Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile

************
Chapter 18
************

Downtown Hocking
March 16, 2001
3:45 PM

The town seemed stark when student population plummeted and 
locals snatched back their turf.  Though parking spaces on 
Union Street were plentiful, Tusk chose one of the less 
conspicuous side streets and put in a call to his contact from 
the car.  Then, with Mason at his side, they walked the two 
short blocks to the Union.

He'd already dealt with the shop; a sign taped to the window 
front announced it would be closed for another week.  Only 
Dana's need for painkiller had necessitated this trip out into 
the open and an emergency meeting with Zig.  

A Harley devotee, the dealer who went by the name of Zig had 
done a stint at Mansfield Prison several years back.  His 
unshaven cheeks gave him the stodgy appearance of a cactus 
dressed in black leather, with requisite shades dark enough to 
render him blind in the low light and smoky air of the bar.  
Like nearly everyone else in Hocking, Mason afforded Zig and 
his thug a wide berth.  

Tusk, however, had no such misgivings.  His own hard-hitting 
appearance, strength, and infrequent dealings with men of 
Zig's breed had established him as a formidable presence and 
worthy of respect.  Upon their arrival, both Mason and the 
bodyguard took seats near the front of the bar near the 
windows, leaving Tusk and the dealer to work out details alone 
at a shadowy table toward the back.

Two rounds of Rolling Rock and a third-pack of Camels was all 
it took to lube the deal and establish rapport.  Both men 
flung sunglasses to the table.  Tusk sweetened the pot with an 
offer of a free tat, which Zig approved.  When business was 
duly completed, they lingered for a few more minutes of 
obligatory small talk.  

Zig's thug, who'd ambled outside, loomed back over their 
table.  He whispered something to his boss that made them both 
snigger.

"Looks like we got a Fed in town," reported Zig, leaning back 
with exaggerated nonchalance.  Then he blew a cloud of smoke 
and squinted through the haze.  "Don't wanna be icin' your 
grill, dude, but that's the buzz I hear."
 
Tusk locked eyes with the dealer and stubbed out his cigarette 
butt into a tin ashtray.  The jibes made him edgy.  

"FBI's got no beef with me, my people, or with Apocalypse," he 
said.  "I'm compliant all the way and you know it, so don't be 
fuckin' around with me."    

"Yeah, Tusk, you're tight.  But if I was you, I'd be 
considerin' some junk right about now... I'd be askin' myself, 
'So, why the hell would a G-man wanna be casin' *my* store?'  
"'Cause, dude... he's doin' his thing as we speak, shovin' his 
face right up against your windows."

Tusk smirked.  He motioned for Mason, whispered in his ear, 
and watched him leave.  Then keeping his cool, he swung his 
attention back across the table toward Zig.  "More power to 
him for checkin' out the merchandise.  Hundreds of window tats 
on display.  Best selection around."

"Yeah, just your luck, he's lookin' to get some bling on One-
eyed Willie," chuckled the dealer, "or polka-dotted nuts, man.  
Hey," giving Tusk's arm a poke, "d'you do much of that kinda 
shit?  Or just stick to cootch?"

"Pay my price, you might find out.  I'll stick a needle in 
anything you got," said Tusk, making Zig guffaw into his beer.  
He stood up, towering over the others, and slipped on his 
sunglasses.  "Be back in a minute."

"It's Dana's partner -- it's Mulder," said Mason under his 
breath, meeting Tusk halfway up the bar.  "He went around 
back, into the alley behind the shop.  Now what?"

"He just made it easier for us by showing up, that's what."

"How?"

"Because now I've finally got a plan that'll work."  Tusk 
grabbed an order pad from behind the bar, snagged a pen, and 
wrote several sentences on it in a strong, heavy hand before 
looking down the polished length for a likely courier.  "Hey! 
Yo, Joey!"

The cleanup kid came at Tusk's bidding.  Bug-eyed, he gawked 
upward, a picture of awe and trepidation.

