Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile

************
Chapter 11
************

West Union Street, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
12:40 PM

The alley looked devoid of the usual garbage and slime one 
expected to find behind tattoo parlors and townie bars.  Even 
with a spike in temperature since early morning, Scully found 
the conditions tolerable for a few minutes of phone 
conversation.

Mulder answered on the second ring.  He sounded cordial yet 
preoccupied, with a dreamy ambiguity she recognized from 
numerous investigations that had ultimately demanded 
suspension of her beliefs.  

Sporadic crackles of interference shot through the receiver as 
her guard clicked into place.  No doubt Willow sat within 
earshot on the passenger's side.  "You went where?"

"To Chillicothe, Ohio.  An hour and a half out from Hocking.  
We spoke with one of the students who roomed with Cricket 
recently.  She was in the dorm the night Amanda disappeared.  
Gave me a new angle to explore."

"Such as?"

There was enough of a pause that she sensed him holding back.  
Doing that mental shuffle while he rearranged facts into more 
palatable presentation.  With a prickle under her skin she was 
reminded of a memorable jog several years ago across a DC 
park, FBI surveillance vans in place.  His vague responses 
while undercover, a snapped finger and staged participation 
with known terrorists.  Covert associations that reminded her 
Mulder could go to amazing and painful lengths in order to 
halt a menace, pioneer a quest, or squeeze a hunch dry.

As could she.

"The haunted room could be key, Scully.  It's..." he fumbled, 
"it's feasible Amanda Carmichael might have gone up to 
Cricket's room later that night."
  
"For two diametrically different people, doesn't that seem 
unlikely to you?"

She caught the low, dry chuckle, always a bad sign.  It was 
obvious he had knowledge that indicated otherwise.  That he 
wasn't eager to share it was disturbing and set her at odds 
against the two of them on the return leg of their day trip.

"I'll have to fill you in later," he explained, louder as poor 
reception plagued them again.  "Did you get that?"

She'd had enough patronization for one morning.  Ignoring the 
question, her voice grew tart with impatience.  
    
"I assume you're covering all the bases in my absence.  Have 
you been able to access surveillance cameras of Wilson Hall 
and the vicinity for March tenth?  You also need to question 
any residence hall staff that may be staying in the dorm over 
Break.  Obviously I'm not in a position to do those things 
myself and you are."

"We're on our way over there right now; someone with a key 
will meet us.  Hostetler probably.  It's important we get 
inside that room to explore alternate possibilities."

"What kind of possibilities?"

"Supernatural elements in this case.  The reason Amanda's 
parents wanted psychic involvement in the first place."  After 
a pause his voice mellowed.  "Scully... do you remember a 
person named Kathy Lee Tencate?"

She spun on one heel, tried to squelch her alarm as the name 
sank home.  

Their visits to Idaho State Prison last year.  Tencate, with 
her short mousy hair, child's voice and bright eyes, claiming 
ghostly beings had absconded with her little boy in order to 
protect him.  That she wasn't the one responsible for his 
disappearance.  The way she drew Mulder in, playing off his 
vulnerabilities about-- 

"Oh God.  Mulder... I know where you're taking this.  And once 
again you're trying to personalize this case."

"I'm not the only one who sees similar personal elements."

"Tell me you just didn't say that."

He gave no response.

"I was under the assumption that last year you'd made peace 
with what happened to your sister.  Otherwise, the events of 
that night in California are meaningless.  You said as much to 
Harold Piller, that he had to let it go.  You claimed you felt 
closure, Mulder."

"False assumption."

On whose part, she wondered?  Now static-free, the phone fell 
silent for so many seconds she felt obligated to keep it alert 
and revived, like a patient fading toward unconsciousness.  

"Please, explain to me how this case is relative to that one?  
Mulder?"  She gazed up at gray empty sky between the 
buildings.  "Is Willow there in the car next to you?"

