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