from my car. As well as a clean washcloth and towel,
if any are available."
"Be careful you don't shower on those stitches."
She threw him a scathing look of rebuke. "Who's the doctor
here?"
"That was meant as a helpful reminder; you seem a little
upset."
"Becoming a dead woman so suddenly, and then detained with
what feels like house arrest, I think I have a perfect reason
to be upset."
Words felt scalpel-sharp on her tongue, but she was beyond
caring who got nicked until she'd attained some level of
privacy or retreat.
Tusk regarded her with silence, as though seeing her for the
first time. Then he barked an order out the door into the
other room, where Cricket's sea urchin head poked out from
behind a chair back. She'd either holed up to read, or more
likely, was getting an earful of their conversation.
Without a word she hustled into the frosty darkness outside, a
testimony to Tusk's singular brand of hands-on authority and
leadership.
"I'll get rid of that cushion for you while you're in the
bathroom," he offered. "Then climb in and try to get more
rest."
Scully had noted evidence of male habitation as she tried to
nap, but didn't really process it until now. Tusk's infusion
in the small room was undeniable. From the artsy photographs
matted and framed on the walls with depictions of unusual
tattoos and body modification, to decorative bottles and
candles studding the furniture. An oriental throw rug and
bookshelves stuffed to repletion with periodicals, over-sized
volumes on art, medical textbooks, and files. Over everything
a pall of virility hung, airborne pheromones, which only
heightened her sense of estrangement from Mulder.
"And you'll be where tonight?"
"Right out there on the couch. Unless somebody gives me a
better offer."
"You don't realistically think that has *any* chance of
happening," she countered, raising a brow in disdain.
He leaned toward her quickly, so closely, that the heat of his
anger stirred the hair over her forehead and she sucked in a
gasp. Boxing her in, his fingers gripped the edge of the
dresser near her hip.
"With an attitude like yours, no fucking way," he said in a
fierce whisper, "so why don't you lighten up. I checked out
the relational boundaries beforehand and know what my limits
are; you'll be happy to know I won't seriously be trying to
get into your pants any time soon. But expect the tease and
innuendo, because I'd be more than willing to take you on that
bed in the blink of an eye if you sent the right signals my
way."
Having nowhere to move, Scully pinched her lips and closed her
eyes to the onslaught. Knew his head had angled downward by
the hot breath that now engulfed her ear.
"You know what I think? I think that deep down inside you
hide a sultry little imp, and you're terrified that with the
right stimulus she'll start spinning cartwheels down the
aisle, her little legs spread, before you can stop her --
which I'm guessing has already happened at one time or
another."
Scully breathed heavily, chagrin rendering her mute.
"D'you know what else? I think that this 'Mulder' is probably
the only real, true friend you've ever been open with or let
yourself trust. You're relationship-challenged, because you
don't even let *him* all the way inside your head, do you?
Your body's a different story... and since he's become your
lover, you're stuck on how to differentiate between bedroom
intimacies with him and appropriate expressions of friendship
to everyone standing on the outside. Especially men--"
"That's psychoanalytic bullshit," she said, her face burning.
"And my interpersonal dynamics are none of your business."
"I disagree, because attitudes are infectious. Look at
everything we're up against, especially after tonight. I know
my people inside and out. I love and depend on each one of
them. We need honesty and teamwork here, not some
nonconformist mentality that undermines their confidence. Not
now, with so much at stake."
She jerked her chin away, inwardly chastened by these forays
into quasi-truthful territory. How many times in the last
seven years had Mulder taken her to task for hiding some
essential piece of the puzzle from him? For tucking away
these visions, those dreams, this omen or that shred of
insight, until he'd painstakingly extracted it from her? For
reconsidering, altering, justifying or clamming-up at the
wrong time and place, when her support would have been all the
ammunition he needed?
"You have no idea," she muttered in dismissal, "the different
worlds we operate from."
"Maybe. But I read somewhere that each friend we have
represents a world in us. A world that isn't born until they
arrive in our lives and it's only by receiving them that a new
world can be born. The way I see it, if you keep aborting so
many opportunities along the way, you're only shortchanging
yourself and the people who were destined to enrich your
life."
He pushed off from the dresser before Scully could reply, just
as Cricket jogged into the room. She brought with her the
stale scent of patchouli and her arms were laden with Scully's
boots, jacket and other useful treasures retrieved from the
rental car. Despite smudges of weariness and old mascara
beneath her eyes, the girl looked pert enough to be on her
second wind.
"Some more than others," he added cryptically on his way out
the door. "Think about it."
************
The Knoll complex
11:18 PM
Like a rat teased by electrodes, the cell phone jumped and
trembled in Anton Krieg's pocket. He put it to his ear as he
stared at the glow and acrid smoke filling the night sky at
the lower end of Richland Avenue. Golden ripples played over
the wavy glass of the windowpane.
"I see smoke," he muttered, "but that's no guarantee you've
succeeded."
"Paramedics brought out the body a short time ago," came the
response.
"But in what condition?"
"Unrecognizable. We saw it when her partner opened up the bag
for ID confirmation."
Krieg's jaw clenched, the only evidence of the deep
displeasure he felt. "And?"
"By his reaction, the job looks finished."
"What about the other?"
"Yes, we just received confirmation."
"Then both teams report back immediately."
With uncertainty clouding his satisfaction, he pivoted toward
the Big Man who stood to the right side of the window. "I've
done as you requested and eliminated the problem."
The young Elder frowned out at the distant ruin. "For a
number of reasons I question your judgment by taking this
particular course of action."
"It's a blow that effectively cripples Mulder's involvement,"
argued Krieg, "and eliminates his partner's altogether."
"Precisely. But it's unimaginative and shows lack of
foresight. Little appreciation for resources we may need to
resurrect and utilize at a later time. I had expected you to
share the details of your plan with me first."
"Time was running short."
The Big Man's gaze never wavered as he drew it from the window
and onto Krieg. "And haste invites error; I'm concerned that
two bans on the same evening might draw unwanted attention to
us. After previous projects have unaccountably failed, I
shouldn't have to remind you that exposure can be our greatest
and most devastating vulnerability, Mr. Krieg."
"The situation is fully under control."
Strikingly so, compared to what had occurred several years
before. The Consortium continued under new leadership.
Mulder's little partner wasn't entombed and awaiting
improbable rescue. Kurtzweil wasn't haunting the shadows like
a wraith, lighting fires under Mulder at every turn with his
crazy claims. This time a secret vaccine hadn't been
compromised by one of their top-level people, as the Brit had
done before taking his own life and thereby saving Krieg the
trouble of offing him.
The Big Man grunted, took one last glance out the window, and
left the room.
As soon as he stood alone, Anton Krieg punched in a second
number on his cell phone. Though he'd detected no major foul-
ups in the present plan, which proceeded according to
schedule, one thing still irked him.
When the pick-up came, his lip curled. "Please, explain
something to me," he murmured into the receiver, staring
impassively at the orange-gray plumes. "How is it that Fox
Mulder is presently over at the Super 8 motel, witnessing the
selfsame fire that just immolated his partner?"
************
Toskala home base
March 16, 2001
1:42 AM
Sleep eluded Cricket after Tusk had bounced her off the long
couch for the night. Since Dana had his bed, he'd claimed the
living room area for his own. Everyone else must have settled
down as well, with the house black, silent, and secure.
Recalling what happened earlier at the graveyard, she couldn't
shake an embarrassing sense of failure. In front of everyone
she'd come off looking like a twerp, puking in the weeds when
her finger had punched through that dead woman's eye socket
and the cheekbone caved in. Wouldn't anyone be seriously
grossed-out by that?
Maybe not Tusk. Or Dana-the-special-agent, who'd flown into
action at the crucial moment. She'd pulled Cricket under the
radar into safety and the shed, cool in the clutch despite a
torn hip. Were flash-decisions, quick reflexes, and nerves of
steel a result of FBI training? Or did it simply make someone
braver, stronger, and more capable with the skills they
already had?
Either way, Cricket craved a big piece of that action.
The handgun she viewed as a marvel. She remembered how Dana
had gripped the cold metal with instinctive ease the first
time she came into the shop. Heard from Tusk a little while
ago how, though still in the leather holster, it became
leverage for demands to speak with her partner.
A tiny woman packing heat, a badge, and the right don't-mess-
with-me 'tude was, to put it mildly, fucking awesome.
As for her partner, Mulder... dude might be cool if he wasn't
chained so closely to that psychic witch. Cricket pondered
their meeting at Cutler Hall and the respect the agent had
shown her throughout the interview. Maybe she should check in
with Valerie in the morning to hear what was happening back on
campus? If the past were any indication, her news would
invariably include Dean Hostetler's word-for-word bedroom
chatter and they might learn something new.
Sleep began drifting in, urging Cricket under. She'd barely
succumbed when a cell phone trill jerked her awake, up to the
surface and full clarity.
She heard Tusk's muted drone from the living room, then low
cursing. Noise reverberated through the wall, plastic against
coffee table wood. Bad vibes, jeez...
Tugging on a long tee shirt over her skinny shape, she slipped
from her bed into the dim hallway, so she could monitor her
brother's movements.
He stood in the middle of the shadowy living room with his
back to her, fully naked. No big deal, since that was the way
they all slept. Lynnie and the other string of losers in the
dorm had been aghast when Cricket scorned their precious
frilly PJ sets and insisted on stripping each night for sleep.
The human body in its natural state was perfectly acceptable
in the permissive, tactile world that she, her brothers, and
their circle of eclectic friends inhabited since their move
down to Hocking.
Swearing under his breath, Tusk bent over to pull on
sweatpants. He seemed larger than life and sculpted from
painted stone, like some mythological god, fierceness and
goodness intermixed. Different from Stefan, who was shorter,
less brawny, and nearly tat-less compared to their towering
elder brother. Worlds removed from Cricket's own slim torso
and toothpick legs.
"Hey, what's up?" she said softly. "Was that Mason?"
Bottom parts covered, he switched on the overhead light and
nodded. "We've got trouble and I need some answers. D'you
think Dana's asleep?"
Cricket shrugged and contemplated the closed bedroom door.
He prodded. "She say anything to you before?"
"Thanked me for hauling her stuff in, and asked if I was okay
with what came down earlier tonight. Why?"
"No reason, forget it."
Fresh activity erupted behind them, forestalling further
conversation as the rest of the gang appeared. They tugged on
loose boxers or sweatpants, squinting and stumbling into the
light, wondering what rift had developed in their universe.
Mole hustled to the forefront, assuming Mason's place in his
absence.
Not to be outdone, Cricket elbowed her way ahead of him.
"Everybody keep it down," Tusk ordered gruffly. "Mason says
we may have a problem, but it's something I'll handle myself.
The rest of you beat it back to bed. Get some sleep because
you're not missing much. I'll fill you in later."
Everyone blinked, no one moved.
"On the double," he added, glaring from face to face for
emphasis. "Hey... and don't think I won't kick every one of
your asses if you don't move fast enough!"
Unconvinced, they straggled back down the hall, melting into
shadow. Doors clicked shut. All but Cricket, who stood her
ground, eye level to her brother's broad, tattooed chest.
"So why are you still here?"
"I'm coming in with you, so you don't screw things up with
her."
He scoffed and looked away. "What as, a chaperone?"
"I'm coming with you," she repeated stubbornly, curious about
Mason's message and what lay behind Tusk's bad humor. "Let's
get it over with, so we can all go back to bed."
Relenting as always, his big hand descended to tousle the
softer un-moussed hair at the back of her neck. A united
front, they entered the dark sanctuary where the FBI agent
slept.
Tusk crouched close to the bedside. His shaved head and bare
shoulders gleamed under the strip of brighter light from the
doorway and he reached out a hand to wake her. "Hey, Sleeping
Beauty... we need to talk."
Blinking into the light through a lock of feathered hair, the
woman jerked herself up onto one elbow, holding the unbuttoned
top half of her shirt together with the other hand. Her
breath came in surprised little huffs and she looked fragile
as a porcelain doll, with Tusk's extra blanket tucked around
her.
"What's happened?"
Cricket flicked on a smaller lamp by the bed. It didn't
surprise her to see Dana lying on top of the bedspread, rather
than between his sheets.
"You haven't come clean with me, that's what happened," Tusk
grumbled to her.
"In what way?"
"Mason called me, a few minutes ago. And guess where he is?
He's over at the Super 8, drinking shitty coffee and swapping
stories with your buddy Glenn. Remember him?"
"Of course, I mentioned him earlier."
"Well, this Glenn thinks you might have taken a certain
suggestion of his seriously this morning. Like driving up to
the Knoll all by your lonesome. Any chance you pulled a fast
one and said nothing about it?"
At this news Cricket's stomach tightened with trepidation.
When it came to the mission, only a fool would dare undermine
Tusk's game plan. Dana tried improving her angle by shifting
her good side up against the pillows, and winced. "It was a
valuable lead and I took it, that simple."
"I want to know why you went up there in broad daylight," he
pushed. "Maybe even pissing away our element of surprise,
considering what happened tonight."
"Obviously that wasn't my purpose. I would hope you'd trust my
judgment."
"Lady, your judgment appears to suck."
"So deal with it," she snapped suddenly, "because it comes
with the territory."
At an impasse, they stared at one another as Cricket's heart
pounded.
"Do you realize how risky your plan is?" Dana leaned toward
him, dead earnestness marking her face. "You claim to have
knowledge of alien spaceships and government conspiracies.
But do you have any idea in heaven the resistance you may
encounter when you breach that fortress?"
Her eyes flickered up to Cricket as she spoke with an utter
seriousness that made the girl's skin crawl.
"True, you saw a small prelude in the cemetery tonight.
You've seen lights in the sky and found physical evidence of
their visitation, while harboring escapees with terrible
damage done to their bodies. They gave you first-hand
accounts of their experiences. But you haven't any inkling of
the scope, the immensity -- and what energy the people
responsible will put into defending their project. They go
far beyond professional."
"That's why we have you with us." Tusk's hands clenched and
relaxed, as though resisting the impulse to reach out and
touch as he stared at her. "That's why we go underground to
infiltrate, through the back door, where test subjects like
Stefan are held."
"Testing and experimentation are just a tip of the iceberg,"
she said. "The part you can't see is what you need to fear.
The evil is incomprehensible."
"What exactly did they do? To you, I mean."
The words left Cricket's mouth before she had a chance to
gauge their appropriateness. She tasted regret when Dana
shook her head and slumped farther down into the pillow.
"I take it that's privileged information," said Tusk.
"So far, my presence here has been connected to Mulder and his
investigation into the Carmichael disappearance. Because of
that, my 'death' can be used to strengthen our advantage."
After rubbing her eyelids wearily, she studied him for a few
moments. "Tell me what else Glenn and Mason had to say."
"Glenn waited 'til your partner Mulder and his friend the Dean
left. Then he snagged Mason and swore him to secrecy. Oh,
and this is the real kicker: He knows that you're still
alive."
"How?"
"He says he knows who really died in that room. The killers
saw the other woman behind the curtains, assumed it was you,
and set off their device or whatever it was they used to start
the fire."
"Well, he approached Mason and no one else," she mused, "so I
imagine Glenn has the sense to keep his mouth shut about it.
I'll make that perfectly clear to him in the morning."
"Yeah? And what about your partner?"
Dana looked him full in the face. "I anticipate there may
come a time when I'll call him in for backup, if we need it.
That's non-negotiable." She gave a sigh of exhaustion. "But
now, obviously, is not that time."
"No, it's not," he muttered, "and we'd all better get some
serious shut-eye, so plan on sleeping in. I'll tell Mason to
beat it back here. It's been a long night for him too..."
His voice waned and silence lengthened. His gaze had
flickered downward, predictably, to the open neck of the shirt
Dana clutched over her breasts. As usual, going for the gold,
Cricket thought, until she followed his glance and saw what it
was that drew him.
Above her cleavage, narrow pink lines marred the agent's pale
chest skin. Dana made feeble attempts to shield herself from
further scrutiny, but the shirt's twisted fabric and her
awkward angle on the bed hampered the effort.
"Looks recent," Tusk muttered, "compared to that gunshot burst
on your back. Must've been some case."
Dana averted her face, her expression bleak.
"How's the hip feeling?"
She made a tiny movement under the blanket. "Tender. The
Lidocaine is starting to wear off."
Without another word he went to a dresser drawer and extracted
some pills, along with a brand-new unopened container of
bottled water. Leave it to Tusk, Cricket thought with pride,
to remember aftercare in any situation.
Setting both on the small table beside the bed, he returned to
his easy crouch. "A few Tylenol 3 should get you through the
night... but I guess you already know that. Call for me if
you have any problems. You know where I'll be."
"Thank you."
Yet Tusk hesitated to leave, his elbows locked sideways and
his arm and shoulder muscles knotted. What was the hold up,
Cricket wondered? She saw that his eyes, dark and troubled,
never left Dana's face as they regarded one another in
silence.
Finally she opened her free hand to him and whispered one
enigmatic word. "Truce?"
The significance wasn't lost on Cricket, who watched as her
brother's big fingers curved around Dana's palm in something
similar to a handshake, but not quite. "You got it," he
rumbled back.
Rising to his full height with the slow triumphant grace of a
lion, he motioned for Cricket to follow him out.
************
Outskirts of Hocking, Ohio
10:06 AM
Skid marks, flashing lights, and Hostetler's hastily parked
car told Mulder when and where to pull over on the remote
stretch of road. Closer to town an incoming ambulance had
passed him, its strident wail making his ears ring and his gut
ache with memories of the previous night.
He'd endured the weighty hours until dawn, coming to terms
with the fact that Scully was, out of necessity, somewhere in
hiding. Safe, he hoped. What he couldn't stomach was his
inability to contact her at will and the feeling that his
hands were tied yet again by unknowable circumstances. As
Scully told him months before in Aubrey, only the date ever
changes.
Now, a young woman careened toward the area hospital, her
involvement sketchy and her survival up for grabs.
Emergency workers clustered in the remote and devastated
ravine. Token attempts to reconstruct what had happened,
Mulder guessed. Nothing more than show, considering local
police and security were bought out by the same people he
guessed to be directly responsible anyway.
Holding out his badge to avoid complication, he picked his way
thirty feet down a rock and weed-strewn slope to the place
where Dave Hostetler stood sheltered from the mid-morning
sunlight, hunched and empty-eyed.
Hands dug deep into his coat pockets, the Dean acknowledged
Mulder with a few shaky jerks of his head. "Thanks for coming
so quickly."
Mulder nodded and they ambled toward what remained of Valerie
Pinkerton's car.
Trees had crumpled the front half into a blunt-nosed
accordion, blood splashed with abandon on the shattered
windshield and cracked dashboard. As though poised for
another airborne takeoff, the doors arched out like wings to
either side, indicating no Jaws-of-Life extraction had been
necessary. Mulder saw the rear bumper was punched in two
places, leaving flakes of dark paint behind. Classic
maneuver.
"Will she make it?"
Hostetler blinked with emotion. "I really... I have no idea
yet. Christ... a truck driver just happened to spot her car
out of the corner of his eye. Otherwise no one would have
known she'd ever... "
Mulder eyeballed the crushed vehicle. Lacking latex, which
Scully invariably provided, he pulled a wad of tissues from
his pocket. "They examine the interior yet?"
"Uh... I don't know. I arrived after and didn't want to
interfere with official procedures or anything."
After a few moments of careful searching, Mulder pressed a
button, extracted a tape from the cassette player, and gave
the label quick perusal. Wrapped in the white Kleenex, it
disappeared into his pocket.
"Is that evidence?"
"Doubtful," said Mulder, "but it's one kick-ass tune."
"Afraid that country-sounding crap she listens to never
grabbed me."
"Never say never. I hope you'll be able to give it back to
her before too long. By the way, Hostetler, don't blame
yourself," and he swept a hand toward the mangled car, "for
any of this."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but this might never have
happened if not for me."
"Spill it."
"We... " Hostetler scoped the area before wandering out of
earshot toward another stand of trees. He lowered his voice
and faced Mulder. "We were supposed to meet together last
night. At my place."
Popping a seed into his mouth, Mulder chewed and squinted into
the distance. His brain began calculating new variables.
"Yeah, I know what you're going to say," said Hostetler
fretfully, "and it wasn't the first time, or the most
professional thing I've ever done, granted. If I'd only...
shit -- I should have been there like I'd promised."
"Beating yourself up won't solve anything or help her now.
Trust me."
"Christ, I can't even imagine what you must be going -- "
"Don't," said Mulder, putting up a hand. An awkward, tense
silence fell between them. He made all the facial expressions
and body language appropriate for a man compartmentalizing his
own grief and moving beyond it. "Focus on the here and now.
Who did this, and why they'd make your secretary a target."
Hostetler's forehead creased. "I never imagined it could come
to something like this."
"You've got to think, be specific -- unless shagging a member
of your staff after hours is considered a punishable offense
nowadays."
"No. The truth is, I shared things with Val, Agent Mulder. I
must've let slip too many details when I should've kept my big
mouth shut and it caught someone's notice."
"Whose?"
"How the hell should I know? The same people behind all the
threats and bribes since Amanda Carmichael's disappearance, I
suppose."
"You babbled about what? When?"
"Uh... " Hostetler looked away guiltily. "I'll be honest
with you. We drank a lot when we were together, so just
whatever swam into my head, most likely. My interest in the
paranormal. That included your work and background at the
FBI, as well as your partner's. My frustration with the way
the Carmichael disappearance was handled. Beefs with the
admin. I made it clear I was unhappy with the direction so
many things were taking. God, what an ass I am!"
"Who would she share this romantic pillow talk with?"
"I'm not altogether certain who her close friends are outside
the office. It wasn't relevant to... our involvement."
"Get those brain cells working. I want names."
"Val's always been friendly to people who come into the
office. Mostly they're faculty, or students and their
parents. I've seen several of the kids hang around to talk
with her on occasion." He brightened. "One especially, now
that I think about it. You know that girl with the foreign-
sounding name you interviewed your first morning here? The
spiky-headed one who calls herself Cricket --"
Mulder's head whipped around in disbelief. "You *knew* this
and didn't tell me? For God's sake, Hostetler! After
blabbing about everything else under the sun, you forget to
mention that?"
"I, uh, didn't think it was relevant."
"Relevancy aside, it may be one of the most important
connections we have right now. I want you to go back to your
office and do some digging. Find out where this girl lives
off-campus so I can talk with her."
"I'll go check her files for an address before I head for the
hospital. Where will you be in the meantime?"
"Tending to other business." Mulder backed away. "Don't
bother calling me, I'll call you."
"What if I find the information you want?"
"Then sit on it until you hear from me."
He began picking his way up the weedy hill toward his car,
anticipating what the next hour would yield. Scully's
dilemma, of course, had never left his thoughts for more than
a few moments.
"Hey, I may not grasp everything going on here, but I know
what I saw last night," Hostetler called out after him. "I
can piece a few things together on my own. For a man who just
lost his close friend and partner in a fire, you show more
self-control than seems humanly possible. That tells me
something."
Panic stopped Mulder in his tracks. Relief that they stood so
far separated from the workers at the scene of the accident
washed over him. With a face like granite he turned on a
dime, stalked back, and grabbed the startled Dean by one
shoulder.
"It'd damn well better tell you to keep your trap shut for
once," he enunciated under his breath. "If you put any value
at all on your life, you'll forget you ever made that
observation out loud."
************
End of Chapter 15
Continued in Chapter 16
************
Chapter 16
************
Hocking County, Ohio
March 16, 2001
10:25 AM
Mulder fully expected to find the name "Willow Wind
Nightingale" staring up at him from the page in the Hocking
County phone book. The listing, however, was nowhere near the
one she'd given out to the cabbie on the previous night.
This time Hostetler had been right on the money.
From the accident scene, Mulder headed for the car rental
company to exchange the silver Sentra-that-roared for a
purring Taurus. Its mud-brown color and scuffed finish would
camouflage well while he made several stops and tested out a
theory.
The first didn't warrant any stop at all. He simply drove by
Willow's faux address -- a parking garage -- at a speed slow
enough to study the exterior and postulate his next move.
Twenty minutes later he reached the aptly named town of
Chancey, an afterthought on the Ohio map.
Only a metal sign, pockmarked by target practice, and a single
paved loop of road identified its location. Under an overcast
sky he saw no town center, no other downtown or neighborhoods.
An unincorporated rural burgh, Chancey seemed perfectly
content to lie fallow while the rest of the county blossomed
up around it.
After realizing he'd blown right through it, he backtracked,
determined not to blink and miss again. Besides the arc of
pavement near the sign, several smaller roads sprouted from
both sides of the highway. Some bore a number instead of a
name, while others had no signpost at all. Unpaved and
nondescript, they wormed back through weeds and trees, crimped
by twists and turns in the hilly wooded terrain.
Mulder pulled up in front of the first and only building he
saw and got out before the short loop of asphalt could dump
him back onto the highway again. On closer inspection, the
residence revealed signage: 'General Store & USPO.' Now he
noticed the empty flagpole out front. Saw gas pumps squatting
in the side yard next to depleted stacks of cordwood and a
smattering of rusty equipment.
A man stepped from the front door, dressed in neat flannel
shirt and Levi's. He scratched his whiskers and prominent
belly.
"Anything I can do to help, stranger?"
"I'm looking for someone," said Mulder, "but I don't know the
correct street address."
"Around here we all go by name, face, and P.O. box numbers."
He pointed up toward the naked pole to make his point.
"You're the postmaster?"
"That I am. Plus I tend to the general store and the service
station both. Store's open all day and I got plenty of gas."
"I'll bet. How do I find where any one lives around here?"
"Well... that all depends on who you're after."
"Do you know a woman named Willow Wind Nightingale?"
The man laughed. "What do you need? Some fortune-telling
done, or your aura read -- or knowing which pretty lady has a
liking for you? Far as that goes, the woman's got a rare
streak o' talent, I hear."
"None of the above. Would you mind telling me where I could
find Willow's house?"
Fondling his whiskers, the other grew thoughtful. "You know,
folks that visit her make appointments by phone instead of
showing up unannounced. She gives them directions and claims
she has more time to prepare the spirits if folks aren't
arriving unexpected." He chuckled again. "But I'll wager she
uses all that extra time on yard work and gardening."
Mulder flipped out his badge, deadpan. He waited as the man
took a close look and digested the information.
"Well, in that case... I can tell you she lives on the old
Coal Dock road that heads out towards Kirby's farm, right over
there. County calls it Rural Route 4, but a snowplow whacked
the sign down about three years ago and the government's
dragging its hind parts about replacing it."
"What else?"
"Be sure to honk when you drive up. Let her know you're
coming since she can't see over the fence if she's out pruning
and puttering somewhere in the yard."
Already moving toward his car, Mulder came to a slow stop.
"How tall would you guess Willow Nightingale is?"
"Truth? She's nothing like her name, that's for certain," the
man said. "More like one of those watermelons she grows every
summer for the farmer's market -- small, round, and full o'
juice. But a nice little woman, for all her strange ways.
Heard her car blow past late last night after being five days
gone. I figure she'll be in for milk and perishables some
time soon."
************
Mulder took the covert approach and camouflaged his car among
the brambles some distance from the road. Then he slunk
toward the cottage where a woman named Willow Wind Nightingale
purportedly lived, gardened, and communed with the spirits.
A dark blue sedan sat near the gate. Bent forward, hand to
his holster, he slipped inside the four-foot fence and hugged
the house's exterior with his back. It took only minutes to
circumnavigate it, peering through each plastic-sheeted window
in order to ascertain the level of risk.
Noise from a back bedroom drew him to that particular sill.
Unmistakable, the tall cloaked form inside. The swath of
silver-gray hair, recognizable even in shadow and through
winterizing plastic. She rifled inside dresser drawers,
sounding more like burglar than homeowner, with movements
careless and hurried.
Creeping through the unlocked back door, he entered and
tiptoed through the kitchen to a hallway. At the open door of
the bedroom he spoke up.
"Surprised?"
Willow's head jerked toward him in shock, as expected. He saw
alarm flicker through her widened eyes. But she doused that
flame and recovered her composure with an adeptness that was
far too professional for a rural Ohio psychic.
"That could be one way to express it," she said evenly,
maintaining the pretense. "I suppose I should be flattered,
not flummoxed by your arrival."
"I just followed your lead."
"How so?"
"By showing up here unannounced."
She hesitated, appeared to be in no hurry to snap at his bait.
"More's the pity. Had I known you were coming, Agent Mulder,
I would have tidied the place up and had the teapot warmed and
ready."
The only things he noticed in actual disarray were the dresser
drawers. Yanked ajar, some were upended on the quilted
bedspread and over the hardwood floor, contents strewn. A
pair of white granny underwear caught his eye, of parachute
proportions, roomy enough to accommodate two of the woman
standing frozen before him.
The kitchen, he remembered, had smelled musty from disuse, the
house on the chill side of warm. Willow herself seemed
preoccupied, almost on tenterhooks.