"It's a feeling I've had for a while," he mumbled in her ear.  
"I hadn't told you yet.  This case -- just intensified it.  
And yes, to your last question."

What kind of couple were they, she marveled, that his sharing 
of profoundly sensitive insights and history, that such 
delicate, private theorizing with a despised third party could 
impart the sting of infidelity?  

He'd tossed her some hot potatoes through the years, one 
suspect relationship in particular that had ended in that 
person's death and quasi-redemption.  Admittedly, Mulder's 
motivations were usually justified or turned out to have 
reasonable explanation at the time.  

Let it rankle?  Or shake off the hurt? 

"Last year you said you didn't know what was truth and what 
wasn't.  That you were too close to make any kind of sound 
judgment.  Could your present company be in any way 
responsible for this sudden intensification?"

"I'll ignore that.  Except to say that once again your 
blinders are getting in the way of your vision.  'True vision 
is the art of seeing the invisible.' Jonathan Swift."

"If recollection serves me, he's also the great mind who 
proposed cannibalism as a means to population control, so I'm 
not impressed with your parallel.  I'm even less impressed by 
this rabbit trail you're bound and determined to follow."

"Satirical mind," he corrected.  "And you didn't speak with 
Amanda's parents; I did.  The parallels bear out with 
everything we learned on the subject from Kathy Lee Tencate 
and Howard Piller."

"Learned about what?"

"The Walk-ins."

"My God, Mulder!"  Unaccountably, angry tears stung her eyes 
as his reference drove the wedge deeper between them.  

"Scully, you of all people should realize that in the 
scientific arena, eyewitness testimony is the worst form of 
evidence there is.  That's why I'm going further, seeking 
beyond the tangible." 

"But listen to what you're saying!  You're so far gone, you're 
beginning to contradict yourself!"

"At least I'm forthcoming with my game plan."

Out of desperation she absorbed the blow.  

"I don't want to see you compromised or hurt again.  Do you 
hear me?"  She whispered the words into the phone, then 
swallowed hard, willing him to feel the love that suffused her 
concern.  "On any level, for any reason.  Mulder, you know I 
mean that."

"I know...  We'll talk.  Later."  Also delivered in a murmur, 
evasive even to Willow's hearing considering her propinquity.  
That concession, however minuscule, felt like salve on sore 
flesh.

She calculated ahead, stealing a glance at the door to Tusk's 
shop.  "Same time as last night?"

"Works for me."

************   

Putnam University, Hocking, Ohio
Wilson Hall 
3:12 PM

Mulder roared back into town, his spirits dragging like a rear 
bumper on asphalt.  To borrow a portentous expression from 
Ricky Ricardo, he knew he'd have some heavy 'splainin' to do 
back at Scully's motel room.  Eventually.

That he could manage.  Whether she'd accept his reasoning was 
the unknown factor.  It left a bitter aftertaste as he chewed 
over the conversation he and Willow had shared on their return 
trip from Chillicothe. 

A few simple questions about the case had mushroomed into more 
private speculation. The psychic had been gentle with him, 
inquisitive and compassionate, as she was the previous day on 
the College Green.  Her understanding of his burgeoning 
discontent encouraged him to reopen the wound, to discuss the 
doubts he felt about his experience last year with ghost-
Samantha in Victorville.

Willow, he knew, possessed a similar depth of belief when it 
came to supernatural, transcendental phenomena.  In her 
presence he felt less a fool and more like a sane, intelligent 
man in need of specialized guidance.

And Scully?  On the cell phone her reaction was what he'd 
expected.  Probably the reason he'd neglected saying anything 
to her before now.  Same old, same old when it came to the 
baggage he'd carried around with him for years, the fuel he 
thought was spent.  

Yet she'd come to own a privileged part of his life and 
loyalty, his confidence and trust.  He blamed only himself for 
the sense of betrayal she felt on his account.  

Hostetler, meeting them outside the building, did nothing to 
alleviate his discontent. 

