Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile

************
Chapter 10
************

Putnam University Knoll Complex and Museum
March 15, 2001
9:27 AM

The morning air was steamy from coffee breath as patrons 
cluttered like pigeons outside the building, anxious for one 
last viewing of the campus art exhibit before winter break 
commenced.  Cheers and laughter erupted when their 
enthusiastic turnout forced the museum into opening its doors 
early.

Within this cadre of locals, students, and their doting 
parents Scully willed herself to anonymity.  Shorter than 
most, she bundled along with them on another clandestine 
journey into the unknown.

The local Dollar Store started business even earlier than the 
museum, she discovered, taking Tusk's dictum on skulking 
attire seriously.  Hence the hooded and lined denim jacket and 
faux-leather gloves.  Dark navy jeans and black and white 
Converse mock-ups completed the ensemble.  She looked less an 
agent undercover and more like one of many local denizens 
inching toward a common goal with cash in hand.  

The line shuffled beneath a Victorian arch that dated to the 
late nineteenth century.  At the same time Scully's stomach 
rumbled in discontent.  She remembered with wry envy the 
pastries Glenn had offered her back at the motel: moist, 
sweet, and spurned from force of habit.  So typical of her to 
discount a food indulgence, yet here she was investigating his 
art exhibit tip on a whim.  Should this visit to the Knoll 
shed valuable light on the case, she'd owe him one.  

Too bad Mulder couldn't see her looking more undercover than 
either of them had anticipated.  

And if Tusk and Cricket spoke the truth, these people around 
her had no clue they were forking over honest money to access 
enemy territory.  Close to a decade in the basement office had 
taught her the harsh lesson that an alternate level of reality 
always pulsed beneath the surface, like a toxin leaching from 
subsoil or a metastasizing cancer.  

The present circumstances felt wrong, had forced a wedge 
between her and Mulder.  She was increasingly out-of-sync with 
him here in Hocking and nondisclosure made her edgy.

"Five dollars," barked an androgynous voice to Scully's right.

She pulled the cords of her hood tighter and passed a folded 
bill over the desk.  With hair matted flat, her scalp prickled 
from sweat and apprehension.  Now only a partial profile would 
be discernible on the surveillance camera she knew existed.  

She squeezed her shoulder holster tighter, Sig solid and 
reassuring against her ribs before moving forward.   

Pictures flecked each wall with color and the crowd migrated 
through the grand reception area, clustering before the 
various works on display.  She skirted the crowd and began an 
obligatory round of the paintings.  Every few feet she feigned 
enthusiasm and awe, all the while assessing the scene around 
her.  

Sensing presence overhead Scully peered from the edge of her 
hood.  Men in suits ambled the floor above and shed ambivalent 
glances over the railings.  Security detail, she guessed, from 
their blank expressions.  Tabbing through pages of memory she 
found none of the faces familiar and wondered whether Mulder 
would have had better luck.

Stringent security measures made it impossible to drift 
farther away from the noise and bustle of the main room 
without detection.  Chrome stanchions defined the perimeter, 
their woven belts restricting foot traffic to the front half 
of the room.  Everything else appeared off limits to the 
public.

Scully heard a voice in the crowd request restrooms and for a 
split second her hopes lifted.  But when the museum employee 
directed several young women to a door within the designated 
boundaries, she knew her work inside the building was 
finished.  

She snagged an informative brochure about the Knoll and its 
history before stepping outside.  A deep breath of the fresh, 
cool air cleared her head and diluted her anxiety.  

For the first time since arriving she focused on details of 
the grounds, on the rolling lawns, walkways, and the distant 
view of Hocking from this promontory.  Smaller but substantial 
structures spread out from the hub of the facility.  The 
University had done an outstanding job refurbishing most of 
these Kirkbride-designed structures into what appeared to be 
usable office or storage space.  

She wandered the concrete and flagstone paths, musing over 
attractive, well-crafted signage that honored each 
transformation from past to present.  The former laundry 
building, she observed, now housed the University's print and 
upholstery shop.  What had been a geriatrics wing was home to 
the facilities planner and the department of campus safety.  
The old kitchen held communications and network storage.  
Receiving area: technologies and enterprise.  Cottages for 
male and female patients: science and research labs.  

But where were the hospital wing and the mortuary Scully knew 
had existed in this facility and every other one like it?  
Where was the cemetery she'd spotted from a grassy ridge and 
from another direction only yesterday, elbow-to-elbow with a 
pack of subversives bent on invading its borders?