"Take a bag of trash out back," instructed Tusk, slipping a 
twenty-dollar bill into Joey's sweaty palm, followed by the 
folded piece of paper.  "Do it now, and make sure you pass 
this message to the guy in the suit and tie who's pokin' 
around out there behind my shop.  Don't let him know you 
talked to me, or anybody.  You know nothing, got that?"

"Y-yeah, Tusk," came the quavering reply.

"So get to it!"

Joey loped toward the back of the place as if his life 
depended on it, bumpy black sack in tow.  With only minutes to 
spare, Tusk maneuvered a complicated handshake with Zig at the 
table, waved to several others he recognized on his way out, 
and hit the street with Mason.  

They quickened their pace, hunched against the cool breeze.

"Something else's happened," puffed Mason.  "I overheard some 
dudes outside talking about an accident out on Thirty-three.  
Looks like somebody was run right off the road late last night 
or early this morning.  Said they heard it was a chick who 
works in the Dean of Students' office."

"Fuck! Cricket's Val?"

"Unknown, but maybe.  She's in the hospital, intensive care."

A hush fell between the two men as they walked on and stewed 
over the implications.

"I'll find out," muttered Tusk, "but I don't want anything 
rocking Cricket's boat yet.  Let me handle it."

"Sure.  You wanna take a sec to check out this Mulder guy 
before we leave?"  Mason asked with an ambivalent shrug.  "See 
who Dana's been-- "

His face a stone mask, Tusk jerked to a halt and glared him 
down.

"Chill out, man -- I was gonna say, who she's been working 
with all those years at the FBI.  That's all, I swear!"

"I'll get my chance soon enough," growled Tusk.  Breathing 
hard, he spun in the direction of the car.  "Anyway, there's a 
phone call I want you to make for us on the way back to the 
house."

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

Toskala home base
3:50 PM

Scully suspended her study of the new map when she began to 
see it with her eyes closed, like the negative image one 
perceives after staring at an object too long in bright light.  
It crawled beneath her eyelids, a chalkboard of fuzz scored 
with intersecting white lines that pounded to the beat of her 
pulse.

Another part of her body had also begun throbbing, but from 
injury, not eyestrain.  She took slow steps into Tusk's 
bedroom for some Tylenol 3, a swig of water from the bottle, 
and a consultation with her better judgment.  

Half the day had already slipped through her fingers without 
opportunity to contact Mulder.  She would soon begin a covert 
and dangerous raid into an enclave of the Syndicate for the 
purpose of rescuing people who, for all she knew, might 
already be casualties.  The only available armament appeared 
to be one gun, to her knowledge, until Mulder joined them.  
She was a federal agent everyone believed to be dead and her 
grassroots team would make their strike several days before 
the next spaceship was due to land on Knoll property. 

The whole conceptual UFO scenario was simply too bizarre for 
her to swallow in one bite, though Mulder might be more 
willing to snap up the prospect.  Yet what of the swaths of 
scorched earth and pyroclastic residue they'd found last 
night?  The bodies she examined at the cemetery were bald 
proof that secret testing of human subjects continued.  And 
the Amanda Carmichael disappearance, coupled with that of 
Stefan Toskala, only reinforced that reality.

If only she had more time to gather pertinent data, to 
research the options, to scrutinize what little evidence she 
already had with an eye to the science behind it-- 

"Whatsa matter, Scully?"  She saw him in her mind's eye, 
tilted behind his desk with his shirtsleeves rolled up, teeth 
splintering another seed, arms crossed behind his head as he 
gazed up at her in quizzical amusement.  "Where's the fun in 
having everything scrubbed, pitted, peeled and pasteurized 
before you dig into it?"

And suddenly, with a hard lump of yearning that filled her 
throat and sank to lodge within her chest, she missed Mulder 
desperately.  He was out battling another front, facing his 
own brand of danger.  Awaiting his cue, a one-man cavalry in 
essence.  