"I've got a master key for you," he said, slapping it into 
Mulder's hand and glancing around them.  "The dormitory will 
be empty for a few days while the RA takes a break, so you 
won't run into anybody now who'll ask questions.  Housekeeping 
doesn't start cleaning 'til next week."

But Mulder was striding with purpose toward the rear of Wilson 
Hall, conscious that Willow had fallen into step behind him.  
Puzzled, Hostetler trailed behind.  "Hey, where are you 
going?"

"Is that Treudley?  Because if it is, I need to check 
something out."

A snack machine hugged the wall near the back door, ground 
level.  Beside it sat a dark cylindrical ashcan, topped with 
gray sand, dotted with the tar-infused filter ends of 
cigarette butts.  Accessible to both dorms, Mulder could 
picture students retreating to this spot for fresh air and 
respite from the heat of study.

He scanned the area.  Nothing looked especially threatening, 
from the trash bin, to several wrought-iron benches, to the 
rocky landscaping and tangles of last year's garden growth 
fringing the area.  Lighting was plentiful, with streetlamps 
looming like palm trees.

"Were these in working order on March tenth?" 

The dean nodded with hesitation.  "I can check on it." 

"Agent Mulder?"  Willow stood close behind him, arms akimbo.  
"What is it you're thinking?"

Mulder chewed his lip in concentration, casting around from 
one dorm to the next.  "Truthfully?  I'm thinking it's a bad 
night to be playing Caesar's Palace."

The inanity sounded ridiculous as soon as the words left his 
mouth.  Hostetler blinked in confusion while Willow threw him 
a droll smile.  

"Only if you're the emperor Julius, Agent Mulder," she pointed 
out.  "For the record, the Ides of March hasn't much 
significance outside of William Shakespeare's celebrated 
play... and the catch-phrase that survived it."

"Perpetuated by legend and popular opinion, I presume?"  

She nodded concurrence.  "Please excuse me while I prepare."

As she'd done the previous day, Willow stood apart and raised 
her hands toward Wilson Hall in dramatic fashion, eyes closed.  
The gesture, now familiar and understood, no longer irked him, 
though the dean appeared mystified.  

"What's she doing?"

Mulder gave a tiny snort, knowing what the view looked like 
from Hostetler's uninitiated perspective.  "She's meditating.  
Testing the spiritual energy in this area and looking for a 
trail for us to follow."

"Aren't you going up to the haunted room anyway?"

"When she's ready.  Which brings us full circle, you and me."

Nervousness shook the man's voice.  "What do you mean?"

"It means, are you ready to drop the bullshit and tell me 
about your meeting with the bigwigs yesterday?  What's going 
on behind the scenes around here that needs such a tight lid?"

"I don't know anything about it," whispered Hostetler.  
"That's the God's-honest truth.  They threaten and bully about 
non-cooperation, but with no plausible explanation and no 
specifics -- other than intimidating the hell out of everybody 
when we're just trying to do our jobs." 

"Up there!"

Both men started at Willow's exclamation.  She pointed with 
one long be-ringed finger toward the roof.  Mulder was at her 
side in an instant, gazing upward at the same spot.

"That's the fourth floor," he said.  "In fact, that's 
Cricket's window if I'm not mistaken."

"Not that," she insisted.  "Higher.  *There* is where we need 
to look.  I can feel it."

Like a winking eye embedded in the roofline, the tiny dormer 
window caught a flash of afternoon sunlight.  Mulder noted its 
twin at the far end of the building, both positioned near the 
disused copulas and obscured by tree limbs.

"Attic space?" 

Hostetler shook his head.  "Nobody's allowed up there.  The 
same holds true for most of the older dorms.  Access is sealed 
off for safety reasons and the students' protection."  

Mulder looked back long enough to waggle his key at the dean.  
"What say we unseal it?"
 
