Diametrically Opposed 
by mountainphile

************
Chapter 13
************

Johnson Hall, Hocking, Ohio
March 15, 2001
10:05 P.M.

"Hostetler?  For your own good, there'd better be no one else 
but me breathing in your ear right now."

Mulder whispered into his cell phone.  It was pressed tightly 
between cheek and shoulder as he tied his shoes in the shadows 
near the sidewalk at Johnson Hall.  He was alone, abandoned by 
Willow to what she'd assumed would be undisturbed slumber 
until morning.

Fat chance.  

Feigning sleep, he had another agenda in mind when she phoned 
for a taxi, turned off all lights except the bathroom 
overhead, and let the door click shut behind her.  It took 
only a minute of patient waiting behind the window curtain 
until the cab door slammed and the vehicle hummed away into 
the silence.  Then he threw on his shoes, coat, and grabbed 
his cell phone before seeking the safe and unbugged haven of 
the outdoors.

The first call had been to Scully's cell.  Her patent message 
asked for name and number, which Mulder disregarded.  No use 
ringing her room phone at the Super 8.  Considering his 
exploits this night, he couldn't fault her for wandering in 
late again with evasive eyes and mud on her backside.

Second, he called the Speedy cab company and asked for the 
name, address, and destination of the woman who'd requested a 
ride from the East Green.

Hostetler's number was third.  Mulder stood up and filled his 
lungs with the brisk air.  Since switching gears, he felt 
better, more like himself again.  It was only a matter of time 
before he'd ferret out all the angles and players in this 
game.

"Agent Mulder?  How are you feeling?"

"Like your average student: bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and 
hungry for a night on the town," replied Mulder.  He cast 
about in order to get his bearings in the dim, largely 
unfamiliar landscape.  "I'm leaving my car here at Johnson.  
Pick me up at the north end of College Avenue in five minutes.  
Keep quiet and make sure you're not tailed." 

Rather than chance being seen on the street, Mulder took to 
the dark hill behind the dormitory.  From what he remembered 
of the university map, his rendezvous point lay somewhere 
close by, terraced above Johnson Hall.  Bushwhacking his way 
through dense, brittle foliage, he finally stumbled onto a 
well-worn trail made by thousands of students bent on a 
similar shortcut up the hill.

The moon cooperated, hiding most of its orangey bulk behind 
the clouds as Hostetler's car approached.  Mulder rushed to 
the passenger side and got in.

"What's going on?" asked the Dean, giving the car gas and 
Mulder a worried look.  "Has Willow gone home?"

"That'd be my guess."

"I'd like to know what really happened to you earlier.  Why 
you were affected that way."

"That's what I intend to find out.  Drive -- we've got a hot 
date tonight at spook central."

"Huh?"

"We're going back over to Wilson Hall, just you and me."

"Godalmighty, why?"  The man's voice shook and he clenched the 
steering wheel in a stranglehold. 

"To check out a theory I have.  Relax, Hostetler.  Even my 
partner, after she questioned my level of sanity, wouldn't 
hesitate to jump on this bandwagon.  And in her absence I'm 
afraid you're it."

"Lucky me."

Mulder grinned, dug into his coat pocket, and slipped a 
sunflower seed between his teeth.  "It pays to be careful what 
you wish for."

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

Toskala home base
Late evening

They bore Scully from the cemetery, their pallid faces bobbing 
like corks in the gleam of flashlights, sinking again beneath 
a sea of darkness.  

Mole sacrificed his flannel shirt to wrap around her hips to 
staunch the bleeding.  Tusk and Mason supported her on either 
side until they met the exposed grassy area, where she rode 
Tusk piggyback-style for the duration of the long journey 
through the tunnel and back to the car.  She clung to him, 
white-knuckled with pain and dread, his big hands cradling the 
backs of her thighs.

Throughout the drive home Cricket's face remained pinched, her 
eyes glassy.  At Tusk's order she scurried into the house to 
prep, since the injury needed immediate examination in good 
light.  Inside, others helped Scully to shed her coat, gloves, 
muddy sneakers, and socks.  Then Tusk shooed everyone away as 
he unwrapped the sodden flannel from around her hips.

His eyes flickered downward, taut expression unreadable.

