Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile
************
Chapter 7
************
Downtown Hocking, Ohio
March 14, 2001
1:55 PM
It was a ditch that made him proud. One that in earlier times
might have drawn hushed expletives from Scully, were she in
Willow Nightingale's shoes.
Willow, as fate would have it, was busy in the Pizza Shack's
ladies' room when Mulder had opportunity to hightail his way
back to the car, coat flapping, tie swooping like a kite in
the cool breeze.
It was carpe diem or nothing, he told himself. Hostetler,
panting into the phone from exertion, fear, or both had gasped
out the message. Before the man's next breath Mulder flung a
ten-dollar bill on the table and was out the door. He dodged
book-laden students and strolling locals in true quarterback
fashion, cell phone clapped to his ear.
"Agent Mulder, go talk to the Carmichaels! Just you. Do it
now, as soon as you can!"
"Why the rush? Your big meeting go bust?"
"I'll explain later. All I can say is, Amanda's parents are
leaving town any minute and this is your only chance to talk
to them in person. Are you alone?"
"Willow-free," Mulder replied, shooting a quick glance over
his shoulder. "I sense something must've put the whammy on
her."
"Uh... okay. Go to the University Inn, room 211, if they
haven't already checked out. Down Route 33, the road you took
when you came in last night. He's tall, she's short, both
blonde. Try not to talk in the hotel. Too many eyes and
ears, if you catch my drift."
"Surveilling the distraught parents? How kosher is that,
Hostetler?"
One-handed, Mulder had the car started, in gear, and was
already shooting away from the curb. His blood pulsed with
electricity. Screw seatbelts and pedestrian right-of-way. He
willed the stoplight ahead to stay green, green, green as he
picked up speed. Hoped that nature's innocent call or the
crappy restaurant pizza Willow had consumed with such relish
was working its own black magic to keep her occupied for some
time to come.
"They went over my head, I swear. Listen to me," whispered
Hostetler, "I shouldn't even be talking to you right now.
Don't let anybody know we spoke about this. That includes
her."
"Which 'her'?"
"The psychic's who I meant. Christ! Did your partner finally
make it into town too?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Aw, Jesus..." The man whimpered into the phone as though in
real pain.
"Buck up, Hostetler. Get a grip," Mulder advised.
Straightening the quiet curves along Lancaster Street toward
the highway he drew glares from pedestrians and a few middle
fingers speared the air in his direction. "Do you feel you
could be in any physical danger right now?"
"What the hell? Are you serious?" The Dean sounded aghast, as
though any thought of vindictive bodily retaliation had never
entered his head. "No! God, no!"
"Then I'll call you on your cell when I'm finished and find
out something more."
His sense of urgency was tempered by the realization that
Scully should be at his side for this meeting, the way she'd
been in Aubrey last fall. He remembered her gentleness with
little Benjie Tillman, her finesse when reasoning with his
pain-in-the-ass father, the lieutenant. In fact, this sudden
invitation in Willow's absence might go far in redeeming him
for the faux pas at Wilson Hall earlier this morning.
It was worth a try. By late evening he hoped to add some
creative spice to both his night and Scully's. Her room at
the Super 8 was a safer bet than his awkward, noisy digs on
campus. Day Four was fast careening into afternoon, burning
like a comet's tail, with little to show for it.
Using his thumb he speed-dialed her number on his cell and got
a "missed call" message that told him the phone was
unreachable. Strange, since the tower signal in Hocking
seemed strong.
Or she'd shut it off, something uncharacteristic of Scully.
The possibility set him on edge and he nudged the gas peddle,
chewing his lower lip as he mused over her mysterious
whereabouts, the lead she was pursuing out there without him.
Where could she be? And who with?
************
Bright searing light made Scully squint and shade her eyes.
The adrenaline surge over, she released her gun with something
close to chagrin, fingers relaxing on the handle grip.
"No one's getting 'wasted'," she muttered as she watched the
tension drain from Cricket's face, though her sarcasm was
directed primarily toward the man.
Illustrated arms crossed like a genie's, Tusk seemed a
veritable wall of muscle, impenetrable. She realized he'd
shown no sign of agitation when she went for the weapon,
except to shield his sister and present a barrier of ironclad
self-control.
A distinct family resemblance emerged, now that the two
Toskalas stood side by side. The same brand of mouth and
expression, curve of lip, ear, and jaw. Identical eye color
and upward angling of dark brows. But the girl was mere
shadow to his mass, a kink of barbed wire next to her
brother's wrought iron presence.