Mulder caught her swift glance toward the window.
"Expecting company? According to one of your neighbors, you
just returned from a week-long trip," he countered with a
surly grin.
"Since I keep strange hours, that observation is only
partially correct. And not at all reliable."
"My observations are usually right on the money."
"Yours? Please, I beg to differ."
Mulder moved deeper into the shadowed room, to a safe spot
between door and window. There the spare outside light
illuminated Willow's face and some of the bed behind her.
"You can cut the crap at any time," he informed her. "Just
tell me where you hid the body."
"How helter-skelter we are." She kept a watchful eye, he
noticed, on what his hands did, before flickering to the
window and back again. "Rushing right to business, to expose
the real nuts and bolts behind the illusion without a thought
to consequences? Are you certain this is what you want?"
Her coy mockery threw up little roadblocks of doubt that
slowed his pace, made him think he should have done more pre-
work before confronting her. All he had to go on was gut
feeling and a few pieces of the bigger puzzle. But they felt
like significant pieces, nonetheless.
Watching him, Willow gave an aggrieved sigh.
"Tell me we're not dispensing with all the playful banter
we've enjoyed thus far? No more deep discussions about the
paranormal? No more unburdening of your soul over past pain
and memories which continue to haunt you? Not even a shared
lamentation over Agent Scully's unfortunate end?"
"Shut up about it!"
Let her interpret his outburst and expression of grief as
genuine, he willed. Divert Willow from the truth by focusing
on mental pictures of a small charred body and the way he'd
fallen apart when he thought Scully was irretrievably lost to
him. Concentrate on anguish, on mental breakdown...
"Speaking of which," she murmured, "I could go a long way in
offering you comforts right now."
"All I want from you are answers."
"I had thought, since the events of last night, that you might
need consolation after such a devastating loss. You've
limited yourself in the realm of sensuality, you know. I'm
quite prepared to offer you services other than psychic..."
Her voice took on a sultry, smoky depth as shoulder movements
deepened her cleavage. He watched with blank loathing, knew
she was playing him.
"... In whatever way I could -- bar nothing -- to ease the
pain of losing your dear friend and lover. That proposal
doesn't tempt you?"
"It disgusts me," Mulder shot back, "just like you do." He
pulled his Sig from its holster, leveling the nose at her.
"Now where's the body?"
"Of whose are you speaking, since you seem to believe there
are two of them in question?"
"Will the real Willow Wind Nightingale please stand up?
Except, thanks to you that's impossible now, isn't it?"
She rolled her eyes. "And so persistent! You think you've
solved a great mystery. A few variables fall into place; you
manage to sleuth out my whereabouts, make conjectures. Then
here you are, swaggering into this house like a conquering
hero, making demands and accusations, waving your gun. In
another moment I suppose you'll be handcuffing me in a pompous
attempt to ensure cooperation."
A chill ran through him. The fact that Willow spoke his
thoughts aloud brought to mind Scully's warning about avoiding
close proximity. He realized that the extent of the woman's
clairvoyant powers, if any, was still on murky ground.
"What did you do to me last night at Wilson Hall? Drug me?
Hex me? Hit me with some kind of spell? Or are you even
capable of working magic like that?"
"Surely you aren't suggesting a demonstration of proof right
here and now?"
His gaze swept the small room, searching for anything that
might be construed as a weapon that could lend her strength or
give her an edge. In the corner, a two-sided shelf, candles,
jars and paraphernalia. Unlit candles everywhere, in fact.
But cloaked in so much shadow, his quick glances told him
little.
Except that a Samsonite suitcase sat near the door, packed and
ready after an overnight stopover. And its owner on a
ransacking binge before bugging out...
"Back up," Mulder commanded. "Sit on the edge of the bed
where I can see you."
He grabbed a wooden chair from the wall behind him, swiveled
and straddled it, facing her with the door to his right.
Settled his elbow against the back of the chair, gun still
trained on his suspect.
Willow complied with a swirl of her skirt and billowing wild
hair. It was now that Scully's input, her powers of
observation would have been helpful to him. They'd always
made a good interrogative tag-team, one filling in the gaps
left by the other, covering all the bases from analytic to
far-fetched.
Then he squelched those thoughts, fearful that the true fact
of her survival might blip across Willow's psychic radar.
"You used me," he accused her, "by trying to get inside my
head whenever we talked. By asking questions about my past,
about my sister, as though you had a special insight into that
part of my life. Like you had some great revelation to impart
from the psychic world."
"Deny you didn't feel comforted. Your poor mind is still
tortured with doubts about certain events in California. The
existence of walk-ins, for example, and why so many little
children would appear to you that night. Isn't it more
palatable to believe that Samantha and the others -- even the
unfortunate Amanda Carmichael -- had been spirited away by
such benevolent beings to spare them a pain and horror no
child or young person should experience? So much simpler and
convenient?"
"I wanted it over with... but it's not."
She leaned forward, staring with a strange intensity. "Be
honest with yourself. Weren't they magnificent to behold on
that still, dark night? Such a throng! So innocent and
happy, alive and smiling... Glowing like little angels in
eternal starlight?"
His mouth felt dust-dry as a vision of that night in
Victorville filled his mind. Impossible now to recreate the
exact sequence of events that made him separate from Scully
and Piller. How could they not notice his departure? In
retrospect, he wasn't certain he'd actually felt Piller's lost
son take him by the hand, or remembered moving toward that
luminescent field near the old nurse's house.
Nor could he swear, when a young teen he took for Samantha
embraced him, that he'd held a solid, tangible form in his
arms. He'd reciprocated the hug without weighting all aspects
of the experience. Exhausted and entranced, he'd chosen the
path of least resistance, helpless and desperate to believe in
the magic that enveloped him.
Swept up in the emotional catharsis of the moment, he'd
hungered blindly for nothing more than the ease of release it
offered.
And now?
"If you know the truth, I want it," he said, "whatever the
cost."
"Yet it may enslave you. You could learn things you wish had
stayed buried or remained a happy illusion. A truth that will
never set you free."
His throat tight, Mulder grimaced as he swallowed.
"Try me," he said.
************
Toskala home base
10:52 AM
Awakening late, Scully sensed a shift in climate at the
farmhouse that seemed independent of the haze outside. A
Chinook-like attentiveness greeted her from the moment she
opened Tusk's bedroom door, clutching her small bag of
toiletries, and began moving with slow, stiff-legged steps
toward the bathroom.
It stood to reason: On the very cusp of the mission their
secret weapon had crapped out. Turned faulty, defective,
unreliable. She was a wild card with an identifiable bent
corner, and her chances of being shuffled hard and played to
win were iffy at best.
Mole, a perfect gentleman, slipped a steady hand under her
elbow. Fresh thick towels and washcloths, she saw, lay
stacked like pancakes on a shelf beside the sink, which
someone had taken pains to scour clean.
"Dana, you want eggs?" a voice called from the kitchen when
she emerged scrubbed and combed. Footer, fellow sufferer,
idled on the couch and acknowledged her slow gait with a shy
smile of empathy.
Cricket tailed Scully back into Tusk's bedroom with something
dark slung over one arm. She also held out a pair of socks
and the Dollar Store canvas shoes, devoid of graveyard grime.
"You better put these on," she prompted. She indicated a two-
piece running suit from which the price tags still dangled. A
fashionable fleece set, its waist was soft elastic with a
matching black pullover top and hood. "They'll be a lot more
comfortable over that bandage than those tight jeans you slept
in. I haven't had time to even wear 'em yet."
This, from the sullen girl who'd bristled when Tusk insisted
she relinquish a special pair of sneakers two nights before.
The winds of acceptance had indeed changed, and as a result
Scully felt a reluctant shift within herself as well.
"That's very generous of you," she said, genuine warmth in her
voice.
Cricket shrugged, but her dark eyes shone with pleasure at the
praise. "Tusk says you should get dressed and eat something.
He's outside on the porch with Mason. They want a group
meeting soon."
"Is it cold out?"
"Not like yesterday; we might even get some rain later on."
The scrambled eggs were hot and well congealed, the toast
crisp and buttered lightly. Strawberry jam and a glass of
orange juice on the side completed the repast. With more than
her usual appetite Scully swallowed a little bit of everything
and felt strength return to her aching body.
Outside she found Tusk standing, Mason seated, as they pored
over a makeshift table. Both men stubbed out partially burned
cigarettes and turned toward her, blocking her view of it.
Since that first day, none of them had actually smoked within
the house while she was present.
An order must have come down from the top.
"Fits like a charm," said Tusk, radiating open admiration. He
ambled forward, his slow gaze fanning her from top to bottom.
"That was all Cricket's idea, by the way."
She nodded, but looked toward Mason, who seemed too bushy-
tailed for a man who'd been up most of the night pulling
impromptu disaster duty. Without preamble Scully extended her
hand toward him and felt it squeezed vigorously.
"I appreciate everything you did last night, for me and for
Mulder." Her voice held clear, though her eyes misted. "I
can't begin to speculate what might have happened if you
hadn't been there to intervene on our behalf. So, thank you."
"Like Tusk says, we do our part and whatever else needs taking
care of too," he said with a shrug, releasing her hand. "But
it wasn't all my doing -- the boss here walked me through most
of it."
From behind she felt familiar fingers cup one shoulder.
Tusk's, of course. The contact was hesitant in this dawning
of unspecified truce between them. Yet, while his actions
last night had seemed harsh to the point of chastisement, she
couldn't deny that as a leader he'd kept his head throughout a
series of calamities that had threatened to scuttle their
rescue mission.
"I should have realized," she said, looking up over her
shoulder toward him. "My thanks to both of you then."
"How's that wound feeling this morning? Word is, you were
moving like an eighty-year old when you got up."
His hand remained, Scully conscious of small movements his
thumb made over her fleece. She chose her words with care,
looking him straight in the eye. "Let's just say I'll need a
hell of a lot more than a few Tylenol 3 to get me through this
evening. If you're still counting on my participation, that
is."
"No question." His brows slumped in concern. "What would
help?"
"Toradol, maybe. 10 milligram tabs would be my first choice,
taken with the Tylenol, but I can't imagine you've got
anything that potent stashed in a drawer."
"You'd be surprised what pops up around here when the need
arises," he quipped. He thought a moment. "But isn't Toradol
most effective when given by deep injection?"
"Don't," she said slowly and emphatically, "even *think* about
sticking anything into me."
She heard a stifled snicker from Mason and saw Tusk's mouth
edge into an appreciative grin, his eyes twinkling down at her
with something akin to fascination. Was she becoming inured
to the ribald teasing around her by adding a reckless, half-
hearted riposte of her own? Crossing another barrier into
acceptance and familiarity?
"Woo, one for Dana," said Mason.
"Innuendo aside," she said pointedly, "I'm going to need some
help."
"In a few minutes we'll go in and change that dressing of
yours. See what the real damage is. After that..." Tusk
leaned closer and gave her a little wink.
She raised an eyebrow. "After that *what*?"
"Well, Mason and I've got something to show you and the others
that'll practically knock your socks off."
The group meeting Cricket had mentioned, no doubt. Briefing.
She stepped backward, the better to confront them both. "If
it's so crucial, then let's see it first. What is it?"
"A kick-ass present I brought back," piped up Mason, his face
beaming, "from your motel buddy, Glenn."
************
Chancey, Ohio
11:15 AM
Seconds ticked by as Mulder and Willow stared at one another.
After another glance to the window she broke silence.
"Just suppose," she murmured, narrowing her eyes, "your
frantic quest for closure and grief over your mother's death
led you so far astray, you became sloppy enough to grasp at
anything that masqueraded for truth. Foregoing examination,
you grew too impatient to scrutinize the evidence before you."
Mulder shook his head, only faintly aware of a buzz in his
ears.
"Tell me again what the prisoner Tencate said," demanded
Willow.
"She said her son had been taken by walk-ins, like Amber Lynn.
Like the all the others who were murdered --"
"Stop!"
Mulder jumped.
"That was your first mistake, you see. To accept such a claim
without proper research goes against your own code of ethics
and was insulting to your former partner as well. Yet,
seizing on that woman's pathetic story, you ran with it.
Why?"
"Feel free to enlighten me," he sneered softly.
"A walk-in is indeed a spiritual being, but does much more
than rescue a person from a situation of great danger."
Willow savored her next words with a tiny lick to her lips.
"Essentially, a walk-in takes up residence in a living,
breathing host."
"Possession?"
As he said the word, a feeling of lassitude swept over his
limbs and he forced himself to take a deep breath. Not unlike
the sensation he'd felt climbing the staircase in Wilson Hall,
when the air felt thin and insufficient, his strength
compromised each time he'd followed Willow upward into the
shadows.
The gun felt heavy as lead in his hand.
"Not quite; possession generally excludes invitation. In the
case of a walk-in, the physical body in question has a strong
spiritual need for protection or guidance beyond that which
its own resources can provide. It welcomes the intervention
of another, stronger soul."
"What are you implying?"
"The search for your sister," she said in exaggerated
sepulchral tones, "is not over."
Mulder stared into Willow's face for a moment. The he spat
out a bitter laugh. "What the hell do you know about it?"
"I can tell you this, though I shouldn't interfere: Tencate
led you astray."
"How?"
"She failed to grasp that a person's physical body, even when
controlled by a walk-in, remains in this world to continue
living out its full life. The original soul usually departs
when the walk-in takes over, or it may choose to remain so the
two souls co-exist, the newer one learning from the old.
Absorbing its memories, habits, and life experiences."
"Not according to Harold Piller."
"Oh. Well, then." With coy deliberation Willow laced her
long fingers together as though preparing to listen. "By all
means enlighten *me*."
"He said the missing children were taken by good spirits who
knew what violent end each child would meet. So the spirits,
or walk-ins, intervened to transform their bodies into pure
energy -- the starlight I saw in each case."
"A fairytale."
Did her words and smart-ass denials exacerbate this feeling of
dizziness, so that his thought processes felt bound up in
cotton, Mulder wondered? The suspicion came, floated through
his mind, that Willow might have drugged him again. But that
wasn't likely. He also felt a tremendous need to vindicate
that earnest little man who'd brought him to the brink of
closure last year -- while trying to exorcise personal demons
of his own.
"Piller said that in almost every case the parents had a
precognitive image of their child dead," Mulder argued. "Which
corroborates the visions we saw individually during that case.
Amber Lynn's mother, Tencate, Piller himself. And me. Just a
few days ago Amanda Carmichael's mother had a vision of her
daughter."
When she simply gazed at him, wholly unimpressed, he snarled,
"Then what did I see in that field last year?"
"Only you can answer that, Agent Mulder. But I would venture
to say it was a hallucination or a waking form of sleep
paralysis. Overcome by grief, hammered by questions and
conflict, your brain conjured up what you needed to see on an
emotional level. Isn't that what your partner suggested to
you?"
He hazarded a quick nod, yet felt his lower lip creep forward
into a pout of denial.
"Then again -- perhaps you did observe a truly psychic
phenomena, such as the signatures, or aural trails emanating
from the souls whose survival was, and is, questionable."
"Why was my sister Samantha there?"
"Rather than telling you not to seek any further, she may have
been trying to assure you that she's still alive in this
world. In her own corporeal body."
"And you're a fucking liar!"
"Am I?"
"The nurse said Samantha disappeared from a locked room in the
hospital. Reconcile that!"
"I can't, if you choose to believe a deluded old woman who
despite her Florence Nightingale heart--" Willow smiled
indulgently "--and her good intentions, was overworked and
sleep-starved for years in the ER. Why is that so much easier
to accept?"
"Harold Piller was there that night! He can substantiate my
experiences. He even led me to April Air Force Base, where we
saw Samantha's handprints in cement. We found the house she'd
lived in."
She offered a deprecating smile, as though dismissing a small
child's imaginings, adding fuel to his fury.
"I have Samantha's diary! It was in another room during the
seance Pillar held at the base. Samantha wrote in it up to
the time she was fourteen and I read the words with Scully
afterward. I told you about that on our drive back from
Chillicothe."
"You told me your sister had written that it was difficult for
her to remember you. And that hurt you deeply, more than you
cared to admit."
Rendered mute by the haunting memory, a wave of the old
disappointment threatened to engulf him. Even Scully knew
he'd been bruised when reading those lines aloud. When all
his hopes, struggles, and expectations had bottomed out,
crashing down into a worthless heap that he'd conveniently
stashed away.
("Sometimes I think my memories were taken by the doctors but
not all of them. I remember faces. I think I had a
brother...")
"... 'With brown hair'," recited Willow, continuing the thread
of his thoughts, "'who used to tease me. I hope someday he
reads this and knows I wish I could see his face for real.'"
She sighed. "How pitiful! I can see why a small part of you
hoped the diary was inauthentic."
His head swam suddenly and his stomach lurched. "Why would
she write something like that?"
"It only proves that the new soul sharing her body, the walk-
in, was unfamiliar with her life experiences. It's a learning
process for both at the beginning, especially during the first
few months... or however long the two souls make a contract to
co-exist together."
"That's bullshit!"
"She'd written, 'Running for my life, for the rest of my
life.' Perhaps she did that very thing: Hiding, growing into
adulthood in a faraway place, guided and protected by the
resources of the walk-in soul. Which begs the question, where
could your sister Samantha be now?"
"You're the one telling fairytales! At least Piller can
substantiate what he and I experienced together."
To Mulder's horror she threw back her head, mouth wide, and
chortled at the ceiling.
"Piller," she chuckled, "dear, dear Harold, is no longer a
part of your particular equation. Though, I admit, he
performed admirably during the time he was with you and Agent
Scully on the La Pierre case last year. His gifts, such as
they are, were well used and executed."
She appeared to float closer, her grin a ghastly taunt. "But
more importantly, Fox Mulder... you believed him. Hook.
Line. And sinker."
"You're telling me," he gasped, weaving and disoriented, "that
Piller was a fucking *plant*?"
"Assigned by people who would protect their version of the
truth to ensure that you continue to believe in the lie. Just
as I have been, and my gifts have much more power, are more
integral to this particular task. Now, give me your hand!"
"Don't touch me!"
The truth, if it was truth, was a nightmare of inconsistency
and cruel disillusionment. He'd been flung back to square
one, into a literal corner, where again he'd smacked his skull
hard. This case and how many others like it -- were they all
trails sneaking back to a larger conspiracy of lies?
Who else but a remnant syndicate would keep tabs on his
present activities? Would go to such lengths to steer him
away from the truth?
He faltered, felt like puking his guts. It was more than a
simple slam below the belt... It was what Willow and others
had done to him all along, when he'd gotten too close to the
edge. Anything to perpetuate the deception and lure him
astray--
Willow seemed to shoot forward as he fell to his knees.
Wrestling the gun away, she seized his hands with both of hers
in a clamping grip.
Disoriented, he saw her gray eyes suddenly widen and glaze
with incredulity. He watched as she absorbed a double-whammy
through the tactile medium of his skin and grit her teeth,
face contorted. Her nails dug into the palms of his hands
until he groaned in pain.
"So she still lives!" she hissed. "She's *alive* and you
*knew* it all along... you BASTARD!"
In a miasma of kaleidoscopic color, succumbing to whatever
witchcraft she'd put over him, Mulder slumped. Helpless, he
gave the hardwood floorboards an open-mouthed kiss as he sank
forward. Wetness, from blood or spit... he didn't know, cared
even less.
Strange visions of Scully in peril crawled through his
consciousness, tore at his heart. Again, all his fault.
Where was his weapon? Like in the Wilson Hall attic, his
perceptions felt indistinct and he struggled to separate the
dream from what was really happening...
Heavy thumps, like fists pounding, emanated from somewhere in
the distance.
He felt Willow push off his body with her full weight.
Scrabbling quickly to her feet, her shoe cracked against his
lolling head as she rushed away.
The pain gave him a lightning-flash of clarity. Fishing
beside him, Mulder's fingers touched, then curled around one
leg of the bed. He felt only an all-consuming need for self-
preservation and hauled himself under it by increments, with
slow, desperate bursts of energy... into the dust and dark,
safely out of sight...
Echoes of Willow co-mingled with deeper male voices. Then
several dull bursts, the sounds of corn popping.
Silencers...
He made himself stay quiet, go sardine narrow in the shadows
far under the bed. Kept his mouth clamped shut as footfalls
vibrated down the hall and virulent dreams of old Mrs.
Peabody's truncated body overtook him.
************
End of Chapter 16
Continued in Chapter 17
************
Chapter 17
************
The Knoll complex, Hocking, Ohio
March 16, 2001
11:30 AM
Anton Krieg relished his strolls through the subterranean test
chambers, because they were cool, efficient places where he
could soak in the solitude and indulge his baser, voyeuristic
appetite.
De-humidified air swirled beneath the low ceilings, laced with
smells of mold, chemical, and fear. The metallic clink-clank
of instruments and soft hum of machinery provided ambient
music. Doctor-scientists conferred in whispers while they
went about their work, reminding Krieg of diners in an upscale
restaurant: men with heads bent over their plates in what
appeared to be gustatory self-absorption, white cloth draped
between them and the object of their focus.
Unexpectedly, commotion came from one of the small rooms on
the perimeter; high keening gurgles and muffled sobs that
disrupted the tranquility of his surroundings.
He stopped, pointed at the open door. "You'd better sedate
that one."
"If you please," interjected a scientist who sidled forward
after motioning to a colleague. His eyes above the white
surgical mask blinked in alarm. "Right now it's necessary to
catalogue the effects of certain cleansing agents as they
enter the body intravenously. A new technique we're trying.
We've been flushing out the system to rid it of toxins in
preparation for the virus."
Krieg stared, noting the fruitless agitation of the female
subject against the straps that bound her to the padded table.
It was the college student they'd recently acquired.
"You've had several days for that already."
"Understood, Mr. Krieg. But we don't want to repeat past
mistakes with a deadline closing in on us. Heavy sedation
would be unwise until the subject is fully prepared and the
new viral agent introduced."
"When will that be?"
"Within the next twelve hours, I should think. But we'll
attend to the disturbance right away."
"How?"
"I've called in our 'whisperer' to calm this one down."
While Krieg watched in fascination, a lean figure with dark,
nearly shoulder-length hair and wire-rimmed glasses took his
place beside the patient. Dressed in white scrubs he spoke
over her in a curious, incoherent, and mesmerizing drone.
Obviously he'd fared better than most, having been spared
syringes with long tubes that snaked behind them, the shiny
knives, stinging liquids, and indignities that were the fate
of most test subjects.
"Hei, little one... Puhutteko suomea? Hmmm? Okey-dokey... "
A soothing baritone in a largely unfamiliar tongue reached
their ears.
"Why wasn't I made aware of this?" Krieg demanded.
"We discovered it quite by accident," explained the white mask
with haste. "You can see he's still highly intelligent
despite the bilateral cingulotomy performed on him some time
ago. Listen to how he uses his voice. The low tones and
gibberish are quite effective in conjunction with the milder
sedative the patient received several days ago."
"What language?"
"One of the Scandinavian dialects, we think, mixed with
nonsense and English... though it serves no purpose other than
to calm and distract the subject. Whatever works to keep them
docile without additional narcotic."
"What's he saying?"
A shrug. "The important thing is what he's accomplishing for
us."
Krieg closed in to better observe the eerie exchange.
"Quiet, now, nuori tytto... sinulla on kauniit siniset
silmat... "
She was a very young woman with the pale tuft of a true
blonde. Her smallish breasts heaved beneath the leather
straps that wound around wrists and ankles, over chest and
hips. Bleating piteously, silvery drool crept from one corner
of her mouth. Krieg wondered if she could see far enough past
the lengths of plastic tubing and her own terror to know that
she lay naked as a sacrificial lamb.
He had watched her after capture, too wide-eyed and frozen to
fight back like newcomers usually did. Her breath fluttered
like a frightened, unbelieving bird when they'd stripped away
her clothing and disinfected her before strapping her down and
shoving the plastic feeding tube up one nostril and down her
gullet. Paralyzed, even when her legs were pried apart for
the Foley catheter tube, which drained yellow into a bag at
the table's side.
But the scalpel cuts and stinging IV designed to prep and
flush out her body were an altogether different story. As the
fluids varied in composition and potency, so would the pain
increase. The subject hiccupped and hyperventilated while
Krieg smiled, drinking in her panic like an aperitif.
"Rest. Rest, little one," whispered the prisoner beside her.
"Mita kuuluu, pikkusisar? Hmmm? Mista sina tulet?"
The girl lolled her head toward her comforter; she tried to
garble something back, but ended up coughing on her own saliva
in the process.
"Ei, no, no... "
Gentle swipes of a washcloth to her mouth and chin, like one
would do for a sick child. Krieg frowned. He found this
bedside indulgence outlandish and irritating.
"Don't let it choke itself to death," he snapped as he stepped
away. "Be sure to call me before you administer the virus. I
want to observe its effect before the merchandise is handed
over."
"Of course, Mr. Krieg."
"And keep an eye on your 'whisperer' there; I don't think I'd
trust him."
************
Toskala home base
11:30 AM
Bent forward at the waist over Tusk's bedspread, Scully
relinquished her backside and some degree of modesty to his
gentle attentions. She tried to dull her chagrin by imagining
Mulder's reaction were he to stumble in upon the scene.
Phillip Padgett's half-empty apartment came to mind, her
partner frozen in the bedroom doorway with an expression that
rivaled his legendary panic face. Poised for action, gun
drawn, every sense on red alert. He'd been over-the-top in
his defense of her then, since nothing close to *a priori* had
ever warranted rescue.
Which begged the question: if Mulder's protective instincts
had been extreme before they became lovers, how would he
respond now? Incensed by the spectacle of another man
ruminating over her bare ass, she felt sure Mulder would dive
in first and ask questions later, throwing himself between
what he perceived to be her compromised position and harm's
way.
And how would Tusk answer such interference?
Rather than providing distraction, the daydream only sharpened
her misgivings. She hastily shifted her thoughts to less
volatile ground, toward the fresh dressing and the fingertips
applying it over her skin.
First and foremost, no sign of infection had developed
overnight, for which she was grateful. The injury remained
tender, but meds would control pain as long as she didn't
overstress the site and end up tearing out stitches.
Which was a likely prospect.
Also, despite her suggestive pose, Tusk had done nothing
untoward in his examination of her wound. Appreciative
insinuations aside, it went a long way in solidifying her
trust in this man. After last night's altercation, she
realized their relational boundaries could remain sacrosanct -
- provided she sent him no blatant "signal"" to the contrary.
Which posed a slight problem as to what would be construed as
a come-on in this atmosphere of casual affection and physical
familiarity.
Finished, Tusk's hands cradled her sides to steady her while
she regained her feet. She quickly tugged her panties and
fleece bottoms from thigh to waist height, eluding his
mischievous scrutiny by keeping her back to him. Once off the
examining table she could become fair game.
"Thank you," she said, clearing her throat.
"Always my pleasure. Meant with the utmost respect, of
course."
"Of course."
He grinned at the hint of sarcasm. "I'll see about stronger
meds in a little while. Right now we have other business: I
want to show you and the rest of the group what Mason copped
last night from your friend at the Super 8."
"Something more substantial than Spudnuts, I hope."
His brows quirked in perplexity under his shiny crown. "No,
but I guarantee it's just as sweet. Let's go."
The close-knit clan into which she'd been adopted had already
assembled itself around the low table in the livingroom.
Nearly everyone nursed a fresh cup of coffee and the air was
thick with strong, heady fumes of French Roast and
expectation. With Tusk's aid Scully eased her right hip
against a couch pillow and accepted a steaming mug from
Cricket after she'd settled in. It must be her fate, she
decided, to be perpetually sandwiched between the two
Toskalas, patchouli and mousse on one side, rampant
testosterone on the other.
Leaning back with care she took a sip and pondered the members
in the group. She found herself focusing on details to which
she had steadily become inured: namely, the proliferation of
decoration, metallic or otherwise, within this circle of
unlikely new friends.
Mason was standing, arms and neck entwined with foliage that
sprouted from the sleeves and neck of his tee-shirt. He'd
sacrificed or altered some of his more obtrusive jewelry for
the sake of the mission. Gone were the eyebrow and nostril
rings, Scully noticed, while the long gleaming septum bar had
been replaced with a shorter version of the same. Mole,
Needlenose, and Footer all sported random piercings and
tattoos. A furtive glance toward her left revealed Cricket's
lip ring and an exquisite blue teardrop that accented the bony
curve of her jaw.
An even more furtive glance to the right brought her nearly
eye-to-eye with the silver studs in Tusk's earlobe and the
intricate artwork on a forearm that pressed against her
sleeve. Though she'd given no indication of it the previous
night, she'd been well aware of the color blazing over his
naked chest, shoulders and biceps, each design intended to
accentuate his unique and impressive musculature.
Natural canvas indeed, she thought, taking another sip to
dilute her musings.
"Listen up, everybody," said Mason, "because I have some
really cool shit here. It came to us because of Dana,
compliments of the manager down at the Super 8."
