Diametrically Opposed by mountainphile ************ Chapter 6 ************ Hocking, Ohio March 14, 2001 11:28 AM The door to Room 334 was unsecured, something Scully found more irritating than suspicious. Crisscrossed ribbons of police tape merely designated it off-limits, the yellow "X' a mockery that left a sour taste in her mouth after the charade that had occurred one floor above. Ducking quickly beneath, she entered the unlocked door and shut it behind her. Drawn blinds striped the little room with ragged bands of shadow and light. An ordinary dorm "double" with walls an unsavory shade of scrub-green, a few glossy posters she couldn't identify, and furniture no doubt scuffed from years of heavy use. While her eyesight adjusted to the muted light she took careful steps, sensing obstacles in her path. A flick of the wall switch and she frowned. Amanda's side of the room lay in shambles. Gutted drawers, spilled notebooks, rumpled bed linens, clothing and possessions piled and scattered like a flea market sale. Such violation was pointless. Scully assumed the combined hands of local police and campus security, perhaps even her parents, were responsible for the chaos. It could also explain Hostetler's desire to head off any outside investigation. Had Amanda Carmichael ever been assigned a roommate? If so, that student was long gone. The second bed was stripped down to metal frame, mattress and lumpy pillow form. Another closet sat barren, a desk nude and dusty, unoccupied. She made a mental note to check with the police station and security office. There was no excuse for such disorder. Outdoor surveillance tapes might also be available for Wilson Hall on the night of March 10. Evidence. She wanted to speak with the Carmichaels as well, to get their take on the paranormal elements they suspected were responsible for their daughter's disappearance. And surely other students in the dorm had something more substantial to contribute than the mysterious spike-haired girl who'd ambushed her outside Cutler Hall. The information she'd whispered with such urgency still made Scully's flesh crawl; the business card scorched a hole in her pocket. She needed more facts from both Mulder and Hostetler. Time was slipping away from them since Amanda Carmichael disappeared four days ago. Like a slap of cold water in the face, it struck her that the investigation was, in essence, engineered to circumvent her involvement. Designed to bypass her, to keep her out of the loop. The case was Mulder's bailiwick from the start, she knew, slipped to him under the table like dirty money. Since Scully's presence in Hocking was unofficial she'd been included only through his insistence, to aid him while staying undercover without tainting the Dean's fragile position with his superiors at the university. From her perspective Hostetler and Willow both seemed part of a larger, more sinister game. Protecting Mulder and locating Amanda were priorities, in that order. She thought of the two o'clock appointment tempting her, which brought to mind the second motel key card in her pocket. The one meant for Mulder. In the tension of the last hour it hadn't changed hands as planned. A long pause while she slid her thumb along the edge of the plastic card, contemplating the mild hurt and the risks that lay ahead like mines lodged beneath a field, volatile and unexpected. Interests besides duty and professional loyalty kept her attentive to Mulder's back, though subterfuge at his expense wouldn't win her any gold stars or candlelight dinners, she knew. He'd made that abundantly clear after her road trip with CGB Spender last year. Snapping off the light, she made her decision and left the room. The Super 8 was situated in close proximity to Wilson and the West Green, sloping down past the Hocking River. At the check-in office she quickly penned Mulder's surname and her room number on a motel envelope. Sealing the key inside, she handed it over to Glenn behind the counter, who watched her preparations with something akin to envy. "One lucky guy," he mumbled. She gave him an arch glare. "Just see he gets this." Back in the parking lot her cell phone trilled before she had the chance to dial his number. She clapped it to her ear, knowing whom she'd hear on the other end. "Scully... you okay?" "Of course." She pacified his familiar baritone while contemplating traffic on the Richland Avenue Bridge and the little city beyond. "So tell me, Mulder, what did the spirits say to you back there? I hope they were friendly spirits." He gave a quiet scoff into the phone and left the bait alone; Willow must be at his elbow riding on every word or he'd have already snapped back either a rebuke or a suggestive repartee. "They see pizza in our future and want you along for lunch." "Is that the best you can come up with?" "We still need to talk. Sooner than later." "Not with Madame Yappi within earshot." "Where, then?" She hesitated, appreciating Mulder's understated but persuasive concern. At the same time the appointment on the business card signaled from her pocket. She knew pre- cognitively that following its trail would demand secrecy, a deeper pull into divergence away from him. If only she could turn back the clock, or rewind life's tape of the last week to erase its contents and begin again. The little virus of discontent she'd felt would have quietly