That he was pure testosterone-driven male became apparent in
the slow glance he dragged over Scully's face and figure.
"Gee, I feel safer already," his deep voice rumbled in
repartee.
The visual caress and smart-ass remark were irksome after what
she'd been forced to tolerate this morning. "Then let's cut
through the crap," she snapped. "I'm tired of wasting time
and want some answers."
"Have a seat; we'll talk." He indicated a folding chair by
the desk.
"I prefer to stand."
Cricket, however, climbed up on the varnished surface and
folded her thin legs beneath her like a loose-jointed monkey.
Her eyes flicked from Tusk to Scully and back down to the
holster that peeked from beneath the leather coat. Scully
watched the girl's eyes gleam.
"You," she said, accusation frosting her tone. Cricket stared
back with keen attention. "I want to know how you got this
information and who you're working for."
It became clear that Cricket's position was crucial, but
subordinate. Before she could respond the man had stepped to
her side, butting his lean hip into the desk.
"Okay, Miss FBI. It might have been my sister's idea to drag
you into this, but it's my call in the end," he rumbled. "I
determine whether it's worth the gamble to include you -- or
not."
"You know it is," Cricket hissed to him. Was it Scully's
imagination, or did unspoken communication pass between the
two Toskalas? Invisible vibes. A telepathic understanding
similar to what she often experienced with Mulder, a product
of loyalty, sync, and close association.
"You haven't answered my question," she reminded them sharply.
Tusk gave a patronizing glare. "First of all, we're unknowns
and we work for ourselves. Just little guys outside that big
bad world of conspiracy and crime you're used to dealing with.
Nothing worth getting your pretty panties in a twist about."
Scully crossed her arms, arched a brow at the dripping
chauvinism; Cricket threw her brother a look of disgust.
"Second, our information came from a pretty reliable source.
Namely, the Dean who called your partner into town."
"I find that hard to believe."
He shrugged. "Sis, fill her in."
"It's not rocket science," the girl responded, as though
explaining to a child. "Just booze and stupidity. This Dean
Hostetler guy runs at the mouth when he's drinking and fucking
his secretary. The dude doesn't know when to shut his trap
and I get as much detail as I want from her afterward.
Simple, see?"
Tusk put out a hand as he took over the thread.
"He's obsessed with the paranormal, which explains why he
called your partner into town when that girl Amanda
disappeared. Maybe he felt the situation warranted someone
with background and history in that area. I figure he did
some in-depth research of his own to justify going out on a
limb. Or maybe," he smirked, "your partner with the strange
name thought it might be reassuring to allude to your history
and his, in misplaced confidentiality."
"What sort of allusions?"
"About alien abductions and UFOs. Something called 'X-Files.'
Conspiracies that focus on human test subjects. You know,
everyday shit like that."
"Allusions can be purely hypothetical," she said, prepared to
denigrate what he implied. Unless Mulder felt such details
were germane to the case, it was unlikely he'd find the need
to divulge many personal facts to a stranger. Yet private
history had a way of becoming inextricably entwined with the
infamous cases in their file cabinet the longer they both
worked in their division.
"You could be right," he amended, watching her expression.
"Maybe he wasn't so specific after all. But it gave Cricket
enough bait to fish with. Judging from your reaction, we
must've hooked into something meaty."
Scully turned her head, lapped the edges of her coat with
vigor. "That's it. I'm leaving."
"Not before I hear the truth from you."
The dangerous edge in his voice brought her up short. "What
truth might that be?"
"That a conspiracy really exists involving abduction and
secret testing on humans."
"More conjecture on your part, Mr. Toskala?"
Tusk loomed closer, forcing her head back to maintain enough
distance to focus.
"You don't get it, do you? Well, Amanda Carmichael does," he
growled. "While the FBI and the university sits on its
collective ass dicking around with pseudo-psychics and
bureaucracy cover-up, she's probably being tortured by those
bastards as we speak. Along with others."
His cynical accusation held faint echoes of Mulder when he
went for the jugular, stripping away the bullshit. For
chilling seconds she saw lightning-flash images of her own
abduction. The drill, a spinning blur, and white-hot needles
of pain. Acute suffocating fear. Emily resonated in her
subconscious, calling her to the surface, touching her hand.
Scully blinked, an effort to stay focused. "Do you have
evidence?"
"I know what's happened in the past, if that's any indication.