With reverence he leaned over the table and spread out the
edges of what appeared to be a very old map. Four pairs of
hands shot out to secure the corners. Yellowed with age,
brittle and curling, it drew his audience like needle and
thread, closer and tighter into a pucker around the table.
"Old schematics?" asked Mole, the eager beaver.
"You got it," Mason confirmed. "And at least seventy-five
years ancient, if you can handle that. This blueprint shows
the original infrastructure of the mental health center before
that fire in the '20s damaged a big chunk of it. It goes way
beyond your boilerplate utility and access tunnels that were
restored in the reconstruction. This dinosaur shows what's
been there since the 1860s. Mind-blowing, man!"
Their exhalations, blinking eyes, and grins of joy reminded
Scully of kids opening a windfall present on Christmas
morning. Craning her neck hard to see, Scully felt Tusk's
hand shift to her lower back, gently scooting her closer to
the table.
"Sweet enough for you?" he whispered.
She detected a complicated network of blue lines that showed
little correspondence to the other maps she'd studied at
Tusk's insistence. Obviously they indicated lower, deeper
levels and subbasements that had been forgotten over time.
Tunnels and dungeons that, damaged in the fire, were sealed up
-- or were kept hidden for uses other than mere storage or
utility access.
"Holy shit, this is stuff we never knew existed!" This from
Footer. Murmurs of awe and discovery continued to waft over
the low table.
"Take a good hard look, people," she heard Tusk coach,
"because this is essential AMEX for the mission. Only, you
get to store it up here." He tapped his temple with a finger.
"Looks like we got homework," said Needlenose, giving Cricket
a nudge.
"Shuttup, you tool," she sniped back.
Mole knelt beside the table in his need to get a better view.
"You said it came from the dude who runs the Super 8? The guy
who's a friend of Dana's?"
She pinned Mason with a sharp look. "Don't tell me you
actually divulged our plans to him?"
"No way." He shook his head with vigor. "But this guy Glenn
is a lot smarter than he looks or acts, believe me, and I feel
deep-down we can trust him as a friend. I looked in his eyes
and heard his story. He knows when to keep his mouth shut and
came to some accurate conclusions about what went down and why
after the hit on your room last night. Now he's hell-bent on
helping you out any way he can." He grinned shyly at Scully.
"He's pretty sweet on you, Dana."
"No kidding?" Tusk looked over, interested. The rest of the
group shared a collective chuckle.
"While we were waiting for things to settle down, he told me
about what his grandfather saw and heard back in the olden
days. He worked construction up at the Knoll in the '20s and
these blueprints were ones he salvaged and hid all this time."
"A bricklayer," Scully said.
"Yeah, turns out he was the foreman. Glenn's grandpa actually
took him inside once, when he was a kid. And after being
raised right around that location, he still can't get the
night screams out of his head or shake the stories he's been
told about what really went on inside that place. Anyway, he
told me to hold on a minute, went out to his apartment, and
came back with this..."
He reached out and put a loving hand on the surface of the
paper.
"But that doesn't leave us a lot of time for integrating
completely new schematics," noted Scully. "It might be better
to wait another day. Postpone until tomorrow."
Tusk's jaw squared. "No waiting. We go tonight, because
those ships may show up at any time before the vernal equinox,
their target date. We strike now, when they don't expect
us... and because the longer we wait, the more time they have
to find out you're still among the living."
"The sooner the better," agreed Mason, and more nods of
solidarity bobbed from around the table.
"All right, then." Speaking in a firm voice, Tusk exuded
confidence, pumping up his troops. "It's new, it's different,
but we can assimilate it and use it to our advantage. Lives
are depending on us -- and we want to take care of our own
asses at the same time."
"Fuckin'-A," agreed Mole.
"The layout here allows for more cover, depending on what's
accessible and how well it's guarded. More points of access
and retreat, one of them near that left branch we passed last
night, right outside the complex. Our best bet is to get as
low as we can and look for entry to the upper levels. Looks
like there's one surfacing here, near the bone orchard, and
here--" He pointed his finger across the brittle paper "--
out in the woods, where the original infirmary was supposedly
built."
Scully remembered the electrified fence and the nameless
structures that sat decaying in the gray forest beyond it. "I
saw something yesterday morning which could confirm that
theory. The original labs, operating room, and morgue were
probably located in that last area you described. Away from
the main complex, as was often the case in older
institutions."
"Good thinking."
"Okay, everybody," said Mason. "You heard the boss. Get on
it and get those gray cells cracking again. Memorize. In a
few hours we'll discuss our strategy."
Movement rippled around the table as the group settled in to
the business of studying.
Handing off her mug to Cricket, Scully rose stiffly to her
feet. "I need to move around for a bit and try to work out
some of the kinks from yesterday... " She twisted slightly
from the waist, hand to her ribcage. Still sound after that
dive into the shed, thank God. If only that broken glass --
"You okay?"
"I'll be fine," Scully assured her. She noted how Cricket's
eyes, large with misgiving, tracked her every move. "Really."
She touched the girl's wrist and smiled. "Don't worry about
me."
But it came as no surprise to her when Tusk left the others
and accompanied her to the window at the far end of the room.
He stood close when they stopped to look out at the gray,
overcast sky, hands half-tucked into his jeans pockets.
He turned, his dark eyes bored down into hers. "What's eating
at you?"
"Well, considering our present situation, take your pick."
"Is it the medication? Because I'm taking Mason into town
with me soon to hunt you up some relief for tonight. And we
won't be shopping at Walgreen's, by the way. I have my own
contacts."
"I gathered that much," she said, remembering stories of his
previous illegal dealings on behalf of the escapees. "Don't
even get into it, because I don't feel up to slapping cuffs on
you right now."
Tusk didn't respond to the comment, though it made him smile.
"What else is going on?"
She glanced around with uneasiness. "Look, I feel like I'm
somehow acting under a false pretense here."
"Tell me."
"This so-called gift? I'll admit to you that Glenn was a lot
friendlier toward me than I ever was to him. Actually, he
reminds me of someone I know at the Bureau who looks and
behaves similarly... and who also made it clear in his own
bumbling way that he's an admirer."
"So what? They know you're taken. You really can't blame a
guy for wanting to get as close to you as he can, even if it's
through friendship."
"Present company included?"
She could have bitten her own tongue, but the reckless words
were out. Tusk inched closer until she felt the heat
radiating from his body and his breath on her forehead.
"Until I get that signal," he murmured. "But I'm not holding
my breath."
"Wise of you."
"I assume you count me as a friend. Maybe even someone
special... who you can trust?"
"I would say so," she said with clearness and honesty, amazed
at the evolution a few turbulent days had made, "without a
doubt."
"And the feeling's mutual. None of this would've happened if
you hadn't opened yourself up to another world, to other
possibilities." Tusk rested a hand on her shoulder, cupping it
with warmth. "You know why? There's a bustle in your
hedgerow, Dana."
The slow, seductive way he murmured those last words warmed
her cheeks. Yet some of his phrasing, so like Mulder's,
seized her attention and sucked her in. "I think," she
clarified, "that you're reading far too much into this
incident with Glenn."
"In the grand scheme of things nothing's ever irrelevant.
Especially when it involves relationship and gives us an edge
at the same time. You see what's come from your stay at the
Super 8?"
"Yes," she said dryly, "a woman's accidental murder, to be
precise."
"No, serendipity. You made a friend with connections and some
brains; we all got a lucky break by learning he's someone we
can trust, who hates the same people we do. It just proves
how valuable *you* are to us. More options are at our
disposal... and it gives us a better chance to sneak into that
place, take care of business, and get the hell out of there
with our skins intact."
"What about contacting Mulder?"
"You mean my competition?" Tusk gave a stiff smile. "Just
kidding. I've already made up my mind to include him -- but
not until I feel the time's right for it."
************
Chancey, Ohio
2:00 PM
Willow hadn't given up the ghost without a fight, Mulder
discovered after extricating himself from underneath the bed
and staggering to the kitchen. She'd been taken down by two
shots, one that tore through the side of the neck and another
that went straight through her black-magic heart.
But a man's body sprawled alongside Willow's on the cheap
linoleum floor. His face wore a look of eternal consternation
beneath the neat hole in his forehead and his hair shone slick
in the dull light. Or what was left of it after her bullet
had aerated the back of his skull.
Mulder's service weapon was missing. He found Willow's
fingers clutching its handle as though, even in death, she
intended to keep some part of him forcibly within her power.
However gifted she was, she still hadn't time to work her
chosen brand of magic on the intruders in the kitchen. Which
made Mulder wonder -- were certain spells like brews intended
for aging or slow steeping before they achieved full potency
and effectiveness? Or was he just a sucker for intelligent
women with a paranormal bent, who gave his hypotheses
credibility and had insight into his troubled past?
Remembering their last interaction, he wanted to retch.
What looked like raspberry syrup pooled beneath the bodies,
tacky from exposure to air. Stepping carefully to avoid blood
spatter and brains, he reached for a dishtowel hanging from
the oven door handle to wipe down his weapon after prying it
from Willow's fingers. The chamber showed three bullets were
discharged. How many "pops" had he heard from beneath the
bed? Apparently several either missed their target or had
been carried away as unwelcome trophies.
A crime scene and ballistics check might solve that mystery.
But on this case? Not even a consideration.
Lurching from the kitchen on gummy-legs, he did a sweep of the
house before heading outside. The sun hung high in the sky,
masked by a fresh bank of clouds. In the root cellar nearby
he found the real Willow Wind Nightingale, who'd probably gone
missing shortly after the LIFE organization called her with
their ill-fated request.
She looked like a grandmotherly farmwoman, crumpled in a
petrified heap among her sacks, bushel baskets, and canning
jars. Her neck gaped open, a dark red watermelon slice grin.
Shaking his head, he climbed out, found his cell, and checked
for messages. Nothing from Scully, using their liaison's
phone. In frustration he punched in Hostetler's number.
"Agent Mulder! Where the hell have you been?" The Dean
sounded rattled after treading water alone for hours.
"I caught a few winks here in little old Chancey, believe it
or not. And not by choice, I might add."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning Willow Nightingale threw me for a loop again. Or
whatever her real name is; I found the genuine article in a
basement with her throat slit. Oh, and while I was sleeping
it off, someone joined the party and put our impostor out of
her misery."
"Whoa! You're telling me she's dead too? This is -- this is
getting way out of hand. How soon can you get back?"
"No faster than my POS rental. How's your secretary doing?"
"Val's holding her own, still unconscious. Look, I'd feel a
lot better if you got here on the double. I've been called in
for another meeting, whatever that means, at Provost
Mellingham's office and it worries me. There's something
about him I don't trust."
"Bright boy."
"Don't rub it in, Agent Mulder."
"Did you find out where Cricket lives off-campus?"
"Uh, there's no physical address listed anywhere in her files.
Just a post office box number in Hocking. But I did locate
another Toskala in the phone book. Must be some relation."
"You think?" Mulder was in no mood for coddling. "Give me
the address."
"Fourteen West Union Street, not too far from the Starbucks.
It's a tattoo place called Art Apocalypse and a Risto Toskala
is the proprietor. May not be open now, though, over break
and because it's Sunday. A lot of these local specialty shops
cater mostly to student business and shut down when they're
gone."
"I'll check it out. This might be my golden opportunity to
get that Elvis tattoo on my left ass cheek I've always
wanted."
"Give me a break."
Mulder sneered as he walked back towards his car. "You think
I'm kidding, don't you?"
Silence on Hostetler's end of the line; apparently he wasn't
about to push that one. But Mulder was brooding about the
illustrated and bearded young man who had passed him a cell
phone at the fire and put him in touch with Scully. Mason,
she'd said his name was, someone she insisted they could
trust...
He had no choice but to take her word for it, since their
liaison hadn't been forthcoming since last night's call.
How did she become entangled with this person in the first
place? It was that lead she'd kept secret from him while he
hobnobbed with Willow at Wilson Hall, the memories of which
put a bad taste in his mouth. How he'd downplayed Scully's
concerns and followed the psychic decoy like a sheep, nibbling
the scraps and shreds of truth she dropped for him. Luring
him...
It was his lack of awareness and selfish personal agenda which
drove Scully into such diametric opposition, sending her
deeper undercover, and ultimately making her a target. Was
the student called Cricket, with her face jewelry and Goth
image, somehow involved? And if so, to what purpose?
"Hey, Hostetler... you remember the tattooed guy who talked to
you last night? What are the chances he works at this 'Art
Apocalypse'?"
"Agent, every other student on campus has tattoos or body
piercings."
"But this guy's a human billboard, a fucking picture book,"
replied Mulder, breaking into a jog. "He could be first
cousin to 'The Conundrum'."
"Who is that?"
"Someone who's all about puzzles. Try googling him when you
get a chance."
Jamming the phone back into his pocket and picking up speed,
Mulder reached his car and began tossing off the dried brush
and leaves he'd used for cover.
Little pieces of another puzzle, of Amanda's disappearance --
and now Scully's attempted murder -- were coming to light,
becoming more accessible, like mismatched bone chips working
their way to the surface. On his own now, if he sifted in the
right places maybe he'd discover how they all fit together.
The question was, would the bigger picture help him to find
Amanda Carmichael?
Even more importantly, would it eventually lead him to Scully?
************
The Knoll Complex
2:00 PM
The Big Man stood facing the window, the glass of scotch in
his meaty hand reflecting thin rays of light that poked like
amber fingers through the clouds. He gently swirled the
contents, stirring his thoughts into words.
"Tell me what happened."
"A team was sent out several hours ago to eliminate someone
Mr. Krieg felt was no longer in a position of trust,"
whispered a voice behind him. "They carried out the sentence,
but sustained a casualty; only one man reported back, sir."
"Who was the target?"
"It was the woman posing as the local psychic."
A grunt of discontent, a sideward glance in the speaker's
direction. "She's dead, then, along with another of our
people?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Krieg had not informed me of this intention. Or its
result, as of yet. That concerns me."
Again the low voice spoke. "He says you needn't be troubled
with such matters. The same with the strike on Dean
Hostetler's secretary, as well as the FBI agent's death -- "
"Then his instincts are short-sighted. I want to be alerted
privately to any further developments, or any independent
decisions on his part."
"Understood, sir."
The Big Man exhaled and pivoted slowly, resting grave,
ruthless eyes on his informant. "Especially if Mr. Krieg
endeavors to keep them confidential."
************
End of Chapter 17
Continued in Chapter 18
************
Chapter 18
************
Downtown Hocking
March 16, 2001
3:45 PM
The town seemed stark when student population plummeted and
locals snatched back their turf. Though parking spaces on
Union Street were plentiful, Tusk chose one of the less
conspicuous side streets and put in a call to his contact from
the car. Then, with Mason at his side, they walked the two
short blocks to the Union.
He'd already dealt with the shop; a sign taped to the window
front announced it would be closed for another week. Only
Dana's need for painkiller had necessitated this trip out into
the open and an emergency meeting with Zig.
A Harley devotee, the dealer who went by the name of Zig had
done a stint at Mansfield Prison several years back. His
unshaven cheeks gave him the stodgy appearance of a cactus
dressed in black leather, with requisite shades dark enough to
render him blind in the low light and smoky air of the bar.
Like nearly everyone else in Hocking, Mason afforded Zig and
his thug a wide berth.
Tusk, however, had no such misgivings. His own hard-hitting
appearance, strength, and infrequent dealings with men of
Zig's breed had established him as a formidable presence and
worthy of respect. Upon their arrival, both Mason and the
bodyguard took seats near the front of the bar near the
windows, leaving Tusk and the dealer to work out details alone
at a shadowy table toward the back.
Two rounds of Rolling Rock and a third-pack of Camels was all
it took to lube the deal and establish rapport. Both men
flung sunglasses to the table. Tusk sweetened the pot with an
offer of a free tat, which Zig approved. When business was
duly completed, they lingered for a few more minutes of
obligatory small talk.
Zig's thug, who'd ambled outside, loomed back over their
table. He whispered something to his boss that made them both
snigger.
"Looks like we got a Fed in town," reported Zig, leaning back
with exaggerated nonchalance. Then he blew a cloud of smoke
and squinted through the haze. "Don't wanna be icin' your
grill, dude, but that's the buzz I hear."
Tusk locked eyes with the dealer and stubbed out his cigarette
butt into a tin ashtray. The jibes made him edgy.
"FBI's got no beef with me, my people, or with Apocalypse," he
said. "I'm compliant all the way and you know it, so don't be
fuckin' around with me."
"Yeah, Tusk, you're tight. But if I was you, I'd be
considerin' some junk right about now... I'd be askin' myself,
'So, why the hell would a G-man wanna be casin' *my* store?'
'Cause, dude... he's doin' his thing as we speak, shovin' his
face right up against your windows."
Tusk smirked. He motioned for Mason, whispered in his ear,
and watched him leave. Then keeping his cool, he swung his
attention back across the table toward Zig. "More power to
him for checkin' out the merchandise. Hundreds of window tats
on display. Best selection around."
"Yeah, just your luck, he's lookin' to get some bling on One-
eyed Willie," chuckled the dealer, "or polka-dotted nuts, man.
Hey," giving Tusk's arm a poke, "d'you do much of that kinda
shit? Or just stick to cootch?"
"Pay my price, you might find out. I'll stick a needle in
anything you got," said Tusk, making Zig guffaw into his beer.
He stood up, towering over the others, and slipped on his
sunglasses. "Be back in a minute."
"It's Dana's partner -- it's Mulder," said Mason under his
breath, meeting Tusk halfway up the bar. "He went around
back, into the alley behind the shop. Now what?"
"He just made it easier for us by showing up, that's what."
"How?"
"Because now I've finally got a plan that'll work." Tusk
grabbed an order pad from behind the bar, snagged a pen, and
wrote several sentences on it in a strong, heavy hand before
looking down the polished length for a likely courier. "Hey!
Yo, Joey!"
The cleanup kid came at Tusk's bidding. Bug-eyed, he gawked
upward, a picture of awe and trepidation.
"Take a bag of trash out back," instructed Tusk, slipping a
twenty-dollar bill into Joey's sweaty palm, followed by the
folded piece of paper. "Do it now, and make sure you pass
this message to the guy in the suit and tie who's pokin'
around out there behind my shop. Don't let him know you
talked to me, or anybody. You know nothing, got that?"
"Y-yeah, Tusk," came the quavering reply.
"So get to it!"
Joey loped toward the back of the place as if his life
depended on it, bumpy black sack in tow. With only minutes to
spare, Tusk maneuvered a complicated handshake with Zig at the
table, waved to several others he recognized on his way out,
and hit the street with Mason.
They quickened their pace, hunched against the cool breeze.
"Something else's happened," puffed Mason. "I overheard some
dudes outside talking about an accident out on Thirty-three.
Looks like somebody was run right off the road late last night
or early this morning. Said they heard it was a chick who
works in the Dean of Students' office."
"Fuck! Cricket's Val?"
"Unknown, but maybe. She's in the hospital, intensive care."
A hush fell between the two men as they walked on and stewed
over the implications.
"I'll find out," muttered Tusk, "but I don't want anything
rocking Cricket's boat yet. Let me handle it."
"Sure. You wanna take a sec to check out this Mulder guy
before we leave?" Mason asked with an ambivalent shrug. "See
who Dana's been-- "
His face a stone mask, Tusk jerked to a halt and glared him
down.
"Chill out, man -- I was gonna say, who she's been working
with all those years at the FBI. That's all, I swear!"
"I'll get my chance soon enough," growled Tusk. Breathing
hard, he spun in the direction of the car. "Anyway, there's a
phone call I want you to make for us on the way back to the
house."
*************
Toskala home base
3:50 PM
Scully suspended her study of the new map when she began to
see it with her eyes closed, like the negative image one
perceives after staring at an object too long in bright light.
It crawled beneath her eyelids, a chalkboard of fuzz scored
with intersecting white lines that pounded to the beat of her
pulse.
Another part of her body had also begun throbbing, but from
injury, not eyestrain. She took slow steps into Tusk's
bedroom for some Tylenol 3, a swig of water from the bottle,
and a consultation with her better judgment.
Half the day had already slipped through her fingers without
opportunity to contact Mulder. She would soon begin a covert
and dangerous raid into an enclave of the Syndicate for the
purpose of rescuing people who, for all she knew, might
already be casualties. The only available armament appeared
to be one gun, to her knowledge, until Mulder joined them.
She was a federal agent everyone believed to be dead and her
grassroots team would make their strike several days before
the next spaceship was due to land on Knoll property.
The whole conceptual UFO scenario was simply too bizarre for
her to swallow in one bite, though Mulder might be more
willing to snap up the prospect. Yet what of the swaths of
scorched earth and pyroclastic residue they'd found last
night? The bodies she examined at the cemetery were bald
proof that secret testing of human subjects continued. And
the Amanda Carmichael disappearance, coupled with that of
Stefan Toskala, only reinforced that reality.
If only she had more time to gather pertinent data, to
research the options, to scrutinize what little evidence she
already had with an eye to the science behind it--
"Whatsa matter, Scully?" She saw him in her mind's eye,
tilted behind his desk with his shirtsleeves rolled up, teeth
splintering another seed, arms crossed behind his head as he
gazed up at her in quizzical amusement. "Where's the fun in
having everything scrubbed, pitted, peeled and pasteurized
before you dig into it?"
And suddenly, with a hard lump of yearning that filled her
throat and sank to lodge within her chest, she missed Mulder
desperately. He was out battling another front, facing his
own brand of danger. Awaiting his cue, a one-man cavalry in
essence.
God, she wanted nothing more than to climb into her own soft
bed and feel his naked arms and legs wrap themselves around
her. It was shocking to realize that less than a week ago
she'd considered that to be a detriment.
In the meantime, she saw that her new compatriots were
abandoning the map table, their attention spans challenged and
nerves fraying. Not surprising, she knew, for a group of
home-trained adventurers who were about to embark on a
dangerous mission with no clear view of either its success or
failure.
She heard sharp words exchanged, like tiny bursts of sporadic
gunfire. Several of the guys wandered into the kitchen, while
one headed back for a nap.
Cricket sat alone rubbing her eyes. The liner smudged around
them looked raccoon-like, reminiscent of Esther Nairn, though
a more petite and younger version of the ill-fated computer
wizard. Springing to her feet, the girl brushed past Tusk's
doorway, too jumpy to relax or be social.
She disappeared with purpose into the depths of the house.
Into this unknown, dimly-lit territory down the hall Scully
trailed her.
"Can I help you with anything here?" she asked at the door of
a room she'd never known existed.
Cricket seemed noncommittal, despite her surprise at being
followed. The long room looked and smelled like a gym locker,
piquant odors of sweat and musk tainting the air. This, then,
was where and how Tusk maintained his extraordinary physique,
Scully thought, taking in the weight-lifting stations,
scattered dumbbells, treadmill, chin-bar, mats, and the basket
of dirty clothes and towels.
The girl, meanwhile, had busied herself in a corner. Cabinets
lined the wall, filled with everything from camping equipment
to freeze-dried food to blankets. She shifted boxes from
floor to table and rearranged items in a spurt of nervous
energy that Scully saw was accomplishing little in the way of
progress.
"I take it we'll be further briefed when the others get back
from town," she ventured, trying to draw her out.
"Yeah. Tusk said he wants us going in two groups: me, Mason,
and Footer in one; Mole, him, and you in the other."
As she listened, Scully pushed the curtain aside. Outside,
dense woodland surrounded the back of the house, with flecks
of gray sky peeking through the woven canopy. "What about
Needlenose?"
"The dipshit? Mason wants him to stay behind for security and
communications detail. Footer's got more vadding experience,
so he's going, even with his bad shoulder. Of course, he
couldn't stand being left out since *you're* still in."
"I can understand his reasoning. There seems to be an
overabundance of machismo in the air."
"What'd I tell you? Way too many swinging dicks around here."
Scully smiled and they locked eyes for the briefest of
moments, a companionable swipe that nudged Cricket toward
further conversation.
"Speaking of the biggest dick of all... he hasn't been
bothering you too much, has he? Tusk, I mean."
Scully hesitated before safely concluding that the comment was
a reference to height and behavior only, not genital
endowment.
"Um... your brother and I have come to an understanding of
sorts," she hazarded. "At best, it's a nebulous one."
"That's what you meant last night by a 'truce', right?"
"Near enough."
"At first I was afraid he'd antagonize you into leaving. He
pulled his tough-guy routine on you when he didn't know
whether we could trust you or not. But he changed his mind
pretty fast -- and it wasn't just because you got hurt, by the
way."
Scully didn't require elucidation about the obvious personal
attraction. "He's a very impressive man, your brother," she
said tactfully.
"Geez, don't ever tell him that; he'd be all over it before
you could blink."
"I've noticed you haven't been very encouraging to Needlenose
either, though it appears he's trying hard to get *your*
attention."
A scoffing noise from the girl. "My brothers pretty much
raised me. They're, like, these stellar, impossible acts to
follow, y'know? Real men. Needlenose isn't even on the same
planet."
"That reminds me," said Scully. "I'd like to see a picture of
Stefan, if you have one handy. It'll help me know who I
should look for tonight."
Fumbling in her back pocket, the girl produced a billfold and
flipped it open to a photo, dusty within its transparent
sleeve. It showed a girl of about twelve in jeans and tank
top, posing beside a striking man in his early twenties. Both
were smiling coyly for the camera. Both had dark hair and the
distinctive Toskala facial structure, with shapely brows over
brown eyes.
"Tusk took this; that's me and Stefan. It was a year before
he started treatment up on the hill." She pondered the photo
for a long moment. "I really miss him... a lot."
"I can imagine."
"He's closer in age to me than Tusk is. And I was just a
dumb-ass kid back then."
"Any parents?"
"Not since I was around eleven. Tusk manages all the trust
money they left us. That's how I'm in school."
They both stared down at the picture. Cricket brushed
Stefan's face with the pad of her finger before snapping the
wallet shut and jamming it back into her pants.
"He's so fucking smart. So far ahead of the rest of us. He'd
just sit there and blow our minds with the shit he'd come out
with, me and Tusk."
"Such as?"
"I dunno, lots of stuff. He had all kinds of ideas, like ways
to eradicate world poverty. One week he'd practice hypnosis
on stray animals, doing that Crocodile Dundee thing with his
hands and fingers. Or he'd come out with words we didn't
recognize, and say he'd learned another language so he could
mediate at the United Nations for world peace... or
something... "
Cricket's pale forehead wrinkled like a sheet of paper that
someone had crushed and tried to smooth out afterward. She
ducked her head toward the cluttered surface of the table.
Reminiscence, apparently, was over for the time being. In the
heavy silence that followed, Scully became conscious of the
throb at her hip. It was a sting of forewarning that made her
glance around the room.
"Do we have a first-aid kit for tonight? If so, I'd like to
check what's in it."
"Uh, right over there." Cricket threw a look over her
shoulder, which Scully interpreted as mild disapproval. "Tusk
already made up a bagful of stuff he thought we might need."
The kit was, in fact, an amalgamation of trauma, burn, search-
and-rescue, and surgical supplies. Tabbing carefully through,
Scully found suture packs and scalpel, tweezers, forceps, a
hemostat clamp, cervical collar, CPR mouthpiece, watergel
dressings, ammonia ampoules, anti-microbial wipes, rope, and a
blanket -- besides the usual first-aid kit accoutrements.
Strapped to the pack's bottom was a roll stretcher.
"It looks like he's covered the contingencies fairly well,"
Scully pronounced with a critical eye. "We should take two of
everything, if you have it, in separate packs."
"What for?"
Scully stared at her in surprise. Last night's medical
emergency had already become a dim memory to some people.
"Insurance. Common sense, in case the two groups become
separated for any reason and someone gets hurt," she said with
bluntness. "And, because we're not certain what condition
we'll find your brother and Amanda in. It may not be what
we're expecting -- or be very pretty."
The girl's back stiffened. It crossed Scully's mind that
Cricket was either pre-menstrual or simply moody and difficult
by nature. Or buried in deep denial.
"Do you understand?" She leaned closer, trying to smooth her
tone with as much tenderness as she could muster. "As much as
we all want a rescue with a happy ending... that might not be
the case."
"Hey! If you can't be any more optimistic, why don't you
fucking put a plug in it or leave?"
The short hair at the back of Cricket's neck seemed dark and
silky, like a kitten's soft underbelly. Such a contrast to
the angry moussed spikes that sprouted from the top and sides
of her head, the armored response of a young woman bruised by
life and protecting herself at all costs from its unfairness.
And one who now bristled with misplaced resentment and struck
back from fear that the illusions she clung to and hoped for
might leave her floundering.
"Cricket? I'm not trying to discourage you or dwell on the
negative, but we also have to be realistic here. I'm simply
pointing out that five years is a long time for Stefan to
endure the kind of treatment we suspect he's been subjected
to. Even five days, in Amanda's case. The human body is
resilient and amazingly durable, and the will to survive an
almost mystical phenomenon. But as a doctor and as a
pathologist I've seen what types of damage the body can
withstand -- and also what it can't."