God, she wanted nothing more than to climb into her own soft 
bed and feel his naked arms and legs wrap themselves around 
her.  It was shocking to realize that less than a week ago 
she'd considered that to be a detriment.

In the meantime, she saw that her new compatriots were 
abandoning the map table, their attention spans challenged and 
nerves fraying.  Not surprising, she knew, for a group of 
home-trained adventurers who were about to embark on a 
dangerous mission with no clear view of either its success or 
failure.

She heard sharp words exchanged, like tiny bursts of sporadic 
gunfire.  Several of the guys wandered into the kitchen, while 
one headed back for a nap.  

Cricket sat alone rubbing her eyes.  The liner smudged around 
them looked raccoon-like, reminiscent of Esther Nairn, though 
a more petite and younger version of the ill-fated computer 
wizard.  Springing to her feet, the girl brushed past Tusk's 
doorway, too jumpy to relax or be social.  

She disappeared with purpose into the depths of the house.  
Into this unknown, dimly-lit territory down the hall Scully 
trailed her.

"Can I help you with anything here?" she asked at the door of 
a room she'd never known existed. 

Cricket seemed noncommittal, despite her surprise at being 
followed.  The long room looked and smelled like a gym locker, 
piquant odors of sweat and musk tainting the air.  This, then, 
was where and how Tusk maintained his extraordinary physique, 
Scully thought, taking in the weight-lifting stations, 
scattered dumbbells, treadmill, chin-bar, mats, and the basket 
of dirty clothes and towels.

The girl, meanwhile, had busied herself in a corner.  Cabinets 
lined the wall, filled with everything from camping equipment 
to freeze-dried food to blankets.  She shifted boxes from 
floor to table and rearranged items in a spurt of nervous 
energy that Scully saw was accomplishing little in the way of 
progress.    

"I take it we'll be further briefed when the others get back 
from town," she ventured, trying to draw her out.    

"Yeah.  Tusk said he wants us going in two groups: me, Mason, 
and Footer in one; Mole, him, and you in the other."

As she listened, Scully pushed the curtain aside.  Outside, 
dense woodland surrounded the back of the house, with flecks 
of gray sky peeking through the woven canopy.  "What about 
Needlenose?"

"The dipshit?  Mason wants him to stay behind for security and 
communications detail.  Footer's got more vadding experience, 
so he's going, even with his bad shoulder.  Of course, he 
couldn't stand being left out since *you're* still in."

"I can understand his reasoning.  There seems to be an 
overabundance of machismo in the air."

"What'd I tell you?  Way too many swinging dicks around here."

Scully smiled and they locked eyes for the briefest of 
moments, a companionable swipe that nudged Cricket toward 
further conversation. 

"Speaking of the biggest dick of all... he hasn't been 
bothering you too much, has he?  Tusk, I mean."

Scully hesitated before safely concluding that the comment was 
a reference to height and behavior only, not genital 
endowment.  

"Um... your brother and I have come to an understanding of 
sorts," she hazarded.  "At best, it's a nebulous one."

"That's what you meant last night by a 'truce', right?"

"Near enough."

"At first I was afraid he'd antagonize you into leaving.  He 
pulled his tough-guy routine on you when he didn't know 
whether we could trust you or not.  But he changed his mind 
pretty fast -- and it wasn't just because you got hurt, by the 
way." 

Scully didn't require elucidation about the obvious personal 
attraction.  "He's a very impressive man, your brother," she 
said tactfully.

"Geez, don't ever tell him that; he'd be all over it before 
you could blink."

"I've noticed you haven't been very encouraging to Needlenose 
either, though it appears he's trying hard to get *your* 
attention."

A scoffing noise from the girl.  "My brothers pretty much 
raised me.  They're, like, these stellar, impossible acts to 
follow, y'know?  Real men.  Needlenose isn't even on the same 
planet."

"That reminds me," said Scully.  "I'd like to see a picture of 
Stefan, if you have one handy.  It'll help me know who I 
should look for tonight."

