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