Scully reached out to still the girl's nervous energy and
corral her attention, but Cricket pulled away. Her hands
fidgeted, two birds anxious for flight, and her words struck
out like pecks of anger.
"What should it matter to you? It's just another *FBI* case
to solve, maybe another stiff to slice up. Another notch on
your -- "
"You know it's more involved than that. This kind of bullshit
attitude isn't helping our cause."
"So what the hell do you want from me?"
"Shall I get specific? Studying that map out there is all
well and good. So is the 'AMEX' we'll carry. But I want --
no, we *need* you to be mentally and emotionally prepared for
what you may encounter in a few hours, so we don't have
another repeat of what happened last night."
At that, the girl's face crumpled again. Her eyes glittered
and rolled from hurt and shame, suggestive of a flashlight
beam's futile flailing in darkness.
Almost equally stunned, Scully found her hand reaching for
Cricket's narrow face in an effort to soften the blow and
clarify the motivation behind her words.
"Listen to me, please. I'm sorry any of this had to be
dredged up. I've grown to care about you and what you're
going through, Cricket. But we're heading into the lion's den
tonight. The injustice and terrible cruelty, the evil that's
been perpetuated through an ongoing conspiracy at the expense
of innocent victims must be stopped. People are missing; they
need rescue. For that to happen we have to be properly
psyched and all on the same page. Do you hear what I'm
saying?"
Cricket gave an imperceptible nod, as if any larger movement
might shatter her ragged self-control. It did anyway.
"I've always counted on him being all right," she whispered as
a few wayward tears slipped down to frame her face. "I don't
know what I'd do if he ended up like... like those others...
like last night..."
"That's why we think positive -- but we also have to be
prepared to deal with a worst-case scenario. Are we strong
enough to face that together? Are you?"
They regarded one another for several moments while the
tension that had crystallized between them slowly melted,
leaving Cricket a wilted, yielding flower, thorns gone soft.
Wiping her face on a sleeve, the girl shuddered out a breath
and squeezed Scully's arm Toskala-style, in a gesture of
thanks and concurrence.
************
Union Street alley
3:50 PM
There was no window or easy access at the rear of the tattoo
parlor. Just a double-locked door with a sign declaring
"Private, Employees Only." Mulder tried the handle with
vigor, finally resorting to kicking the door several times in
frustration when it wouldn't budge. No side entrance, no
skylight, not even a butt-crack of space for rats to wiggle
through.
He pivoted, hands on hips, to scan his surroundings.
From a short distance away, the skinny kid with the apron and
orangy hair was your average teenage busboy tossing a trash
bag into the dumpster behind the bar. But when he began his
approach toward Mulder his eyes bulged out and his freckled
cheeks pooched. He looked like a goldfish out of water,
sucking in enough oxygen to stay conscious and still propel
himself forward.
"Don't blow my cover; I'm the original backdoor man," Mulder
joked to him, "in case you're wondering what the deal is."
"H-here... sir." A trembling hand proffered the piece of
paper. He ogled Mulder's midriff area, mouth agape.
"What's this, special delivery? You got a name?"
The kid swallowed hard.
"Hey, I asked you a question."
"It's J-Joey."
Mulder snatched the folded paper, eyeing the dubious courier
with suspicion before realizing his holstered weapon had
probably become visible through the gap in his coat. He
yanked both lapels together. "So, Mr. Joey, who saddled you
with this hazardous assignment?"
"No-nobody," Joey mumbled, turning to flee.
"Wait right there, Bud; I'm not finished with you."
Blocking the path of retreat as Joey's knees wobbled, Mulder
opened the paper. He read the same heavy lines twice and then
determined the intent wasn't ransom, but expediency. He
checked his watch and read the note again, slowly, reminded
that Scully was somehow, in whatever capacity, so deeply
involved while undercover that a certain faction out there
believed her dead -- as another one sought to cloak and
protect her.
Someone was also tracking his every movement. Who were these
people and from which group? What part in it did this 'Mason'
play? How the hell had Scully gotten caught up in all this in
the first place?
"Sonuvabitch," he muttered, committing the printed words to
memory.
So many damned questions plagued him... and patience wasn't
one of his strongest suits when he calculated from the note
the number of hours he had to kill before he'd get a decent
answer to anything.
"Okay, delivery boy!" Mulder increased his bluster and for
the third time that day flashed his badge. "I don't want crap
from you. Just the truth or we're goin' downtown. Is this
'nobody' waiting inside that bar for an answer from me? Or
not?"
In abject misery Joey screwed his eyes shut and shook his
sallow mop. Detaining him would be counterproductive, Mulder
realized. He went ahead and let the kid dash away, convinced
that at any moment he'd either blubber or wet his jeans right
there in the alley.
**********
Super 8 Motel
4:15 PM
The car was different, but as soon as the man got out and
slammed the door Glenn recognized him. Mulder the FBI
partner, Dana's other cardkey that stayed over. Once inside
the check-in office, he aimed for the desk with quick,
purposeful strides and a gleam in his eyes that dared anyone
to try and cross him.
"You must be Glenn." He said it accusingly.
Glenn gave his scalp a sneaky scratch. "Hey, you're an early
bird," he observed, indicating the clock that hung nearby.
The comment, he noticed, didn't sit well with the agent. He
looked as though he'd taken a mouthful of something nasty and
needed to spit it out quick. "Let's see your ID."
Glenn gamely pulled out his driver's license, added a credit
card, and jerked a thumb back at the framed document on the
wall that verified his motel manager status. "Goin' on eleven
years now," he added. "Is that enough proof for you? You
want some coffee?"
"I want some answers. You know what about."
Interrogation tactics, like the cop shows Glenn devoured on
TV, with only the stark gray room and bare bulb dangling over
his own head missing. The FBI agent watched his reactions
like a hawk ready to dive in for a strike.
"Well... I know a certain 'who', if that's what you mean?"
Mulder slid an unfolded piece of paper across the desk, daring
him to pick it up. Glenn opted not to, but leaned forward to
pick out the words:
DANA WILL PHONE SUPER-8
6 PM TONIGHT. CRITICAL YOU
TALK TO GLENN -- NOBODY ELSE!
"Yup. That reads about right to me," he said, pushing it back
poker-faced. "It'll be comin' through on my cell, though."
"You mind telling me who wrote this?"
Glenn's scalp woke up hours ago and now "the itch" had resumed
with a vengeance. Another long restless night stretched ahead
of him. If he was fated to scratch like a chimpanzee and look
like an unwashed fool with Dana's protective partner for
company he'd just have to see it through.
Suddenly a Lookie-Lou pulled into the lot. Purring past the
office and burnt motel annex, it idled with indecision. Both
men turned their heads to follow its progress.
"Y'know, this really isn't a good place to talk. But tell you
what I'm gonna do," he offered. "I'll give my night manager a
call to see if he can come in extra early. Then we can hole
up over at my place for as long as it takes tonight. I've got
a suite right at the end of the property here."
"As long as it takes for a certain incoming call, is that what
you mean?"
"And anything else that's gonna happen."
"Explain," said Mulder through tight lips.
Looking into the agent's strained face, Glenn saw how the
events of last night had ravaged him. And no wonder: slumped
in grief before the fire and gutted room, believing the very
worst had happened until Mason showed up out of the blue with
the cell phone. And who knew what else he had to deal with
since then...?
Even now, still left dangling, frustration was eating at
Mulder to where he seemed unmindfully determined to chew up
his lower lip.
"I don't know too much more than you do," confessed Glenn in a
rush of sympathy. "I'm just a guy with a phone who got caught
in the middle of something. Not sure what it is..." He
scratched and chuckled at his own expense. "But it sure must
be a doozy because my damn head hasn't let up for days."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I got the 'itch', that's what."
"But no snow to show for it." The agent pointed at Glenn's
shoulder. "Happen often?"
"Itches like a mother, mostly when somethin' awful or weird is
about to happen. Yeah, you probably think that sounds crazy,
like everybody else does. Or that a good old shampoo'll take
care of it. But nothing helps this."
Mulder eyed him, a strange light in his eyes. "When did it
first start?"
"Off and on about a week ago; really bad since yesterday,
before the, uh, fire."
"Originally."
"You mean *really* start? Oh," shrugging, "I guess I was about
twelve or so."
"Right around puberty is characteristic. I'm betting someone
else in your family -- father or mother -- had been
experiencing something similar."
"Could be."
"And then something devastating and unexpected occurred, after
which the itching sensation diminished before it went away...
until the next time."
"The coal mine caved in," Glenn whispered, taken aback. "Over
to Millfield in '70. Five men dead."
"There are certain schools of paranormal thought that identify
unexplained hypersensitivity in the body as a 'Miasm', but I
don't give their theories much credence because of excessively
Freudian overtones that feed and support what amounts to
medical quackery."
Mulder leaned toward him with intentness.
"But I believe in the phenomenon of psychic sense, in
supernatural giftedness, in the receipt of cosmic energy. The
ability of certain individuals to receive a warning, a cue or
premonition of what's to come, which is sometimes manifested
by or triggers an uncontrollable itching or an overwhelming
feeling of anxiety."
Glenn stared back, mesmerized.
"Like barometers, these people sense when something terrible
is going to occur," Mulder murmured. "Generally misunderstood
or dismissed, this ability can be passed down from one
generation to another."
"My dad and grandpa both, before me," said Glenn. His eyes
began to water.
A cluster of newcomers entered the office, cleaving the
whisper-still air with their joviality and bustle.
The Lookie-Lous; Glenn had forgotten they were out there.
They smelled of liquor and pointed out through the window,
chatting loudly about faulty smoke detectors, safety, and
their expectation of a discounted room rate. Several others
waited out in the car. A group of five or six adults for the
night probably meant two rooms -- maybe three, if they were
couples and inebriated to boot.
Feeling strangely vindicated and euphoric to the point of
overload, Glenn galvanized himself to action.
"Whew! You know, you're the first one who's ever--" He
scratched vigorously and felt a loopy smile crease his face.
"Listen, lemme call my night manager quick, before I get
started with these folks, okay? Then when Jaime gets here,
you and me can put out heads together about what's really
going on. And what it all has to do with a certain, mutual
friend."
Mulder blinked, his nostrils flaring over a set jaw as his
head turned toward the blackened room across the parking lot.
Then he nodded to Glenn, crushed the note into his fist, and
stepped away from the counter to wait.
************
End of Chapter 18
Continued in Chapter 19
************
Chapter 19
************
Super 8 Motel, Hocking, Ohio
March 16, 2001
4:40 PM
The fifteen-minute delay at the check-in office had diluted
some of Mulder's impatience. He was determined to learn as
much as he could from Glenn's perspective, since the Super 8
seemed to be ground zero for events affecting Scully.
The apartment had a lair-like quality, with low lighting, dark
curtains, and furniture with an industrial-strength welded
look. Above a well-organized computer workstation, maps of
the Hocking area and old newspaper photos pockmarked the
walls. Some were riddled with comments in black marker, while
others had yellowed with age. All were related to tragic
events that must have triggered Glenn's proclivity to "itch"
and spanned at least thirty-five years.
"I don't suppose you show this to hot dates," Mulder said,
inspecting briefly.
Glenn shook his head and then tucked his chin as Mulder eased
to a slow crouch next to the bookcase. Videotapes, labeled
and otherwise, lined the shelves near the VCR. "If I take a
gander would that be too incriminating?"
"They're not all mine," mumbled Glenn, looking uncomfortable.
"That's my usual line of defense, and Scully hasn't bought it
yet. So where is she, Glenn? Where's Agent Scully hiding
out?"
"They didn't tell me. She's okay, though."
"Don't insult my intelligence. I've had a rough day and don't
need anybody's bullshit. Spill: is she with this guy Mason?
And where?"
"I don't know. I think *he's* with a group that sorta lives
together outside of town, out in the country."
"Any idea where he works?"
"Nope."
"Does the name 'Toskala' ring any bells?"
"Don't think so."
"In regard to the tattoo parlor downtown?"
"Well," Glenn allowed, "he's got plenty of ink on him; you saw
that. And more holes than a tin can in a hunter's camp."
Standing up, Mulder rubbed the tightness from his forehead
with one hand. This wait for that cell phone call would take
every ounce of patience he possessed and Glenn wasn't the
wellspring of information Mulder had thought he'd be.
"Then explain to me how you managed to fit into this picture."
"Like I said, I'm just a guy with a phone who got caught in
the middle. I met Mason the night of the fire; we got to
shooting the breeze after you went home. Then a little while
ago he called saying you'd be over to get a message from Dana
at six. I know it's not much, Agent Mulder, but that's all
she wrote."
The harsh trill of Mulder's cell phone broke the awkward
silence and jerked them both to attention. Pulling it from
his coat pocket, he glanced at the number before answering.
"What's new, Hostetler?"
"Agent Mulder, I wanted to let you know there's been a change
of venue for that meeting I'm required to attend this evening.
Instead of Provost Mellingham's office on the College Green,
the admin wants us all to meet in the conference room at the
Knoll."
"When?"
"The message said there'd be a light supper buffet at six to
tide us over, with the business meeting afterward."
"You still having bad vibes about it?"
"To be honest, no, I feel a lot less apprehensive now."
"Amazing what the prospect of cold-cuts on a Kaiser will do
for the nerves," said Mulder. "Or is it the safety in
numbers?"
"I don't have much of a choice in this," said the Dean with
distaste. "But I'm also going to check in on Val at the
hospital again before heading up. If she's conscious I'll try
to talk to her. See if she remembers any details about the
accident."
Hostetler signed off and Mulder slid the cell back into his
pocket, aware that Glenn was eavesdropping.
"Problem out there?"
"Yeah. Everybody thinks he's detective material or some sort
of psychic these days," muttered Mulder. He glanced up at the
littered wall. "But few can actually lay claim to an ability
like yours -- or have the visual record going back so many
years to support it."
Glenn's shoulder rippled in another lazy shrug. "The itch
mostly clues me in. And after I know something's happening, I
get tips from watching TV. The trick's to stay quiet, in the
background, just like the camera does. You look and listen
until things sort of figure themselves out."
"Like a flea on a dog's back." Mulder pulled off his coat and
threw it over the arm of the couch. "Has anything clued you
in to my partner's whereabouts... and who might've wanted her
dead?"
"I don't talk to anybody 'til I think it out real good. Until
I get a feel for who's safe and who's not, what they're after,
and why."
Mulder's sneer had little energy behind it. "So who made
tonight's safe list?"
"All depends on who they are and what they're--"
"Start with me, Columbo; I must've made the cut."
Glenn tilted his head and squinted thoughtfully. "Well...
You're Dana's long-time FBI partner and friend. *And* a whole
lot friendlier than your average agents behind closed doors,
I'd guess."
"Who says?"
"Well, she wasn't passin' out her keycards to just anybody
who'd want one. Otherwise I mighta been first in line."
"Hey, watch it," cautioned Mulder sharply.
"Uh... She tried to keep it pretty much between you and her.
I went and stuck my foot in my mouth, saying how I knew you'd
stayed in her room, and her cheeks got about as red as her
hair... "
Mulder knew that rosy blush of Scully's intimately, the gentle
bloom that touched her cheekbones and crept around to meet and
kiss her full upper lip. Not to mention the post-orgasmic
flush only he was privy to that gave the pale skin over her
breasts and belly a pink, sunburned glow...
He felt another sharp pang of urgency. "Skip it and keep
going."
Glenn ambled over to his window and looked out. He had, Mulder
noticed, a country-mouse's gift for the understated when it
came to topics overtly paranormal or investigative in nature.
"The itch was keeping me edgy, so I knew something was up.
You thought for a while the other night that she'd been
killed," he continued. "That did a real number on you. See,
I watched. I saw everything that happened, right over
there... " He pointed into the brightly-lit parking lot.
"Yup, right down to that Mason guy sneaking you his cell
phone. So, when you perked up and tried not to let on, I
figured that Dana was okay somewhere. I almost talked to you
myself right about then. To clue you in."
"Why didn't you?"
"First off, I didn't know Mason. Didn't really make his
acquaintance, so to speak, 'til afterwards, so I held back.
I mention his name only because you know it, otherwise I don't
give 'em out. You talked to him last night and so did your
college friend. Mason's good people when you get past the
weird."
"What weird is that?" Mulder deadpanned.
"Come on, the tattoos and all that metal piercing... Hey,
don't be pullin' my leg about him. And that other guy who was
with you?"
"The Dean of Students I just spoke to, Dave Hostetler."
"Well, I saw Mason had to distract him away, so he wasn't a
safe bet. All I could think was, for whatever reason somebody
tried to murder an FBI agent in room One-twenty-three in my
motel, while other folks were busy keepin' her safe under the
radar. I sure wasn't gonna let the cat outta the bag to the
wrong people."
"What cat is that?"
Glenn scratched and considered. "That Dana and her car never
came home that night. But somebody's out there, thinking for
sure they've burned up the both of 'em. And somebody else out
there is hell-bent on keeping her safe."
"Then who actually died in her room?"
They stared at one another in the quiet evening, a few traffic
noises filtering in from Richland Avenue.
"I think it was Yolanda, my night maid," Glenn said finally.
"It's a pitiful thing, being in the wrong place at the
absolutely worst wrong time, and she sure was. Life can be
like that: sometimes we're just sitting ducks, not knowing
there's a honkin' big shotgun out there fixing to pick us off.
Most people never even know what's gonna hit them right out of
the blue."
"Tell me about it," Mulder agreed, while the clock ticked and
Glenn's map of tragedy on the wall bore silent witness.
************
The Knoll complex
4:45 PM
The whisperer moved like a ghost through a subterranean
passageway, biding his time.
Years ago he'd found these boarded up doors, crumbled stone
steps, rusty hinges and hidey-holes. Some yawned wide, others
were barely big enough for a rat. They led to more tunnels,
to deeper avenues, to burrows of womb-like silence.
Darkness had made his senses acute. He hid himself there when
he could slip away, like the rats did. He followed their
furtive example to become one with them, their brother. A
*veli* to rats and moles.
He chortled to himself in the darkness and waited. Sanity had
become an honored guest in these dark vaults, a white rabbit
he craved after its first visit to him years ago.
It had rushed in unexpectedly, with no explanation. But over
time the whisperer had laid in wait, strong-arming it for
longer periods of time, extracting what he could to repair the
inner damage done to him.
When lucidity tried to elude him, he'd learned to grip it by
the scruff. To not let go until he'd performed certain mental
exercises in his mind. Until he could literally taste his own
cunning, like renewed blood in his mouth, before he let it
vanish into oblivion again.
Here he felt at one with the rats, moles, and creatures of the
dark. The downtrodden and forgotten. Slinking from one
peephole to another above and below the labs he watched
everyone. He knew every awful thing they did, from the bad to
the terrible to the gut-wrenchingly hideous.
He no longer wept over the unspeakable tortures he saw and
heard. Only in these deep, dark recesses could he ever show
his true feelings. Never out in the lights.
In the lights he was docile, detached. He'd taught himself to
be Pavlov's dog, to bow-wow and kowtow. No expression.
Uncomplaining, he did their dirty work, because the punishment
hanging over his head was unthinkable.
When opportunity presented, he slunk into the tunnels for
respite. And all the while he knew that eventually his
*isoveli* would rescue him.
In the meantime he folded laundry, washed equipment. A
literal slave, he mopped up blood and snot-like gore. He
bagged corpses no one wanted to touch. And he whispered a
mother-language of comfort over the suffering ones, which was
worth all the other nasty business put together.
He did other people's work too, like the guard Raskin's.
Slacker with his soft belly and down-turned mouth... "Hey, do
this, Whisperer," he'd whine, "I can't abide touchin' shit
like this. Do that, and I'll let you wander off for a spell.
But go too far, I'll set Mr. Krieg on your ass, you loony
fucker!"
On occasion, a suffering test subject would slip away under
the whisperer's guidance. He warned each of them of the
consequences and feared to follow behind. He'd seen too many
of them hauled back, snuffed and discarded. Thrown into
unmarked graves...
"Hey! Get back here, you whisperin' bastard!" Raskin barked
again, his loud whisper harsh with phlegm and stinking of
fear. "Where the devil are you? Get on back here if you know
what's good for you!"
No, he would wait for his family, for big *veli* and little
*sisar* to come rescue him. No matter how long it took, it
was better that he pass the time a long-haired underground
flinching drone singing crazy songs to the weak, the doomed,
and the dying.
The whisperer moved like a ghost through the subterranean
passageway. He adjusted his glasses and composed his features
as he headed back toward the eerie lights and whirring fans of
the laboratories...
************
Super 8 Motel
5:00 PM
The stillness of Glenn's apartment was rent by a sudden and
strident series of chirps from his cell. Both men threw
puzzled glances at the wall clock, at each other, and finally
at the buzzing mobile phone vibrating across the desk.
Glenn put it to his ear with hesitation. "Uh, this is Glenn,
and you're way early. Huh?"
His features shifted, registering surprise. He nodded once,
twice. Then he blinked and murmured, "Sure thing," before
handing the phone over to Mulder, who snapped it up.
"Scully, is that you?"
A voice rumbled, "She's right here next to me."
"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder. Who is this, Mason?"
"Not this time," said the deep voice.
Mulder made a hefty stab into the dark. "Then, Risto Toskala,
I presume?"
"Dana told me you might figure that out on your own, and I
said no way in hell. Turns out the lady's right again."
"Then hand the lady the damn phone."
"Short and sweet."
His hackles already bristling from the flagrant and arrogant
familiarity, Mulder bit back a snarl. Noise waffled through
the airwaves, like a hand masking the receiver. Then Scully's
clear voice filled his ear, dispelling his misgivings.
"Mulder?" He closed his eyes, drinking her in, letting the
sound percolate throughout his body like a soothing elixir.
"Mulder?" Concern sharpened her tone. "Are you all right?"
"I am now that I hear your voice. Otherwise I'm feeling
slightly fucked-over. How about you?"
"Managing. I'm sorry I haven't been more communicative since
last night. Circumstances are... extenuating."
"Because of this Risto Toskala you're with?"
"No. And he goes by the name of Tusk."
"*Tusk*? Let me guess how he earned that nickname. He'd have
to bear a striking resemblance to, say, Jimmy Durante... or
maybe Ron Jeremy?"
"I'm going to ignore that, Mulder. Actually, I thought you
might be pleased and encouraged to hear from me an hour
earlier than arranged."
"I was... I am. But hold on a second, I'm going out for some
privacy."
Mulder rolled his gaze toward Glenn, who'd been hanging onto
his every word, tracking his facial expressions. He picked up
his coat, shrugged it on, and stepped outside with the cell
phone. Frosty air gripped his cheeks as he walked the
pavement, keeping in the shadows. He tempered his emotion by
tiptoeing around the heartaches and disillusionments of the
day, his eyes glued to the peeping stars.
"You still with me, Scully?"
"Of course. Mulder, I realize how frustrating this must be
for you, and I'm sorry."
Her matter-of-fact warmth and steadiness nearly brought tears
to his eyes. "I'm tough. You might like to know things have
been really hopping around here since you went into hiding.
And I'm not talking spring break block parties or because of
what the locals are smoking."
"What's been going on?"
"For starters, Dave Hostetler told me that he and his
secretary have been getting it on pretty regularly. Then last
night she was run off the road and is in the hospital fighting
for her life as we speak."
"I know that too -- and from what I understand he'd been
careless about leaking information to her."
"You mind telling me *how* you know?" he bridled.
"Because we're both working the same case, Mulder. We're just
approaching it from opposing sides, using different contacts."
Unable to think of an appropriate rejoinder, he snapped,
"Well, I could've used you over on my side today. Big time,
in fact."
"What happened?"
He huffed from exasperation, swallowing down his general anger
and personal angst. Wanted Scully's comforting presence
beside him, in the flesh, yet knowing that was impossible
until a later time. Needed to block out everything else but
the two of them, alone, which was the only way he could even
think of sharing with her the penultimate disillusionment and
double-cross of his life.
He'd made it so fucking easy for the other side. Willow in
Hocking now, Piller in California then. Mulder wondered
whether the little sonuvabitch was still alive or six feet
under...
When he blinked the sky marbleized and starlight crawled
overhead in subtle mockery. It wasn't Scully's fault, he
chided himself; she was victim as well, eluding detection in
order to survive.
"Mulder? Please talk to me."
"I don't suppose you're alone now?"
"No. I'm sorry, I'm not." Her emphasis on the last two words
indicated that she shared his vexation. "But please talk
anyway."
"Should I assume you already know that Willow's no longer on
the case? Tell me you didn't know that too."
"No, Mulder, I didn't. But I suspected all along that she was
probably working against you in order to deceive us... and
that in reality she was more imposter than psychic."
He suppressed a tiny sob by turning it into a chuckle.
"She was a lot of things -- a decoy, a plant, a calculating
bitch -- but no imposter where it really counted. We all
underestimated her powers from the beginning. You, me,
Hostetler... everybody. God, Scully..." Her name tumbled over
in his mouth, became a groan. "You simply have no idea."
"Why, what did she do to you?"
"Her job was diversionary. She kept me at bay while someone
else was sabotaging your room, which she did with style, I
might add. At least she didn't turn me into a toad or shrivel
my manhood on a sudden whim."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yeah. I'll feel a whole lot better when we're back together
and can locate where they've taken Amanda Carmichael. She's
no runaway, Scully." He swallowed before saying, "And she's
definitely not hanging out with walk-ins or living in eternal
starlight."
"No," she agreed with conviction, "she's not."
The depth and intensity of his distraction was only now
becoming apparent to him. He'd been the ass following the
psychic carrot that bobbed before him enticingly, right on
cue. And in the meantime... what had happened with Scully?
"Do you have a theory? Do you know something else I don't?"
Scully's voice faded and softened -- a hand over the phone --
and he heard a flurry of muffled voices. Verbal wrestling, a
skirmish. Scully, with that gravel-throated, big-dicked
Tusk...
Suddenly she was back, in crystal clarity. "Mulder, I have
something very important to tell you. Please listen to me."
"Jesus, go ahead," he whispered, closing his eyes.
"I'm involved in a highly covert operation tonight.
Essentially, it's a strike force. I may be asking you to call
in the Columbus field office for emergency medical backup in a
few hours, so be ready. That's one reason you're waiting at
the Super 8 with Glenn, as our contact with the outside. And
in case I need you to join me for back up."
Fear struck his heart. "*In case*? Where are you? What's
the objective?"
"To infiltrate and remove a hostage. Hopefully two."
"You *know* where Amanda Carmichael is? You gonna share this
wealth of insider's knowledge any time soon?"
"Please understand it's not a call I can make on my own."
"Horseshit, Scully; I'm not buyin'."
"Mulder... just stay put so you're reachable. I can't stress
enough how important that is. I *will* call you in a few
hours with more information, I promise."
"Put this 'Tusk' on the line and we'll see who calls the shots
around here. Who is this guy, making it his business to
control your movements during a federal investigation and to
monitor our communication?"
He felt her strange uncertainty. "He's become a friend...
with a vested interest. Trust me on this."
"Well, something doesn't add up. What's his connection to
this case other than he's related to Cricket Toskala, who has
no physical address on record besides Wilson Hall?"
"Older brother," she allowed, her voice shrunken to a whisper,
"which is all I can say about it right now, but I promise
you'll learn details soon enough. Everything that's happened
so far relating to this case will begin to make sense then."
In his mind a picture of Glenn's tattered wall rose up before
him and became distinct, complete with maps, picture clusters,
and annotations. He began contemplating the arrangement of
these mementos...
"Maybe some things already do," he said, pivoting on the
asphalt. "You be careful, Scully. Make sure somebody's got
your back every second."
"I'll talk to you soon," were her last words as she hung up.
He began a slow jog toward the manager's apartment, the secret
kernels of a theory beginning to pop inside his head. With
Glenn's help he might be able to put a lot more than two-and-
two together before Scully's next phone call.
************
A field near the Knoll complex
6:30 PM
Scully remembered when her personal vision began shrinking in
scope, narrowing to laser-beam intensity. Though her field
experiences boomeranged from the bowels of the autopsy bay
toward the farthest reaches of space and back again, she felt
a sense of implosion in the atmosphere around her.
The object of her focus was a man she'd been ordered to debunk
and discredit, a man of singular passion, integrity, and
devotion in a maligned basement office. A man who, for good,
ill, or otherwise, began to fill and color her world to the
exclusion of all else.
Like any thriving team, they weathered disruptions to their
symbiotic harmony. Their complementary approaches to casework
evolved into something vital and pure, her rational blue and
his unorthodox yellow creating an emerald that tinged
everything they encountered together.
Over time they'd marked one another indelibly in a figurative
marriage of mind, heart, and soul that few at the Bureau ever
comprehended or valued for what it was.
Now, after long years of partnership and not quite one of
sexual commitment, their lives had become meshed like Frost's
poem of two roads that diverged in a wood. Looking beyond the
fork, she saw there was no question of continuing alone on a
dissimilar path -- or of any existence apart from Mulder.