Fumbling in her back pocket, the girl produced a billfold and 
flipped it open to a photo, dusty within its transparent 
sleeve.  It showed a girl of about twelve in jeans and tank 
top, posing for the camera beside a striking man in his early 
twenties.  Both were smiling coyly for the camera.  Both had 
dark hair and the distinctive Toskala facial structure, with 
shapely brows over brown eyes. 

"Tusk took this; that's me and Stefan.  It was a year before 
he started treatment up on the hill."  She pondered the photo 
for a long moment.  "I really miss him... a lot."

"I can imagine."

"He's closer in age to me than Tusk is.  And I was just a 
dumb-ass kid back then."

"Any parents?"

"Not since I was around eleven.  Tusk manages all the trust 
money they left us.  That's how I'm in school."

They both stared down at the picture.  Cricket brushed 
Stefan's face with the pad of her finger before snapping the 
wallet shut and jamming it back into her pants.

"He's so fucking smart.  So far ahead of the rest of us.  He'd 
just sit there and blow our minds with the shit he'd come out 
with, me and Tusk."

"Such as?"

"I dunno, lots of stuff.  He had all kinds of ideas, like ways 
to eradicate world poverty.  One week he'd practice hypnosis 
on stray animals, doing that Crocodile Dundee thing with his 
hands and fingers.  Or he'd come out with words we didn't 
recognize, and say he'd learned another language so he could 
mediate at the United Nations for world peace... or 
something... "

Cricket's pale forehead wrinkled like a sheet of paper that 
someone had crushed and tried to smooth out afterward.  She 
ducked her head toward the cluttered surface of the table.

Reminiscence, apparently, was over for the time being.  In the 
heavy silence that followed, Scully became conscious of the 
throb at her hip.  It was a sting of forewarning that made her 
glance around the room.  

"Do we have a first-aid kit for tonight?  If so, I'd like to 
check what's in it."

"Uh, right over there."  Cricket threw a look over her 
shoulder, which Scully interpreted as mild disapproval.  "Tusk 
already made up a bagful of stuff he thought we might need."

The kit was, in fact, an amalgamation of trauma, burn, search-
and-rescue, and surgical supplies.  Tabbing carefully through, 
Scully found suture packs and scalpel, tweezers, forceps, a 
hemostat clamp, cervical collar, CPR mouthpiece, watergel 
dressings, ammonia ampoules, anti-microbial wipes, rope, and a 
blanket -- besides the usual first-aid kit accoutrements.  
Strapped to the pack's bottom was a roll stretcher. 

"It looks like he's covered the contingencies fairly well," 
Scully pronounced with a critical eye.  "We should take two of 
everything, if you have it, in separate packs."

"What for?"

Scully stared at her in surprise.  Last night's medical 
emergency had already become a dim memory to some people.

"Insurance.  Common sense, in case the two groups become 
separated for any reason and someone gets hurt," she said with 
bluntness.  "And, because we're not certain what condition 
we'll find your brother and Amanda in.  It may not be what 
we're expecting -- or be very pretty."

The girl's back stiffened.  It crossed Scully's mind that 
Cricket was either pre-menstrual or simply moody and difficult 
by nature.  Or buried in deep denial.

"Do you understand?"  She leaned closer, trying to smooth her 
tone with as much tenderness as she could muster.  "As much as 
we all want a rescue with a happy ending... that might not be 
the case."   

"Hey!  If you can't be any more optimistic, why don't you 
fucking put a plug in it or leave?"

The short hair at the back of Cricket's neck seemed dark and 
silky, like a kitten's soft underbelly.  Such a contrast to 
the angry moussed spikes that sprouted from the top and sides 
of her head, the armored response of a young woman bruised by 
life and protecting herself at all costs from its unfairness.  

And one who now bristled with misplaced resentment and struck 
back from fear that the illusions she clung to and hoped for 
might leave her floundering.  