If my sister's right, then you're the only one who can help
us."
Jaw squared, he ducked his head, a precursor to unforgivable
tears, to weakness. He rubbed his forehead in a nervous
gesture, then swept a palm over the shaved expanse of his
crown. Beside him, Cricket's eyes swam, her face a fragile
mirror of her brother's.
"Just tell me what's involved," Scully said evenly, with less
antagonism than before.
She waited while he smoothed emotions that had bristled during
his rant, tucking them away again into some secret, protected
place that men keep hidden. Unexpectedly he turned to the
girl, mouth to her ear.
They spoke together in whispers so low Scully could barely
discern the words, but opposing viewpoints emerged in the
hushed, fierce discussion that followed. Cricket grasped his
arms, her thin hands and fingers like those of a perching
bird. Through the tee-shirt Scully saw the muscles in his
deltoids and quads bunch, relax. Bunch again. Relax.
Consultation finished and unity restored, he faced Scully, one
arm draped over his sister's shoulder.
"Okay, here's the deal. Since knowledge fuels power, you
throw in with us. Lend us your expertise, help us accomplish
what needs to be done. Then, 'quid pro quo': maybe we
actually find this Amanda girl at the same time. Stranger
things have happened."
"The clincher?"
"Nothing gets said to your partner. No details until it's
over."
Scully twisted her lips into a grudging purse. "Well, that's
the deal breaker then, isn't it?"
"Seriously, we can't risk his involvement while he's
compromised by a psychic bitch who watches his every move.
Trust me when I say his investigation is under close watch,
controlled by masterminds who manipulate the college admins
like puppets. I doubt even this Hostetler dude knows how deep
it goes. Listen to me..."
He approached again to loom above her. This time his face and
manner were softer, conciliatory.
"Any other time I might not ask for your help. But believe
me, something bigger than all of us is coming down within the
next few days."
"Touchdown," intoned Cricket mysteriously.
"See for yourself. Come with us for a drive and then decide.
But yea or nay, blab anything to your partner and his psychic
friend that'll tip our hand -- and all bets are off. We deny
everything."
"You wouldn't be the first," Scully said dryly. "And what
happens to Amanda Carmichael then?"
Shoving his hands into too-tight jeans pockets, his eyes
reminded her of coals, glowering under dark brows.
"She'll most likely be out of our reach... and on your
conscience," he said.
************
Outskirts of Hocking
2:15 PM
They reminded Mulder too much of Bud and Billie LaPierre.
With their blonde looks and teary stoicism, they were brave
and supportive of one another amid tragedy. But instead of
facing him from a living room sofa in teeming Sacramento, Ray
and Linda Carmichael occupied a park bench near the banks of a
river in Ohio, near their missing daughter's college.
Of all the cars in the parking lot, the dusty Dodge mini-van
struck Mulder as being the likeliest choice. Their name was
stamped all over it, from the new Putnam University decal on
the rear window to the license plate frame proclaiming
"Gifford Motors, Cincinnati."
They'd emerged from the University Inn, suitcases in hand, to
head for home and prolonged vigil. Minutes later they were
tailing him.
He gave them credit for their willingness to accompany him on
just his word and government credential. The Carmichaels were
cooperative, but traumatized. Several times Mulder waited
while the woman pulled fresh tissues from her purse to blot
her eyes and red nose, unable to speak. The facts of this
case and the similar appearance of those involved gave him a
sense of deja vu, of pressing the replay button to an old
videotape.
Introductions out of the way, he got straight to the point.
"Mr. And Mrs. Carmichael, I realize you've spoken to police
and university security in the last few days, as well as to
the Dean of Students, so I apologize in advance if some of my
questions seem repetitive."
Tearful and acquiescent, they nodded.
"That said, I've had a lot of experience with cases like
yours, but very few that have involved a request from the
parents to call in a psychic detective. Was there a specific
reason for it?"
As the woman's eyes filled, Ray Carmichael leaned close to
give her a kiss on the temple. "Take your time," he
whispered.
Pausing first to collect herself, Linda Carmichael began her
story. "I had gotten up to use the bathroom, about one a.m.
Ray was still asleep and I felt restless. For some reason, I
decided to take a peek into Amanda's bedroom. She was
supposed to come home this weekend when her exams were
finished, so we'd bought her a new bedspread as a gift.
Quilted, in calico prints and her favorite colors. I wanted
to have another look and imagine how pleased she'd be when she
saw it."
"Amanda's our oldest child," added Ray.