Ushered into a back room, she saw that a large couch cushion 
had been placed on the bed, firm and flat, shrouded by a clean 
white sheet.  Considering her injury's location, it would make 
a serviceable examining area.  But on a small card table 
nearby she noted surgical scissors, sterile packets for 
sewing, disposable hypos, a container of Betadine solution...

"What's going on here?"

Low, stinging pain told her she'd been damaged in a 
compromising and personally inaccessible part of her anatomy.  
She could only guess at the wound's severity and knew self-
treatment was impossible as reality hit home.  With a heart of 
lead, Scully realized that present circumstances disallowed 
admission to the sterile ER at Hocking's county hospital or to 
the student medical center on campus at Putnam.

The duties of field medic would fall to Tusk.

While Scully wavered beside the bed, digesting this 
unpalatable truth, a hand clamped onto the waistband of her 
pants.  She felt Tusk's fingers secure a belt loop.  "Okay, 
Dana, unsnap and drop 'em."

"Just hold on a minute --" 

"Your injury's waited too long and the jeans are history 
anyway.  Drop trou now," he repeated, "or I'll do it for you."

Lips tight with resentment, Scully unzipped her fly and pushed 
the torn and bloodstained clothing down her hips to an 
invisible line demarcating surgical necessity and the dictates 
of personal modesty.  She knew better than to hope Tusk's 
inspection wouldn't include her backside cleavage or the 
scalloped edge of her Victoria's Secret bikinis.  By now they 
too would be dark red, rather than the pale mauve she'd 
slipped on this morning for Mulder. 

Placing her holstered weapon on the dresser she quickly 
reviewed salient facts of the situation.  

An amateur medic in a rural isolated farmhouse would be 
doctoring her wound.  The Syndicate had resurrected itself and 
set up covert operation here in rural Ohio.  With her own eyes 
Scully had examined two women's bodies ravaged by what 
appeared to be an alien virus.  Stefan Toskala and Amanda 
Carmichael both remained possible victims of foul play, 
thrusting Scully and these rag-tag rescuers into the midst of 
a game more dangerous than she'd ever anticipated.  

Worst of all, her meeting tonight with Mulder would be 
postponed indefinitely.  She'd been hurt and he was clueless.

At this last realization she wobbled.  Her injury throbbed, 
turning hot and then cold as air hit it and more blood 
trickled.  She shivered, gulped a cleansing breath to stave 
off nausea and mild shock.  

Out of nowhere big gentle hands clasped her ribcage, steadied 
her.  

"Dana, come over here.  Face down on this.  Stay still."

She'd heard these warm, concerned tones before, wafting from 
behind the curtains at Art Apocalypse.  Tusk's bedside voice, 
a deep soothing rumble.  Designed to comfort, disarm, and 
reassure.   

So be it.  With help she reclined on her stomach, confident 
that nothing untoward could draw his attention.  

In the aftermath of the Jerse case, Scully had taken steps to 
salvage her four inches of lower back flesh and a healthy 
measure of dignity.  It had cost her twenty-five hundred 
dollars and seven laser treatments.  Little haunted the spot 
now except phantom nerve endings, easily stirred awake by 
thought or touch, and the whisper of a watermark she passed 
off as shadowy, uneven suntan.

Nevertheless, she made a final stab for control.  "Is there a 
mirror around here?  Anywhere?"  

Tusk disappeared from view behind her.  

"I *want* a mirror," she stated to empty air, her voice rising 
in volume.  On her elbows, back and buttocks partially bared, 
she could only imagine the spectacle she presented.  "Right 
now, in fact!"

For answer, strong fingers tugged her jeans, as well as her 
panties, lower by several inches.  Scully cringed.

"What for, quality control?  Relax, little doctor; be a good 
patient and trust me.  I'm sure you can manage that."

Exasperated, she craned her head toward the back right where 
Tusk had finished scrubbing into a basin of steamy water.  She 
watched him rinse in a second container, dry his hands on a 
fluffy towel, and pull on latex.  

"At least let me walk you through the procedure, step-by-
step."

"Not necessary."

"I disagree!"

Tusk gave a low chuckle.  "Let's make a deal here.  You don't 
interfere, and I'll tell you exactly what I'm doing and when.  
Okay?"