************

Outskirts of Hocking, Ohio
Toskala homestead
3:40 PM

The Maglite was black, slimmer than her FBI-issue flashlight.  
It fit into the curve of Scully's hand pleasingly, snug as a 
scalpel, so that the slightest tilt or movement brought 
controlled illumination.  

Activity roiled through the farmhouse, a stream of bodies in 
prep mode, though the actual event was hours away.  She 
smelled eggs and bacon frying and the yeasty char of scorched 
toast.  Like before, hungry men had invaded the kitchen in a 
noisy clatter of silverware on glass and rushing tap water.  
Others flushed toilets, disappeared into back rooms, striding 
in and out from car to house with economy and purpose.  

Outfitted by Tusk earlier, she sat on the small loveseat to 
watch the action and anticipate what the evening's foray might 
bring.  She had more to reflect upon than her phone call to 
Mulder.

This time there had been no blindfold on the drive to Toskala 
home base.  Scully realized she could find her way back into 
Hocking through the undulating countryside of field, forest, 
narrow road and sloping vales. It was a gift of trust on 
Tusk's part. Or of necessity, perhaps, should something go 
terribly wrong.

Cricket emerged from a bedroom, her expression bland, eyes 
dark and distant.  A wave of Scully's hand motioned the girl 
over to the sofa. 

Without fanfare she pressed, "I'm going to ask you a question, 
and I want the truth from you.  Did Amanda Carmichael go 
anywhere near your room on the night she went missing?  Did 
she pay you any sort of visit?"

"No-o."  The answer came back in a sarcastic lilt; Cricket's 
spiky head bobbed from incredulity and her lip curled.  "Whose 
lamebrain idea is that?"

"There's been speculation about it.  So I'm asking you."

"So I answered; get off my back."  Pinched and resentful, the 
girl disappeared into the kitchen.  

Tusk had appeared at the front door to observe the exchange, 
he who missed nothing.  A moment later he sat down, one 
muscled arm pressing up against Scully's side, crowding her 
space on the small couch.  His deep voice was no more than a 
rumble in the bustle around them.

"Next time you want an answer to a question like that, ask me.  
She's strung pretty tight right now and we can't afford screw-
ups."

"I suppose that's reasonable."

"Are you hungry?  There's food out there."

Scully shook her head, inhaling his maleness at such close 
quarters.  She wished instead that he'd grant her a few more 
inches of room before she took the liberty herself.  

"Did you memorize those maps?"

This time she looked -- up, since Tusk was taller than Mulder 
by several inches.  Even sitting she was forced to direct the 
angle of her chin higher for eye contact in such close 
proximity.  Once more she felt the potency of his stare, the 
raw intensity he exuded.

"I've kept my part of the bargain," she pointed out, "so I 
expect you to keep yours."

"I always do."

"Then tell me why you believe your brother is still alive."  

He prefaced his answer with a grim smile.  "The escapees tell 
us."

"What escapees?"

"There've been a few.  None survived very long.  We found 'em 
and hid 'em.  Listened to everything they said until they 
passed, then gave 'em a decent burial.  The last one was eight 
months ago."

"People from where?  The mental health center?"

"Old Harry was the first," he said, nodding.  "About five 
months after the university took over and the butchers and all 
the patients were supposedly relocated.  I found him out in a 
field, facedown and barely alive.  Under-nourished, third 
degree burns, strange cuts and puncture wounds.  Bad internal 
damage.  Beyond recovery, like all of them since.  We managed 
to get him back here and he hung on for a day after that..."

Tusk fell silent, lost in memory.  Scully waited a breathless, 
respectful fifteen seconds.  "What exactly did he tell you?"

"He told us about the cover they were using over there.  
Described the experiments and gave us approximate locations 
where they were being performed.  Told us about the lights in 
the sky, what they really were and what they came for."       

"Didn't you think to get him to a hospital for treatment?"

"Too far gone and too much risk -- and Old Harry didn't want 
to be recovered, dead or alive.  None of 'em do.  We buried 
him in the woods afterward, where they'd never find him.  When 
this is over I'll show you and whoever else might be 
interested."    