By rights he should be at her side in this field, waiting to
move forward at the crucial moment. But with little briefing
she knew Mulder could slip into position later, providing
backup, firepower, and additional leadership. She felt in her
bones that any hope for success beneath the Knoll tonight
hinged upon his inclusion.
The phone call at five had been their last communication.
He'd been less than amenable to waiting on the sidelines, and
under the circumstances she couldn't blame him.
But by placing Mulder at a set location with a reliable go-
between and means of communication, Tusk had effectively
delivered as promised. For all his argument to the contrary,
he was a man of his word and had arranged the call an hour
earlier than planned.
Also, the additional first-aid kit he assembled and the
painkiller for her wounded hip bore testimony to his
resourcefulness.
This evening no one dared to light a cigarette, per Tusk's
mandate. No perfume, scented lotions or shampoos, not even
garlic had been allowed in the food. He wanted no pervasive
odor to reveal their presence underground. Of course everyone
exploded in laughter when Mole wondered aloud whether farting
would be an issue, earning him a swat from Tusk across the
back of the head.
Clouds wiped the soiled face of the rising moon as she watched
him make his rounds, encouraging the members of his team
before departure. This routine struck her as both touching
and practical. Once again Tusk was the alpha male, the
general exhorting his troops, the coach pumping up his
players. The family member, father-figure, and close friend,
sharing a belief in their abilities to succeed side-by-side on
a delicate and dangerous operation that was sure to put them
all at risk.
He moved in a slow pecking order as the light withered around
them, the chill wind blew, and the weeds rustled. Needlenose
was first, then Footer, Mole and Mason, and finally Cricket.
All received close attention and physical touch. Heads bobbed
soberly to instruction, smiles flashed, hands and arms clapped
and clutched one another. Most poignant to Scully were the
moments he spent with Cricket: a brother and sister of
disparate ages committed to finding their lost sibling in
spite of danger and personal cost. She saw that Tusk
literally lifted the girl's feet off the ground with the
strength and ferocity of his hug, her slender body nearly
indiscernible.
But the scenario smacked too much of leave-taking and pathos,
rather than a united incursion into enemy territory. Scully
saw that every one of them realized the gravity of this
venture. In case of accident, failure, or mistiming, these
minutes would also serve as their last farewell to one
another.
Watching them interact, her eyes grew unaccountably wet and
her chest tightened. She turned aside to take a furtive dab,
and didn't hear Tusk's approach until he was standing directly
behind her.
His large hand clasped her shoulder with familiarity; he moved
around to face her, his voice deep velvet in the dusk. "Hey,
Dana... you didn't think I'd leave you out, did you?"
"I'm not sure what you think I'd expect, if anything at all.
After arriving this late in the game... "
Looking upward to his face, Scully tried to deduce the motive
behind his question, seeing only that his eyes also glittered
and his expression was one of tender concern.
"There's nothing more to say in the way of strategy," he said
slowly. "Except for one important change I already shared
with the others. Up until now Mason's been my second-in-
command. Even though he's leading the other team in, tonight
I'm depending on you, with your training and backlog of
experience. If something happens to me in there, you take
over, Dana. Make sure everybody gets out in one piece, but
take special care of Cricket. And Stefan, if we find him."
She swallowed. "Of course I'll do that."
"Finally, I don't want you hesitating to call in your partner
on Mason's cell when the situation demands backup. Or use
mine, because I've got the number too. That should brighten
his day."
"As it will mine. I appreciate your willingness to include
Mulder in this operation," she said with sincerity, "because I
haven't been comfortable keeping him so far in the dark, or
being separated under such circumstances..."
"You don't have to tell me that. In any case, do whatever
needs to be done."
"To be honest, I'd feel better if he were here with us now,
starting out. Though you'd probably want to dispute that with
me as a matter of principle."
Tusk smiled, widened his grip on her shoulder, and edged
closer.
"Yeah, I would... and mostly because I like to rock that
little boat of yours. You're fun to dispute with and look hot
as hell when you're mad at me, you know that? You don't back
down, you don't lose focus. And you have no idea what that
does to me..."
A thumb that eluded her peripheral vision began to explore the
underside of her jaw with an erotic tickle. "I happen to love
all those things in a woman. Even better when she's a friend
I respect," he murmured, leaning in.
"A friend," she whispered abruptly, "is all I can be."
His dark eyes searched Scully's for long moments in the waning
light and his thumb stilled. Unconvinced, it took its time
retreating to her shoulder. "No special signal on the
horizon? I can wait. You sure about that?"
"Absolutely sure."
"So... when everything's over and the dust settles... that's
the way it stands. But it's always been your call, Dana."
"Tusk, no." She shook her head, secretly stunned that he'd be
articulating these empty longings to her. "You forget there
was no call to make in the first place."
"I'd hoped things would've turned out... differently. Wishful
thinking, on my part, that you could be persuaded to jump ship
or join me on the edge. After getting a taste of having you
around the house I've been spoiled."
Scully had no ready reply to such frankness. Tusk huffed a
sigh and pinched his lips tight for a few seconds.
"So... reality really does bite. I guess I better learn to
live with it," he mused. "As long as you promise me we stay
friends after this case is over... whenever you happen to
leave Hocking."
Her cheeks grew warm under his steady, almost sorrowful gaze
and she raised her chin toward him. "I can live with that."
"You mean it? Okay, in that case... I can hear it now." He
chuckled, soft and low, one of his hands moving comfortably
again to cup the back of her head. "Mulder dissing all over
me if I ever try to make contact with you. Demanding 'Why the
fuck's this asshole with the shaved head, the tattoos, and the
weird name after you again, Dana?' Except he calls you
'Scully' all the time... right?"
Unable to speak, she nodded. Tusk's lips curved into a grin.
"What kind of shit is that? I might have to fly out to our
nation's capitol one of these days and set that dude straight.
Or at least scare him into thinking I'd do it."
An unexpected sound, half-laugh, erupted from Scully's throat.
Her vision blurred again. This time, when Tusk's arms went to
curve around her, muffling all surrounding sights and sounds,
she stepped into his bear-hug embrace and held on, like every
other member of the team had done.
************
End of Chapter 19
Continued in Chapter 20
************
Chapter 20
************
Beneath the Knoll complex, Hocking, Ohio
March 16, 2001
6:10 PM
Ahead of the pack in enthusiasm and spirit, Mole was chosen to
lead the sinuous way underground.
Scully came second, followed by Tusk who hauled one of the
heavy first-aid kits onto his back. The other team consisted
of Cricket, Footer behind her, with Mason hefting the
additional pack and bringing up the rear.
All carried flashlights and wore headlamps, shining from the
centers of their foreheads like third eyes.
Their entry tunnel, beginning in the field, was the same one
taken the previous night toward the cemetery. But at the
underground fork they veered left instead of right, heading
into a different section of tunnel. Rougher and deeper, it
had surprised them to discover this one recorded on Glenn's
ancient map but omitted from the more recent blueprints they'd
studied for months.
"It sneaks right under their radar," Mason had guessed, "and
eludes even their heavy duty security teams."
Scully's gun felt good and right to her, snug in its holster
against her ribs. Tusk had thought to switch her water bottle
carrier to the left hip, sparing the injured right one. Her
remaining AMEX, other than the Maglite, hung from her stomach
in a zippered fanny pack designed to leave her arms and
shoulders free.
"Let the guys carry all the heavy shit," Cricket had whispered
to Scully with characteristic tartness -- and blatant reverse-
sexism. "Makes 'em feel macho. And I sure as hell don't
wanna schlep it, do you?"
Tusk had quite literally shadowed Scully's back ever since the
teams set out, dedicated to helping her over the rough spots.
"Sweet to get the boyfriend's permission," he'd commented with
a teasing wink after she confided to him Mulder's parting
words concerning her safety.
She was grateful for his looming presence, however, when they
reached the first of many obstacles.
"This is where it gets really fun," Mole enthused, climbing
down instead of stepping over. "I'm warning you, the first
step is a doozey."
On the other side lay a three-foot drop, stopping Scully in
her tracks. She breathed in the organic moistness of the air,
feeling the need to cough as its heaviness filled her lungs.
Like sticking one's nose into a pile of raked decaying leaves
or an old flowerpot...
With Mole below and Tusk above, they eased her downward into
the yawning blackness, mindful of her wound. Once her feet
touched ground, she moved forward carefully, Tusk at her back,
so the rest of the vadders could follow.
The same thing occurred several more times, with chasms of
varying height and distance. Exhilarating for everyone, from
the reaction, except Scully.
"Hold up!" said Mole in a husky whisper. "Looks like there's
another one up ahead, then a short wooden staircase after it.
Let me check it out first, see if it's rotten or not. If it
can't hold all our weight, we rappel down..."
Scully groaned and stood with the others, waiting for Mole's
recon and report. Muddy darkness enveloped him as his small
beams of light bounced far ahead.
Could her wound take the stress of rappelling? With enough
drugs, the injury felt practically non-existent. But without
adequate pain receptors she could agitate, even rip out
stitches before knowing what damage she'd done to herself.
Elasticity came with healing, not by movement that tugged at
the tender edges Tusk had so carefully sewn together.
Positioned behind her as they waited, he must have sensed her
apprehension. She felt warmth radiating from his inner
furnace, welcome in the damp, dark chill of the underground.
From behind, a sandpaper cheek brushed hers, followed by his
hot breath fanning her ear. Reminiscent of innumerable
languid nights spent with Mulder, it sent a flutter to her
belly.
"Dana, how you doing so far?"
Sound was amplified in such close, dark quarters. "I don't
know how much these stitches can take," she muttered, turning
her head toward him. "Topography this extreme didn't show up
on any of the blueprints."
"Sssh! You pay attention to that hip and let me help you with
everything else. I've got more of those meds right here in
case you need 'em."
"We're in luck," panted Mole. "The steps aren't too bad and
then things even out. Air quality's adequate. We can split
on the other side as planned. Tusk's group to the old
hospital wing, Mason's to look for test labs under the Knoll
here."
Mole grinned like a kid at Christmas, bolstering their
spirits. Flashlights trembled in place, a trail of monster
fireflies waiting to swarm into the blackness. "Sounds good
to me," said Tusk.
"Hang in there, Dana," said Mole, patting Scully's arm. "This
like anything you've done before?"
The question was almost laughable when she considered how many
basements, ventilation shafts, and crawl spaces she and Mulder
had navigated over the years.
On hands and knees beside her drooling partner, with a white-
faced menace materializing from the shadows. They'd traversed
underground hallways lined with medical files in West
Virginia. Plumbed the depths of a North Dakota missile silo.
Tumbled into a Mothman's lair in Florida. Another cellar and
she shot down rotting corpses bent on ushering in an
apocalypse. Their last cave exploration involved an
hallucinogenic near-miss nightmare of digestive proportions.
"You could say I've had my share of experience underground,"
she said dryly.
"All right, let's hit it, people," called Tusk.
They pressed onward into the darkness and in a short time had
attained the crossroads that would split the two teams for
exploratory purposes. A brief consultation, quick farewells
all around, and Tusk directed his team toward the old hospital
and mortuary buildings.
While Mole plowed ahead, Scully trudged in front of Tusk,
slowing their pace. Her wound had begun to quietly throb, but
the analgesic was sufficient and she didn't dwell on it.
Instead she recollected what she could of the maps and
blueprints, comparing their similarities, differences, and the
dangers relative to each.
"Are you positive," she asked after several minutes of travel,
"that separating the two teams was the best way to go?"
"It saves time if one group vads under the Knoll while the
other pushes over to the outbuildings. Why?"
"Truth told, I'd prefer to see us as one united front rather
than two smaller groups separated by this much distance.
Especially since we're not sure what we'll ultimately find in
here."
"We know what we'll find."
"But not who, specifically... and in what condition."
"Hold up, Mole!"
At Tusk's husky command, the Maglite beam bouncing far ahead
came to a halt. Tusk turned Scully to face him, pinning her
with a stern eye and the cyclopean beam of his headlamp.
"Okay, Dana, what's the beef here?"
"Just that, as a theoretic second-in-command I might want to
know the rationale behind a decision, in case something's been
overlooked or could use correction."
"I told you the reason: to cover more ground and save time."
"That makes sense to a point. Maybe I'm also curious as to
why you sent Cricket's team under the main building where it
can spin its wheels, while we press on toward the target. She
should be right here with you, not me. Instead, you're
protecting her again."
Tusk scowled. "How I deal with my sister is my own business."
"You put me at risk, it becomes my business too. Shielding
her isn't a solution. She's not the little girl you raised
from childhood through adolescence anymore, she's a young
woman and one of the team."
"I'm warning you, this is *not* a good time to piss me off,"
he whispered, leaning toward her with hands on hips.
"Then lose the attitude! I imagine you've also neglected to
tell Cricket that her friend Valerie has been victimized."
"She doesn't need to know everything."
"It's information she can handle without falling apart."
"My call," he growled.
"And all the while you were safeguarding her stress level, did
you even think to prepare her for the sort of disappointment
she might very well encounter tonight?"
Tusk's eyes glittered like flint, but he said nothing.
"I thought not," Scully said curtly, "so I took the liberty
while you were in town."
She went to turn away, but Tusk's hand gripped her upper arm.
"I told you once before to run that kind of shit by me first!
I know my sister better than anyone--"
A finger to her lips, she flashed him the universal sign for
quiet, as their voices had risen noticeably in volume.
"And I'm qualified to know more than you about the strength of
women under pressure," she countered in a harsh whisper.
"Don't use gross over-protection as your rationale for keeping
Cricket safely under your thumb, because she deserves better."
Some of the fire left Tusk's eyes, but she could see by his
set jaw and heavy breathing that he loathed her intrusion onto
his personal turf. "Is this payback for the other night?"
She frowned in disdain. "I don't operate that way."
"Well, I just want what's best for Cricket."
"Then don't shoulder all of the burden yourself," she added
with more kindness, curving her hand over the iron fingers
that still held her fast. "Tusk, I know what I'm talking
about. There comes a time when it's better, it's healthier to
let some of it go."
************
Putnam University campus
6:15 PM
For Mulder, what began as wasted time at the Super 8 became an
investigative journey with a fresh objective.
"They're called 'mobile phones' for a reason, Glenn," pointed
out Mulder. "If you want to stay with your cell I suggest you
haul your keister into this car right now -- and bring a
flashlight with you."
Under keen questioning Glenn surrendered information in fits
and starts until new facts about his talk with Mason surfaced.
These lent insight to Mulder's phone conversation with Scully
and finally prompted a visit to what he felt would be the
initial crime scene in the disappearance of Amanda Carmichael.
"A pattern's emerging, now that I have the bigger picture," he
explained to a bemused Glenn as he drove them toward campus.
"According to the map and commentary on your wall, activity's
amped up within the last five years, yet there's been little
in the way of news coverage to support it. Instead, you've
handwritten personal observations when you felt an itch
start."
"I call 'em as I feel 'em."
"Give me more history, some background to chew on." Mulder
glanced over at the box Glenn held on his lap and pointed.
"Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind another one of those
donuts over there."
"Spudnuts. Not bad for day-olds, huh?" He selected a glazed
and a blueberry and handed them over to Mulder.
"Fill me in."
"Well... you already know the Knoll started out as the one of
those late-eighteen hundreds progressive loony bins. The
finest shrinks with the newest ideas on how to treat the
insane. But I don't think anybody really knew what was
happening on the inside. Hell, I used to hear 'em myself."
"The patients?"
Glenn nodded glumly, swallowing his donut with a hard gulp.
"The inmates, yeah. I grew up right near that place, on the
edge of town. It was at night that the screaming started.
People yelling for help, for anybody to get 'em the hell out
of there."
"That kind of behavior's common in institutions and nursing
homes," said Mulder. "I do the same thing when the hospital
nurse comes at me with an enema syringe. It's usually the
nature of the care."
Unless there were wrist restraints and opened hospital windows
involved, with a man-turned-monster-insect snickering and
scritching its way across the ceiling. He'd yelled himself
hoarse for Scully, for anybody, to come kill the repulsive
thing before it dropped onto his bed and got him in the neck--
"With some notable exceptions," he qualified.
"Well, after those miners died when I was a boy? A few of
their widows couldn't handle the grief and were admitted up
there."
"What happened?"
"The story goes, the first one died after a round of shock
treatments. Fried her brain. The other was lobotomized
without her family's consent and then shit really did hit the
ol' fan. Several doctors got the boot over that one. But
that didn't make the screaming stop..."
Their discussion and his recollections brought Scully to the
forefront in Mulder's mind. Because of what he'd learned
tonight, her present activities weighed heavily. He squinted
out into the dusk, scanning the hills toward the Knoll while
he gripped the steering wheel. "Keep it coming."
"Upkeep got to be more than the state was willing to pay, the
place being a national historical site. So rather than pour
taxpayers money into a black hole, they built a brand spanking
new facility outside of town for the mentally ill."
"And to shake off the stigma, I'll bet."
"The university sure jumped to get its hands on that old
property. They bought it about five years ago and converted
it to campus offices and an art museum."
"A place you suggested to my partner that she check out, when
you knew things weren't quite 'kosher' up there," Mulder said
with disgust. "After which the shit hit the fan when her
motel room was targeted and she was forced undercover."
"Well, I figured it'd be a helpful tip to somebody in the
FBI... and she sure seemed to perk up over it."
"Just like our friend Mason 'perked up' when you showed him
that blueprint belonging to your grandfather. I'll wager his
interest went a lot *deeper* than architectural or historical
memorabilia, if you get my pun."
"It was really for him to pass on to Dana," Glenn muttered
with an awkward shrug. He looked out the passenger window and
sighed.
"According to the record on your apartment wall your itching
occurrences didn't just continue -- they actually increased
with the university takeover."
"Yup, That's true. And all this week it's gotten worse."
"So what does that tell us, Glenn?" Mulder stared at him.
"It tells us something's pretty damn rotten up at the Knoll,
and that's right where Scully's headed tonight with her new
compatriots. Mason and somebody called Tusk."
Mulder eased up on the gas and took a left turn off the
highway. He steered the car into the Wilson Hall parking
area, under the same trees from which he first saw Willow Wind
Nightingale in action.
Though it seemed so long ago, his stomach made a sour clench.
He shook his head, like someone short on sleep, to expunge the
woman's image from his brain and the harm she'd intended him.
"There's a closed administrative meeting at the Knoll tonight
according to the Dean of Students," he continued, "so
attendance is restricted there. I think it's an intimidation
ploy aimed at a select few, which means full-blown security.
Maybe even as far out as the gate."
He had no intention of mentioning the words "Syndicate,"
"Consortium," or "Conspiracy" in Glenn's hearing.
"So how're they gonna get in? Dana and her friends..."
"I'm betting," mused Mulder as they exited the car, "they
don't plan on using the front door. Or even the back or side
doors. You got the cell and your flashlight?"
"Yeah."
"Then follow me."
The snack machine, intended for both dorms, still hugged the
wall near the back of Treudley Hall. Everything appeared
identical to the way it had several days before when Mulder,
with Hostetler at his heels, had examined the area. The ash
can for smoking students remained, as did the trash bin and
the benches. Old garden growth, melted out from the drifts of
winter, trembled in the cool dusky breeze.
Willow, he remembered, had conveniently drawn his attention to
an upstairs window that day, curtailing their search.
"What're we looking for?" Glenn, unlike the Dean, was a more
willing participant to intrigue. He clicked on the heavy-duty
flashlight he'd brought and looked to Mulder for direction.
"A door, a grate, anything to indicate an underground
entryway."
"You think that's how Dana's getting into the Knoll tonight?"
"Sharp boy. I'd bet the bank on it. Every institution has a
network of utility tunnels beneath it, for steam heating lines
and to conceal electric and telephone cables. I'd also bet
that's how a student named Amanda Carmichael went missing in
the early morning hours of exam week."
Re-energized, they combed the sidewalks, brush, and cobbled
edges of the common area. Glenn walked to the snack machine.
He perused it long enough to check his pockets for loose
change, and then followed his beam around the building's
corner where deep shadow fell.
"Agent Mulder? Come look at this."
He held back the shrubbery. About ten feet beyond, their twin
beams illuminated a small metal door at ground level, rusty
with age. A man could fit through it if he hunched down or
squatted. Or two men single file, Mulder guessed, with an
unconscious young woman slung between them.
Footprints and scrapes marred the cold earth.
Mulder gave the lock a fruitless jiggle before reaching for
his gun. "Stand back," he ordered Glenn. One quick, loud
report was all it took for the lock to disintegrate and the
door to gape ajar.
He leaned head and shoulders into the black interior and
fanned his light, a tinny, muffled echo in his ears.
"Looks like pay dirt to me. You game?"
Glenn nodded, his eyes gleaming like saucers.
"Then let's make like a pair of sewer rats and stick our noses
where they don't belong."
************
The Knoll complex, main building
6:30 PM
Dave Hostetler surveyed the vast antique boardroom, wishing he
could thumb his nose at protocol and strip off his suit coat
and tie for relief.
He was nervous and sweating like a pig again from pressure and
paranoia. Call them premonitions or bad vibes, but he felt
them piling up by the minute.
Consciously he avoided the area near the podium where the big
moderator and his associates held court. Better to stay under
the radar than risk being called into another private meeting.
Plaster on a fake smile, nod, and wander...
He also stalled the inevitable. Linen-skirted buffet tables,
while generous and appetizing, beckoned like forbidden fruit.
More than once the thought crossed his mind that the pasta
salads, breads, platters of layered meats and cream puff
desserts had been tampered with. Not poisoned to kill; that
made no sense. But injected with a mind-altering drug, maybe.
Or truth serum...
What was happening to him? Now he sounded as leery and
bizarre as Fox Mulder. Seeing Valerie Pinkerton in her broken
condition had been damned unnerving.
Wiping his damp forehead, he saw that he wasn't the only
attendee who squirmed under the threat of intimidation and the
unknown.
Several other deans, an associate provost, and one of the vice
presidents displayed varying levels of discomfort at the
proceedings. Smiles seemed plastic over small talk; glances
flickered. Of course, they knew nothing of what Hostetler had
experienced over the last few days concerning Amanda
Carmichael's investigation and the FBI agents. Kidnapping,
attempted murder, and mayhem weren't everyday occurrences in
Hocking.
The thought struck him like a jolt that these men and one
woman were also victims who harbored secrets of their own.
Intimidation, custom-made to keep them quiet and acquiescent,
had made them as fearful as he was.
He fought back panic. The lump in his throat made him
consider risking the wine to dilute his paranoia.
"Please help yourself, sir," said a waiter pleasantly.
"Plates are right over there."
"In a little bit," he replied, returning the smile with a
manufactured one of his own.
A handful of special guests, he noticed, had been ushered in
for the meeting. Several spoke with hushed foreign accents,
some had Asian features, and they clustered together, ignoring
the food. Hostetler thought their ties were knotted too
tightly, their suits too dry-cleaner fresh, as though put on
infrequently or for the sake of appearance.
What part did they play in this strange charade? What power
did the Knoll have over the university -- and why?
His cell trembled, with incoming calls set to vibrate instead
of ringing audibly. He slipped it from his pocket, stepped to
face the wall and whispered. "Yes?"
"Hey, Hostetler," he heard, "what's on the menu tonight?"
"Nothing looks appealing to me right now. Must be nerves."
"I wasn't talking food," Mulder said, mildly out-of-breath.
"Who are the favored few in attendance? Anybody you've seen
before?"
Already his furtive conversation drew attention; several pairs
of eyes swiveled his way.
"I recognize all of the school admin who are present. And
some of the people unconnected to the university I've met
before. That big guy who chairs the meetings and never gives
out his name... he has a sidekick who looks like he could chew
nails and off his own mother. Then there's a group of
foreigners--"
"Sir, cell phone use isn't permitted in this location."
Mulder had disconnected at the fifth word, and Hostetler
tucked his phone away quickly. Pulse racing and his face a
bit warm, he faced the suited man who'd appeared behind his
shoulder. "Sure, but why?"
"By request of the moderator; no explanation is needed."
"Of course, I apologize."
"Feel free to partake of the refreshments. The meeting should
begin shortly."
Hostetler nodded his thanks, wandered toward the laden tables,
and glanced around him. It would be a long tense evening. No
one else was dropping dead, turning sick, or had begun
blathering out their deepest secrets. Everyone seemed
accounted for, that he could see.
Exhaling, he took a gamble by grabbing a dinner plate and a
glass of cabernet. If he needed to contact Agent Mulder or
vomit up poison, he could always use the age-old excuse and
bug out to the restroom.
************
Underground near the Knoll
6:40 PM
The two teams had separated no more than twenty minutes before
Tusk's walkie-talkie crackled to life.
Scully halted beside him while Mole, eager to continue,
wandered a few yards farther. "Go ahead," she heard Tusk
order in low tones that seemed loud in the narrow confines of
the tunnel.
She shifted on her feet and stretched, feeling the cold grip
her toes, ankles, and then travel up her legs. At the same
time her wound gave another mild complaint.
"I think," said Mason, "we were being followed before. No
joke, man."
"What happened?"
"Cricket heard something right after we split up. Then Footer
thought he saw something a few times, like someone trailing
behind us. This is bogus."
Scully exchanged glances with Tusk as the radio crackled in
his hand and the headlamp lent an eerie gleam to his face.
Transmission wasn't as clear as originally hoped, but she
could tell by his expression that Mason's words caused him
concern.
"How long ago?"
"I dunno, ten minutes ago maybe. And there're no labs around
here so far; just a lot of empty utility shit."
"Don't let it get to you, dude. Be steady and keep a good eye
peeled."
"Yeah... But it reminded me of those previews we saw last
week. That creepoid movie coming out this summer called
'Session 9'...?"
"Put a plug in that," Tusk snapped. "Just keep me posted. Is
Cricket okay?"
"Yeah, we're all pretty much all rockin' and rollin'."
"Same here. If you don't find anything soon, call me. Over
and out."
"Gettin' down and dirty, just like we are," said Mole, his
breath cloudy in the low damp temperatures. Now that the
radio was silent he seemed anxious to continue. "We've made
good headway. Should be comin' up on something pretty soon,
I'll bet."
He wandered off again.
"And it's a good time for a water break," said Tusk, pulling
out his bottle. He took a deep swig, his bare head thrown
back, accentuating his height and almost brushing the soil
overhead. Scully noticed he checked his watch before
addressing her for the first time in more than ten minutes.
"So what do you make of what Mason said?"
"I, for one, would rule out malevolent spirits. Rats or loose
soil maybe?"
"Maybe." His gaze dropped lower, focusing on her hips. "Tell
me if you need help unfastening that strap."
"If I want a drink of water, I can manage on my own."
"I was more concerned about how my stitches are holding up. I
should probably check you out, since we have a minute alone
here. Let me have a look."
Her cheeks felt inexplicably warmer in the damp air. "And
here I thought you were upset with me."
"I don't stay pissed at my friends... much. And I'm serious
about the condition of your injury after all this activity.
How does it feel?"
"A little tender, not too bad."
She hiked up her jacket, unstrapped the bottle and fanny pack,
and pulled back on the waistband of her fleece pants and
panties. Tusk knelt and shined his flashlight inside.
Peeling up a corner of the bandage, he made a noise in his
throat. Then he smoothed the edge back down against her skin
with even strokes.
"Leakage, but nothing to get too anxious about yet," he
murmured. "Give a yell if it starts bothering you."
Mole's faint strident wail of "Fuck!" reached their ears a
moment before it was swallowed up by darkness.
They stared at one another, stunned.
"You go," gasped Scully, "and I'll be right behind you."
Nodding, Tusk sprang up, his two beams rioting over the uneven
tunnel walls. With quick hands she strapped on her gear,
jogged ahead, and found him on hands and knees near a ragged
hole in the floor. Warning creaks halted his ginger crawl
forward.
"Talk to me, dude," he called. "How are you?"
"Kind of bunged up my arm," came the muffled reply. "Could be
broken... I don't know, but it fucking hurts. There's wet
tile down here, like some sort of drain." Sounds of
scrabbling reached their ears. "I can see an opening near the
far end. If you keep going you should find a way down..."
"Sit tight, we're on it!"
Tusk lost no time in radioing Mason while they skirted the
hole, hugging the far wall in their descent. At Mason's
insistence, it was decided the second team would about-face,
backtrack, and reunite to lend strength in numbers.
"Don't even say it," he warned Scully, but she was more
focused on Mole's rescue than on being right in the first
place.
They emerged into a dark, cavernous area at the top of a
curving staircase. A junction, it seemed to Scully, where
tunnels of varying heights and levels intersected and
disappeared again into blackness. As before, ventilation
seemed stuffy and organic, but passable.
"Look at that! Like a goddamn subway system," said Tusk,
painting the air with his beam.
"What do you know about subways?"
He glanced back at Scully. "Trust me, I've ventured outside
of Hocking before."