"Cricket?  I'm not trying to discourage you or dwell on the 
negative, but we also have to be realistic here.  I'm simply 
pointing out that five years is a long time for Stefan to 
endure the kind of treatment we suspect he's been subjected 
to.  Even five days, in Amanda's case.  The human body is 
resilient and amazingly durable, and the will to survive an 
almost mystical phenomenon.  But as a doctor and as a 
pathologist I've seen what types of damage the body can 
withstand -- and also what it can't."  

Scully reached out to still the girl's nervous energy and 
corral her attention, but Cricket pulled away.  Her hands 
fidgeted, two birds anxious for flight, and her words struck 
out like pecks of anger. 

"What should it matter to you?  It's just another *FBI* case 
to solve, maybe another stiff to slice up.  Another notch on 
your -- " 

"You know it's more involved than that. This kind of bullshit 
attitude isn't helping our cause."

"So what the hell do you want from me?"

"Shall I get specific?  Studying that map out there is all 
well and good.  So is the 'AMEX' we'll carry.  But I want -- 
no, we *need* you to be mentally and emotionally prepared for 
what you may encounter in a few hours, so we don't have 
another repeat of what happened last night."

At that, the girl's face crumpled again.  Her eyes glittered 
and rolled from hurt and shame, suggestive of a flashlight 
beam's futile flailing in darkness.  

Almost equally stunned, Scully found her hand reaching for 
Cricket's narrow face in an effort to soften the blow and 
clarify the motivation behind her words.

"Listen to me, please.  I'm sorry any of this had to be 
dredged up.  I've grown to care about you and what you're 
going through, Cricket.  But we're heading into the lion's den 
tonight.  The injustice and terrible cruelty, the evil that's 
been perpetuated through an ongoing conspiracy at the expense 
of innocent victims must be stopped.  People are missing; they 
need rescue.  For that to happen we have to be properly 
psyched and all on the same page.  Do you hear what I'm 
saying?"

Cricket gave an imperceptible nod, as if any larger movement 
might shatter her ragged self-control.  It did anyway.

"I've always counted on him being all right," she whispered as 
a few wayward tears slipped down to frame her face.  "I don't 
know what I'd do if he ended up like... like those others... 
like last night..."

"That's why we think positive -- but we also have to be 
prepared to deal with a worst-case scenario.  Are we strong 
enough to face that together?  Are you?"

They regarded one another for several moments while the 
tension that had crystallized between them slowly melted, 
leaving Cricket a wilted, yielding flower, thorns gone soft.  
Wiping her face on a sleeve, the girl shuddered out a breath 
and squeezed Scully's arm Toskala-style, in a gesture of 
thanks and concurrence.  

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

Union Street alley
3:50 PM

There was no window or easy access at the rear of the tattoo 
parlor.  Just a double-locked door with a sign declaring 
"Private, Employees Only."  Mulder tried the handle with 
vigor, finally resorting to kicking the door several times in 
frustration when it wouldn't budge.  No side entrance, no 
skylight, not even a butt-crack of space for rats to wiggle 
through.  

He pivoted, hands on hips, to scan his surroundings.  

From a short distance away, the skinny kid with the apron and 
orangy hair was your average teenage busboy tossing a trash 
bag into the dumpster behind the bar.  But when he began his 
approach toward Mulder his eyes bulged out and his freckled 
cheeks pooched.  He looked like a goldfish out of water, 
sucking in enough oxygen to stay conscious and still propel 
himself forward.

"Don't blow my cover; I'm the original backdoor man," Mulder 
joked to him, "in case you're wondering what the deal is."

"H-here... sir."  A trembling hand proffered the piece of 
paper.  He ogled Mulder's midriff area, mouth agape.

"What's this, special delivery?  You got a name?"

The kid swallowed hard.

"Hey, I asked you a question."

"It's J-Joey."

