Diametrically Opposed by mountainphile ************ Chapter 5 ************ Cutler Hall, Putnam University March 14, 2001 8:55 AM Late winter died a slow death, melting into spring. It was a time of evening hoarfrost and days longer on sun. Of morning fog over the river, when new growth awakened as students took a break from their studies. A time when funny lights hovered in the night sky and people vanished. Cricket peered at the bell tower across from the College Green, knowing that nine chimes were imminent. Timing was crucial as she awaited a connection. She sat cross-legged in the sunshine outside the Dean's office, tracking movement across the grass. A sentinel. For success, interception must happen and quickly. She willed herself to stay patient and lit up a smoke. Her last exam began in less than ten minutes and all the way toward the South Green. The professor might growl, but she hoped he'd cut her some decent slack if she were forced to pop in late. At least this Agent Mulder character hadn't wasted her time. He'd released her after determining her non- involvement with Amanda Carmichael the night she'd disappeared. Someone else, she knew, would be much less forgiving if her judgment this morning were off, should this particular contact prove to be bogus and throw the whole plan into jeopardy. She felt like a blend of genius and maverick on a rogue mission, knowing a break was crucial. She shot a look at her wristwatch, then at the clock tower again. In reality, she'd made this decision on the fly only minutes earlier after speaking with Val Pinkerton. Val was easy in more ways than one. As soon as the FBI agent left the building with his psychic sidekick, she'd turned into a literal blabbermouth of information. That wasn't surprising; Val always chatted up a storm after spending covert nights at her boss's place, reveling in sensual details and swearing Cricket to secrecy. From these whispered talks, something else had become apparent during the last few months: after a shitload of stress, several bottles of wine and a good fuck, Dean Hostetler also felt the need to unburden himself to the closest sympathetic ear. Cute, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Maybe that's why he'd earned this morning's unexpected appointment up Downey Lane. She started, dropping her hand and narrowing her eyes when someone emerged from the parade of students crisscrossing the green. It was a small woman in slim jeans and black leather marching toward Hostetler's office with purpose. Sleek hair bright as a penny in sunlight, dark glasses, no-nonsense attitude. Clomping in small strides, the corners of her mouth bent into a sour twist. Right on schedule. Calculating, Cricket waited until the woman stood several yards away from the entrance before stubbing out her cigarette and slouching to her feet. "If you're looking, they already left for Wilson Hall," she said. "Both of 'em together." The woman halted, one foot poised on the first step. Close up she seemed no bigger than Cricket, but classy and very adult. Irritation had marked little creases above one curved eyebrow. She removed her sunglasses to get a better look at the girl. "Should I know you?" "Not really, since you blew the big meeting. But I know who you are," countered Cricket, "and why you're around." "You must be Kirsi Toskala, then." "And you're that FBI jerk's real partner." "Enough of that," came the tart response. "What's your involvement here?" Cricket returned the woman's cool stare. "I can't tell you that right now. But... " She paused, then plunged. "If you cooperate with me I can get you information. Show you things -- stuff I can't give to him." "You mean Agent Mulder?" "Yeah, he just finished with me. I can't trust him, not when he's working with that Nightingale witch out in the open." "Her last name is Nightingale? I'm not surprised," the woman muttered in disgust. Her expression turned cynical. "But you can trust *me*, whom you've never met. Explain that." "You're trained FBI. You work in some department called the X-Files and investigate paranormal shit and conspiracies. You're a doctor; you do autopsies and top secret stuff. You've been Agent Mulder's partner for a long time and he trusts you." "Who told you all this?" Cricket ignored the question. "You uncover secrets about aliens and spaceships and know how to keep your mouth shut about it. You don't always agree with your partner's opinions and aren't afraid to say so." "None of which concerns you." "Yeah it does. I wanna know if you always have to tell him everything you see and do. If *everything* shows up in your reports. Because if that's the case..." Cricket shook her head and tongued her lip ring, "you don't have a mind to call your own, Agent Scully. It means I was dead wrong and this conversation's over." The woman called Scully stood agape; she tilted her head slowly, a hand rising to her hip. "I know other things about you too," continued Cricket, stepping closer. "Things you keep hidden. Things you don't like to talk about or have anyone else