The first metal step took his full weight; it was sound and
the moorings gave little complaint. "All right, we go one at
a time," whispered Tusk. "Dana, you start down when I hit
bottom. Got it?"
When her turn came, Scully took each step on tiptoe, trying
hard not to stress her right side under the bandage, her mind
in analytical mode. More than once it struck her that Mulder
would require a guide to find his way around the pitfalls in
this underground maze. He was familiar with Mason, the likely
choice for the task. Footer could take on the other supply
pack... no, his shoulder wound disallowed that. Cricket then?
A taste of payback for her sexist joking earlier, but they
could always jettison heavier items to lighten her load until
Mason reappeared with Mulder...
Gaining bottom, she picked her way over to the lip of the
drain. Tusk had already hauled the unfortunate Mole up onto
the floor of the open tunnel convergence and had his pack on
the ground, slung and opened like a gutted animal.
"Duuude!" groaned Mole taking in their surroundings, his eyes
wide and starry.
"Some bad bruising and his arm might be broken," Tusk said.
"You check it, Dana."
Bending with care, she confirmed Tusk's assessment by training
her headlamp onto the swollen elbow and upper arm. Mole
whimpered when she traced the irregular contours with her
fingertips. "Fracture of the humerus," she concurred. "He
needs an x-ray as soon as possible."
"Yow, that kills! Sorry I screwed up," lamented their
patient.
"Forget it, dude. Swallow these to cut the pain. Dana, don't
even think about it," Tusk swore, noting her stiffness. "I'll
splint, you stand. Be done here in a jiffy."
True to his word, his hands flew, indicating he'd immobilized
this type of injury more than a few times. Mole gulped pain
pills, then gritted his teeth as Tusk set to work.
A distant thud tickled Scully's senses, filling her with
disquiet as she straightened up. A slide of rock or earth
perhaps, like Mason had reported. Definitely a tread much
heavier than a rat would make.
"Lights out," she hissed with urgency, "I hear something..."
All three doused their lamps and turned their heads toward the
unmistakable sound of footfalls. Scully had instinctively
unfastened her jacket and burrowed her hand to her left side,
fingers skimming the Sig's handle.
"Nobody move!" a rough voice commanded from the darkness.
Light flared. It gushed over them in a blazing, blinding
wave, forcing them to quail and squint into its massive beam.
Hand clenching her concealed weapon, Scully froze obediently
like the others and bided her time.
They blinked at the security guard who advanced toward them.
He gripped a high-powered flashlight in one hand and a Magnum
pistol in the other. Cruelty in his eyes, he snarled and
burned the light into their faces with tortuous delight.
"Look right at me, all of you! Up here! No, AT ME, you
stupid little fuck!" he shouted to the cowering Mole. "You
got no business here, none of you. Now you're all gonna pay
for your little lark. Even you, missy!"
He raised the huge weapon to cover Tusk, his first target.
The hammer cocked ominously and Scully's hand twitched in
readiness. But his gun never fired because the guard flipped
hard to his side, without warning, onto black earth. A fierce
struggle ensued as he strove to sit upright against the power
of an unknown assailant who had ambushed him from the rear.
Scully unholstered her Sig in readiness.
She, like the others, was mesmerized by the battle that
rampaged before her and the relentlessness of the attacker.
Arms and legs flailed and a shaggy head appeared near the
guard's gun hand. He gave a horrific scream of pain and
dropped his weapon. From behind, hands clamped over his mouth
and forehead. Glazed eyes jerked sideways from the quick hard
twist that spelled his doom and he slumped onto his back in a
broken heap.
His massive flashlight dropped and rolled along the ground for
a few yards, plunging them all into near darkness. Then,
silence.
"What the..." Tusk clicked on his lamp and rose from his
crouch, staring transfixed.
"You got cake in your shorts, dude?" babbled Mole, his teeth
chattering from fright and shock. "I swear I came *this*
close--"
Scully shushed him, snapping her flashlight on. Startled, she
saw that Tusk was drifting, advancing with slow certainty
toward the thin strapping figure that had facilitated their
rescue. Despite caution born of experience, she couldn't
quite summon the voice to halt his quaking steps or still his
outstretched hand...
She trained her gaze and both beams on the man.
His dark hair was long and tousled, a smear of blood staining
the corner of his mouth. A cast of week-old growth darkened
his cheeks. He wore eyeglasses and watched Tusk's hesitant
approach, light glinting brightly off the ovals of his lenses
as his head tilted in childlike wonder.
Without warning his pale hands began to tremble and chafe at
the thighs of his earth-stained scrubs. One cheek muscle
twitched uncontrollably and his lips moved to form a single
incomprehensible word.
"Isoveli!"
A strangled noise erupted from Tusk. Time slowed to a watery
crawl as Scully stared through the gleam of her headlamp and a
veil of tears. The two figures drew closer to one another,
became fluid, and wavered like two beads of liquid mercury
before melting together.
************
End of Chapter 20
Continued in Chapter 21
************
Chapter 21
************
Beneath the Knoll complex, Hocking, Ohio
March 16, 2001
Early evening
During the heady minutes following their reunion the Toskala
brothers seemed indissoluble. They kissed one another on the
cheek in the manner of European men and embraced. Tusk's
hands and arms shifted to grip, pat, clutch, and hug,
absorbing this miracle of survival.
He also wiped away the red smudge from his brother's mouth --
blood that wasn't Stefan's -- and held him afterward with his
eyes squeezed shut. Some things, Scully knew with a glance
toward the dead guard, must have impacted him much deeper than
others.
"What does 'Isoveli' mean?" she asked Mole.
"I think it's the Finnish word for big brother. Man, I was
just a kid in high school back then, but I can remember that
Stefan was really into languages and his Finn roots."
When it was time for introductions, Stefan took Scully's hands
in his, caressing them with a touch that was surprisingly
gentle. "Your lady?" he inquired of Tusk.
"I wish. But no, Dana's our friend, bro. She's helping us
get you out of here."
Signs of mental trauma were evident in Stefan Toskala, she
saw. Polite and attentive one moment, short-circuited the
next, with a blank smile on his face. Under coercion or
strong emotion the man inside couldn't quite force the body
outside to convey the appropriate response.
But his house wasn't truly empty, Scully realized after
looking deep into his eyes. Rather, its disoriented owner
wandered and called through the darkened rooms, but no one
listening on the outside could fully interpret his garbled
cries for help.
"It's good to have friends," said Stefan, and he patted
Scully's shoulder, his smile so sincere and engaging it seemed
guileless. "A friend with a gun is even better," he added a
moment later, his gaze dropping to the slight bulge on her
left side.
"FBI--" she started, then stopped.
The sage, more adult turn-of-phrase had caught her off guard.
Apparently he was capable of intelligent and lucid thought.
If Mulder were with them he could not only empathize with
Stefan's predicament, but would also have the background to
evaluate his mental acumen and eccentricities.
When the second team arrived minutes later Cricket went head-
over-heels into ecstasy. Tusk stepped aside to give her space
and she dove in. Her arms around Stefan, then Tusk, then
Stefan again, she laughed, cried, and reveled in the long-
awaited restoration of her immediate family circle.
The word "sisar", repeated over and over by Stefan, needed no
translation.
Footer had angled the guard's larger flashlight around so it
backlit the group, allowing them to save battery power. With
first aid on Mole completed, Tusk packed up his kit. Scully
patted down the guard for ID and retrieved his .44 from the
dirt. She also requested that Mason drag the corpse to a far
corner where it would be less conspicuous, after Cricket cast
several anxious looks in its direction.
With one hostage accounted for and the labs still out of their
reach, she felt a niggle of impatience. But the details of
Amanda Carmichael's impending rescue were something she'd have
to discuss with their leader, who was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Tusk?" she asked Mason, motioning toward the second
gun. "I want him to be armed when we go in for Amanda."
"I dunno... he's gotta be around. Maybe off in a corner
somewhere taking a piss."
"Oh, great."
"If he's not interested in carrying that piece, I'm your man."
She gave him the thinnest of smiles. "I'll remember that."
But all playful considerations faded when she scanned the dark
corners of the junction with her flashlight and came up empty.
Though Mason didn't seem concerned, she knew Tusk wouldn't
disappear without a parting word to someone about his
intentions.
She found him after a minute of careful searching.
If he'd sought this clandestine pocket in the tunnel as a
place to relieve himself, she'd already missed that show. He
leaned with his back to the wall, headlamp on the ground like
a blind eye.
"Kill the light," he said gruffly, eyes closed to the glare.
Scully clicked off her Maglite and headlamp, removed the
latter as he had done, and shook out her hair. He read like a
clear, yet suspect x-ray; the film showed one thing while her
gut instinct told her all did not bode well. Just the tenor
of his voice and bowed shoulders declared something was sorely
amiss.
"Tusk? What's going on?"
He shook his head, reluctant to speak.
"Please," she cajoled gently, "tell me what's wrong."
"Did you see it?" The words burst out in a gush. His hand
shot up as if to hold them in and shield his face. "What he
did to that guy... How easy it was for him to just--"
"Stop. Any one of us, in Stefan's place, might have done the
same thing."
"Don't hand me bullshit, it's more than that..."
As she watched he slid with a groan to a sitting position on a
pile of dirt and gravel, muttering through his hands. "God,
what did they do to him, Dana? He's not the same, he's--"
And then his voice broke.
"Tusk, listen to me," she said, drawing closer. "You found
Stefan in physically good shape. That's no small miracle, for
either of you. Under the circumstances you did everything
humanly possible."
"I waited too long... I waited too fucking long!"
"Coming here any sooner might have been disastrous."
He shook his head miserably, shamed and unused to displaying
weakness. Still masking his face, he reached out for her.
"It's all right," she murmured, alarmed at how he slumped and
quivered. The Magnum and her headlamp landed on the ground.
Then, stepping like a barrier between Tusk and the others who
mingled outside the shadows, she felt him latch onto her hand.
She was pulled inexorably toward him in the darkness, to dock
between the hard shoals of Tusk's knees. To her surprise both
big hands slid up her back under the opened jacket, fingers
spread wide across her shoulder blades. Shudders wracked him,
indicating how mightily he strove to maintain control over his
emotions.
Without warning he sank his face against the fleecy pillow of
her chest. A sense of dizzy unreality seized Scully when she
felt his nose nestle itself between her breasts.
"It's all right," she repeated numbly, her heart and pulse
pounding.
"Give me a minute," he huffed, "I'll be okay in a minute.
I'll be..."
Against her better judgment she let him linger within that
safe soft valley. The fleece and her flesh beneath it grew
damp from hot breath... and tears? His grip on her body
tightened as he worked to regain control, fingers kneading the
fabric at her back.
"I know. I know you will," she answered over the lump in her
throat, arms wrapping his head and neck. "Everything will
work out."
It remained one of the paradoxes of human behavior that
physical contact with a woman's body could be more than mere
sexual elixir to a man. In times of deep emotional upheaval
Scully knew it also brought a primal sense of support and
comfort to his soul. Acceptance found nowhere else.
She had a flashback to the night Mulder had learned of his
mother's death during the LaPierre case. His sobbing, near-
violent denials reverberated in that shadowed room, yet his
hands held her fast and he clung, pulling her ever closer
until she felt she might somehow be absorbed by the force of
his need or drown in the depths of his anguish.
For these brief moments underground it was within Scully's
power to diminish the pain and guard the dignity of this
proud, tenderhearted man she'd grown to trust as a friend.
So she held him closely, without protest, and weathered the
brief storm with him.
************
"Did you find Tusk?" Mason asked her a few minutes later.
She had rejoined the group, brisk and no-nonsense, surveying
them with her leather jacket re-buttoned. Mason was standing,
while Mole sat near Footer, holding his splinted arm and
rocking on his buttocks. Cricket leaned close to Stefan, and
Scully noted there was still no breech in their happy
communion.
All five looked to Scully for an answer.
"Of course," she said with firmness, "and we've consulted
privately about what the next move should be."
"So what happens now?"
She took a deep breath and held out her palm to Mason. "I'm
putting in a call to Mulder, that's what happens."
"Yeah? What's the boss got to say about that?"
Tusk walked into the light toward them, headlamp strapped on,
rough edges back in place. He stood like an oak beside
Scully, one hand draped over her shoulder, the other on the
Magnum pistol tucked inside his belt.
"The boss says to hand the lady the damn phone," he said
brusquely. "That's what the dude in question said to me
earlier tonight... and it's good advice."
************
Innumerable times Mulder had arrived alone at the scene of an
investigation. Depending on lighting and size of the crowd,
he could usually pick out Scully in nothing flat.
He swelled with pride during those moments of identification.
Moving through the crowd with her bright hair and subtle
beauty, she became this little flame of energy bringing order
and elemental perspective to their work. Her flickers of
doubt and sparks of rationalism had blistered him on occasion,
but more often than not they fueled and re-directed his own
search for answers.
He felt proud of her now, functioning as self-appointed SAC in
this undercover investigation below ground.
From the top of the stairs he spotted Scully's fiery head.
Lifted up, her face shone with a warm smile and rare joy that
made his heart leap. Even here, in the dank bowels of the
earth, she represented homecoming and everything he held most
precious in the world.
Followed by Mason, he eased his way down the metal staircase
dressed out in Mole's caving gear. Scully watched his descent
with expectation, eyes and hair glimmering in the brassy
artificial light. Her steps quickened. As he hit bottom she
slid her arms around his neck, and all felt right with his
world.
He'd not seen her wear that black fleece outfit before... and
sneakers? Without high heels she was infinitely shorter,
smaller, and it seemed like weeks instead of days since he'd
tucked her sweet self against his shell-shocked body. Fuck
decorum -- they were below ground with a handful of renegade
townies, dirt on their clothes, sporting bad cases of hat-hair
from the straps around their heads.
"Scully, hey..." His lips slid over hers, feverish for the
soft depths of her mouth. They struggled for full, unimpeded
connection, finally gasping for air. "God, I've missed you,"
he whispered, his throat constricted, "you don't know how
much."
She tasted and smelled like sex remembered. The dip at her
waist melted under his hand into the gentle flare of her
hipbone. A moment later she whimpered against him, impatient
for him to keep going or desist, he wasn't sure which...
A hand clamped his forearm -- strong and hard. Not Scully's.
"Want to back the hell off?" he snarled to the tall brawny guy
with the shaved head.
An expert flick of the wrist and Mulder broke the grip with
ease, his lip dangerously curled. Scully was murmuring that
everything was fine, when he knew damn well nothing could be
right about this asshole running interference.
"Dana's injured. I don't want you to hurt her any more than
you already have."
Tusk's voice, deep as a gravel pit. Mulder recognized it from
their brief exchange on Glenn's cell phone. Discounting the
tattoos and earrings, he had mass and presence. The nose was
prominent, but fairly proportional to the rest of his face.
As for that Ron Jeremy crack Mulder had made earlier to Scully
-- no way in hell was he culling her opinioon on that.
Staring down at her now, he felt at a loss. "Why didn't you
tell me? How bad is it?"
"I'm sorry. I was cut by glass the other night when we were
investigating the grounds outside," she explained, her tone
and eyes begging him to let it go. "It wasn't necessary to
worry you about it, then or now. Mulder... I'd like for you
to meet Tusk and the group."
Nerves jangling, he exchanged a brisk handshake and curt nod
with this tattooed Mr. Clean, caveman vibes emanating from
both of them. Punk-haired Cricket he also recognized, and she
pinned him with a surly smirk. Needlenose and Mole he'd
recently met in the field near the tunnel entrance, where
Glenn had jumped at the chance to hang out and talk. Someone
calling himself Footer stepped up, shook his hand, and then
backed away.
They gave new meaning to the term "motley crew," he thought,
with Scully caught right in the middle. Only one member
remained...
"I told you Stefan's story on the way in," Mason reminded him.
"The dude's a real survivor."
Both Scully and Mason had clued him in to the third Toskala's
history. With icepick lobotomy a thing of the past,
psychosurgery was supposedly clean, selective, and more
exacting. Targeted were specific sections of the frontal
lobe, like the cingulate gyrus. Actual burning of the brain
connection was accomplished with electrical current or a non-
invasive radiation tool called a gamma knife.
All of which sounded good in theory and on paper. But even in
the best facilities permanent and irreversible side effects
still plagued many patients after such controversial surgery.
Considering the source and place of his treatment, if Stefan
Toskala had the intelligence, tenacity, and good fortune to
overcome even a fraction of the odds, he was one lucky
bastard.
"Always an honor to meet a survivor," said Mulder, approaching
the shaggy-haired man who stood with Cricket. "Maybe you can
help us locate another one before the night's over and the
shit really hits the fan."
Stefan shook his outstretched hand. "It hit a long time ago,"
he said, after a careful pause. "I clean it up every day."
"How much time do we have?"
"Not very much. The big meeting is over in a few hours. Most
of the doctors were ordered to attend it. Serendipitous." He
enunciated the word with care. "You came at the best time
ever," he said, directing the last words at Tusk. For some
reason the tall guy's face worked and he gave Stefan's
shoulder a squeeze.
He also shot a tender wink over to Scully. Mulder, irritated
on principle, contemplated asking her the reason behind the
signal, but shelved it for later.
"How many hostages are there in the labs?"
"Not many; two died a few days ago. But only the young one
has any chance to get out."
"Young one?"
"The *pikkutytto*."
"Little girl," supplied Tusk by way of translation.
"Her name's Amanda? She's blonde, college-age? I explored
the utility tunnel under her dormitory, which I suspect was
used during her kidnapping. It connects both Wilson and
Treudley Halls, then heads over in the direction of the
physical plant."
"That's not far from the Knoll," added Mason.
"So she went from campus to captivity in a matter of minutes
and no one saw a damn thing. Some set up."
Stefan's cheek twitched again, an indication he was clearly
affected by the subject matter. When he began to gently slap
at himself, Cricket stepped in to intervene. "You need to
take a break, bro?"
"Can't... we'd better go soon..."
Mulder pointed to Stefan with his chin. "Listen to your
brother."
"Lay off him, dude," Cricket bristled, turning on Mulder, "and
me too. This isn't the fucking Dean's office. Why don't you
tell us what's new with the witch? She fly off somewhere on
her broom?"
"Plug that shit!" growled Tusk, jabbing a finger at his
sister.
Leave it to the punk kid to drop a bomb onto Mulder's
overstrained psyche.
He'd already been mind-fucked by not one, but both of the
psychics he thought he could trust. His dead sister, existing
only in starlight, might be alive after all. His beloved
partner was incinerated one minute and talking with him the
next. He sleepwalked his way through most of this case, only
to find Scully on the freshest of trails, lighting the path
with headlamps and a gaggle of weird friends.
He gave up fighting his anger and went for shock value,
figuring the girl deserved the jolt.
"You really wanna know what's new with Willow Nightingale,
Cricket? When I saw her earlier today she'd painted
somebody's kitchen floor red. And the cupboards... and part
of the back door. It looked like she managed to take down one
of her attackers before his sidekick blasted her neck apart.
Does that answer your question?"
Cricket paled under her eye makeup and bristled hair. "Holy
shit," mumbled someone, maybe Footer.
"Unless I've missed something, that would've been helpful
information to know before now," Scully admonished quietly.
"Pardon my inability to provide you with better intel over the
last few days."
Her cheeks pinked and she crossed her arms at the subtle
rebuke. "Do you have any idea why they no longer considered
her useful?"
"My best guess? I wasn't supposed to be anywhere near that
fire at the Super 8 when they tried to roast you alive, so
technically she slipped up. She'd lost her edge, then their
trust when she tried to vanish under their noses. With these
people you don't commit two fouls and get a third chance."
Tusk had a hand on the back of his sister's neck in a slow,
comforting massage, and Cricket had regained some of her
composure. She blinked at Mulder with new respect.
"This is our only chance," insisted Stefan earnestly. "We
miss it, we die."
"Mason told me you offed a security guard barehanded."
"Mulder, please," warned Scully, but his quickly raised hand
and Stefan's nod overruled her.
"Do you mind?"
His fingers parted the dark hair over Stefan's forehead,
revealing a small circular scar. Another marked the opposite
side. They were similar to the ones Mulder carried on his own
scalp, mementos from his ill-fated sojourn into experimental
regression hypnosis.
"Raskin meant to shoot my brother," Stefan said simply. "I
did it because it had to be done. That's the only way to
survive here, by doing what's hard... and incomprehensible
anywhere else..."
"I appreciate your attitude. Can you lead us to where they're
holding Amanda?"
"We can get in if we're careful. But it's too late for the
other patients. They're starting to get soft all over, like
gummy bears left out in the sun... but especially here." He
pressed his fingers into his midriff. "I don't whisper to
them anymore."
"Whisper? How do you mean?"
"He told me he's called in to soothe the test subjects if they
fight back or cry out," said Scully. "The past few days he'd
been sent to calm Amanda."
Mulder threw her a telling look. "Shades of Dallas, eh,
Scully?"
"Sounds more like it all the time."
"Have you been able to see the creature growing inside them?"
he asked Stefan.
"After a while. In the beginning, one or two a year managed
to hatch out. But over time they started to die before fully
gestating... like everything dies around here. Now the
doctors want to inject the little one with a newer, better
serum."
"Containing a viable alien entity? What's the timetable?"
"Soon," whispered Stefan. He pushed the glasses up his nose
and rubbed at his thighs again. "We must save her tonight,
because in a day or two the big ship will come to pick her
up... along with whatever has started growing inside her."
************
A company of seven strong, they crept single file through a
maze of passageways toward the labs. Stefan was the natural
choice to lead their small strike force. Cricket couldn't
bear to part from her brother, so she kept close to him, the
agents not far behind. After Tusk came Mason, with Footer
bringing up the rear.
Scully kept the younger Toskalas in her sights while she
eavesdropped on the low conversation that unfolded behind her.
Mulder and Tusk. It gratified her that the two men had quit
their ridiculous posturing and made attempts at civility. Of
even more significance was the fact that Tusk, out of
desperation, was speaking about the one thing she knew
disturbed him most -- and was directing those concerns toward
Mulder.
"According to Dana, you know psychology," Tusk whispered over
Mulder's shoulder. "And she trusts your judgment, which means
a lot to me. So what chance does my brother have to..." He
faltered into silence, unable to settle on the appropriate
word.
"To heal? To regain full mental capacity or close to what he
had before?" asked Mulder under his breath.
"That's right."
"Based on the scars I found, he's undergone some form of
psychosurgery to keep him docile. Maybe a cingulotomy, rather
than temporal lobectomy, because his speech patterns are
fluent and his high-level thought processes seem intact. From
his mannerisms I wouldn't rule out the possibility they've
given him shock treatments."
"My brother's always had a strong dislike for violence of any
kind," he muttered. "What he's capable of now is blowing my
mind. Shit... it's hard to believe how he took out that
guard."
Hearing the pain in his voice, knowing what he'd toughed out
just a short while before, Scully reached back in the semi-
darkness to touch his arm. Mulder, she noticed, observed the
gesture with unabashed interest.
"Getting back to brain function impairment," he said softly,
gazing quizzically at Scully while he was responding to Tusk,
"you'd need to have him tested. Some of his behavioral
aberrations might stem from mental trauma caused by physical
and emotional abuse. Basically, he's a POW who's learned to
adapt and survive. Ongoing therapy and medication might be
all the treatment he needs when this is over."
"So it's a waiting game."
"Yes, but you'd be amazed at what the human brain can endure
and overcome. Even in a place like this, which brings to mind
some of the weirder cases we've investigated, by the way... as
well as an old song I got hooked on years ago. You probably
wouldn't remember it, Scully. It's a Frohike favorite."
"Quite doubtful I'd recognize it then," she quipped, "but feel
free."
"'Heard a cry for mercy in the city of the damned,'" Mulder
recited with a voice loud enough for every one in the group to
hear. He seemed to be savoring the strangely incidental
words. "'In the pits you go no lower, the next stop's
underground. Oh hello, underground...' Anybody here astute
enough to name that tune?"
Cricket's faint snicker was the only response.
"The words seem apropos considering our present location,
Mulder," she said dryly, "but that's a new one on me."
Silence reigned for a half-minute as the group plodded along,
the lyrics dismissed.
"Led Zeppelin."
Up ahead, Stefan had spoken without a backward glance.
"Title," tossed out Mulder, tantalized.
"'For Your Life'."
"Album..."
A long pause. "'Presence'."
"Year?"
"1976."
"What's unique about it?"
Stefan shrugged, his attention trained on the tunnel far
ahead. "Studio cut. Zeppelin never performed it live."
"And I'd say *this* man knows his music."
As the wave of incredulity trickled through the group, Mulder
directed a thumbs-up signal back to Tusk. The thoughtfulness
of the gesture after this unexpected response from Stefan
warmed Scully's heart. It seemed to have the same effect on
Tusk, for it moved him to reach out and give Mulder's shoulder
a clasp of appreciation.
"Quiet! No lights!" Stefan hissed suddenly. "We're getting
close."
Everyone obeyed, plunging the passageway into near-blackness.
He crept forward, all elbows and curved backbone. To Scully
he appeared more feral than human while her eyesight adjusted
to the dimness of the corridor.
"Down there... in those small rooms," he whispered when the
two agents joined him. "That's where they keep the test
subjects. The little blond one is near the main lab... she's
the best chance they have."
Scully peered through the gap, into the light and space
looming below. She saw concrete walls, linoleum flooring, a
flood of bright light. Distant footfalls echoed and machinery
hummed.
"So only the date changes," Mulder whispered into her ear.
The soft brush of his lips nearly derailed her concentration.
With scant warning a doctor wearing white scrubs and a lab
coat passed under their noses on his way toward Amanda
Carmichael's cell.
"That one." Stefan's tic played havoc with the muscle in his
cheek. His hands and fingers grew restless. "He needs to go.
Then we can rescue her before they try to inject the new
serum."
Tusk guessed his intent and shook his head. "Let the people
trained for this do their jobs, bro."
"Seriously, that's good advice," said Scully to Stefan.
"Can't risk noise; my way's better."
Eluding Tusk's hasty grab, the Whisperer vanished into the
shadows. A minute later Stefan reappeared in the lower
hallway, having navigated the intervening passageways. His
demeanor was nonchalant as he followed the path taken by the
scientist. He caught up to the man and they shared a few
quiet words before turning a corner.
A moment later Stefan motioned from the doorway, bidding the
rest of the team to brave the darkness and follow him down.
"His way's expeditious," breathed Mulder, "I'll give him that
much."
Guns drawn, they pushed through the heavy door that separated
the archaic tunnel from newer construction. Stefan had
already dragged the doctor's body into a corner of the small
room and masked it with a gurney by the time they arrived.
"Over there," he said, motioning toward the curtained
examining table. "The little one..."
Ahead of the others, Mulder was first to survey the ravaged
body of Amanda Carmichael. He looked back at Scully, his face
ashen. "She's alive. Will you need my help?"
She shook her head, sickened at the sight of the girl's
trembling nakedness, chopped hair, and the various evil tubes
that extruded from her like so many snakes. "Just guard the
perimeter for us, Mulder, and keep an eye on everyone else.
Tusk will help me in here."
"You sure?"
"Yes, he has medical training."
She saw Mulder hesitate, his gaze darting from her to the girl
as he assessed the situation. With a nod toward Tusk and
Stefan, he corralled the other team members outside in the
hall.
The unfortunate girl sensed their presence. Her mouth squared
into a fresh grimace around a thick tube that emitted harsh
slurping noises as she salivated. Tears ran in rivulets down
her neck to the vinyl pad beneath. "Huurts... m-make it s-
stop..."
"Please help her," murmured Stefan, warming one of Amanda's
quivering white feet with his hands. "Poor pikku--"
"Amanda?" Scully peered into the agonized girl's face and
tried to capture her attention. "Amanda Carmichael? We're
here to take you home. Can you understand me?"
The drainage tube in her mouth was the first thing to go.
Leather straps unbuckled with ease, but revealed wide bruises
and heavy chafing. They found a sheet to place over the
girl's nakedness and surrounded her with gentle calming
attention.
"Amanda, we're going to help you by removing some tubes now.
Then we'll take you away from here. Nod, sweetie, if you can
hear me."
Though her glazed eyes blanched and wandered, she managed to
respond.
Stripping off the leather gloves, Scully donned latex and
handed a pair to Tusk. "Have you ever removed an NG tube
before?"
"Tell me what to do."
She lowered her voice. "Pinch it tightly first, so any
remaining formula won't flood her lungs as you slowly ease it
out of her nostril. I know time is of the essence, but don't
pull too quickly. Expect about eighteen inches of tubing."
The catheter she removed herself, noting with a wince that
deep inflammation had developed at the urethral opening after
so many days of intubation. The tender skin on Amanda's lower
body was also mottled by rash, most likely from the
disinfectants repeatedly wiped over her buttocks, inner
thighs, and genitalia.
The tiniest of blessings, Scully detected no evidence of
assault or forced penetration in her cursory examination.