Mulder snatched the folded paper, eyeing the dubious courier 
with suspicion before realizing his holstered weapon had 
probably become visible through the gap in his coat.  He 
yanked both lapels together.  "So, Mr. Joey, who saddled you 
with this hazardous assignment?"

"No-nobody," Joey mumbled, turning to flee.

"Wait right there, Bud; I'm not finished with you."

Blocking the path of retreat as Joey's knees wobbled, Mulder 
opened the paper.  He read the same heavy lines twice and then 
determined the intent wasn't ransom, but expediency.  He 
checked his watch and read the note again, slowly, reminded 
that Scully was somehow, in whatever capacity, so deeply 
involved while undercover that a certain faction out there 
believed her dead -- as another one sought to cloak and 
protect her.  

Someone was also tracking his every movement.  Who were these 
people and from which group?  What part in it did this 'Mason' 
play?  How the hell had Scully gotten caught up in all this in 
the first place?

"Sonuvabitch," he muttered, committing the printed words to 
memory.

So many damned questions plagued him... and patience wasn't 
one of his strongest suits when he calculated from the note 
the number of hours he had to kill before he'd get a decent 
answer to anything.  

"Okay, delivery boy!"  Mulder increased his bluster and for 
the third time that day flashed his badge.  "I don't want crap 
from you.  Just the truth or we're goin' downtown.  Is this 
'nobody' waiting inside that bar for an answer from me?  Or 
not?"  

In abject misery Joey screwed his eyes shut and shook his 
sallow mop.  Detaining him would be counterproductive, Mulder 
realized.  He went ahead and let the kid dash away, convinced 
that at any moment he'd either blubber or wet his jeans right 
there in the alley.

**********

Super 8 Motel
4:15 PM

The car was different, but as soon as the man got out and 
slammed the door Glenn recognized him.  Mulder the FBI 
partner, Dana's other cardkey that stayed over.  Once inside 
the check-in office, he aimed for the desk with quick, 
purposeful strides and a gleam in his eyes that dared anyone 
to try and cross him.  

"You must be Glenn."  He said it accusingly.

Glenn gave his scalp a sneaky scratch.  "Hey, you're an early 
bird," he observed, indicating the clock that hung nearby.  

The comment, he noticed, didn't sit well with the agent.  He 
looked as though he'd taken a mouthful of something nasty and 
needed to spit it out quick.  "Let's see your ID."

Glenn gamely pulled out his driver's license, added a credit 
card, and jerked a thumb back at the framed document on the 
wall that verified his motel manager status.  "Goin' on eleven 
years now," he added.  "Is that enough proof for you?  You 
want some coffee?"

"I want some answers.  You know what about."

Interrogation tactics, like the cop shows Glenn devoured on 
TV, with only the stark gray room and bare bulb dangling over 
his own head missing.  The FBI agent watched his reactions 
like a hawk ready to dive in for a strike.  

"Well... I know a certain 'who', if that's what you mean?"

Mulder slid an unfolded piece of paper across the desk, daring 
him to pick it up.  Glenn opted not to, but leaned forward to 
pick out the words:  

DANA WILL PHONE SUPER-8
6 PM TONIGHT.  CRITICAL YOU
TALK TO GLENN -- NOBODY ELSE!

"Yup.  That reads about right to me," he said, pushing it back 
poker-faced.  "It'll be comin' through on my cell, though."

"You mind telling me who wrote this?"

Glenn's scalp woke up hours ago and now "the itch" had resumed 
with a vengeance.  Another long restless night stretched ahead 
of him.  If he was fated to scratch like a chimpanzee and look 
like an unwashed fool with Dana's protective partner for 
company he'd just have to see it through. 

Suddenly a Lookie-Lou pulled into the lot.  Purring past the 
office and burnt motel annex, it idled with indecision.  Both 
men turned their heads to follow its progress. 

"Y'know, this really isn't a good place to talk.  But tell you 
what I'm gonna do," he offered.  "I'll give my night manager a 
call to see if he can come in extra early.  Then we can hole 
up over at my place for as long as it takes tonight.  I've got 
a suite right at the end of the property here."