"But," she was quietly indignant, glaring up at him, "wasn't 
he suffering?"

Tusk glared back.  His jaws clenched.  "Of course he was.  You 
think I wouldn't take care of that?  In my line of business 
you rub elbows with a pretty enterprising level of society, so 
finding the right narcotic to ease his pain wasn't a problem.  
If you get my drift."  

She ignored his scorn and the brazen illegality of the 
implication.  "He'd seen your brother?"  

"Yeah.  He saw Stefan and what they were doing to him.  Gave 
us approximate locations and some idea of the methods they 
were using.  They take their time with the younger ones... we 
learned that later from some of the others who escaped.  By 
young I mean anyone under forty.  Looks like you and I could 
still be fair game.  Old Harry was pushing seventy, 
expendable."  

"Did you know him personally?"

Tusk blinked down at her several times, a mere suggestion of 
the emotion he clamped under iron control. 

"Not before we found him.  But someone else here did.  You 
see... " He looked away, out toward the kitchen where sounds 
of cooking and male interaction continued unabated.  "It 
turned out that Old Harry was Mason's great-uncle."

************ 

Putnam University, Hocking, Ohio
Wilson Hall
3:55 PM

Mulder wondered how many times he'd gone this route. 

Bushwhacking his way through mystery, pitted against 
opposition and unbelief in order to locate an elusive truth.  
Even with Scully's involvement, too often over the years he 
felt like he'd been playing to an empty house or flying solo.

Willow led the way, her pace quicker than on the previous day.  
Of the three climbing the stairs, Hostetler alone knew the 
dormitory's layout, though Willow seemed drawn forward on a 
bead of her own.  They proceeded from one floor to the next in 
fits and starts, but it wasn't the agonizing crawl up to the 
fourth floor, the way it had been with Scully present.  

A participant through default, Hostetler appeared watchful and 
awed.  "Shouldn't we turn more lights on?" he said under his 
breath to Mulder.  

"If it makes you feel better.  But it's probably unnecessary."  
Mulder indicated the FBI-issue flashlight he clutched in one 
hand.  "We'll have light when we need it." 

The two men waited at intervals while Willow halted to feel 
out the next leg of their trail.  Each stop provided insight 
to the next level of progress.  Mulder became aware of the 
grace in her movements, the care she took when ferreting the 
unseen path before them.  Her whispered commentary on what she 
sensed and perceived seemed to mesmerize even Hostetler.

"So much unrest," she whispered.  "So many voices, it's 
difficult to focus on the correct... ones -- there!"  

They hesitated in front of Amanda Carmichael's room, 334.  
Police tape still sealed it, the yellow "X" an eerie reminder 
in the half-light. 

"Fear, unrest... the need for protection.  Higher... "

"Attic high?"  

Eyes closed, Willow nodded to Mulder's query.  "Yes, we need 
to go much higher to find the answers.  All the way into the 
attic."

They moved to the next stairwell.  Progress quickened, though 
Mulder once again felt the same breathlessness as they gained 
the fourth floor and walked toward Cricket's room.  A sense of 
struggle he'd encountered yesterday when he'd neared this same 
level.

"Damn," muttered the dean to Mulder, as though something just 
occurred to him.  "I hope the old elevator still works."

"*Now* you tell me there's an elevator?"

"That remains to be seen.  It only goes from the fourth floor 
to the attic, which used to be storage space for all the 
duffels, crates, and heavy trunks students brought to school 
with them and had no place to put.  But that was years ago.  
The attic, to my knowledge, is in total disrepair and hasn't 
been used for over thirty years."

Willow held up a long hand.  "Not yet; first we look in Room 
412."

It proved to be a sparse room, decorated with a few forbidden 
candles and a camouflage-print quilt thrown over the bed.  
They flicked on the wall switch and saw that Cricket's 
possessions were meager.  The walls stood barren except for a 
university calendar, the dresser and closet nearly empty.  