She ignored the question to call up what she knew of Tusk's 
medical expertise.  To her mind came the flash of Footer's 
bony shoulder with its long neat seam.  The edges of torn skin 
had been laboriously mated, like teeth in a zipper, then 
stitched together by patient and masterful hands. 

"And because you're in such a vulnerable position, rest 
assured that my powerful work ethic should prevent me from 
fully appreciating the scenery from this angle."

"Oh joy," she whispered in resignation.  

"Must've been broken glass at the edge of that window you dove 
through, twisted in the frame.  Caught you on the back of the 
hip and rump.  Looks pretty nasty, but you're lucky it's a 
clean slice.  I had a hell of a time repairing that barbed 
wire tear of Footer's."  

With trepidation Scully felt him swab over the flare of her 
buttock and the surrounding skin with cold disinfectant, then 
apply enough pressure to make her blanch.  "Bleeding's 
lessened," he told her.  "I'm going to put numbing medicine 
into both edges, clean it out, then stitch it up for you."

"How deep is it?"

"Subcutaneous, but no muscle damage.  About three inches long.  
Piece of cake."  

This news surprised and relieved her.  Treatment would be 
textbook-simple, if not a bit tedious to sew up, and Tusk 
seemed confident in his abilities.  She exhaled, knowing he 
had taken great care to maintain sterility and exhibited some 
knowledge of what was required to repair her wound.

Suddenly, her radar bounced, swung wild like a pinball.  
Inquisitive fingertips were tracing the invisible circle on 
her back, raising gooseflesh of alarm all over her body.  

Tusk began chuckling to himself.  "I knew it," he murmured.

"Knew what?"

"That you had a closet tat somewhere.  I just couldn't 
pinpoint where it might turn up."

"Don't be ridiculous.  Nothing's there."

"I disagree."  He mimicked her earlier retort but without the 
same intensity, working as he talked.  

The Lidocaine stung, four jabs in a row, with duplicate 
injections still forthcoming on the opposing edge of the 
wound.  Scully clamped her teeth together.

"How're you doing?"  Halting in his work, Tusk's forearm felt 
soft and protective on the back of her thigh as he awaited her 
answer.  

"As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"I know tat removal's no picnic either.  You must have a 
redhead's legendary high threshold for pain."

She sighed, grateful for the shift in conversation, but 
annoyed at his blanket assumptions.  "Not necessarily.  The 
study you're referring to targets analgesic response, not pain 
tolerance per se.  It theorizes that the gene responsible for 
fair skin and red hair is a better receptor for specific types 
of pain medication.  That's all it is."

"But it favors women with red hair, not men."

"True.  The technique is called 'quantitative trait locus 
mapping.'  Researchers found that kappa-specific pain 
receptors in the female brain are more responsive to a 
particular medication.  Pentazocine, I believe it was."

"Now you really sound like a doctor, or a scientist.  You 
retain all that medical shit."

"It's in my field."

"Or maybe you also have a fondness for certain invasive 
procedures?"

Scully closed her eyes to his off-color sarcasm and the 
memories of that dank apartment in Philadelphia, of primal 
abandon and the resulting flames of judgment that had almost 
claimed her as a result.  In the aftermath had come 
embarrassment, shame, and the mute betrayal and confusion 
she'd seen in Mulder's eyes.  His reaction, more than 
anything, convinced her that if sexual intimacy were to ever 
evolve between them, it would be sullied by the presence of 
such a damning souvenir on her skin.  

As a lover, he deserved better than that.

And she knew during their first attempts at lovemaking that 
her foresight had been noted and esteemed.  On that night, 
Mulder had hesitated before lingering over the pristine map of 
her back, his fingertips slow in the wonder of such unforeseen 
discovery.  His lips followed in what she could only interpret 
as a kiss of mute understanding...

"I was highly motivated at the time," she quantified.

"Must've been a really big lifestyle change.  That's the usual 
reason people get rid of their tats."

The observation, combined with the second row of injections, 
made her flinch.

They waited for the analgesic to penetrate her tissues and 
take their soporific effect, an uneasy silence hanging between 
them.  Moving to the bed's head, Tusk sat and searched her 
face, his eyebrows lowered, dark eyes narrowed in thought.

