Diametrically Opposed by mountainphile ************ 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