"Here's one who packed light," Hostetler mused, glancing 
around.

"Or travels heavy," said Mulder.  The air, as Lynnie Briscoe 
indicated, felt cool and electric.  Knocks and echoes emanated 
from pipes hidden in the walls and from the out-dated heating 
register, which crouched below the window.  "This place needs 
a serious upgrade, Hostetler.  Haunting aside, no wonder 
students favor the lower floors."

Willow put a finger to her lips and the men fell silent.  She 
closed her eyes again and raised both arms up, moving wraith-
like toward the center of the small room, beneath an 
antiquated lighting fixture.  For long minutes they watched 
until her body began to quiver and she gave a small moan.

"It was here.  She hung here... not her choice... "

"Aw, Christ," muttered Hostetler with an imploring glance 
upward.  "Who -- Amanda?"

Mulder had already moved to Willow's side, her skirt brushing 
against his pants leg in a breeze unseen but felt.  Gazing 
upward, he felt his own scalp tingle, the hairs on the back of 
his neck lifting in concert with delicious apprehension.  

"No."  He shook his head.  "The suicide."

Beside him Willow trembled and opened her eyes.  "Where is the 
elevator?" she demanded from Hostetler.

"Uh, should be right outside in the hall."

"Then we must go up!"

Mulder handed back the keys.  It took sheer strength and two 
sets of hands to pry the old door open after Hostetler, 
fumbling, jiggled and forced the key to turn.  Another door 
slid sideways into a wall recess with a rusty squeal, 
revealing the narrow antiquated interior of the elevator.  

Dark within, it resembled a squat closet and the naked bulb 
suspended overhead was cracked and blackened.

Mulder licked his lips.  He switched on his flashlight and 
looked to his companion.  "You with me?" 

Willow nodded, her eyes large and luminous.

"Hostetler, you stay here.  We don't know how much weight this 
thing can take and I'd rather err on the side of caution."

"Gotcha," agreed the dean.  He looked relieved.  "If the 
buttons don't work for you, I can try the ones out here.  Just 
hurry the hell up, okay?"

To Mulder's surprise, the mechanism began when he touched the 
button, though not without complaint.  He held his breath lest 
the cloud of dust overtake him on the short trip upward.  As 
they gained the top, he flicked on his flashlight, feeling the 
cool breeze of open space on his face.  Weak spears of 
sunlight filtered through the tiny window to the side, its 
glass thick, wavy, and overlaid with the grime of decades.

Wordlessly they stepped onto creaking floorboards, still 
hunched under the low ceiling, while Mulder panned his beam 
across the room.  

Like a ghost crouching in deep shadow, Willow swam forward.  
Her dark clothes rustled around her ankles, raising clouds.  
She seemed driven in her exploration, no longer pausing on 
this journey into darkness.  But her silence segued into soft 
murmuring, a mantra of unintelligible sounds that raised 
gooseflesh on Mulder's arms.
  
Suddenly she stopped, arms outstretched.  Aiming the light 
beyond her, Mulder saw it.

Debris from a makeshift altar hugged the far wall.  With gasps 
for more air, he marveled at the dull lumps of melted candle 
wax rising from the floor like ancient stalagmites.  On closer 
inspection he saw they formed a perimeter, each one marking a 
point.  The whole formed a familiar and discernible symbol 
through the spiraling dust. 

"Pentagram?" he wheezed, but Willow gave no response.

Grit in his eyes, Mulder saw only the dark smudge of a cross 
on the wall, reversed and suspended.  A needle of panic shot 
through him as his lungs labored harder for lack of oxygen and 
the room seemed to tilt and dip.  

Vision blurred, his knees hit the floorboards.  His last 
conscious thoughts were of dark recesses, creeping ghouls, and 
Scully to-the-rescue with her gun smoking.

************
End of Chapter 11
Continued in Chapter 12