"Relax now, baby," she heard Tusk croon to the girl in his
inimitable bedside voice. "Don't tense up, it'll be out in
just a few more seconds. Here we go..."
Scully opened and applied the contents of several packets,
first a cleansing wipe, then antibiotic ointment which she
spread over damaged skin before attending to the IVs in both
of Amanda's arms.
Stripping off her latex gloves and flipping them to the floor,
she snapped on new.
"Almost done over here," said Tusk.
"Will you... t-take me home?" A barely articulate sob from
Amanda.
"Sure thing," he assured her. "Don't you worry, okay? We'll
take good care of you and get you out of here." Finished, he
dropped the tube to the floor as Scully had done and wiped
Amanda's nose gently.
"I need tape and a few small gauze pads," she ordered under
her breath. "We can expect some bleeding after the IVs are
out."
Tusk moved with alacrity, the perfect assistant, donning new
latex before he prepped the items. In turn he held each of
the girl's forearms securely as Scully pressed down, extracted
the needles in one smooth motion, and dressed the tiny wounds.
"Everything okay?" Mulder asked from the hall.
"Just about ready to go." She scanned the small room
critically. "Do we have a gown here or something she can
wear?"
Mason surrendered an extra pair of hiking socks from his pack,
thick plush affairs that reached nearly to Amanda's knees.
After dressing her in a pair of scrubs, they swaddled the girl
in a rescue blanket from their emergency stores. Then, her
long legs dangling, Tusk lifted her easily into his arms.
"No," said Scully. "Let Mason take her. You may need to use
your weapon before this is over and I want your hands free."
"Stretcher?"
All heads turned as an alarm bell clattered overhead,
shattering the silence and drumming their nerves to a fever
pitch.
"Time's up," Mulder called from the door. "If you can carry
her, then let's get the hell out of here -- and fast!"
************
End of Chapter 21
Continued in Chapter 22
************
Chapter 22
************
Beneath the Knoll Complex
March 16, 2001
Late evening
Alarm bells rattled Mulder's eardrums and mute expressions of
fear hung on his every movement. Despite their zeal, these
new friends of Scully's crowding the hallway were weekend
warriors at best and beating a hasty retreat was certainly the
order of the day. But he slowed his steps at the door to the
next room, feeling the old fascination seize and suck him in.
It was a disaster scene he'd seen too many times in recent
years, with and without Scully. It stank with the cloying,
acrid smell of death and disinfectant.
Inside he beheld the unthinkable, rows of Plexiglas tanks
arranged along one wall of the room. Some were laced with
green scum, while others held indistinguishable body parts or
entire torsos in various stages of dissection, decomposition,
or development. Stainless steel tables barricaded the area,
waiting their turn for the next lurid phase of
experimentation.
"Scully, check this out," he muttered, unable to take his eyes
from the putrid slaughter.
She pushed her way past Footer and made a sound of disgust.
"My God, Mulder..."
"You see?" said Stefan. "No one is safe. Everything ends up
dead."
"What do you say?" he asked her grimly, cocking his weapon.
"Want to help me clean house?"
"Unquestionably, but now is not that time. We have limited
armament at our disposal, so let's just get the hell out of
here."
Popping sounds, like those Mulder heard back at the farmhouse
in Chancey, echoed through the narrow hall and made the
decision for him. Without warning, bullets pinged and whined
past his head, with only time for a quick shot in return.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Saddled with Mason's heavy pack, he hustled the more
vulnerable members of their group after Stefan. They pushed
past him: Cricket, Mason carrying Amanda, and Footer, wide-
eyed with dread.
Scully's demeanor remained a concern. At a low crouch and
hugging the wall, she was a trained veteran of gunfire
exchange. But her face suggested pain more than concentration
and several times Mulder saw her wobble on the balls of her
feet.
Flanking him, Tusk dropped to one knee and squeezed off
several bullets, arm straight. The heavy Magnum never wavered
in his hand.
"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
Tusk ducked a bullet, eyes focused on the dim passageway.
"Target practice. For the record, you don't need to know at
what -- or where."
"No complaints here," Mulder winced as cement chips sprayed
over his head from a well-aimed strike. "Scully? You okay?"
Her faint "Fine" confirmed to him that her armor was in place
and she wasn't anywhere near up to snuff.
"Then we better get moving. I'll cover you both."
She nodded, signaled Tusk, and they both fled as Mulder
suppressed incoming shots with return fire of his own. He
hoped to God Stefan knew what he was doing, and they weren't
just rats in a maze, following him into what could be a
deathtrap for everyone. He hoped Tusk had another clip for
his gun, should they became pinned down again.
He wanted to hope Scully's wound hadn't ripped apart, but he'd
seen the wet crimson smear her hip had left on the concrete
wall.
Once in the lighted tunnel, she surprised Mulder by loping to
catch up with the others and give them weapons support. The
raw anesthetizing power of adrenaline always amazed him. He
and Tusk came on slower because of their weighty packs and the
necessity of turning to lay down shots at their pursuers.
He heard the whine of a bullet and then a burning sensation
stung the side of Mulder's arm near the shoulder. He cursed,
but refused to let it hinder their escape, dismissing the
shallow trough through his flesh.
"You hit?"
"Just winged," he grimaced. "I'll manage, so don't stop now."
"How many do you think there are?"
"Four or five, maybe. And I say we jettison the load. First
aid should be our last consideration if it slows us down and
gets us killed."
Shucking the wide straps from his shoulders, Tusk literally
wrenched the backpack from his arms and threw it down as an
obstacle to their pursuers. While they ran he helped Mulder
do the same, easing it over his wound and tossing it aside.
Lighter and faster on their feet, they encountered a segment
of darkened tunnel that looked older than the previous one.
From Tusk's exclamation he seemed to recognize the location.
"What is it?"
"Stefan has the right idea. This access... we studied maps of
the system for months," he huffed as they jogged its length.
"I think this one feeds out toward the forest. Should take us
in the direction of the original hospital and mortuary, if I'm
not mistaken."
"That's the best shot we have?"
"There should be an exit tunnel there that comes out somewhere
in the trees. Used since the turn of the century to schlep
bodies out to the boneyard. It'll be good for us, if security
doesn't pin us down from the outside. Plus, it's a stone's
throw from where we first infiltrated."
"Like your brother said, serendipitous."
"No shit."
Sounds of pursuit echoed through the dark chute behind them,
and the gash stung, blood hot and wet along Mulder's torn
flesh. He tried to ignore it as they hustled, another wound
weighing heavily on his mind. "I noticed that Scully's
bleeding. How bad was her injury?"
Tusk hesitated. "Deep. A three-inch slice from hip to ass.
Took thirty stitches, above and below, to close."
"Is that what she told you?"
"No, it's what her attending physician is telling you now."
He scowled back at Mulder. "And spare me the outrage, dude.
Local hospitals haven't been safe for the likes of us. I took
extra special care of Dana in spite of what you might think.
Trust me."
************
The Big Man drummed thick fingers on the arm of his chair and
listened to the drone concerning allocations, budget
proposals, and policies. At the microphone, Provost Carl
Mellingham was doing an excellent job addressing his captive
audience. With good reason: a gunman shadowed his teenage
son's every movement, trigger finger ready, itching to hear of
one small lapse on Mellingham's part.
Small wonder this entire assembly gave spellbound attention to
such dry fare, with their loved ones living under the veil of
certain calamity. It was intimidation designed to keep those
in the higher administrative echelon, all the way up to
President Gladstone, under immaculate control.
He imagined that his father would be pleased.
The scientists, seated in tight ranks off to one side, were an
exception. Most of them were mercenaries at heart, wanted men
in their own countries for war crimes more than half a century
ago. Japanese, Russian, German -- survivors of evil regimes,
whose only focus now was scientific experimentation with
sanction and without restriction.
He saw that Anton Krieg, chief engineer behind these
operations, had quietly excused himself from the assembly
after a nod from one of his lackeys. Fifteen minutes passed
and Krieg's assigned place remained vacant.
Motioning for his personal assistant, the Big Man whispered a
request and watched him leave. Within minutes the same
contact bent over his shoulder again, bearing a message that
brought him to his feet. Whispering an excuse to the
associates flanking him, he exited the meeting.
************
Gunfire peppered the ragged group, brought to bay seconds
after Mulder and Tusk burst through the door of the darkened
operating theater.
Scully saw that her little band, because of the unexpectedness
of the attack and their inexperience, had unwisely straggled
throughout the room. She couldn't pinpoint the exact location
of each or be sure they were maintaining proper cover.
Mulder turned on a dime, blew one of his pursuers out of
commission, and then dove for shelter. For her part, Scully
tried to maintain suppressing fire and managed to take down
another assailant. But there were too many shooters, too many
bullets to dodge, and now Mulder seemed injured as well.
Footer became another casualty. Scully heard his strident
yelp and moans of pain, but was unable to see the extent of
his injury or reach him to administer first aid. She shouted
for him to grab a towel from the cart shielding him, to stanch
the bleeding himself, and keep down.
Their team, for the most part, lay hurt and huddled in
different parts of the wide, high-ceilinged chamber. But the
rain of bullets stopped, the attack broken off by a booming
order from the elevated operating stage.
"Hold your fire! Special Agent Fox Mulder?"
Mulder, crouching in Scully's sightline, flashed her a
questioning look. He appeared to be running the voice through
his audio memory banks and had come up empty. "Don't tell me
I got hooked up with the wrong tour group?"
"Your unauthorized presence here is the problem. And you have
something of mine in your possession."
"You can always check the 'Lost and Found' tomorrow."
"I'm out of patience; you will return the girl now."
Stefan, crouched behind an examining table, shook his head
violently at Mulder.
"Return the girl," the voice repeated more harshly, "and the
rest of you could leave here alive. With the exception of the
'Whisperer', of course, who will remain with me... but his
whispering days are sadly over."
Glancing at Stefan, Scully saw his body go rigid and his eyes
glaze over. He shrank into a seated, near-fetal position,
white-knuckled hands clutching his knees.
"Show yourself," Mulder shouted. "Let me see if I can
recognize your sorry ass."
"First drop your weapons!"
"No chance."
"Then perhaps *this* will change your mind..."
Overhead lights blazed throughout the room, gleaming off the
examining tables, chairs, and carts crowding the theater,
which apparently was still in use. They also highlighted the
operating stage, onto which a suited, grim-faced man stepped
forward and Scully's heart froze at the sight.
He had Cricket! In God's name, Scully thought desperately,
how had he managed to snatch Cricket in all the scuffle and
crossfire?
She exchanged horrified glances with Mulder and willed Tusk to
keep his head during the next crucial moments.
Chokehold across her neck, a gun to her temple, the man half-
dragged the dazed and terrified girl into the open. Her
breath was labored, and her knees knocked as she tried to keep
her footing. From each side, his cohorts trained their
pistols on the group, but held their fire as ordered.
"So you see, Agent Mulder, we each have something of value
belonging to the other."
"Let her go, or I'll blow your fucking head off!" Tusk
shouted, hysteria edging his voice.
The hammers of two enemy guns cocked ominously.
"Hold on! Wait!" Still gripping his weapon, Mulder slowly
stood up, hands and arms extended in a placating gesture. He
stared with strange intensity at the man who held Cricket in
his power.
"I think I recognize you... so let's talk this out
reasonably," he urged. "In fact, maybe we'll have that talk
we should've had about three years ago. You know the one I
mean? But first tell your goons to back off."
For her part, Scully had no idea what Mulder meant. The man
considered, barked the order to his men, and nodded down to
him.
"That's better. Okay... Remember the question I asked you one
night back in DC?" he continued. "I said, 'What hospital are
you taking her to?' And no one would tell me. I said that she
might have been infected with a virus from a bee sting, and
still no one told me anything. Except for you -- and you
tried to blow a hole through my head before you drove away
with her into the night. Big mistake."
"You're very good with faces, Agent Mulder."
"It's a given I won't forget the rat-fuck bastard's face who
kidnaps and helps torture my partner."
"By the way," the man sneered, "concerning your Agent
Scully... I extend my condolences to you on her recent
demise."
She saw Mulder's jaw square, his head angle. A mere flutter
of eyelashes and fingertip movement in Scully's direction and
she understood that he wanted their trump card up and out on
the table.
Slowly easing herself to her feet into the light, she kept her
gun drawn. "Don't bother wasting our time," she snapped.
"Just release the girl to us unharmed."
The man stared in alarm, tightening his arm against Cricket's
throat. Her eyes widened and her leg kicked convulsively as
she tore at his sleeve with her hands. "I propose an
exchange", he growled. "Mine for both of yours."
"In your dreams," said Mulder.
"Then together we'll wait... take our time and see how long
she lasts, this one... without oxygen... with steady pressure
on her windpipe. Lungs burning as the minutes tick by..."
Dry gasps erupted from Cricket's mouth. To Scully's dismay,
Tusk leapt to his feet.
"Stop it, back off! Take me for her!"
He fumed in place, eyes glazed with desperation as he put his
life on the line to save his sister's. Stefan gave a
quavering moan and scrabbled crablike across the floor,
latching onto his brother's leg.
"Such altruism is refreshing. And even more touching if you
both are from the same family." The arm relaxed enough for
Cricket to gulp in a few ragged breaths of air. "What an
intriguing prospect, comparing test results on two people of
similar genetic blueprint. And I could easily add a third to
the mix, considering my Whisperer's traitorous actions..."
"Leave them out of it!"
"You're in no position to give orders. Only to obey them!"
"As are you, Mr. Krieg," said a different voice in a new tone
-- one that sounded harsh, husky, and laden with power.
He was tall and heavyset, this newcomer to the equation. With
his bulldog features and drawn pistol, he held an air of
impeccable authority. Stepping from a rear doorway, he
motioned for the two gunmen to move behind him, which they did
without question.
When he nodded toward Scully, a curious and grave expression
marked his big face.
"I think I know this man," she whispered to Mulder.
"Welcome back from the dead, Miss Scully. It seems your will
to survive knows no bounds. The same thing has been said of
your partner, Agent Mulder, over the years." He looked over
at the grim-faced man who held Cricket. "How do you explain
this unexpected resurrection, Mr. Krieg?"
"Weak links. They've been eliminated."
"Have they?" he asked cryptically.
Lower lip jutting, he surveyed Scully. "I believe my father
met with you on one memorable occasion, at a former research
facility in West Virginia. He told me your tenacious attempts
to convince and save your partner were most impressive, Miss
Scully."
She nodded curtly, noting the family resemblance between this
man and the previous Syndicate elder.
"Yes... we spoke at the Hanson's Disease Research Facility in
Perkey, on the day I learned that it was just another killing
field. A death camp utilizing innocent human subjects for
experimentation in direct violation of the Nuremberg Code,"
she shot back. "Like the one we're standing in now."
There were ten global directives resulting from war crimes
that were brought to light following WWII. Mad doctors like
Mengele no longer had free rein to maim and torment in the
name of scientific experimentation and were held responsible
for their crimes against humanity. Some were brought to
justice at the groundbreaking Nuremberg Trials, but many
vanished, only to reappear, like Zama and Klemperer had, among
the ranks of the old Consortium.
"Yet my father showed you the truth," the Big Man wheezed,
"which until that time had been distorted and misunderstood --
by your partner especially."
Scully frowned. "Your father duped me that day. He told me
lies masquerading as truth."
"You tried to convince your partner otherwise."
"Mulder survived because of another weak link in your
organization. Since that time I've learned what atrocities
you people actually commit. The unconscionable lengths you'll
go to promote your agenda. I've been personally exposed to
the cold truth behind your lawless hierarchy and its lust for
domination."
"You may be right, Miss Scully. We continue with the Plan set
in motion by our elder members, in order to achieve what has
been a guarantee to us when the new age begins. We who remain
follow only one code: that of honorable sacrifice for the
future."
"You mean a code of the lie!" snorted Mulder. "Tell that to
the victims who fried in the hanger at El Rico Air Force Base!
Was your father there? Were the consequences worthy of the
sacrifice?"
The Big Man stared at him in cold brooding contempt, but made
no contradiction.
"That was the insurance agreement struck with the alien
colonists at the beginning, wasn't it? Take a family member
from each household for specialized testing -- so the rest of
you could survive when colonization began! Who won the lucky
draw at *your* house? Your mother... or a sister or brother?"
"To be chosen was an honor; they went willingly."
"Bullshit! My younger sister was taken, screaming for me to
help her! And no one gave Scully the option of declining
either time."
"Mulder, please..." she whispered.
"Your father refused to cooperate voluntarily," the big man
continued, "and the choice was made for him."
"What about Stefan Toskala here? What choice did he have
while you lied to his family? Or Amanda Carmichael, kidnapped
from her dormitory?"
"Why should they be exempt?"
"He's paid his dues, so let him go. Once is enough," Mulder
insisted, his voice rising. "We've even paid with the lives
of people we cherished, some of us several times over. Tell
your hatchet man to release his hostage and in the name of
humanity, let us all get the hell out of here."
"It's not that simple."
"Why?" Mulder sneered. "You afraid the almighty ships will be
pissed off when they find the merchandise isn't ready?
Something tells me you'd better go to Plan B fast, because
Plan A is set to blow up in your face at any time. The jig,
as they say, is up, and the Cavalry's breathing down your
neck."
"You may very well possess the gift of prophecy, Agent
Mulder."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Seconds ticked, broken only by Cricket's rattled gasps and a
muffled groan from Amanda who lay cradled off to the side, in
Mason's arms.
The Big Man regarded both agents for long moments. Then,
coming to a final decision, he withdrew a cell phone, murmured
unintelligibly, and slid it back into his pocket.
"And another chapter ends. Mr. Krieg," he ordered with
ponderous authority, "you will release the girl."
"Nothing's ended! We can't give in to their demands when
we're so close," Krieg snarled. "I refuse--"
Scully saw the effects of the gunshot before its sound even
registered. First the hole appeared like a wide red eye on
Krieg's left frontal bone, his head rocked sideways, and the
back of his skull shattered. Cricket screamed and fell to her
knees, hit by blood spatter. In a paroxysm of terror she
scrambled from the body on the stage and fell into Tusk's
scooping arms.
"A very small window remains," advised the Big Man. He gave a
nod to the two gunmen behind him and all three backed away
toward an exit.
"What do you mean?"
"Take a lesson from Antarctica, Agent Mulder. Secrets are
never left behind unprotected or to chance..."
They vanished from sight, but a pulsating mechanical bray of
alarm suddenly shook the walls and corridors around the
amphitheater.
Mulder whirled to face the group and Scully saw that his
expression went beyond panic-stricken. "Talk to me, Stefan!
What's the quickest way out of here?"
"That way -- down that hall!"
"What is it?" yelled Tusk over the din.
"A fail-safe to cover evidence!" Scully shouted back. "He's
had them activate a self-destruct sequence that gives us only
minutes to evacuate!"
Mulder's words, like his feet, nearly stumbled over
themselves. "This whole nest is gonna blow -- and us with it
if we don't haul ass out of here now!"
************
A chill shot through Dave Hostetler. He heard Carl Mellingham
calmly articulate that the Putnam University Knoll Complex and
Museum was funding a venture that had been in place for years.
A conspiracy designed to evade government constraints and
restrictions over scientific experimentation using human
beings for test subjects.
Amanda Carmichael...?
Non-cooperation and disclosure would not be tolerated, the
Provost explained calmly. Rather, it would give the erring
staff member a more personalized opportunity to view the
actual science behind the experiments. Or one of their loved
ones... whom a panel would arbitrarily select.
Frozen to his seat while the speaker moved easily and smoothly
to other matters on his agenda, Hostetler thought of Val
Pinkerton's broken body. And then a mental picture of his
parent's little farmhouse in Indiana made his belly clench at
the horrific meaning behind Mellingham's words.
Had he understood correctly?
Other admins around him scarcely breathed. One man mopped his
brow with a napkin and a woman's eyes grew red-rimmed as she
stared down at her lap.
Agent Mulder... Someone tried to murder his partner last night
at the motel. Maybe they succeeded after all, but Hostetler
would bet his last dime that she was alive and breathing, with
the FBI busy covering up her so-called "death." Why else had
Mulder given him such a dire warning to keep his mouth shut?
The cell phone delivered another jolt when it jumped to life
deep within his pocket. He sat a moment, horrified and
determined to ignore it. Then better judgment gave him the
courage to risk excusing himself and smuggle the vibrating
phone out to the hallway.
Knoll security patrolled the far ends of the corridor and by
now the phone had quit its jumping-bean antics. So the trip
wouldn't be a wasted drain on his nerves, he entered the men's
restroom, only to have the phone begin dancing again.
He looked over his shoulder quickly, then answered under his
breath. "Yes?"
"Hostetler? Is that you?"
Agent Mulder's voice: sketchy, breathless, and close to
breaking up.
"Yes, we don't have a very good connection--"
"You need to leave right now!"
Hostetler dropped his voice even lower, pulse racing. "What
do you mean? I'm here in the middle of the meeting!"
"And you're going to be meeting your Maker if you don't get
your ass out of there fast! Trust me, this whole place is set
to blow up in a matter of minutes!"
"Holy Christ!"
"Get out now, any way you can--"
Reception failed, with Mulder's words sparking like
electricity through Hostetler's brain. At the same time he
felt a new and unmistakable vibration under the soles of his
feet, gaining power and intensity. It was what he'd always
imagined an earthquake might feel like as it surfaced from the
depths of the earth.
Screams erupted in the banquet room from which he'd come; an
old fire drill alarm began clamoring, punctuated by gunshots.
He heard the groan of hundreds of chair legs scraping hardwood
floors and a keening howl of panic that burst outward into the
hallway behind him.
Sailing forward on his own adrenaline, he made it just ahead
of the first wave of terror-stricken people. They poured like
magma down the stairwells behind him, administration and Knoll
staff members alike, surging toward the dark outdoors. To a
place they hoped gave enough distance and safe cover before
everything blew sky-high...
************
The alternate tunnel, shallow and riddled with puddles, was
built in a bygone era for drainage, Scully surmised.
Thankfully, it seemed less archaic and not as rough as the
earthen one by which they'd entered the Knoll. The sides were
reinforced with stone tile, but devoid of light other than
their headlamps and flashlights bouncing like frenzied
starbursts against the low ceiling.
And the explosive beast still pursued them, its rumbling
breath drawing ever closer.
"I know where they keep it. The device," babbled Stefan as
they ran, looking first to Tusk and then to Mulder. "I could
go back... try to shut it down--"
"No way in hell, bro!"
"Not a chance," Mulder swore, picking up the pace.
"I could try--"
"NO!" they shouted at him in unison.
Maneuvering the long twists and turns of the passageway, they
splashed along in near panic and too little light. With sweat
streaking his face and head, Tusk carried the unconscious
Amanda. Mason, supporting Footer, phoned ahead one-handed to
Needlenose and Mole. He related the change in position and
advised them -- with Glenn's help -- to rendezvous with both
vehicles. It was assumed they would surface farther north,
close to the cemetery and the countryside beyond.
"Needlenose says they're not alone anymore," he panted to the
others. "A whole medical team showed up. FBI ambulances,
everything, down from Columbus. Said Mulder called them in.
Working on Mole's arm now... said they'll meet us."
"Far fucking out," moaned Footer.
Scully hobbled to keep up, biting her lip, blood trickling hot
and cold as it saturated the fleece and ran down her thigh.
She saw that the towel wrapped around Footer's shoulder was
stained black with his blood, seeping over onto Mason's shirt.
And Mulder's flesh wound bled down his arm freely...
Yet, like a rerun from the past, his good arm slid around her
ribcage and he pulled her faster along the passageway toward
the end of the tunnel. Blinding light pierced the gloom as
the walls straightened out and a glare from the distant pick-
up point lured them onward.
Cricket had dashed far ahead of the pack, but came to a sudden
grinding halt. She cast around and turned, white face
streaked with dirt and splotched with Krieg's blood.
"Stefan's not here! Oh my God, where is he? Where *is* he?"
she wailed to Tusk.
She boomeranged around and would have backtracked into the
dark tunnel if he hadn't snagged her arm with his free hand as
he drew up beside her.
"You sure?"
"Yes! Yes!" she howled hysterically, and Scully's heart
plummeted.
"Go! You hear me? Get out now and leave this to me--"
"NO!" Cricket screamed, but she was no match against his
strength and force of will. He dragged her along with him and
then thrust her to the ground a safe distance past the two
agents.
Stunned, Scully scanned the area and saw that Stefan Toskala
had indeed vanished during their flight to escape. When had
he fallen behind? Was he frozen by fear or had he succeeded
in slipping away to execute a hopeless plan doomed to failure?
She could only speculate, but the awful truth sickened her.
"You can't go back now," she cried, clutching Tusk's sleeve.
"Listen to me -- we have no idea how soon before this thing
blows!"
"He couldn't have gone far."
"You don't know that!"
He'd already dumped Amanda into Mulder's arms. Her head
lolled on his good shoulder and her feet dragged the ground,
because his injury robbed him of the strength to lift her with
the other arm. Forced to help, Scully grabbed beneath the
girl's knees, aware that time was speeding past them while
disaster bore down at breakneck speed.
Tusk was determined to attempt the impossible and they were
powerless to stop him.
They felt a thunderous shock and knew that the main building,
a thousand yards distant, must be already collapsing into
ruin. Thus began a destructive chain reaction that would
explode in all directions, blasting through everything it
caught above and below ground.
Tusk hugged his sobbing sister fiercely and pushed her back
toward Scully.
"Both of you," he growled, touching Scully's cheek, "see that
she gets to safety. Stefan deserves a chance!"
"It's suicide, there's no time!" Mulder barked at him.
Undeterred, Tusk shook his gleaming head and sprinted away,
swallowed up by the dark maw of the tunnel.
************
Wordlessly she helped Mulder drag the hapless Amanda with one
hand while maintaining her hold on Cricket with the other.
The crying girl resisted, but allowed herself to be pulled
along toward the blazing headlights at the end of the tunnel
on their final leg to fresh air and freedom.
Needlenose, Glenn, and the EMTs ran to meet them and take
possession of Amanda and Footer. Outside, tall trees flamed
into black silhouette, backlit by the distant flare of what
seemed like orange, red, and yellow fireworks. The deep
rumble from the Knoll grew louder, closer, and dust began to
cloud and blur the air.
Blasts reverberated, followed by a great belch of smoke and
debris from the tunnel's mouth that made them stagger for
balance in its concussive wave. She saw that Cricket was bent
forward, hands on her knees and weeping inconsolably. Mason
knelt beside her, tears streaming down his face.
It was too unjust for words, impossible for anyone, including
Scully, to fully comprehend.
The comforting warmth of Mulder's arms enveloped her and she
leaned against him in stunned silence. They stood holding one
another until an EMT came forward, asking to examine Mulder's
wounded arm. He murmured a vague assent, but peered down into
Scully's face before he released her.
"You'll be okay for a minute?"
She blotted her eyes on a sleeve. "Go ahead, get that looked
at. Mine can wait."
"Scully, I - I don't know what to say..."
"Then don't," she whispered in haste, her throat aching.
"Please don't say anything... not yet."
A soft covert kiss to her temple and his hand slid away as he
walked with the EMT toward the flashing ambulances.
Alone except for the sounds of grief around her, Scully forced
herself to turn and face the tunnel. It was what she'd wanted
from the outset, before they'd left DC -- the chance to heal
and take a solitary stance against emotional hurt and the
demons in her life. On her own terms and in her own time,
she'd explained to Mulder.
But isolation wasn't a valid solution. Not when they were
bound together by history and cemented by love. Not when
there were new worlds waiting to be born and friendships to
make and nourish along the way.
She gave a shuddering breath and blinked through her tears,
remembering the voice that huffed those words to her a mere
day ago.
So it was, that Scully alone saw the two ghostly figures,
barely discernible through the dust and ash of the tunnel.
Both limped badly, scoured with earth and streaked with blood
from a dozen fresh wounds. But the one who was taller and
stronger kept the weaker brother from falling as they stumbled
out together as one man, into the circle of light to another
homecoming...
************
End of Chapter 22
Concluded in Chapter 23
************
Chapter 23
************
Red Roof Inn, Columbus, Ohio
March 17, 2001
3:15 AM
The windowpane felt cold against Scully's palm, the scene
outside dark and unremarkable in these primeval hours before
dawn. Cars and semis honked unseen, like distant geese in a
world that slumbered and snored. She waited for Mulder to
finish his shower, and the brief solitude was soothing after a
night fraught with danger, chaos, and complete emotional
drain.
With her hair in damp tendrils, she felt ambivalent about
pajamas, since their room had no view to speak of but a wall
of concrete. Instead she'd scrounged a motel blanket from the
closet shelf, wrapped it loosely around her hips and arms, and
contemplated her half-naked image wavering in the glass.
It was an amazing pass, how deeply events could affect a
person in so short a period of time. Touching the cool pane
with a tentative hand, she knew that the woman before her had
changed in many subtle ways.