run its course, disappearing into oblivion. Instead she'd medicated the situation with too much haste and a heavy dose of self-protection. Stupid, though it could benefit them both now, considering the strange parameters of this case. "I need to check something out first." He was silent for a moment, digesting this bit of information. "Nothing like diving right into the pool. Or we could go and get wet together." "She's listening, isn't she?" He grunted an assent. "Mulder, I'll be downtown for awhile this afternoon, looking into a lead." It was all she dared give him until she knew more. "Chances are it may amount to nothing at all. Meet me at the Hocking Super 8 this evening, room 123. There's an envelope at the front desk if you get there before I do." "What time?" His tone and the question evoked images of what the coming night might bring. She anticipated heated sparring about the lag in the case, Willow's credibility, and Scully's over- reaction at Wilson. They'd come to an impasse, then surrender by increments to solace and settlement. First, Mulder's hands on her body, followed by his mouth, a preamble to unrestrained lovemaking. He wasn't the only one hungering for intimacy after days of self-imposed deprivation. She swallowed, realizing with a pang that she missed the smooth firmness of his skin, the wet meanderings of his tongue, and his generosity in their bed. Sensual warmth stirred within her at the prospect of taking him wholly to herself again. Unexpectedly a cool breeze slipped fingers beneath her collar, raising the fine hairs along her neck. "I'm not really sure yet," she hedged. "That's all I can give you until later." With Glenn's campus map unfolded on the car seat beside a fast food salad container, she found herself cruising the small city of Hocking in an effort to memorize streets and landmarks. The layout of each green in relation to the student union, the classroom buildings, campus security office, police station, and finally the downtown mecca. It could prove useful in the long run. Students of varying ages and maturity levels appeared in clusters, dribbled away, were replaced by other groups when she passed by the same areas. Continual shifts of activity in the busy microcosm of campus life. Mulder, she guessed, hadn't had that luxury before he blew into town and dove headlong into the case. With time at her disposal, it seemed the logical way to whittle it down before the clock struck two and she took this first solo step into mysterious terrain, with only a business card to guide her. She'd mentally prepared herself for the address in question. 14 West Union Street: Art Apocalypse, Tattooing and Body Piercing. A half-block distant, she parked close enough for stake out purposes without being obtrusive. After contemplating her wristwatch and cell phone, she punched in a number by heart and directed the switchboard to connect. A tired male voice answered, "Sloan here." "This is Agent Dana Scully," she whispered. "Sorry to bother you so soon." She heard Al Sloan's tone lighten in surprise, newly energized. "Hey, no bother at all. In fact, it's a rare pleasure. What can I do for you?" "I could use a favor, actually. Background check on a name and an organization, but please keep it quiet. I'm not able to access from my present location." "I hear you, Agent Scully. Just a sec," and she detected shuffling as he grappled on the other end for paper and pen. "Okay, fire away." No questions asked about her partner's whereabouts, for which she was grateful considering Mulder's present alliance. She fed Sloan the data in increments, wincing at the ludicrousness of pronouncing the name "Willow Wind Nightingale" several times for his benefit, and concluded with her cell number. "Got it," he replied, all business. Her gaze flicked to the tattoo parlor down the street. "Wait, I have one more. See what you can find on the name 'Kirsi Toskala', please. She should be listed as a Putnam University student in Ohio." "Spelling?" "You'll have to give it your best shot. Sorry about that." "Right-o, I can handle it. Be back to you as soon as I dig something up." ************ Pizza Shack, Hocking 12:35 PM With Scully occupied elsewhere in town, they'd walked the length of Court Street in search of a quiet spot for food and discussion. The usual restaurant chains were primarily student hangouts, too exposed and noisy for private talk. In the end they chose a smaller and far less-frequented pizza place off the main thoroughfare. Nondescript, with no hype or flash. Hype, flash and dazzle were the things Mulder had hoped for back at Wilson Hall. The spooky shit he'd promised Scully on the phone went bust. In actuality, nothing unusual had materialized other than the psychic's vacuous observations and Scully's antagonism. "You seem disappointed, Agent Mulder," said Willow. He'd selected a round table in the corner, isolated from the noon sun and the few students who stopped in for a bite between exams. The atmosphere seemed restful and the food on the table teased his hunger until he felt gluey tack beneath one of his shoes. A sheen of grease on the tabletop also prompted him to lift his elbows and sit back in defeat, realizing that nothing of much good had gone his way all morning. "You mean was I there for the special effects? Expecting something with a little more climactic value? More bang for