find out." "Such as?" "They abducted you, for secret testing. Didn't They?" "What?" The woman's face froze, registering shock and incredulity. Her hand snared Cricket's wrist in a grip so quick and strong it took the girl by surprise. "Whoa, wait! Who the hell are you working for?" "Nobody important. And I'm offering you something big, but only if you promise to keep it to yourself, away from *him*. Can you deal?" "I'd need time to think about it." Cricket's heart thumped. "Think fast or my offer's gone and so am I. And I swear to God I'll blow your cover all over town." "What's in it for you?" Agent Scully's eyes flashed. "I want the same thing as you do." Tears stung Cricket's eyes; she willed them back, focusing instead on what was at stake. "When it's all over, you can tell your partner anything you want." She paused. "What'll it be?" The first toll of the hour boomed from the clock tower. They stared at one another, locked in stalemate, breathing heavily while seconds drained away and the heavy cadence continued. Scully's grasp eased on Cricket's arm, though her eyes flashed dangerously and her voice sank to a husky whisper. "Okay, suppose I do agree. What happens next?" "Here." Flushing with reaction, the girl shrugged off Scully's fingers and fished in her coat pocket. She withdrew a business card and pen, scribbled on the back, and held it out. "Meet me at this address at two o'clock. He'll be waiting for you." "Who will?" "You'll find out then. I've gotta go, I'm already late. Don't breathe a word of this, except to say you might've found another lead. Got that?" "Maybe," Scully grumbled, snatching the card, "but I'll need convincing." "One more thing. Don't call me Kirsi anymore; the name is Cricket." With the echo from the ninth toll ringing in her ears she set off at a trot toward the South Green. Glancing back over her shoulder one last time, she saw the agent still examining the back of the little card. A frown remained on Scully's face. She glanced around her before heading back across the maze of walkways toward her car. ************ Wilson Hall 9:22 AM Mulder shivered from the buzz. When supernatural phenomena lay ripe for scrutiny or manifested in ways least expected, the old feeling seized him. Time and again he'd ventured forth into the shadowy unknown, a thrill freak walking close to the edge on so many cases. In retrospect he'd tempted powers, flirted with danger, played with too much strange fire in his day. Usually Scully stood point, watching his back. She tiptoed along the periphery of his enthusiasm, but would invariably leap in to join him, carried in the wake of his quest. This morning, however, she was absent and a psychic detective named Willow Wind fluttered close to his side. Thanks to Hostetler's dictum he saw no equipment, no electronic machinery capable of revealing the paranormal. Nothing with technological significance to aid Willow in her mission except a simple cloth tote with a bulge. Mulder didn't inquire as its contents or what she was sensing from the area, nor did she offer explanation. Her fingers rippled through unseen breezes outside the dormitory. Palms open, eyes closed, her face composed as a statue's. Mulder found himself entranced, intent on every move. Breathing when she did, he kept synchronous pace, feeling like a shadow. From what he knew of old residence halls, women's dormitories were fortresses back in the day. After dark, housemothers would lock up from the inside, caretakers from the outside. Unlucky was the young woman who, running late, found herself barricaded outdoors until morning. Though such restrictions were extreme and now antiquated for modern colleges, freshman women still felt the pinch of curfew. Society, he realized, had a strange habit of sequestering its women under the guise of male protection and gallantry, of imposing its will for their collective well- being. He felt a glimmer of insight. For many months he'd been casting his net of protection over Scully with the tenacity of a poacher; apparently the weight of such altruism coupled with their new intimacy had combined to smother her. He thanked his lucky stars that she seemed amenable to ending their four-day fast. He felt more than ready to belly up to that table. Exam week was nearly over as well, and Wilson Hall emptier than he'd expected. He flashed his badge to the RA inside and explained their purpose, discovering the Dean had taken the liberty of phoning ahead. No shouts of "Man on the floor!" preceded them, for which he was grateful. Instead they had free rein to explore as long as they kept a discreet profile and the remaining students weren't disturbed. He smelled perfume and woman-scent beneath the varnish and furniture polish. The building was old, the lounge area bright and appropriately decorated. Willow wandered for long minutes, Mulder ambling with her. Several coeds sat studying on one of the sofas, watching them and whispering; he smiled back and winked to alleviate suspicion. "Agent Mulder, over here." The psychic spoke with such urgency