Turning a corner, chain link fencing abruptly ended her self-
guided tour.  
 
Out of reach and far beyond the metallic barricade several 
buildings sat decrepit and isolated, disintegrating from age 
and disuse like the cobbled pathways that crept below the 
chain link and disappeared into the forest.  Hidden by foliage 
most of the year, they lay stark and uncomfortably exposed to 
view against the surrounding trees and uneven ground.  Most of 
the windows were boarded up from the inside.  Others, like 
dark eyes with shattered corneas, glared back at her.

The pamphlet mentioned nothing of their former use, nor gave 
any indication they ever existed.  

She frowned up at the fence.  Five taut strands of wire ran 
along the angled apex, strung between metal posts that loomed 
higher than the fence itself.  Insulators and brackets told 
her it carried significant voltage, a precaution that seemed 
overkill for a university property acquisition.

High atop the post loomed a surveillance camera.  Scully 
tucked her head down, scalp prickling in alarm.

"Excuse me -- is there anything I can help you with, Miss?"

Avoiding eye contact with the man who appeared out of nowhere 
behind her, she angled her face away.  She shrugged and played 
along, forcing her voice to sound light and girlish.  

"Uh, I was just curious about those buildings over there.  In 
the trees... " She pointed through the fence with a gloved 
hand.  "For some reason I can't find them in this brochure."

At his pause she glanced down toward the man's lower legs and 
noted blue jeans and Nubucks.  Not a suit or official uniform, 
nothing that cried out security.  Nor was anything suspicious 
in his tone and the way he appeared to follow the invisible 
line beyond her finger.

"I'm not sure what's out there.  This place has been 
undergoing preservation in stages," he said, "and a lot 
depends on what the university allocates for renovation in any 
given year.  That's been my understanding."

"Oh."  She hesitated, feeling her way around this man.  Sighed 
and pretended disappointment.  "But somebody must know what 
those old buildings were used for... back in the day.  And why 
they're inaccessible now."

"I agree; somebody must.  But I do know the caretakers are 
kind of particular about who wanders around here alone or 
unsupervised.  Wouldn't want anyone to accidentally get hurt 
and slap them with a lawsuit now, would they?"  

He took a step closer and she felt a shiver of apprehension.  
"I guess not.  Do you work here?"

"Sure do."  The stranger gave an embarrassed snort.  "In the 
new-and-improved sign shop.  We make all those irritating 'No 
Parking', 'Keep Off The Grass', and 'No Smoking' signs you've 
probably noticed all over campus.  See?  Here's the official 
badge they make me wear for admittance."

All too clearly Scully knew the credential this man waggled 
from his label would lure her face upward, into full view of 
the surveillance camera.  Nor was it happenstance that his 
hand, in a more-than-friendly gesture, brushed over the right 
spot on the back of her shoulder, as though seeking armament.

Affecting nonchalance, she arched away.  

"Listen, excuse me, but... I have an appointment.  Nice art 
exhibit, though," she added, putting distance quickly between 
her and the man as she strode with purpose back toward the 
parking area. 

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

Putnam University 
Campus Security Office
9:30 AM

Mulder had seen the type before.  Neat and poker-faced meant 
suspicious as hell.  These were threatened men, bought men, 
with shiny badges and starched white shirts.  If attitude was 
any indication, he knew that cooperation from these college 
cops would be akin to pulling teeth.

Protocol mandated that this office and every man in it were 
sworn to assist the FBI in whatever way deemed necessary for 
investigative purposes.  Their primary jurisdiction was the 
rambling campus of Putnam University.  Yet it was common 
knowledge they also served with local police for the city of 
Hocking, monitoring crime investigations on and off campus as 
needed.  No doubt they had done their part in censoring leads 
and smothering evidence crucial to Amanda's disappearance.  

An ingratiating smile pasted on his face, Mulder held out his 
badge.  Explained in simple terms his name, presence, 
requirements, and the speed at which he wanted answers 
delivered.  Lightning glances between the men, but no crack in 
the armor.
  
Pocketing his credential, Mulder's grin eroded along with his 
patience.  

"Looks like somebody here forgot to pick up donuts this 
morning.  I want to know who's actually in a charge -- you or 
some faceless suit higher up in the chain of command?"