my buck?" He shook his head and felt his lip curl. "Tell me... how was it for you, Ms. Nightingale?" "In keeping with your metaphor, it was extremely satisfying," she replied. His slice of pizza, on closer inspection, looked undercooked and lacked sufficient mozzarella to tempt his palate. Instead he retreated to a dark corner of his mind to ponder Willow's rejoinder. What had he hoped to see this morning in Wilson? Ectoplasm and strange lights? Vindication for permitting himself to be led by the nose during this case? Something incorporeal, ghostbuster-worthy, comprehensible? But such manifestations might also confirm that Amanda Carmichael was already dead, and that was unacceptable. He was reminded of last year, when he allowed the milky specter of a small child to grasp his hand and lead him into a misty otherworld. When time fell away and Scully's clear voice turned to drone. When he left her far behind on a singular, personal journey into starlight. Lightheaded and numb, he'd waded through a throng of ghost children, dead, yet visible as 'walk-ins' on some supernatural plane of existence. He saw Amber Lynn's timid wave, heard the tinkling laughter of kids at play. Luminous bodies parted and his sister ran toward him from the secret past. She was an older Samantha, but one who recognized his face. Loving him back with hugs and the dreamy stares of adolescent worship, they reunited under the stars. Not like Samantha-of- the-Diary, who scarcely remembered she'd even had a brother, what he looked like, or anything about their lives before she was taken away so long ago. Not like Samantha-the-Squirt, bane and balm of his boyhood years. Parcheesi and Battleship, pigtails and practical jokes. The press of her little body, trembling, after strange men had visited their parents and fights loudly erupted downstairs. Devotion between an older boy and his younger sister, siblings toughing out hardships together... before she disappeared and he spent half his life in search of her. True closure? Last year, yes, or so he'd thought. He had the visions and diary to support it, though he struggled reconciling the apparition and the writer as being the same little girl he'd known growing up. Now doubts stirred again, as though waking from a fitful dream. He shook off his languor and came back to the present, to the lousy food and the woman across the table with the wild, pale hair and death-grip on the jar of parmesan cheese. She powdered her slice of pizza until it mounded over the plate like snowdrift. "Is she alive?" "To whom are you referring, Agent Mulder?" Her eerie response pulled him up short, made him wonder whether she'd read his mind again. "I think it's obvious. Scully was right when she said we should speak with Amanda's parents before they leave Hocking." "I'll concede that if the Dean allows it. We should also investigate the local cemeteries, since they account for much of the supernatural power in this area." "Explain." "Five privately-owned cemeteries surround the city of Hocking." With a long fingernail she drew a line across the table between them. "Connect them like dots. Using invisible lines, called ley lines, you'll see they form the shape of a pentagram. I want you to tell me what you think lies in the center of this pentagram. In its very heart." "Wilson Hall?" Mulder felt his scalp prickle, Scully's research springing to mind. "Precisely, with the dormitory situated over an Indian burial ground, as you know." "I'm not clear on how that's relevant to Amanda's disappearance. Other than the fact that you 'sense' there may be a valid connection." He noticed Willow's mouth tighten. "Please don't be insulting. The fact that I've sensed it should be evidence enough for someone with your background and openness to the paranormal. At the very least we can visit the individual cemeteries so I can do a reading at each one. You know," Willow said with distaste, "you sound very much like your partner sometimes." He felt a tinge of satisfaction. "Is that problematic?" "Agent Scully is a doubter," Willow said succinctly. "Forgive my bluntness, but she has no place in this investigation." The comment rankled, kicking his irritation into higher gear. They needed to focus on the missing girl and the facts of the case, not his partner's perceived shortcomings or any backlash from her earlier hostility in Wilson Hall. "I've learned from experience to respect Scully's instincts. She usually has good reason for her actions." The psychic smiled and pressed a fork through the powdery mound of cheese. "From experience," she echoed, fondling the words, voice soft with sarcasm. "Experience can be deceptive, Agent Mulder. What we experience in the world is often insular and subjective, received through the senses and emotions, and is therefore untrustworthy." "Now you sound like Scully," he jibed. "You know of something better?" "Naturally. By reading what an individual can't think to hide or has the ability to control -- by an aura." "Electromagnetic energy surrounding a person's body, reflecting their emotional and physical state," he parroted from memory, leaning toward her. "Seen as colors, which are then interpreted to have certain meanings and significance." "Very astute, Agent Mulder. But then, as I mentioned before, you have more than a passing familiarity with such paranormal phenomena." "You're telling