that Mulder moved closer, nerves tingling. "What have you found?" "Fear and unrest. A sense of anguish, despair. So much sadness. It's as though -- oh!" She groaned and put a hand to her forehead, intent on the unseen. "What is it? Amanda?" "Yes -- and there's more. So many voices are clamoring to be heard that it's difficult to separate them. To focus on the correct one." "What's their main complaint?" He wanted it succinct. Sooner rather than later, if at all possible. Glancing at his watch, he saw that fifteen more minutes had evaporated and chewed his lip at the snail's pace she kept. "Please, not so fast. Haste impedes thoroughness," Willow chided, "and spiritual things are discerned only through slow, patient concentration and faith. Unbelief and antagonism can also hinder by disturbing the spirits, the light force around us." She kneaded her temple, closed her eyes. "Ultimately, we all desire to know the truth. Don't we... Agent Scully?" Mulder wheeled in surprise, saw her silhouetted in the sunny alcove behind them. Conflicting emotions of relief, love, and apprehension carried him the short distance to where Scully stood with crossed arms. From her expression and body language he surmised she was neither pleased nor awed by Willow's observations. He gave her the once-over, grinning, and slid a hand onto her shoulder. Soft leather over the slim angularity he knew so well. Hidden from view, his thumb brushed the warm skin at her neckline. His glance flicked downward, noting with pleasure how the sweater accentuated the shape of her breasts, the color of her eyes. "Hey, nice outfit, partner." "Collegiate enough for you?" Her frustration was obvious, but he had every intention of appeasing a large part of that later in her motel room. "No question, you've sold me. How was the trip?" "I've had better." He scanned her face for clues, decided now was not the time to push it. But he sensed a barrier between them, a prickle of discontent in Scully, which he attributed to the day's aggravations and her distrust of Willow. "C'mon over here, then. Let's make nice." Pursing her lips, she took a place at his side. The three formed an odd huddle, with Scully the shortest corner of the triangle. Since introductions devolved to Mulder he used the opportunity to reel the two women in. He spoke softly, so the nearby students couldn't eavesdrop on their conversation. "This is my partner at the FBI, Special Agent Dana Scully. Scully, this is..." He paused, wincing inwardly at the peculiarity of the words, "Willow Wind Nightingale, from the LIFE foundation." Scully offered a patent, civil smile and a nod. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," said Willow, extending jeweled fingers. Her open palm beckoned, waited. "You needn't be fearful of touching me." "That's reassuring, Ms. Nightingale." From long experience he recognized the grit in Scully's voice and the tiny flare of her nostrils as warning signs. Firm handshake summarily delivered, she nipped the challenge in the bud and swung her attention back to Mulder. "So, what have I missed here besides interviewing the student over at Cutler Hall?" "Not a whole lot. She had no direct involvement with Amanda that could be determined, other than living in a reputedly haunted dorm room in the same building. But the 'tude and the punk 'look'... Scully, they were priceless. You really missed something." She pondered that for a moment, her expression bland as oatmeal. The invisible wall rose higher, reminiscent of what he'd observed when they worked with Harold Piller last year. Not exactly foot-dragging, but a brusque lack of enthusiasm that teetered toward rudeness. She glanced around the lounge and let out a sigh. "What?" "It's just that I thought by now you'd be upstairs checking room 334 -- Amanda's room," she said, the accusation barely couched. "We're, uh, just about there. I think." "Should I go there myself?" "Wait on that." "Agent Scully," said Willow, "as I intimated when you arrived, these things take time. I'm sure you can appreciate the need for care and precision on such a sensitive case." Though they spoke together in near-whispers, Mulder picked up the subtle condescension. He assumed Scully had as well. "In my experience psychic talent hasn't proven to be all that precise." Willow flicked a glance toward Mulder first, then smiled down indulgently. "Please humor me, then. I only ask for your cooperation over the next few hours, or however long it takes to discover what forces are at work in Amanda Carmichael's disappearance. Surely we can agree on that?" "Personally, I'm not convinced we're even looking in the right place." "Scully..." He grinned, made light of it to disguise her borderline disrespect and his own chagrin. "Well, her parents are in still in town, aren't they? I assume someone other than the Dean has taken time to talk with them and find out why they wanted psychic intervention in the first place." "Hostetler made it clear they're off-limits for the time being," said Mulder. She shot him a scandalized