"We've been told to wait for orders."

"With a young coed missing?  What's the pay-off?  Money?  
Diamond Club membership at the Great American Ball Park?  Or 
is it flat out coercion?  Which door should I pick, Monty?"

The older cop spoke.  "Sir, you don't understand.  It - it's 
gotten complicated around here."

"Then how about we make a deal... while I simplify it for 
you?"  

He twisted the screws tighter.  Turned up the heat with his 
personal brand of graphic intimidation.  Watched the officer-
in-charge grow white-faced and finally cough up something with 
substance.  

Minutes later he was outside the building with a modest cache 
of information.  After such a power play he experienced 
elation and an eagerness to bask in Scully's approval.  Or 
scorn, depending upon the situation.  

What he didn't expect to see was the tall figure of Willow 
Wind Nightingale leaning against the passenger side of his 
Sentra.  

Her dour presence disrupted his sense of order, exacerbating a 
battle that raged within him since yesterday morning when they 
first met.  Did she warrant cooperation that went against his 
better judgment in order to find a girl and solve the case?  
Or should he make nice and play the game by Hostetler's rules 
-- to extract whatever information he coulld about phenomena 
that still rankled him on a private level? 

At what point would he be sacrificing his integrity in this 
case?  Scully would've already drawn the line hard and deep, 
but she didn't carry the burden of doubt, the nagging secret, 
that he did.

Willow held a travel mug with jeweled fingers and eyeballed 
him warily.  "Let it be known here and now that another 
evasive maneuver would not become you, Agent Mulder," she 
advised.  

"Psychic premonition?"

"Try your appalling lack of communication."

"Believe it or not, I think I've heard that complaint before," 
he said.

"Wise-cracks won't go far in strengthening our rapport either, 
Agent Mulder."

He felt a twinge of impatience, resenting this woman's 
interference and dogged participation.  "In any case, I hope 
you're up for a drive over to Chillicothe right now.  Truce?"

"It appears I don't have much choice in the matter.  But yes, 
a truce would be welcome."  She hoisted her mug in a weak 
toast over the car at him and watched him unlock the door on 
the passenger side.

While he peered out the window and chewed his lower lip, 
Willow rearranged her voluminous skirts, tucked a purse near 
her feet, and lapped her seatbelt.  Extricated from its 
parking space, the car roared a complaint into the quiet 
morning and headed west out of town.  

"Cryptic," Willow murmured.  "I assume you forced the security 
office into relinquishing more information to you.  How?"

"Maybe it was my threat to arrange a shakedown visit by the 
Ohio Field Office and have OPC bust their asses for non-
compliance.  And deny them benefits.  Spring cleaning over 
Break seems apropos."  

"It sounds more like bluff and bluster."

"But effective."

"I won't argue that."

"You tracked me down this morning," he said suddenly, 
pulverizing the sunflower seeds he'd popped into his mouth.  
"How?"

Willow cleared her throat, marking him with a stare.  "You 
mean, since you weren't at your own designated coordinates in 
Johnson Hall last night -- and you neglected to share your 
cell phone number with me?"  

Negative implication irked him as much as surveillance did.  
Reaching for a cardboard cup nestled in the console between 
them, he took a sip from the opening in its lid and seared his 
tongue on the dark scalding liquid.  "Where I am at any given 
time is nobody's business."

"Yet it's *her* business?"

He squinted out the window irritably, gauging traffic.  
"That's how we work."

"I'd grant you that, except this time you and I are supposed 
to operate as the designated team."

"So you admit you've been tailing me?"  

Willow tapped at the Starbuck's logo on the side of her travel 
mug and offered a soft smile.  "Nothing so covert or 
suspicious.  We happen to frequent the same coffee shop 
downtown and I waited until you showed up this morning.  
There's no magic in that, Agent Mulder."

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

Chillicothe, Ohio
346 Rogers Parkway
11:45 AM

Refreshing, though Mulder, that the young woman on the other 
side of the coffee table represented a sane, youthful middle 
ground.  Her streaked hair was tucked up into a banana clip 
and she wore a trendy top over jeans with flip-flop sandals.

He put Lynnie Briscoe somewhere between Kirsi Toskala's 
street-wise panache and the wholesome girlish naivete he'd 
seen in the photo of Amanda Carmichael.

They were fortunate to find her home alone this Saturday and 
not at all conflicted about speaking with them despite the 
heavy gag order Hostetler had imposed on everyone related to 
Amanda's disappearance.