Mulder nodded encouragement, giving them time, as grief
allowed.
"The hall light was on. And when I looked into her room... I
--" More tears, dabbing. "I saw her laying on the bed."
Mulder's gut clenched. "You saw a vision?"
"That must have been what it was. Almost like having a dream,
but I know I wasn't dreaming. I really saw her."
Ray Carmichael continued. "Linda said Amanda was flat on her
back, on top of the new bedspread. Wearing her bathrobe and
slippers. Then she looked over..."
"And she called to me," sobbed Linda Carmichael. "Moving her
lips. There wasn't any sound, but I understood. I knew she
was saying 'Mommy, Mommy' and when I went over to her --"
"And the vision suddenly disappeared," Mulder finished.
"Yes, she wasn't there at all! I was so upset I went and woke
up Ray to tell him what I saw. About six hours later we got a
call from the school and drove right out."
"Did you tell the police about this vision? Anyone else?"
She shook her head, ashamed. "After we learned that Amanda
was missing, we explained to the Dean that something unnatural
must've caused it. I mean, just those strange stories about
her dormitory being haunted. There has to be *some*
connection."
Ray nodded. "A friend of Linda's had told us about her
experiences with the Living In Fear Ends foundation so we
wanted the Dean to have someone with psychic ability on hand.
Is there?"
"I've been working with that person," he assured them
delicately.
"We felt it was important, just in case there really is a
supernatural connection the police might've missed."
"Or discounted," threw in Mulder.
"Yes, exactly." They nodded, tearfully encouraged by his
perception.
Pursuing a hunch, he probed further, maintaining gentle eye
contact. "Did you find any sort of handwritten note in your
home? Something in a familiar script, indicative that a
family member could have written it?"
The question appeared to baffle the Carmichaels. They shook
their heads at one another, puzzled, before Linda replied.
"You mean, a ransom note? No, we found nothing like that, not
even in her dorm room. It didn't take long to look around,
because Amanda's so organized about her things. Always neat
as a pin."
"I'd like to see a picture of Amanda, if you have one with
you."
The photo Linda Carmichael tenderly furnished showed a gangly
young woman in shorts and tee-shirt. Coltish legs, long
blonde hair pinned back by barrettes. Her expression was shy,
more self-conscious than pleased by the camera's attention
during a backyard family barbecue.
"May I borrow this?"
"Of course, if you think it will help you. We had a few other
prints, just of Amanda's face that were given to the police
and the missing persons people. Not to the newspapers,
though. The Dean told us it was best to keep things quiet
during the search. No reporters at all. Just in case..."
She faltered; Ray resumed. "She means in case we came under
suspicion for some kind of wrongdoing. You know how the media
blows things up and then the police have second thoughts and
assume the parents are guilty by association. My wife
couldn't bear that kind of treatment, not after what we saw
happen last year."
"Explain what you mean."
"Oh, that awful case in California," Linda Carmichael sniffed.
"Last year or so, the little girl who disappeared out there
and was never found. We watched it on TV. Amber something.
I about cried when I heard how the police held those poor
people for questioning, as if they'd actually harmed their own
little girl. And the whole time being devastated by such a
terrible loss --"
"Criminal," affirmed Ray, arm around his shaken wife.
Mulder's lips tightened. It would serve no useful purpose to
expose to the Carmichaels the depth of his involvement in the
Amber Lynn LaPierre case. Not now, at any rate.
"I'll make a suggestion as well. For now, tell no one you
spoke to the FBI, to me. I promise I'll be in touch." He
jotted down their phone numbers and offered a business card of
his own, scrawling his cell number. "And please be sure to
call me," he urged, "if you should have any more visions or
impressions. Anything similar to what you've already shared
with me might be valuable in locating your daughter."
"Of course. We have to believe that Amanda's alive and
unharmed, somewhere..."
"She is, somewhere," Mulder echoed. And even as he offered a
hand warm with comfort to Amanda Carmichael's distraught
parents, his heart grew cold and his thoughts stole away into
a place of mesmerizing starlight.
************
Intuition and experience told Scully she was safe amongst this
odd little clutch of humanity that had sought her out with
such forethought and deliberation.
She'd switched off her cell phone after Al Sloan's return call
over an hour ago, wanting no other disturbance hampering her
concentration as she investigated this lead. Besides, she was
armed and had seen firsthand the effect of the weapon under
her coat.
("I'm trusting that you'll be able to make sense of this.