"I'm grateful," he blurted.  "Your quick action protected the 
mission and probably saved Cricket's life.  She's in awe, by 
the way.  Everyone is."

Since response was unnecessary, he stood up to continue 
treatment out of her peripheral vision.  Moments later Scully 
felt Betadine solution drip down her side from the wound, 
detected only pressure when he patted it dry with a gauze pad.  

"Squeaky clean.  You feeling any pain from that now?"

She shook her head as he opened another sterile surgical 
packet, a needle and silk thread purloined from who knew what 
medical center, and stitching commenced.  The pressure of 
Tusk's hands on her skin meshing with his deft, repetitive 
tugs on the thread convinced her he was a cut far above 
amateur.  

"I understand that at one time you pursued medical studies," 
she ventured, closing her eyes to the rhythm that played on 
behind her.

"Mason must've given you the real lowdown this morning.  He 
means well, but has a bad habit of spilling too many beans."

"Well, it's an honorable profession.  You have remarkable 
skill and the right stomach for it, as well as an exceptional 
beside manner.  What stopped you?"

He grunted.  "Everything.  The scheduling and time 
commitments.  The program, the testing.  The other med 
students.  All the dickhead med profs in their private 
hierarchy."  After a moment he added, "Everything about it, I 
guess... except for the skin."
 
"Excuse me?"

"I studied skin.  It fascinates me, always has."

"Why skin?"

"Why not?  It's the human body's laminate and protective hull.  
Our outer rind and decorative shell.  Our *hipia*, strong, 
elastic, and stratified.  Yet for all its amazing strength, 
it's thin and still permits invasion."

Rendered wordless by this eloquent soliloquy, Scully blinked 
and listened.  

"Skin comes in all colors and textures, that's the beauty of 
it.  It exfoliates, regenerates, heals, toughens, and ages.  
Some people let their skin go to leather.  Others are 
fortunate to have skin that looks and feels like velvet.  
Beautiful... soft and supple... a lot like yours is.  And, 
guess what?" he concluded.  "Skin happens to be the ideal 
canvas for self-expression."

"Define 'hipia'."

"Finnish for 'skin'," he said with a shrug.

She savored the word in her mind, remembering what she'd 
learned from Mason about Toskala family roots.  "So, instead 
you became a tattoo artist--"  

"Body modification and art, which includes tattooing in its 
various forms."

"Do you feel the trade-off was equitable?" she probed.

"I make my own hours and can get creative as I want or my 
clients allow."  Tusk chuckled low into his throat.  "Besides, 
the female body in particular is already an amazing work of 
art.  And like physicians everywhere, I get paid to put my 
hands on it.  Can't beat that."

"It doesn't surprise me," she said dryly.  

He paused long enough for Scully's nerve endings to tingle 
again as slow fingertips retraced the shadow on her lower 
back. 

"Now let's talk about you," he purred.  "For instance, why 
would a comely FBI agent like yourself want to obliterate her 
kinky private indulgence?  Looks to me like it was some kind 
of circular design --?" 

"That's really none of your business."

Tusk resumed sewing and Scully envisioned the bemused smirk on 
his face.  "Professionally done, probably, with lots of detail 
using multiple pigments, including orange and yellow.  Those 
are the toughest colors to eradicate, by the way, and it looks 
like whoever zapped it did a pretty good job.  But I'm more 
intrigued by all the scarred tissue near it.  Mighty 
impressive.  A gunshot exit wound maybe?"

Resurrecting details of the Fellig case with an outsider and 
bandying about Peyton Ritter's hair-trigger finger was 
unthinkable even on her best day.  Lifting her head, she 
scolded, "What is this, an interrogation?  Can't you just drop 
it?"
 
"Then I guess we're all done back here."  

With a tinge of regret she felt the tug of snipped the thread, 
which signaled the end of both the repair and further 
discussion between them.  Their conversation, for the most 
part, had been enlightening.  He taped on a gauze bandage and 
stood back.

"How many are there?"

"I made it an even thirty.  Should heal up good as new.  And 
I'd suggest a tetanus shot, but I assume the FBI keeps you 
current with those."