look, hand to her hip. "Please, no anger. No added discord here. We're all doing our part to abide by the Dean's wishes," Willow said with finality, "and it's expected that you'll do likewise." She moved away toward the staircase. "Mulder --" Hushed outrage. "Eas-y," he cautioned, hoping Scully would take the hint and not interpret this collaboration as lack of backbone or an abdication of his principles. Her animosity was already enough of a concern to send up a red flag. Even two. "What's wrong? Have you found something in her background check?" "What background check? That's something else long overdue." "Listen, we'll discuss it tonight. Relax, I'm still on my game." "It looks to me like she's already rewritten the rules, Mulder. At least as far as it concerns you." He tipped his face closer, seeking eye contact, but she eluded him. Shrugging off her coat she followed Willow toward the stairs. ************ The Knoll Administrative offices 9:30 AM Dave Hostetler hated waiting. He made the drive up beautiful Downey Lane in record time, arriving five minutes ahead of schedule. Nerves jangling, he felt damp with sweat, as he always did when a threat loomed or someone breathed down his neck. The same sense of dread that kept him rooted to the chair also risked catapulting him out the front door like a crazed sprinter on a run for his life. Crazed? He wiped his face and gave a nervous chuckle. How fitting, since here he was, cooling his heels in a wing of the former Hocking Lunatic Asylum, later renamed the Mental Health Center. Now, purchased and renovated, it was known as the Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum. In the end he chose to sit with laced fingers and ponder his surroundings. He had passing familiarity with the property thanks to common knowledge and his own curiosity. Built in 1874 it was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. High Victorian style architecture, brick construction, central hub with adjacent wings. Designed by the man who propounded the Kirkbride Plan for moral treatment of the mentally ill, known for its sunny, stress-free and ordered environment. Day-to-day the truth played out differently, history revealed. Rational behavior had been rewarded with a room near the center, on an airy upper floor. Violent insanity merited only the lowest levels, the dankest rooms farthest away from the hub. As for the treatments -- Hostetler had read of tortures unspeakable while the psychiatric community experimented over decades with ways and means of restoring mental health. Rumors persisted of clandestine, nighttime interments at the old cemetery near the Knoll. Narrow white slabs, numbered and nameless. Unmourned, forgotten, and now objects of desecration by local vandals. No wonder people claimed the place was haunted. Hell, the whole town gave him the creeps these days. "Dean Hostetler?" He jumped up, obedient as a schoolboy. "Please follow me, sir," said a tall grim-looking character, guiding him down a magnificent arched hallway and up a flight of stairs. "Has the Provost asked to see me?" "They're expecting you." He had no idea who "they" could be. The massive oak door swung open before him and he blinked. Morning sunlight slid golden shafts through the room, illuminating the high ceilings and rounded cornices of old Victorian windows. A private parlor by the look of it, not an office at all. If he remembered details of what he'd read about the layout, it was the original apartment that housed asylum superintendents over the last century. He took a hesitant step forward and heard the door click shut behind him, effectively barring any retreat on his part. "Dean David Hostetler?" In the center of the spacious room two men waited on plush upholstery. The nervous one to the right he recognized as the university Provost, Carl Mellingham. That was good. The other was a complete stranger, but Hostetler assumed by his appearance and manner that he was the one who'd requested the meeting. He was immaculately suited, a stocky bulldog of a man with a squared jaw and deep-set eyes. His commanding glower drew Hostetler forward, almost against his will, as though by powers beyond the natural. My own paranoia, he thought, heart pounding. Plus, his brain was still foggy from slight hangover and too much indulgence. But this whole FBI-psychic-administration situation was getting out of hand. More pressure than anyone should have to handle for what he was paid. A slight nod of recognition from Mellingham jerked him back to reality. Hostetler's mind raced for several seconds as survival instinct kicked in. He took a cleansing breath to ground himself before starting toward them. With a polite smile frozen to his face he realized he could tough this one out. After all, hadn't he cooperated so far? "Please have a seat, Mr. Hostetler," the big man said in a dry husky voice. "I've looked forward to meeting you." ************ The trip to the fourth floor was an interminable journey of false starts and stops as Willow tuned in to her surroundings. First, she demanded