With the carefree indiscretion of youth Lynnie justified her 
noncompliance to authority and preened for Mulder while 
introductory questions were asked.  Her name, major, year in 
school, plans for Spring Break, willingness to be interviewed 
by the FBI for the case at hand --

"Your room assignment was Wilson Hall, room 412," Mulder 
stated, "until a few weeks ago.  I understand you're the third 
roommate Kirsi-- uh, Cricket's had this past semester."

"Yes, that's about right."

"And you lasted five measly days."

She hesitated, looked from him to Willow and back again.

"Ye-ah?"

"So what's the initial attraction -- before the big turn-off?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mulder knew he'd muddied Lynnie's big moment in the spotlight.  
The girl's smooth forehead creased with annoyance at the shift 
in focus away from her. 

"It sounds like a lot of unnecessary traffic to me, that's 
all," he clarified, leaning forward.  His long fingers laced 
together between his knees.  "Why would everybody vie for a 
hike all the way up the stairs to the fourth floor?  To live 
in a haunted room -- with a roomie everyone took pains to 
avoid?"

"I don't know.  It seemed okay... at the time.  That floor's 
supposed to be really quiet and I figured I could get more 
studying done up there.  Besides," sniffing with disdain, 
"that was the room they assigned to me.  It's not my fault 
*she* was in it first."

He smiled to win her back.  "You're right.  So, what was the 
real problem?  The roommate... or the room itself?"

Lynnie tapped her foot against the coffee table leg, 
considering.

"Both, I guess.  The room made really weird noises and felt 
cold all the time, no matter how much I turned the heat up.  
And she hated that.  Cricket did, I mean.  Then there were, 
you know... all those nasty rumors and stories.  About some 
student who'd killed herself up there a long time ago."

"It's the real deal."

"Seriously?"

"1972, Wilson Hall, room 412.  One Gretchen Lansburgh, a 
sophomore student in fine arts, committed suicide."

"Why?"  The girl's startled gaze flew to Willow, who gave a 
miniscule nod of confirmation.  "I mean... how?  Not to sound 
morbid or anything, but did some kind of drug force her to do 
it?"

"Pretty close to the truth; records show she used rope to hang 
herself."

Lynnie wrinkled her nose in revulsion, squirmed slightly on 
the couch cushions.  "God, that is SO disgusting!  I mean, I 
*lived* in that room almost a whole week, you know.  Ugh!"

"Tell me about Cricket."

"What about her?  She glared at him.  "She's a creep, a loser, 
a total freak job.  Goth or punk or something worse.  Have you 
seen what she looks like?"

"I have had that pleasure," said Mulder evenly.

"Then you know *exactly* what I mean.  People started treating 
me like *I* was un-cool just for living with her, so I got 
outta there fast.  Went down to the second floor.  You know, 
everybody was switching rooms by then anyway.  Moving down to 
the lower floors where they felt safer."

"Safer from what?"

"I don't know... ghosts.  Noises.  Feeling nervous."

"Did you see Amanda Carmichael the night of March 10?  Have 
any interaction with her?"

Lynnie considered and decided his question had merit.  "I 
remember she was with us down in the lounge, studying for 
finals like everybody else.  We were all feeling pretty scared 
and freaky that night.  Amanda too -- she even said so."

"Did she say why?"

A shrug.  "Some of us got tired of cramming and got to talking 
about the weird stuff we'd noticed around the dorm.  You know, 
the lights and noises and stuff nobody can explain.  
Especially since after finals we'd be going home for Break and 
sort of getting away from it all for a while."  She paused, 
thinking.  "Anyway, more girls came over to listen and 
everybody ended up kind of freaking-out about it."

"But that's not all that happened," prodded Mulder, fishing.

Lynnie's brow wrinkled.  "No.  Because then *she* came down 
and made it worse."   

"You mean Cricket?"

"Who else?  She came in the first time for candy or something.  
Then she was back down about ten minutes later, telling us all 
we shouldn't go out.  Even the smokers, can you believe it?"

"Did she give a reason?  If you know something, now's the time 
to say it."

"She -- she said if we valued our miserable skins we'd listen 
to her and stay inside.  Everybody figured she was goofing on 
us again.  A little while before that she teased us about the 
Blair Witch showing up.  You know... from the 'Blair Witch 
Project'?  That *majorly* creepy movie that came out a few 
years ago?"