A tap and creak at the bedroom door revealed Mole's face.  
Tusk conferred with him in whispers, shielding Scully from 
view.  The brief exchange over, he shut the door and returned 
to crouch beside her bed, his eyes radiating empathetic 
concern.  

"Mole says Mason went into town to check out talk on the 
street.  What I want right now is for you to rest awhile, 
because you look strung-out as hell and need to be in decent 
shape for tomorrow night.  Blanket?"

"I'd appreciate one," she said, eyeing the door.

He complied, pulling it up and over her body from the bottom 
of the bed.  "I've got other stuff to deal with, but in about 
an hour I'll drive you and your car to the motel and I'll 
catch a ride back here with Mason.  That sound okay to you?"

She nodded, feeling a combination of dread and relief.  The 
only immediate difficulty would be in explaining her injury to 
Mulder without revealing too much of her activity or having 
him go ballistic.  

"I have a change of clothes in my car.  The keys are in my 
coat pocket.  By the way, how's Cricket doing?"

"Holding her own.  What happened tonight really threw her a 
hard curve.  She has trouble when it involves people she cares 
something about... and there aren't many.  Welcome to the A-
list, Dana."

Tusk rose to his feet and for the first time Scully noticed 
dark splotches staining one side of his jeans and tee shirt.  
Obviously the blood was hers.  She grasped his tattooed 
forearm with quick fingers and drew his gaze toward her.

"Listen," she said with sincerity, "I want to thank you for 
patching me up tonight."

At that, he smiled and reached out to squeeze her shoulder and 
neck, a signature gesture of affection.  But she blinked in 
sudden disquiet when Tusk's big hand slid up to rest for 
several moments on her head, cupping it with tenderness, 
smoothing down a few wayward strands of hair with his fingers.  

He made for the door and turned abruptly.   "Hey, the truth 
now... you really think my bedside manner is exceptional?"

"Yes, you're very good."

"You have no idea," he said, giving her a roguish wink before 
disappearing from the room.

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

Wilson Hall, Putnam University
10:22 P.M.
 
They slunk through the dormitory's shadowed halls to the 
stairwell without benefit of electricity or flashlight.  Moon 
and security light filtered through the windows in hazy 
shafts.  Hostetler followed gamely, Mulder glancing back to 
keep tabs on the man's widened eyes.  On his breath, coming in 
short nervous chuffs as they climbed each flight in near-
darkness.

"You winded?"

The Dean shook his head.  "Scared shitless, is more like it." 

Monitoring his own reactions, Mulder noted none of the 
breathlessness he'd experienced previously.  No 
lightheadedness or pressure on his lungs.  No pounding heart 
or rapid pulse.  Energized, his muscles tonight felt springy 
and elastic, his reflexes and thought processes sharp and 
clean again.  In essence, he felt like his old self, like he 
suspected he would, even when they'd reached the fourth floor 
and faced the elevator.

It gaped open, the narrow vault within exposed.

"That's my fault," confessed Hostetler.  "In all the confusion 
of getting you outside, I didn't think to lock it up.  We 
didn't know what had really happened to you."

"Speak for yourself.  I have a feeling our psychic friend has 
more than an inkling as to what happened to me."

"What do you mean?"  Dave Hostetler's voice held a panicked 
undertone, much like he sounded when Mulder had asked whether 
he felt himself in physical danger.

"When it comes right down to it, how much do you trust her?"  

Mulder placed his hands on either side of the elevator door.  
He looked sideways through the gloom, waiting for the Dean's 
response.
  
"She was sent by the LIFE organization.  Amanda's parents 
insisted on that."  Hostetler sputtered and grabbed for 
answers.  "I understand they recommend only the very best in 
any geographic area, after thorough screening and a reference 
check.  True, Willow seems a little strange, but knowledgeable 
to my mind.  But when it comes to this paranormal stuff... 
hey, what the hell do I know?"

"You knew enough to call me."

"Because a girl's life was at stake and I felt something fishy 
was going on.  It never occurred to me that Willow could be 
part of that." 

"She may not be.  I don't have that much evidence.  Though by 
her own admission she's not a local resident."

"True, if you're referring to the city of Hocking.  But I 
think she told me she lives somewhere outside county lines.  
In the country, near Chauncey.  I -- I'm not really sure now."