Please try and understand. I weighed the risks. I couldn't
divulge these plans without risking them, and I promise you
that I weighed everything.")
Desperate words from a tape she made for Mulder in a gas
station restroom hounded her. A microphone itched her
cleavage and the devil himself stood outside the door near the
pump, smoking his Morley. It seemed eons ago, that car trip
from hell, but the memory played audibly in her head,
persistent and eerily relevant.
Against her better judgment, she found herself riding 'Bitch'
beside Tusk in his dark beater of a car, consigned to only a
forward view of their progress across Hocking and into the
rolling countryside. Cricket, taking a 'Shotgun' position,
perched to Scully's right and partially screened the passenger
window, while Mason and another young man called Mole occupied
the back seat.
"Where are we going?"
"All in good time," Tusk humored.
The drive was mercifully short. Sunshine held shades of gold
when the car turned off into what resembled a hayfield gone
fallow, with more bumps and dings as they chugged through
ruts, clumps and tall grasses.
Tusk cut the engine. Musky maleness, stale cigarette odor,
and the cloying reek of patchouli from the girl permeated the
closed space around Scully. Her tolerance unraveled in the
stillness.
"Now what?"
"We get out, you stay with me. There's something over here I
want you to look at," Tusk told her, waiting while she scooted
across the driver's seat to stand beside him. Cricket guarded
the passenger door until the front seat was clear, then joined
Scully and the rest of her male cronies at the bottom of a
small hill.
"Why the secrecy?" She grew tired of asking questions into
the cooling air; answers were what she needed, and soon.
"Up there." Tusk jerked his head toward the top of the rise.
"We crawl to stay under their radar, on our knees and bellies.
Just like Indians. Or like they teach all you special agents
at the Academy. Let's see how good you are at it, Miss FBI.
Yo, Mason!"
The man nodded up at Tusk, alert.
"Stand point by the car and wait for the others. Mole,
Cricket -- flank us. You," he inclined his big, bare head
toward Scully, "stick close to me and keep quiet."
Training and grit gave her the speed and agility required in
order to keep up with him. She thanked God for the recent
sessions on the track at the Hoover and leather elbows on her
coat. The new jeans might show some wear-and-tear, at the
knees especially, but Mulder wasn't in the habit of looking
lower than hipline these days. She felt foolish and
irritable, squirming through the weeds and brambles beside
these strangers.
In less than a minute all four gained the crest, bodies
pressed low to the ground.
"That set of buildings out there," Tusk whispered, his lips
near her left ear. She craned her head away, blowing hair
from her mouth.
Showcased in full sun, the stately Victorian mansion rose from
the forest like a relic. Smaller structures, also of brick,
ringed it, fanning out from the main hub. Far beyond stood
the city of Hocking and the university. For the first time
Scully realized they'd driven in a loop, approaching the area
from its hidden backside.
"It looks like the old mental health center. So?"
"It's a lot more than that."
"Getting' down and dirty pretty soon," enthused Mole quietly.
Scully glanced to her right at him. "What's that supposed to
mean?"
"Get a good look," Tusk ordered under his breath as though to
distract her. "Commit what you see to memory. That strip of
road on the far side is Downey Lane. You've got the main
complex and residential patient wings on either side.
Attached to it are a lot of other structures once used for
maintenance, storage, dormitories, therapy, and research."
She scanned the horizon, his words directing her gaze from one
landmark to another. The visual tour continued.
"Over to the side, you'll see what looks like dense forest.
It's actually the old asylum bone orchard, where they've been
deep-sixing patients for over a hundred years."
"How is this pertinent?"
"I'm trying to tell you that burials still happen. Sometimes
they hide 'em deep, sometimes they dig 'em up." Tusk glared
out at the spot and Scully saw a pulse throb in the smooth
flesh of his temple. "And sometimes they don't bury 'em at
all," he added.
"I thought the university owned the property now. Haven't
they renovated it into an art museum and administrative
offices?"
"That's the word on the street... and what they hope
everyone's believing. The truth is much more interesting.
It's no accident that people vanish every so often... and no
one knows where."
"According to my research so-called UFO sightings aren't
uncommon in this area."
He chuckled in disdain. "Get real. It's not the Army's
latest hovercraft over that graveyard every spring, beaming up
cargo. Only night owls like us know what it is and when to
expect it."
"How?"
"Surveillance. Patience. Right over there, above those
trees..."