If there was nothing new under the sun, she mused, then why
this sense of renewal and promise, a feeling as though the
dawn of all things lay at her fingertips, fresh and
undiscovered? If life is transition and growth, then love and
friendship are surely the medium that would sustain it?
In an official capacity, they had found the missing student,
rescued a second hostage, precipitated the destruction of a
valued and historic landmark, and opened up a worm can of
suspicious conspiracy involving the city of Hocking and Putnam
University. Thankfully, no lives were lost within their small
renegade group. The outcome could have been far worse when
Scully considered all the unforeseen variables.
Suppose she had been the woman burned beyond recognition at
the Super 8? Could Mulder absorb such a devastating hit and
truly get on with the rest of his life?
What if she hadn't been waylaid by Cricket or sought out
Tusk's tattoo parlor on Union Street? Suppose Willow
Nightingale had survived? What if the secret testing by the
remnant Syndicate continued unabated? Or if Mulder's summons
underground had come even later... resulting in more
casualties, including Amanda, Stefan, and Tusk's entire ragtag
team of rescuers?
She was reminded of a murmured conversation she'd shared with
him one stormy night last April. While drowsing over tea
after his return from England, she'd proposed that each person
possessed a single true path in life. All one had to do was
pay attention to the signs that popped up along the way and
make the right choices.
In recent days Mulder pointed out how close she came to
describing a Jungian model, with her emphasis on symbols and
spirituality as a means to an end. If he wanted to believe
that Jung was a final authority, Scully had no intention of
rocking that boat, but neither would she leap aboard.
Wasn't it merely human to err and to falter, to seek and
discover, to accept and to heal? To give love and accept it
in return? Wasn't the building of character rooted in such
growth? She felt there could be greater honor in shaping the
consequences of wrong choices into something for good, rather
than requiring oneself to select the correct option in the
first place.
However, his point was well taken and his logic, as usual, was
flawless. And though the flesh wound on Mulder's arm might be
superficial and easily treated, Scully sensed another, deeper
wound within him.
She'd first noted evidence of it at the rescue site outside
the tunnel. After his arm was wrapped, Mulder stood apart
near the ambulances while she waited, stunned by grief, at the
smoky entrance. Blinking hard, she saw vague indelible shapes
take form in the darkness. Beyond belief, they drifted
closer, became recognizable...
"Medics! Over here!" she'd shouted.
EMTs rushed toward the entrance where Tusk staggered out,
gashed, bleeding, and coughing. He half-dragged Stefan who
had little strength left to stand on his own. Then Cricket
flew toward her brothers like a magnet to iron, joined by
Mason in the collective welcome home and subsequent flurry of
medical aid.
Where was Mulder? She heard faint words drifting through the
celebratory din...
"Sir? You need to take a seat on the ground. Right now...
put your head down between your knees, agent. Keep it down
and breathe deeply--"
Ducking away from the group, Scully hobbled over to him in
double-time. Weeds were tickling Mulder's nose and she knew
the ground was hard and cold on his rear end. Slumped
forward, he sucked in big lungfuls of the cold air while his
face bobbed between his knees.
"Mulder, what's the matter?"
At the sound of her voice his head jerked up. Hauling himself
to a standing position with his good arm, he leaned back
against the ambulance as though physically evading the
question.
"Mulder?"
"What's--" He shook his head in irritation. "The obvious
isn't enough?"
"You know very well what I mean. Lean down here a minute..."
She switched with instinctive ease into doctor mode. Despite
his objections she explored his scalp and forehead for signs
of injury. Her warm fingers massaged his neck to locate nodes
and artery, to count the beats of his pulse.
Sliding her hands forward to cradle his stubbly face and chin,
she searched his eyes with new disquiet.
"Mulder, tell me what's wrong," she whispered. "Your skin's
dry and you aren't anywhere close to feeling shocky to me. I
see no wound or visible trauma other than that crease on your
arm, so tell me why you nearly passed out just now."
"You're making a big deal about nothing."
She released him, stepped back. "We'll see about that."
"Later," he said, his tone turning frosty. "Leave it alone
until later." He motioned to the EMT who had deferred to
Scully minutes before. "So," he said lightly, "what's our
mode of transport to be? Plane, train, or automobile?"
"It'll be a MedFlight chopper, sir." The incoming beat of
blades cut through the swiftly whirling air over their heads
and the man was forced to shout a reply. "All of you are to
be airlifted STAT to OSU Medical Center. That's it now..."
************
The flight to Columbus was mercifully quick. Scully outlined
what she knew of Amanda Carmichael's condition to the medics,
who called ahead with the information. After landing, the
girl preceded them into the trauma bay where she was taken to
ICU for an immediate CAT scan, blood work, and examination.
The others were divided up amongst the physicians on duty for
stitching and treatment. Debriefing would follow.
She insisted Mulder's wound be attended to before her own.
Then they separated. Her presence in the ER held priority,
while he met with FBI agents from both the Cleveland and
Cincinnati field offices to debrief and assess the situation
in Hocking.
Back in emergency, Scully served as mediator for the unique
challenges represented by the Toskala clan. After she
explained to hospital personnel that her tattooed and muscle-
bound friend wasn't part of the criminal element so often
admitted through their doors, Tusk became a godsend and stable
buffer for Stefan's paranoia.
Understandably, the Whisperer balked when hospital staff tried
to separate him from his siblings for treatment. It fell to
Tusk to comfort his brother, keep Cricket's mouth in check,
and reassure Mole and Needlenose. Scully heard later that he
courageously delayed his own treatment, though many of his
wounds were far more extensive than Stefan's.
In the meantime, Mulder had received a message from Dave
Hostetler. Shaken but alive, the Dean and nearly every one of
the meeting's attendees had managed to escape the full force
of the blast by accessing a ravine on the rolling property.
It would be impossible to ascertain how many people had been
lost in other wings and adjacent structures.
Scully joined her partner once she was suitably re-stitched.
After another hour of debriefing her brain, as well as her
body, cried out for reprieve. She was grateful to Mulder for
offering the necessary excuses and ushering her out towards
the hallway. She felt even more gratitude when she spotted
their travel luggage side by side on the waxed linoleum floor.
To her relief both suitcases had been salvaged from the
vehicles parked back in the field near Hocking and transported
by MedFlight chopper.
"I'm ready to call it a night if you are," he said.
"Where are we staying?"
"The Super 8's closer, but I don't trust the karma. Tonight
we're Red Roofin' it."
"I feel safer already."
He winked and touched shoulders with her, chewing a few
sunflower seeds he'd purloined or purchased from who knew
where. "Can't be too careful. Be back in about ten minutes
with the rental car."
"In that case, I'll check on the patients before we go."
With everyone else settled in, Tusk alone met her in the
hallway of the eighth floor wing. Eschewing regulation
hospital garb, he wore only clean gray sweatpants low on his
hips, the natural bulge in front too impressive for Scully to
risk a second glance. Cleansed and treated, his head, arms,
and broad colorful chest and shoulders were patched with a
myriad of dressings, stitches, and staples.
"You look like my brother's old postage stamp album," she
sighed in regret. "Or a crazy quilt pattern. Will that do
significant damage to the artwork?"
"You know what? I don't even give a shit," he confided. "Just
having Stefan back is... I can't express what it means to me,
to all of us. And just so you know..." he hesitated,
"consider that episode back in the tunnel a fluke. I've moved
way beyond it."
She touched his arm, charmed by his candor. "I knew you
would."
"I heard there's a hospital nearby that specializes in severe
neurological disorders," he added. "Depending on how things
go, I'm thinking it might be a good move to keep Stefan here a
while for evaluation. At least to see what his options are
and get him on a treatment plan."
"I agree." By now it took all her willpower to minimize the
yawn.
"How'd my stitching fare?"
"Better than I expected. But replaced, unfortunately."
"Looks like you'd better turn in. Be sure and tell Mulder
thanks for everything tonight; he's top-notch in my book."
"He is that."
"And you, my feisty little red-haired friend," Tusk whispered,
bringing his hand up to the back of her head, "are as
unforgettable as they come." He leaned in quickly.
Before Scully knew what had happened, he'd kissed her.
She wasn't sure what stunned her the most: the abruptness, who
it was, the heat and softness of his lips, or the sparks that
ricocheted through her belly.
"What the hell's going on?" Averting her face, she tried to
hide the flush that tinted her cheeks.
"Wow... looks like I really lit a wick."
"And I thought we had an understanding between us," she said
testily.
Up to his old tricks, Tusk grinned down at her. "Listen,
Dana, it's not my fault you got all hot and bothered by a
simple smooch. Haven't you ever thanked a friend with a kiss
on the mouth before?"
Her knee-jerk reaction was to deny such a thing -- but to her
eternal chagrin she remembered the time Mulder had gone
missing in the Caribbean near Bermuda. How, with impulsive
and uncharacteristic appreciation for his help, she'd laid one
on AD Skinner's astonished lips in the Hoover elevator--
"Just see it doesn't happen again," she said, turning away.
"Or you'll have Mulder kick my ass, right?"
"No," she answered over her shoulder, "*I'll* do the ass-
kicking around here."
************
"Shower first?"
Mulder threw out the question as they clicked on motel room
lights and tossed their suitcases on the low dresser near the
window. A non-smoking room, thankfully, with one queen bed
and a tiny humming refrigerator they'd never use.
The room next door would also sit empty.
"Modified shower, you mean; we can't afford to saturate the
bandages... unless you think something more important should
take precedence."
"Musky works for me."
"I wasn't implying sex, Mulder. Talking was more of what I
had in mind."
He made no answer, going instead into the bathroom and pulling
the door partway shut. Sounds of urination, the flush of a
toilet, and he was back, easing off his coat and nudging the
thermostat higher. Snatching up the remote, he clicked on the
TV and gave her his back.
"So get the ball rolling," he said, surfing channels.
His defenses were up and she'd hardly begun. Hearing his curt
tone, Scully felt a tinge of frustration. "If it's all the
same to you, I'll bathe first."
"Go for it."
The therapeutic effects of the shower raised her spirits
immeasurably. Now it was Mulder's turn to feel refreshed and
rejuvenated. Water sounds hissed and faded from the bathroom.
Plumes of steam ran riot, fogging every glass surface in the
room, including the TV screen.
She pulled the heavy curtain shut and turned away from the
window, the blanket draping her bare shoulders. Drawing a
hand across the weeping face of the mirror, she noticed his
reflection behind her, rippled and indistinct.
"That's a great look for you, by the way," he said, wrapping
the towel around his hips. "Very Pre-Raphaelite."
His hair stood up in short wet spikes and he walked from the
bright bathroom into the shadows behind her, damp footprints
marking the carpet. He looked exhausted, distracted, and a
trifle aloof as he glanced toward the silent but flickering
TV.
"You put it on mute."
"Because we need to discuss the dizzy spell you had earlier.
Or at least talk about whatever it is that's bothering you,"
she said gently. "From our conversation on the phone last
night, I suspect it has something to do with Willow
Nightingale."
He shrugged.
"You never did explain the circumstances of her death. Did
she hurt you in some way?"
Mulder's lip curled into a sneer as he clicked off the channel
and flung away the plastic remote.
"Mulder?"
"You really want to do this now, Scully? Tonight?" He
planted himself before her, hands on his hips. "Want to get
inside my head with your bare little hands and help me clean
house right now?"
She was taken aback by his hostility, but not cowed. "If
that's what it takes to understand what's going on with you,
then yes, I'm game."
For a full minute they stared at one another, both breathing
heavily. She watched Mulder's face go through several
metamorphoses as he moved from anger, to resentment, to
sadness, and finally to an expression of anguished defeat.
Walking toward her, he gathered her to his bare chest and held
on, rested his forehead against her hair with a groan.
"God, Scully... it's all been a fucking lie."
"What has?"
"I thought I'd been able to file everything away since the
LaPierre case... and everything associated with it. I guess I
just wanted it to finally be over. I tried to defrag, purge,
and delete all the non-essentials. Do a clean sweep. Draw
comfort from the closure offered to me and convince myself I
was free. And you know what?"
"What, Mulder?"
"I wasn't close. Not by a long shot."
Her particular demons, apparently, were not the only ghosts
that had drawn him to her bed these many months since the case
in Aubrey. Womanly insight and experience with his moods
should have alerted her long ago that something was amiss.
Like a short-sighted physician, she'd failed to discover all
the symptoms past and present that may have triggered this
malady.
"Let's sit down," she whispered. Taking him by the hand, she
led him toward the quilted bed and was grateful for his
acquiescence.
He sat, regarding her with an expression of deep pain. "I've
been contemplating people with whom I've felt a significant
and personal connection."
"And?" she prompted.
"You're a given; you own my heart, Scully."
"As you do mine," she assured him. "Who else were you
thinking of?"
"Remember Max?"
"Max Fenig? Of all people, why?"
"Because I never met anyone with such single-minded energy
directed toward an end that was necessary to his existence, to
his very happiness. Despite the danger. Despite the fact
that so few people believed him. He felt kindred to me, like
a brother, Scully. The closest I'd ever come to experiencing
that after Sam disappeared."
"Sharon Graffia believed him."
"Yes. Though she didn't always understand his motives or
trust his judgment and methods, she allowed him to follow his
instincts to the limit. She believed *in* him, Scully. Like
I know you do in me."
"Even though I kept you in the dark for so long on this case?"
His arm went around her, pulled her closer. "You did what you
had to do, even if it meant keeping me guessing for a while."
"Is there anything else?"
"I only mention your big tattooed friend," he said after a
pause, "because he knocked my socks off tonight by what he
accomplished."
"You mean Tusk?"
Mulder nodded. "And he did what any man worth his salt would
do. More than that, he reached for something deep inside
himself, ignored the odds, and thumbed his nose at failure.
Nothing stopped him from attaining his goal, which is
something," he murmured, staring into the gloom, "I feel I've
lost sight of along the way... in the search for Samantha."
"You're being too hard on yourself," she demurred, though his
words alarmed her. "The circumstances were in no way
comparable. We both know you came to terms last year with
what happened to your sister."
"You think so? Want to know what went wrong with me out there
near the tunnel?"
"Tell me."
"It was an anomalous paranormal residual." He stumbled over
the complex syllables like a man after too much drink and gave
a harsh laugh. "In fact, let's give it a name. How about
'post-traumatic spell syndrome'?"
"Jesus, Mulder--"
"Jesus has nothing to do with it. But Willow, or the being
who impersonated her, packed a potent brand of power. And I
let it all happen by falling into her trap."
Scully frowned. "I thought she was a fake. You implied she
impersonated the real psychic."
"Only so she could infiltrate under the guise of the LIFE
organization. She was working for the other side all along
and you were right about that from the start. Every time we
investigated Amanda's dormitory she used her power to trip me
up and hold me under."
He rubbed shaking hands over his face. "I was mind-fucked
until I didn't know up or down and was barely conscious. When
I finally got the drop on her, she... she told me... things."
"What things?"
"That I've been living a lie ever since Victorville. That
Samantha-- that my now-adult sister might still be somewhere
out there."
"How can that be?" Her heart stung at the earnestness and
pain in his voice.
He shook his head. The corners of his eyes crinkled. He
sagged to his knees like a child at prayer, while she listened
and held him close. Tears seeped between Mulder's fingers as
he talked disjointedly about Willow and her betrayal... about
Harold Piller's treachery and the travesty of San Diego and
Victorville, about the doubts that had shadowed him since that
case... the wrong and stupid choices he'd made...
His voice broke, recovered, and broke again as he spoke about
troubled souls and walk-ins sharing a single body... that
Samantha might still be alive, grown to adulthood with a new
consciousness... Of being duped and disillusioned, the shame
and abdication he felt for abandoning the quest... and how
Scully was the only person he could ultimately trust in all
the world...
Absorbing every word and whimper of anguish, she believed him.
************
Had she been asleep for two hours or three?
The fog-dark room suggested that only farmers, sanitation
workers, and paperboys should be stirring. Sounds of city
traffic seemed distant and sporadic. What had roused her
then?
Lying naked on her left side beneath the motel sheets, she
felt the mattress dip from restless movement and disturb the
heat radiating along her back. Mulder was awake.
"Scully?"
Voice soft and husky, he made careful contact with his long
body, snuggling in closer. His chest hair tickled her
shoulder blades and a familiar appendage pressed above the
small of her back.
An arm encircled her waist. One cool hand moved across her
belly and his finger crept down, teasing the first curly wisps
it encountered.
Behind, she felt the hot length of his penis twitch.
"Are you serious... Mulder?"
His hand slid up to her breast and squeezed, then leisurely
toyed with its sensitive little tip.
"You tell me," he crooned, stroking his erection behind her.
It left a touch of wetness on her skin. "Feels like a long
time in terms of what's happened. Don't you think?"
Sleepy sex, it appeared, would be their final healing act
before dawn's arrival. She felt his lips' slow caress along
her neck, heard his deep hum of contentment and arousal.
His fingers browsed low again beneath the sheet. Finding her
tender furrow, they began to ruminate and explore its
intricacies, striking a slow memorable cadence.
"God," she breathed. "You know what that--"
"Relax, let me do the work."
Her body responded to the tempo set by his fingers as they
rhythmically dipped into her rising heat, spreading it like
honey...
She luxuriated, arched her spine, inhaling the pheromone-rich
scents of lovemaking. Opened her eyes when he left the bed
and settled onto the other side to face her. He drew down the
sheet and bunched his pillow behind her shoulders. In a
sleepy sensuous haze she understood that her good hip and his
bad arm were opposite and therefore workable if they leaned to
one side...
"Leg up," he coached in a whisper, easing down on his knees.
"On my shoulder... then I can--"
She moaned as invisible thumbs fanned her gently apart and his
mouth settled in between her thighs.
He bathed her with patient, imaginative lip work, the
insistent whorls of his tongue driving her higher, toward
release. It hit hard and sent Scully's head reeling against
the pillow. In a daze she felt a subtle shifting of his body,
velvet heat along the inside of her leg. He waited with tiny
rocking movements of his hips.
"Everything okay?"
"Ummm... go for it."
Stealing her breath, he filled her with one slick, careful
thrust. Gradually he picked up speed, his bad arm cradling
her back for leverage. She found, because of their angle,
that her hand could just reach around the firm nest of his
balls--
With a groan he ground to a halt, shaken by spasms while she
milked him with gentle fingers. She waited until Mulder's
trembling subsided and he fell away, limp and motionless
again. Still lying on her good side, she gently kissed this
man she loved and drew up the sheet and blanket to shield him.
Sleep crept in to reclaim them both as the first rays of dawn
peeked beneath the curtains.
************
Outside Hocking
March 18, 2001
9:15 AM
It was a morning of sun and few clouds, and a good one for air
travel. Tiny gusts puffed through the light-flecked forest,
rustled bushes and undergrowth beaten down by winter, cheering
them with the promise of spring.
Scully stood before the slight mound that lay covered by last
autumn's leaves. Unlike the cemetery at the Knoll, not even a
stick or stone lozenge honored this lone grave. But it was
how Old Harry, Mason reminded her, had wanted his last haven
on earth preserved. Other indistinct graves dotted these
woodlands that surrounded Hocking, honoring those who had
suffered at the hand of the new Consortium, but who had
managed to die free.
"I said I'd show you this... if we ever made it out of there
alive," Tusk said quietly to Scully. "You earned it. And I
feel I can trust both of you."
A short while before, she and Mulder had completed farewells
to Dean of Students Dave Hostetler. Along with nearly all the
administrative members who attended the fateful meeting at the
Knoll several days before, he'd escaped with only minor
injuries. However, many of the apparent survivors had
vanished in the aftermath, including the foreign-speaking
contingent of scientists, the moderator, and his entire staff.
Hostetler felt new optimism for his job, but much depended
upon whether the university itself could survive such a blow.
Since the explosion at the Knoll and the investigation that
ensued, the place seemed in near turmoil.
"We're not sure how the dust will actually settle after spring
break -- whether classes will continue as usual, or even if
President Gladstone retains his position or not. He was a
victim of terrorist tactics, just like a lot of us were. But
the people really going crazy over this whole thing are the
historic preservation fanatics. They're trying to pin the
blame for the Knoll's destruction anywhere they can. And for
the first time on record no one's paying them much attention."
The last time Scully checked, Amanda Carmichael was showing
definite improvement in the ICU trauma wing. Her parents,
accompanied by FBI field agents from the Cincinnati office,
arrived the same night of her rescue. Despite her guarded
condition, they were overjoyed to have their daughter restored
alive and showered Mulder, then Scully, with tears of thanks.
Valerie Pinkerton floated in and out of consciousness in
Hocking, her condition upgraded, but still a concern.
Horrified that she had been victimized to ensure his
cooperation, Hostetler felt a sense of responsibility toward
the young woman. After determining that his Indiana family
had not been molested, he devoted the free moments of his time
to bedside vigil.
"Got a boom box? Play 'Black Velvet'," Mulder suggested,
slipping Val's cassette into Hostetler's hand. "It might jog
a memory about what she experienced that night. At the very
least, you'll appreciate the words."
"I don't think so."
"Shouldn't diss the 'King'." For emphasis, Mulder tapped the
tape with a finger. "Trust me, that song deserves a listen."
Hostetler's farewell consisted of a polite, warm handshake to
Scully and a lengthy and emotional one with Mulder.
"I can't begin to tell you what it meant, having you come
here... sorting out this mess and exposing the root of the
cover-up. I'm still reeling over it. Will you be back? As
the investigation here progresses, I mean...?"
"That's up to our Assistant Director," Mulder replied,
glancing at Scully. "Whether it's likely or not -- your guess
is as good as mine."
The Toskala homestead outside of Hocking was their next stop.
With Mulder at the wheel, Scully directed the car toward the
little vale hidden within denser forest, where Tusk and Mason
awaited their arrival. The two men had returned to Hocking
with Needlenose and Mole, so they could heal from their
injuries in the safety and isolation of their communal home.
Even at Old Harry's grave site, Cricket and Stefan were
noticeable for their absence.
"She wanted to come back to see you off," explained Tusk, "but
figured it was better for her to stay up there with Stefan
while he's undergoing evaluation. Those two have become
inseparable and it's a real comfort to him, having her around.
I'd be there too, if I didn't have to hit the needle and ink
again so soon."
"Mason can't run the shop for you?" asked Scully.
"Nah. He's good, but he doesn't quite have my touch. Thanks
to you, Dana, I'm obligated to tat a former convict free of
charge. It's not in my best interest to renege."
She had experienced emotional good-byes at the Columbus
medical center the previous evening. Stefan had smiled and
held both of their hands, hers and Mulder's, whispering his
thank you ("Kiitos!") and farewell ("Nakemiin!") in Finnish.
Cricket threw her arms around Scully's neck in a startling
display of gratitude and sisterly affection, and even Mulder
had received a generous hug from the once-sullen young woman.
"Will she take time off from school?" Scully wondered,
standing with Tusk and Mulder beside the grave.
"That's the plan. Correspondence courses are an option if she
sticks around Columbus with her brother. But she's hoping to
finally declare a major next year. She's got it narrowed down
to three choices, thanks to you two."
"Which ones?"
Tusk grinned. "She considered psychiatry first. Now it's
criminal justice or law enforcement. Wouldn't that just blow
your mind, having Cricket in uniform, mouthing off and packing
heat?"
"We've seen worse things," joked Mulder and they all chuckled
in response. Eyebrows raised, he looked down at Scully and
nodded toward his watch.
"Right... we need to get on the road," she said in apology,
clearing the sudden tightness from her throat. "One last
stop, then it's to the airport and back to DC."
Mulder stepped forward, extending his hand toward Tusk in
thanks. The taller man ignored it and enveloped him instead
in a brotherly bear hug. The expression Scully saw on her
partner's face was, literally, priceless.
"I'm the one who should be thanking you," Tusk muttered to
him. "You came in and kicked some serious ass, dude! If I'd
been in a position to trust you earlier on, I would have.
But, like Dana herself will tell you -- even *she* had a tough
time breaking into this."
"You had an important investment to protect," concurred Mulder
with a last handshake. "Good luck to all of you. Scully?"
She hesitated, feeling foolish now that the moment had
arrived. It was Tusk who voiced their shared request with a
low rumble.
"If it's not a problem for you, man... can you give us a quick
minute alone?"
Mulder gave a sober nod, but he kept his eyes on Scully longer
than necessary and walked with Mason back toward the two cars.
"So... apparently this is good-bye," she said, feeling the
awkwardness.
"Not even close. It's more of a 'see you later.' You got
that straight? I think you really accomplished something
here, Dana," Tusk whispered. "Now you know the whole story
from start to finish."
"As in 'Finnish' roots?"
A wide grin creased his face and he moved closer; both his
hands settled on her shoulders. "Speaking of which, Stefan
refers to you as our '*ystava*'."
"What does it mean?" she asked softly, touched by the exotic
sound of the word.
"'Friend'. Except, according to him, *ystava* implies more.
It's someone or something used for great good, and you were
that... to all of us."
"I've been thinking about something you told me concerning new
friendships," she confessed, blinking away tears. "It reminds
me of what a Navajo elder once said to make me see more
clearly. 'There are more worlds than the one you can hold in
your hand.' Until this past week I didn't fully appreciate
the scope of those words."
They embraced long and tightly, the heels of Scully's boots
lifting from the ground. "Keep in touch," murmured Tusk into
her ear. A chaste kiss on the cheek and they parted ways.
Back in the car, Mulder shot her sidelong glances as he
pointed the car down the indistinct track toward the road and
town.
"On to the last stop?"
"Yes," she whispered, "and then we're headed home. Together."
"Skinner tells me he's kept your mother in the loop," said
Mulder.
"I'm grateful for that. Which makes me wonder how many others
at the Hoover will be relieved that I haven't actually become
a statistic."
"Are you kidding? Special Agent Al Sloan should be doing
backflips. I bet your buddies down in the forensics lab break
out the bubbly and try their damnedest, after the third glass,
not to confuse it with the formaldehyde."
She gave a weak smile, dabbed her eyes, and focused on the
passing countryside.
"You know, I'm not completely against getting a tattoo one of
these days," he ventured out of the blue. "But I've got this
indisputable need to maintain a full head of hair as long as I
can--"
Reaching over, she slid her hand over his and squeezed hard.
"Enough of that, Mulder. You're exactly the way I want you
and need you to be. Don't forget it."
Glenn was waiting for them at the office of the Hocking Super
8, his face lighting up when their rental car pulled in.
After final good-byes and a quick hug with Scully, he handed
Mulder a cardboard container that radiated warmth.
"Spudnuts, fresh from the oven," he boasted. "These'll get
you home in style."
"I appreciate it; Scully hasn't realized what she's been
missing all this time. How's the head today?"
"My head? Looks like you two sure mopped up around here; the
itch is history," said Glenn, with a sheepish grin and a shake
of unruly salt-and-pepper locks. "Now I know who to call if
it ever acts up again and tells me there's another X-File
afoot."
************
Hocking, Ohio
Spring Equinox, March 20, 2001
1:20 AM
It hovered like a phantom firefly in the night.
Four sets of eyes tracked the craft's sinuous progress over
the countryside until it nestled just beyond a dark silhouette
of treetops. Overhead the melon-slice moon grinned and a
galaxy twinkled through marbled cloud cover. From their
vantage point in the meadow this distant intruder eclipsed the
whole universe with its potency.
"Tough luck, you lousy motherfuckers!" jeered Mole softly,
waving the middle finger of his good hand. "Take this up your
alien asses!"
Needlenose snickered with him as the distant monstrosity
hovered for long indecisive moments. Then it went streaking
away into the night sky and oblivion.
"Hey, boss," called Mason under his breath. "You gonna phone
Dana and Mulder? Let them in on this?"
He turned toward the tall, broad-chested man who stood in
silence behind them, hands shoved deeply into his coat
pockets. Tusk cleared his throat, face and eyes gleaming in
the thin moonlight. He walked over and clapped a strong hand
on his friend's shoulder.
"Not right away," he murmured, staring off into the darkness,
"but one of these days... you can bet on it."
************
Conclusion of
Diametrically Opposed
December 28, 2005
************
NOTES: Putnam University is a very real institution that
exists under a different name. I have purposely deceived,
inveigled and obfuscated numerous locations, individuals,
names and facts out of respect for my alma mater, for its 2004
bicentennial celebration, and to protect the innocent. The
area's supernatural legacy does have a basis in fact, and the
broader elements emerge largely intact and unchanged when they
appear in this story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Enduring and special thanks go to Diana
Battis and Audrey Roget for consistent, amazing, selfless beta
throughout the long haul. To Forte and Mish, for occasional
whacking of the weeds in early chapters. To the ladies of
Musea for their enthusiasm, belief in me, and general support.
Grateful thanks also to Avalon, for her suggestions about
psychic matters. To Tom in San Diego, David in Columbus, and
Philiater who answered my medical questions with respect to
detail and realism.
I'm also indebted to the faithful readers who have absorbed,
encouraged, cheered me on, and offered glorious feedback
throughout this journey. Thank you all!
mountainphile