Mulder shook his head, though not through lack of 
understanding.  The film was bound inseparably to a time in 
recent past, a mélange of mislabeled hospital files, crop 
circles, jet lag, green tea, fatigue and rumination.  Then, in 
the cool windy hours before dawn, an epiphany of flesh and 
soul, cementing a bond between him and Scully.  

When Willow cleared her throat, he yanked his attention back 
to the present.  "I know what you're referring to, but haven't 
seen it myself.  Do you remember what Amanda was doing then?"

"Well, she hung around for a while listening to everybody talk 
about the dorm being haunted.  She even told Cricket we were 
all kinds of nervous.  That was the first time the freak came 
down."

"And after the second time?"

Lynnie gave a helpless shrug.  "Search me.  I don't know 
*where* Amanda went after that.  She wasn't one of the 
smokers, so she didn't go with that crowd.  Maybe she went 
back to her own room.  Or maybe she just went out to grab a 
snack."

"Even after Cricket's warning?"

Mulder sensed this well of information was drying up fast.  He 
leaned back and shot a look toward Willow.

"You know," mused Lynnie, "when you're hungry from nerves and 
you can't sleep, you might go to the snack machine that's out 
back.  Near Treudley.  Ours was about empty."

"Treudley is another dormitory?"

"Yeah, for the honors students.  They finished up finals 
earlier in the week."  She sighed and looked perplexed.  "But 
for all anybody knows... Amanda might even've gone up to 
Cricket's room."

"Now why would she seek out Room 412?" Mulder was already 
rising from the cushions to his feet.

"Amanda could be dorky that way.  You know the saying... if 
something scares you really badly, then confront it and you 
won't be afraid of it any more?  Well, maybe that's what she 
did."

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

Art Apocalypse
West Union Street, Hocking
12:15 PM

After parking in the alleyway, Scully slipped through the rear 
door as instructed the night before.  

Mason waited in the back office where maps with the crisp curl 
of papyrus littered a table.  Tusk had produced them in an 
effort to familiarize her with the area's elaborate tunnel 
system, most of which crisscrossed beneath university 
property.  

She felt a sudden need to touch base with Mulder, should this 
afternoon's homework assignment put a choke hold on later 
communication.

"He won't like it," Mason insisted.  His voice was low and his 
whiskers quivered.  "But if you want to risk tangling with 
Tusk over a phone call to your partner, that's your problem."

His warning only fortified her decision.  "What's he doing out 
there now?" 

As Mason turned the doorknob sounds seeped through the gap, 
mystifying as white noise.  She heard murmured conversation 
over a backdrop of New Age music and, engulfing all, the 
buzzing whine of Tusk's needle gun.

"Same thing he's been at for a couple of hours now.  It's a 
realistic fineline in a touchy area.  Tusk's a master at that.  
You don't want the colors bleeding under the skin and blurring 
details.  He takes regular breaks during a tatt like this."

"Why?"  

Svo, the Russian tattooist in Philadelphia, clung to her flesh 
until the entire hours-long process was completed to his 
satisfaction.  She remembered how her nerve endings burned as 
she'd fought against the exquisite rush of pain, muscles 
clenched.  How her body and psyche worked in tandem until 
agony and ecstasy embraced to achieve the sexually charged 
euphoria that precipitated her downfall later that night.

Such a bad business.  Ed Jerse cautioned her in different 
phraseology that marking a moment doesn't always bring about 
the desired panacea.  Dealing with the aftermath of her 
impulsiveness had been unpleasant.  She suspected Mulder still 
felt residuals, as she did, and smothered a pang of guilt. 

Like a phantom limb, the hidden whorl on her lower back 
throbbed in empathy to the noise in the next room.  Scully's 
respiration became rhythmic from remembered pain, each short 
intake, long exhale marking another grab at control -- 

At that moment the buzzing mercifully ceased.

"See, what'd I tell you?" Mason eased the door shut.  "He's 
headed this way." 

She pocketed her cell phone and in the same smooth motion 
stood beside the map-laden table, leaning over it with elbows 
locked.  Tusk entered and, latex gloves already stripped off, 
took in the scene.  He grabbed a can of soda from a small 
refrigerator in the corner.  

"You stopped," noted Scully, her gaze ambling the layered 
table.  "Any reason?"  