me you read my partner's aura today." "I'd be happy to share details with you... if you promise to maintain objectivity and don't readily take offense." "You get no promises. What did you see?" "All right then." She sat back, swallowing the bite of food. "Red... I observed a predominance of the color red." Mulder smirked. "She comes by it honestly, wouldn't you say?" "You misunderstand me. Not the bright color of her hair or what you see overhead in this silly excuse for a chandelier. That would have positive meaning -- energy, courage, and action. No, unfortunately. The red Agent Scully emits is muted, dulled with negativity, except for intermittent spikes of brighter tones." "Meaning?" "Come," she teased, "I dare you to play tag-team with me, Agent Mulder. Allow me to share what I saw and you, from your hidden storehouse of accumulated knowledge, can interpret aloud after me." He squandered a minute before replying, weighing the dangers and benefits of such an exercise, wary of what could be construed as betrayal on his part. It preyed on his mind that after the confrontation at Wilson Scully was sniffing out a mysterious lead without him. "Red, from a negative perspective, connotes anger," he stated suddenly, "or even repression." "An admirable start. And you are quite correct. In the case of your partner, I also detected dark clouds over her head and face. Here," she brazenly indicated her ample bosom, "on the chest and midsection." He shook his head, baffled enough to overlook the flirt. "On her abdomen as well. That rings no bells? You see, dark, broken patches usually denote physical illness or damage of some kind. I daresay your partner has suffered many injuries in the line of duty -- or will -- in those specific areas. Externally and possibly... internally at some time?" "Drop it; skip ahead," he said gruffly, resenting how carelessly she intruded into territory that was sacrosanct and hallowed. He and Scully had paid a hefty price, inestimable dues for their battle scars, which were no one's business but their own. His internal radar beeped and he sat back, realizing there were ways other than psychic to ferret out such privileged, personal information. He kept a mental grip on Scully's protective mantle, prepared to fling it like a shield if necessary. "As you wish. To continue, her reds were banded with an opposing color, with shades of green." "That makes sense," he said, seizing the tangent. "Green represents healing power. Scully's a doctor and a scientist, a seeker and nurturer. As a partner, she's loyal as they come." Willow's features drooped into sad lines of pity. "Yes, I remember you said you'd trust her with your life. A touching sentiment, in theory. Yet the green I observed surrounding Agent Scully appeared weak and pale in hue, mixed with yellow. Riddled with yellow, I'm sorry to tell you." "This game's done for me," he said flatly, pushing back again from the table. "I understand how unsettling this must be, but you should realize what you're facing. The green in her aura speaks of emotional dependency and buried resentment. Now, the infusion of yellow --" She stopped, gave him a rueful smile. "I interpret that to be a spirit of dishonesty and paranoia. Secretive manipulation at work..." "And that's bullshit," he retorted. "Agent Mulder, things are not always as they seem -- or should be. Even between the most intimate of friends." "I'm asking you one more time: is the girl alive?" With her fork Willow cleaved the buried slice of pizza, cheese making a powdery cloud over her plate. "I believe she is," she answered simply. ************ Art Apocalypse, Hocking 1:55 PM Illustrations papered every wall of the tattoo parlor, from the innocent to the demonically garish. Flowers, naked women, Celtic and Asian symbols, spidery etchings in black outline, some with splashes of red, blue, and yellow. Soft Eastern music and indirect lighting. The sharp tang of ink and chemicals pulled Scully back to the dreamlike past. If she closed her eyes she'd find herself seated in that low chair again, the night air teasing her spine. Scrape of the razor, cool sting of alcohol. A soothing whine and buzz of machinery before the thing bit into her back flesh like so many angry bees feasting in succession. Hours spent enduring tiny, red-hot barbs and reactive gooseflesh. One man crouched behind, at work. Another stood before her as she leaned toward him in wonderment, gasping to control the pain and holding his gaze, drunk with forbidden pleasure... She swallowed, reliving the sense that she was again crossing some dangerous, exhilarating threshold, immune to the consequences. Coming full circle, like a snake gnawing its own tail... She approached the stocky full-bearded young man at the front counter. Colorful pictures marked his forearms, rose from beneath his collar like vines in search of light and air. Silver balls, bars, and assorted metal jutted from his eyebrows, ears, septum, and lips in blatant advertisement of his craft. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for someone by the name of 'Tusk'. Is that you?" He grinned. "Nooo, not even close; my name's Mason. But you've sure come to the right place if you're lookin' for fancy needle action. Tusk gives great tattoo." "Afraid I'm not interested. What I need is --" "Hey." His eyes narrowed as he squinted down at her, then slapped a button affixed to the side of the counter. An echo buzzed in a far recess of the shop. "Better wait right here," he advised. "Boss'll be free in a minute." New sounds captured her attention, wafting from behind a purple curtain across the room. Murmurs and moans, not of passion, but from pain and complaint. A low masculine voice overrode the whimpers, coaching, rumbling husky words of comfort. After several minutes the curtain rippled aside and two men emerged. The first was a college student, slight and wobbly on his feet, dabbing gingerly at a new piercing through his right nostril. Each tentative touch to the silver ring provoked a groan of awe to match his loopy smile of satisfaction. Only then did Scully notice another glint, also of silver, imbedded in the very center of his tongue. Small wonder the dizziness, she thought, with two fresh jolts to the nervous system. The second man brought her up short, his size and sheer intensity overpowering. Heavily muscled, tall and shaved Kojak-bald, he displayed less noticeable metal than his associate, though more black and color seeped from beneath his taut tee shirt, coiling snakelike along his biceps and arms. "Mason, my man!" The voice rang gravel-deep, resonant with authority. "This dude wants to bequeath us some more of his hard-earned allowance. Take good care of him; I sense a repeat customer." "You got it." But his big hand, heavy with reassurance, remained draped over the student's shoulder as he guided him toward the cash register. All the while he administered squeezes of encouragement, in his low voice gave further instructions on aftercare, healing, and safety. He seemed attuned, attentive to his client's well-being and present vulnerability. Admirable bedside manner, Scully thought. Pity it's wasted here. Mason, as though scripted, led the client outside to banter near the front door with other passers-by. Only then, when they were alone, did the bald muscle-bound man turn to regard her as his hands gripped his hips and he stared her down. Dark brown eyes. Brows wide and shapely for a male, drifting toward the exotic. Mulder's, by comparison, grew straight and sure, framing an intuitive gaze, a face brushed by kindness and sincerity. This man threw off sparks without even speaking. She took a step closer, at the same time reaching for her badge when his arm shot out to halt the gesture. "Ssstt!" He jerked his hand downward in a cutting motion. "Not here." "What?" "You heard," he whispered down, so close she could smell the musk of his sweat. He jerked a thumb at the large front windows where Mason and several cronies stood outside, clearly visible. "If you're who I think you are, you'll know when to shut up and stow it. Stay cool -- we're going to the back office." She was inured to men moving into her personal space uninvited. Exerting authority over her as this one was now attempting, testing her mettle in a dangerous arena. It came with the job and had been a characteristic of Mulder as well, especially in the early years. He'd measured loyalty to his cause by her lack of intimidation and impressive bravado, by the pace she kept alongside him and the reports she doctored for their mutual benefit. "So you must be Tusk." Seasoned, Scully lifted her chin and stood her ground. "Back over here," he urged again, his sharp eyes sizing her up. "And don't worry," he added as she brooded over the command. "I don't bite." "I can't say the same." "Love that in a woman." The hint of a smile softened his features. Curiosity piqued and patience tested, she followed him past the door into the room designated 'Office.' The door shut behind them and she made quick inventory of her situation, nerves and muscles taut. They stood surrounded by the usual clerical accoutrements, in the dark except for the single light in a corner that was set at low dim. Pivoting in the shadows she held up her badge, staying close to the door. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI. Why all the cloak-and- dagger?" "Security issues, my choice. Take your pick." "Something wrong with the lights?" "Maybe I want to see how you handle being in the dark." She huffed her annoyance. "I don't have time for this. Give me one good reason why I was handed an anonymous note to contact someone by the name of Tusk." "You found me, didn't you?" "And because this seems to be my day for unlikely names, I suppose yours must be the real deal too?" "Real enough," chirped a feminine voice behind her. Scully wheeled in surprise as overhead lights blazed, blinding her vision with white brilliance. A split-second later she discerned a familiar figure leaning near the door they'd entered, finger on the wall switch. The girl stood frozen in place, breath drawn, her dark eyes glazed with alarm below the spiked hair. Only then did Scully realize she'd instinctively reached for the service weapon holstered under her coat. "Chill the fuck out, lady," whispered Cricket. "A woman of action," Tusk rumbled approvingly. "I like that too." He stood like a massive shield between the girl and woman, heavily illustrated arms crossed, eyes flashing. "My name's a derivative of Toskala. Risto Toskala, owner of this funky den of iniquity. And since you've already met my little sister, it'd be a shame for you to waste us both at the same time." ************ End of Chapter 6 Continued in Chapter 7