A sudden tug on his arm from Cricket and he motioned to the
others. "Time to adjourn," he whispered to Scully, "so we'd
better move quietly. Back toward the car, the way we came.
Then we'll talk turkey."
As the three slunk backward down the hill she had no choice
but to follow, retracing her line through the crushed grasses
on her elbows and stomach. The motley bunch lounged against
the car, waiting. All eyes watched her gain her feet and
brush off the dry field lint from her knees and elbows.
Another car. Two new faces had appeared in her absence, one
sporting a mustache under his long thin nose, the other
dressed in camouflage fatigues.
"We have a tyro at the party, folks," Tusk announced. "Make
her feel right at home so she'll stay for the duration."
But instead of pursuing the conversation he'd promised, he
turned toward the group by the car. Ambling from one person
to the next he rewarded each with a smile and a touch or pat
of recognition, though his accompanying narration was for
Scully's benefit alone.
"Meet Mason, our ground and prep man, along with his
apprentice, Needlenose. Been with me a long time. Our scout
and cartographer, Mole. Footer over there usually buddies
with him."
"Why 'Cricket', of all names?" Scully demanded, diverting
attention to the student-turned-guerilla.
"Have a look at her." All eyes swiveled to Cricket. "She's
tiny and she chirps."
"Fuck you," sneered the girl in her high-pitched voice,
twirling her middle finger. Yet the corners of her mouth
twitched in pleased embarrassment while the men around her
snickered and Tusk's arm looped her shoulders.
"Nah, seriously," he teased, giving his sister a tighter hug
of affection, which she reciprocated. "Cricket here is a
sensor. Personally, I think she's a little bit psychic. Have
you ever seen a cave cricket? They're hard to spot and quick
as lightning --"
Various comments and allusions they'd made coalesced in
Scully's mind, gaining some semblance of order and logic. She
started in sudden comprehension as the facts clicked and a
light went on in her head.
"You go underground," she declared, hands on her hips. "Down
into the utility tunnels."
Tusk beamed to the others. "Give this woman a gold star." He
looked pleased by her mystified expression. "Infiltration's
the only way to travel undetected, if you know what you're
doing and how to cover your tracks. What's your experience
with the underground? Claustrophobic any... Dana?"
Without going into detail, she wanted them to know she was no
wuss. Though it wasn't expedient to recount tales of air
ducts, man-eating fungi, Mothmen, or dank crawl spaces, it was
high time she set something else straight.
"I've been through the Academy and had some specialized
training -- and opportunity to use it. But before we go any
further, I insist on at least a smattering of professionalism
here. I am Agent Scully to you."
The group shared a muffled guffaw, which Tusk squelched. "You
throw in with us, you play by our rules. Short first names
only. Nothing fancy that can't be remembered in a split
second emergency."
"I haven't agreed to anything yet."
"Then it's high time."
How far dare she go without deepening the interpersonal breach
between her and Mulder, before a chasm of distrust and
distance, like scar tissue, formed between them? How far
before compounding that scenario into something negative and
opposing? "There are consequences for everything we do on a
case, for good or ill," Mulder once said, in a fit of
frustration.
She remembered the aftermath of her perilous ride with CGB
Spender, Mulder's simmering disappointment over her
recklessness. How only months ago jealousy about Tillman had
affected his judgment. To compound the negative, for several
days their most intimate encounters were being carefully
regulated, at her request.
Bad timing.
She kneaded furrows of tension from her forehead before
lifting her chin toward these strangers.
"I need to know why you're doing this. Details. The truth,"
she pressed, "or I walk."
Quiet fell over the gathering. They looked first to Tusk,
their acknowledged leader, then the girl. Tusk and Cricket,
the ones who shared an uncommon name and, Scully suspected, an
even darker secret. She felt mild gooseflesh erupt beneath
her warm clothing, as though she teetered again on the edge of
a risk-ridden abyss she'd later regret.
"The truth," she reiterated, her voice harsher. "I have to
know what's going on. Now."
It was Tusk who broke the awful stillness, his voice a choked
whisper.
"The bastards said he went berserk one day. Cut and ran
before one of his treatment sessions. That was five years
ago. Five years. Not a clue or a follow-up when the place
shut down. But we know he's still in there. A prisoner." He
spat the words. "A fucking guinea pig --"
"Who?"
Cricket huddled against him for comfort. "It's our brother,"
she sniffed, dabbing tears of humiliation across her sleeve.
************
End of Chapter 7
Continued in Chapter 8