"And how far away is that?"

"Maybe a twenty, thirty-minute drive?"

Mulder grimaced and shook his head, repulsed by the fact he'd 
walked through the door wearing far too much trust on his 
sleeve.  Now the possibility existed that he'd been 
hoodwinked, hornswoggled, used, and generally abused from the 
moment he'd stepped off the plane.  

Worse, for days he'd denigrated Scully's gut feelings about 
the woman.  A prideful, careless error on his part.    

"I have it on good authority that she's holed up right in the 
Hocking area.  But we'll revisit that subject later."  He 
fought down a sneer, but let it seep into his voice.  "What do 
you say for now, Dean Dave... you ready to test the spirits 
with me?"

Hostetler wavered.  "I'd like to know who's gonna drag us down 
to safety if something happens to both of us up there."

"Pray it doesn't," said Mulder, stepping into the small dark 
space with his head bent forward.  

He waited briefly until Hostetler mustered the courage to 
follow.  Once they were both inside, Mulder hit the button and 
the ancient mechanism screeched to life again.  Noise was 
unavoidable, but light, more easily detected from the outside, 
remained under his control.

"Don't worry, I've got a flashlight if we need it."  

"If?"

As Mulder suspected, the narrow, ancient windows in the attic 
emitted beams of outside light, sufficient for them to move 
forward into the cramped space.  The beams wavered, murky with 
dust floaters, their slant and thickness dependent on air 
current, passing cars, and outside illumination. 

Against the far wall, undisturbed and cloaked in dust, sat the 
decades-old altar.  Hostetler grabbed Mulder's arm.  "What the 
hell *is* that thing?"

"Looks to me like somebody's supernatural playground, circa 
1972."

"Is this what made that student hang herself?"

"That's one theory," said Mulder, "though a combination of 
drugs, depression, and too many reruns of 'Bewitched' might be 
my first guess."

He took a careful breath, testing his reactions.  Still 
nothing unusual, as his heart beat steadily and his head 
remained bell-clear.  But rays of bright light danced with 
sudden vengeance across the narrow room like fairy dust, 
drawing his attention toward a small window facing the West 
Green. 

"Looks like a bonfire out there," he said over his shoulder.  
"Is that how students celebrate the beginning of Spring Break 
these days?"

"What?"  Sounding incredulous, Hostetler appeared at his side, 
also bending to squint through the wavy glass.  "No, there's 
only one official bonfire sanctioned.  It's in the fall 
quarter, during Octoberfest.  I don't know *what* that's all 
about, but it's at the far end of Richland Avenue."

Mulder felt his stomach clench.  "Near what?"

"Could be near the laundry mat and pizza place... or even the 
Super 8 Motel."

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

Super 8 Motel
10:40 PM

Glenn paced the check-in office floor.  All afternoon he felt 
twitchy and by late evening his scalp prickled like nobody's 
business, sure signs something was up or about to come down 
hard.

His father and grandfather both had degrees of this uncanny 
barometer for disaster during their lifetimes.  Glenn first 
began scratching his head when he was twelve, right before a 
local mine tragedy in which five men died.  After that, he 
felt the "itch" to be more affliction than extraordinary 
natural gift.   

Much to his relief, occurrences had faded over the last few 
decades.  But then, his life wasn't particularly varied in 
this quiet semi-rural community with its low crime rate and 
status quo.  Whatever remained of the "itch", there was little 
opportunity for it to jumpstart in Hocking.  The only real 
excitement came from happenings on the university campus, and 
lately, strange doings up at the Knoll.  

Out of curiosity he'd hung around long after Jaime, his night 
manager, arrived to take over the graveyard shift.  Restless, 
he wandered a few times into the half-filled parking lot, 
noting the action -- or lack of it.  Volume was down, though 
occasionally he'd spot a Lookie-Lou pulling in to check out 
the motel's appearance and room prices from the car before 
driving back out to the highway in search of better digs.

It was their loss, since nothing much else was available at 
this hour in Hocking.  The snooty University Inn, with its 
fancy remodeled rooms, on-site restaurant and indoor swimming 
pool and Jacuzzi had the usual "No Vacancy" sign aglow.