"As long as it takes for a certain incoming call, is that what 
you mean?"

"And anything else that's gonna happen."

"Explain," said Mulder through tight lips.

Looking into the agent's strained face, Glenn saw how the 
events of last night had ravaged him.  And no wonder: slumped 
in grief before the fire and gutted room, believing the very 
worst had happened until Mason showed up out of the blue with 
the cell phone.  And who knew what else he had to deal with 
since then...?

Even now, still left dangling, frustration was eating at 
Mulder to where he seemed unmindfully determined to chew up 
his lower lip.

"I don't know too much more than you do," confessed Glenn in a 
rush of sympathy.  "I'm just a guy with a phone who got caught 
in the middle of something.  Not sure what it is..." He 
scratched and chuckled at his own expense.  "But it sure must 
be a doozy because my damn head hasn't let up for days."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I got the 'itch', that's what."

"But no snow to show for it."  The agent pointed at Glenn's 
shoulder.  "Happen often?"  

"Itches like a mother, mostly when somethin' awful or weird is 
about to happen.  Yeah, you probably think that sounds crazy, 
like everybody else does.  Or that a good old shampoo'll take 
care of it.  But nothing helps this."

Mulder eyed him, a strange light in his eyes.  "When did it 
first start?"

"Off and on about a week ago; really bad since yesterday, 
before the, uh, fire."

"Originally."

"You mean *really* start? Oh," shrugging, "I guess I was about 
twelve or so."

"Right around puberty is characteristic.  I'm betting someone 
else in your family -- father or mother -- had been 
experiencing something similar."

"Could be."

"And then something devastating and unexpected occurred, after 
which the itching sensation diminished before it went away... 
until the next time."

"The coal mine caved in," Glenn whispered, taken aback.  "Over 
to Millfield in '70.  Five men dead."

"There are certain schools of paranormal thought that identify 
unexplained hypersensitivity in the body as a 'Miasm', but I 
don't give their theories much credence because of excessively 
Freudian overtones that feed and support what amounts to 
medical quackery."

Mulder leaned toward him with intentness.  

"But I believe in the phenomenon of psychic sense, in 
supernatural giftedness, in the receipt of cosmic energy.  The 
ability of certain individuals to receive a warning, a cue or 
premonition of what's to come, which is sometimes manifested 
by or triggers an uncontrollable itching or an overwhelming 
feeling of anxiety."

Glenn stared back, mesmerized.

"Like barometers, these people sense when something terrible 
is going to occur," Mulder murmured.  "Generally misunderstood 
or dismissed, this ability can be passed down from one 
generation to another."

"My dad and grandpa both, before me," said Glenn.  His eyes 
began to water.         

A cluster of newcomers entered the office, cleaving the 
whisper-still air with their joviality and bustle.  

The Lookie-Lous; Glenn had forgotten they were out there.  
They smelled of liquor and pointed out through the window, 
chatting loudly about faulty smoke detectors, safety, and 
their expectation of a discounted room rate.  Several others 
waited out in the car.  A group of five or six adults for the 
night probably meant two rooms -- maybe three, if they were 
couples and inebriated to boot.

Feeling strangely vindicated and euphoric to the point of 
overload, Glenn galvanized himself to action.  

"Whew!  You know, you're the first one who's ever--" He 
scratched vigorously and felt a loopy smile crease his face.  
"Listen, lemme call my night manager quick, before I get 
started with these folks, okay?  Then when Jaime gets here, 
you and me can put out heads together about what's really 
going on.  And what it all has to do with a certain, mutual 
friend." 

Mulder blinked, his nostrils flaring over a set jaw as his 
head turned toward the blackened room across the parking lot.  
Then he nodded to Glenn, crushed the note into his fist, and 
stepped away from the counter to wait.  

************
End of Chapter 18
Continued in Chapter 19