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