complete silence. She placed hands on the walls, slid them lovingly over and down the banister rail in a way that made Mulder's loins quiver. She paused often to tap whatever spirits might be lurking around them. Head bowed, then face lifted towards heaven, hands and mind opened to receive. Climbing the stairs at a snail's pace, Mulder knew that Scully found the whole scenario ridiculous. He hoped something of substance would materialize to steer her toward acceptance. Some powerful authentication, in light of his recent suspicions concerning Samantha's fate. Amanda... the name sounded similar, the college girl's disappearance as much of a mystery. It gave him a vague feeling of kinship, an unexplainable connection to this case and to the victim. He felt driven to find this young woman and restore her to her parents using whatever means were at his disposal. Perhaps in doing so he'd gain insight into this new restiveness concerning his own sister's fate. The world of the supernatural marbled through waters dark with mystery. Starlight and the odd visions he'd experienced -- were they genuine? Using his old catchphrase, he *wanted* to believe in their veracity, wanted it desperately. But he found himself clutching at straws, with only fuzzy recollections of what had happened that night in the clearing near Victorville. Like a mosquito bite nearly healed, he'd gone and picked that scab open again. Already it itched and oozed doubt. It occurred to him that he'd still made no mention of this to Scully. In time he'd remedy that. But not yet. The staircase showed its age, dark-stained wood absorbing the minimal westward light that shone through the narrow windowpanes. A mere few thousand feet above sea level and his breathing felt labored, the air heavier in his lungs. Light- headed, almost to the point of euphoria, he opened his mouth to suck in more oxygen. As they gained the fourth floor he glanced down at Scully, to see if she was similarly affected. She plodded alongside him like a trooper, her lips sealed with nothing more than discontent. Willow turned, spread her arms to halt their progress in the dimly lit corridor. Her large eyes gleamed as though awestruck. "What is it?" His heart thumped. For answer she dug into the tote she carried and drew out a wad of pale aqua material. A nightgown, feminine, lacy. Murmuring to herself she swayed while she clutched the fabric to her chest. "Amanda's," Mulder breathed in recognition, and the psychic nodded, closing her eyes. Her pale hair billowed like a cloud. "What are you sensing from it?" "*I'm* sensing we need to be on the third floor, checking her room." Curt words from Scully. "I mean, that would have been the most logical step, and you passed it up." Her reading disturbed, Willow frowned. "This isn't about order or logic, Agent Scully. It concerns life energy and communication. Amanda's aura residue is guiding me, yes. Not to the third floor, but here, to this area..." She raised her arm and pointed a long-nailed finger down the hall. "... to that room." "Room 412," murmured Mulder to Scully. "I suppose that's Kirsi Toskala's room?" "Better call her Cricket or else," he corrected. "Like I said, you missed out." Scully's color deepened and she glanced away. "Whatever, Mulder. It's still what people are referring to as the haunted room. Am I right?" "On the money." Mortified, he watched as she strode over to the door, past Willow, and jiggled the knob with vigor. "Looks to me like no one's home. I don't suppose you have carte blanche to jimmy a student's lock and invade her personal space?" "Perhaps something can be arranged," said Willow stiffly. "Better check with the Dean first; you wouldn't want to disrupt the protocol." Scully spun to face them. "So where is she, Ms. Nightingale? And I don't mean Cricket," she added. "There are many contradictions, but I feel Amanda's in a place that's full of light. She wants to come back, yet she's uncertain how to accomplish it. Because of obvious disturbances my spirit guides haven't been free to reveal her present location to me at this time." "My better sense tells me up front that you're wasting our time here." "Scully --!" Mulder was close enough to grasp her upper arm, tugging her aside with more force than he'd intended. He felt her bicep contract under his fingers, saw her eyes flash up at him in silent warning. New consternation swelled within him. "Tell me what's going on," he hissed. "What the hell's gotten into you?" "I could ask you that same question." "She should leave," urged Willow. "I knew there would be interference." "Just give us a minute," he said sharply, eyes not leaving his partner's face. Unwavering, Scully glared back. "Listen to me, Mulder. You two go ahead and work out the psychic angle between yourselves here. Because I came to solve a case and to find a missing student -- and I want the whole truth." With a quick twist she broke his grasp, turned her back, and took the stairs down, disappearing beyond his reach. ************ End of Chapter 5 Continued in Chapter 6