Paycheck aside, he also felt protective of his modest turf.  
With no hired security, Glenn felt drawn tonight to oversee 
the place however long the itch and restlessness kept him 
awake.  Ordinarily he retreated to his manager's suite by nine 
o'clock and was dead to the world by ten.  Plus, it was a rare 
night that he got to observe his unconventional night manager 
in action.

Suave and whip-thin, Jaime wore colorful western-style shirts 
and played computer games behind the counter when he wasn't 
schmoozing the few guests that actually did check in after 
dark.  A slim black-haired young woman he called Yolanda 
attended to previous guest requests for additional towels, 
pillows, and the occasional crib or ice bucket.  She bustled 
about her evening housekeeping chores, disappearing from the 
office for long minutes at a time after conferring in whispers 
with Jaime.

"'No habla', that one," confided Jaime once to Glenn, who had 
simply assumed the girl he'd trusted Jaime to hire was too 
focused on her job for small talk.  "A sister of a friend of 
my brother's.  But legal, man, I swear."   

Glenn nursed another can of Mountain Dew and paced the floor, 
evaluating the cars that wandered through.  

Several guests had yet to return to their rooms for the 
evening, so he took note of which ones seemed occupied.  He 
glanced at the backlit, yellowed window of room 123, where 
Dana the FBI agent must have come home while he was busy in 
the bathroom.  A real looker, she was.  With satisfaction he 
detected no bluish flicker from the TV, like last night when 
she'd had that stay-over guest.  For some reason she must've 
parked elsewhere, because her car was missing from the parking 
space near her door.

It had been none of his business, but he still kicked himself 
for the stupid observation he'd made to her this morning.  He 
wondered if she'd even bothered driving up to the art show at 
the Knoll after all.  Would she be friendly toward him now, or 
disgusted and distant?  

In the long run... did it matter?

Jaime looked up from the computer, the ends of his thin 
mustache drooping in a frown.

"Hey, Glenn, why dontcha lay off the caffeine?  Go to bed and 
get some shut-eye, 'cause geez, you're making me nervous, man.  
All that pacing around?  You getting paid for being the 
fucking night watchman too?"

"Can't leave," muttered Glenn.  He made another restless 
circle, his eyes sorrowful and his hand in his hair.  "My head 
itches too much."

"So maybe you should wash that mop sometime, man.  You ever 
think of that?" 

"That's not the problem."

"Hokay... maybe you just got ants hiding up your ass then."

Jaime snickered at his joke and glanced out the office window 
toward the sleepy motel annex.  His eyes rolled and widened, 
and when his mouth formed a big "O" he rose up from his chair 
to point.

Windows blazed molten and long fingers of fire licked out at 
the cold night.  As they watched with stunned eyes, dense 
smoke began to plume from the opposite building.  Glenn felt 
the floor tremble and a room seemed to come apart in a 
brilliant shower akin to fireworks.  Speechless, his itch 
forgotten and his heart pounding, he slapped the door aside 
and ran toward the desperate scene.  

Amid guests' screams, billowing smoke, and blinding flares of 
light, Glenn heard the approaching wail of a fire truck.  It 
barreled in from Richland Avenue, men springing from it into 
action like fleas from a dog's back.  A terrific, rolling ball 
of fire belched outward, heat keeping them at bay momentarily.  
Joined by Jaime, he hustled terrified occupants away from 
danger and into the safety of the check-in office.  

Hoses hissed while raging billows blackened under the deluge, 
to become one with the night sky.  Wrapped in winter coats and 
bathrobes, guests swallowed their initial panic to watch the 
scene in awe and with a fascination of horror.  

From the confusion of people, bunched cars, and rescue 
activity, Glenn saw a figure break away from the crowd.  

The man wore a trench coat and suit, and grabbed onto one of 
the fireman.  After a wild, seemingly fruitless exchange, a 
second figure wrestled him back from the smoking ruin before 
he fell to his kneels on the wet asphalt like a broken toy, 
hands to his head, facing the smoke and ashes.

It looked very much like the guy who'd asked for an envelope 
at the counter yesterday.  In a slow motion nightmare of 
comprehension, it hit Glenn for the first time that the fire-
ravaged room before him was none other than 123.

************
End of Chapter 13
Continued in Chapter 14