Tusk grinned, popped the can's top, and took a long chug.  
"Customer needs another break."

She peered up at him without raising her head, askance.  

"The pain factor," he explained as though to a child.  "Better 
to do short bursts so it's a bearable experience.  This tatt's 
in a pretty sensitive area."

"And where might that be?"

"Since you asked... lower abdomen, mons, bikini line.  She 
wants fire coming up from her snatch, so that's what I'm 
giving her.  Red, orange, and black flames.  It's looking 
awesome against the Christina I put in a few months ago."

Their gazes held and Scully knew his intent was to provoke 
her.  She had, in fact, examined such a genital piercing 
before, on Chantal, a prostitute in the LA morgue.  
The placement and protrusion of metal seemed more than a 
little discomforting.  

"I don't doubt it," she countered, deflecting his bait.  "I 
also have better things to do with my time, so somebody here 
please make this worth my while."

"Mason, get her started.  Glad to see you came dressed for 
serious work tonight, Dana."

Scully closed her eyes.  Her first name was becoming a raw 
source of irritation to her, as was this man's patronizing 
behavior.  

"Got it, Boss."  Mason joined her at the table and the door 
fell shut.  A minute later the buzz of the tattoo gun eclipsed 
all other background noises.  "He really loves what he does," 
said Mason.  "Tusk isn't bad as he comes across."

She ignored his diplomacy and seized the moment.  

In a low voice she demanded, "Then tell me how this all 
started, since no one else seems to have the time or 
inclination -- and why you seem to feel that an alien 
conspiracy is involved here.  The more I know now, the better 
our chances to accomplish something."

Hesitating, he obliged.  From outward appearances they pored 
with studious energy over one map and then another per Tusk's 
orders.  In truth, Mason supplied detailed commentary that 
crossed boundaries into personal Toskala territory.

"They're Finnish, but I guess the names give that away," he 
began.  "First generation.  Tusk's big brother to the other 
two kids.  Never seen family ties stronger than theirs, but 
they suck you right in until you're part of it.  You'll see 
what I mean, if you haven't already."

Scully offered no assent; he shrugged and continued.

"Anyway, he moved here sometime in the mid-eighties to check 
out the pre-med program.  When that went bust he switched to 
body art instead."

"What happened?" Genuinely interested, she turned her head 
toward Mason.  He seemed decent, with a gentle, helpful spirit 
she could appreciate.  His position as right-hand man 
approximated that of Joe Darnell in Aubrey, who had been a 
rich source of data on Tillman and insight into that previous 
case.  

"The usual: appearance, attitude, too independent.  He's got 
the smarts and the skill, but no patience for what goes along 
with it.  Same with Cricket.  She would've made the honors 
program here, except that her mouth and her out-there style 
messed up any chance of that.  Brilliant minds, but not always 
smart enough for their own good, if you know what I mean."

"What about the other brother?  The one they're searching 
for?"

"Stefan?  Middle kid, closer in age to Cricket.  Couldn't 
adjust to Hocking for some reason, so he went to the nut house 
over there for day counseling.  Nothing too serious," he added 
when Scully's brows lifted.  "Just emotional crap.  Stefan's a 
cool dude.  Probably has the highest IQ in the family and 
wasn't sure how to handle it or himself.          

"Counseling turned into shock therapy when the doctors kept 
him overnight a few times.  Out of the blue they held Stefan 
indefinitely after one of his treatments," he continued.  
"Total lockdown, no warning.  Docs wouldn't budge and had all 
the official paperwork to back them up; claimed he was a 
danger to society.  Well, Tusk just went wild --" 

"I can imagine."

"He threatened everybody over there, wrote to the authorities 
and the state.  Nothing worked, so he made plans to bust his 
brother out himself.  That's when he started vadding, to find 
a way around the system.  Then... they told Tusk that Stefan 
escaped.  Just like that, disappeared into thin air under 
their noses.  And that's how we found out --"

Mason hesitated.  He closed his eyes and shook his head.  
Leaning an elbow on the table, Scully bent closer to the 
somber man.  "What?" she whispered.  "What did you discover?"

Nervously he pulled at a clump of whisker on his chin.  "You 
know those stories about UFOs and lights in the sky around 
Hocking?  Well, they're real.  We've seen 'em come every year 
since then, right around this time.  And we know what they do 
while they're here."

"Tell me."

"They take people after the butcher doctors at the nut house 
work 'em over and do tests on 'em.  That's what Tusk thinks 
happened to Stefan.  Otherwise they wouldn't claim he'd just 
run away, you know?  There'd be a gravestone or a death 
certificate.  It seems like every year around this time 
someone else comes back or goes missing."  He blinked at her.  
"I guess now it's that college girl you're looking for."

"That wouldn't be my first conjecture.  But what else?"

"They rip up a few graves over at the asylum cemetery, only it 
won't be local vandals doing the damage.  It's how they hide 
evidence.  Some people survive for a long time, but others --" 
He paused and shook his head.  "So they dig up some really old 
loony's grave, dump the test subject, and claim some cult's 
been messing around at the bone orchard again.  Or," he said, 
pointing to the ceiling, "they take it to who-knows-where."

Scully found herself gripping Mason's arm as her mind stumbled 
on the implications.  The words swept her back to a horrific 
time and place in West Virginia, an abandoned facility for the 
treatment of Hansen's disease.  Disfigured refugees were 
slaughtered after hybrid experimentation and thrown into mass 
graves.  A member of the Syndicate tried to highjack her 
beliefs while Mulder hurtled toward certain destruction, his 
survival dependent on guesswork and a secret informant named 
"X."

Not long after that, she learned what the chip in her own neck 
was capable of.

"So where are the tests being done?  On the ship or in the 
facility?"

"Both, I think.  But they start underground first.  They've 
got labs and old torture chambers under the Knoll that are 
left over from the olden days.  That's where they keep people 
locked up for testing.  It's where Stefan and the girl are."

She frowned.  "Unless you have evidence, that's a big 
presumption."

"Listen, wait.  Here..." Mason grabbed one of the maps, spread 
it out with wide hands, and directed her focus to the tip of 
his finger.  "This here's the tunnel system under the Knoll.  
It was used for a lot of things in times past, including weird 
treatments and shunting patients over to the labs in the old 
contagious disease and hospital wing."  His finger traced a 
thick line, representing a passageway, toward the edge of the 
map, outside the main perimeter.  "That was the only way they 
could quarantine in those days without spreading germs above 
ground.  Now it's how they keep the experiments secret."

Scully lowered her voice.  "So the hospital and morgue are 
separated from the main facility?  Which would mean they 
haven't undergone renovation, like the rest of the Knoll has."

"Maybe not on the outside," he admitted, "but underground it's 
a whole new gig."

"What makes you so certain Stefan's still alive?"

"That's something you'll find out later -- from me," Tusk 
announced from the doorway.  "Mason, go help Trace at the 
register.  Her session's done and I have a twelve-forty on the 
way over." 

At some point during her avid questioning of Mason the heavy 
drone of the needle gun had expired.  However Tusk merely 
halted his friend at the door with a warm squeeze to his 
shoulder and a hushed "Appreciate it, man" in passing.  Not 
the rebuke she expected for disclosing family secrets.

She squared her jaw at what seemed like flagrant duplicity.  
"Care to explain what *that* was about?"

"Mason didn't know it, but he was doing me a favor and saving 
us all some time.  Now you know the gist of the situation and 
why you need to study up on those maps.  Burn 'em into your 
brain, because they could be your only lifeline below ground."

He moved closer to her and his muscled body shadowed the table 
as he tugged several maps into alignment.  

"These are the crucial ones: the University's physical plant 
to the Knoll, beneath the complex itself, but this one... "  
He tapped a third page with a finger for emphasis.  "This one 
only goes underground near the woods by the old cemetery.  
That's our mission tonight."

"Mason and I weren't finished with our discussion."

"Looks plenty over to me."

Exasperation would only amuse Tusk, she realized.  Presenting 
him with her back, she stood with crossed arms and spoke over 
her shoulder.  "It appears you generally have the last word 
around here."

"Is that bothersome?  By the way, if you decide to make that 
phone call to your partner, keep it short and very sweet 
because I'll be here listening to every word you say."

Something in his tone drew her to face him.  She saw his 
expression alter, noted a darkening of eyes, the emotion 
indefinable.  But of greater importance was her need to 
contact Mulder. 

"Then I'll take it back outside," she said crisply.  "I'm not 
a hostage."

"Just don't forget that my brother still is... and so is that 
Amanda girl you're trying to find."  

************
The end of Chapter 10
Continued in Chapter 11