Diametrically Opposed
by mountainphile

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Chapter 4
************

Putnam University, Ohio
March 14, 2001
7:50 AM

By morning the East Green spawned like a living organism 
around Mulder.  Students began swarming the walkways as doors 
slammed.  Dorm rooms clattered, quaked, and belched laughter.  
Though it was the midst of exam week several open windows 
blared a cacophony of noise barely recognizable as music into 
the outdoors. 

They were essentially kids, he reminded himself in the shower, 
with no parental influence around to modulate juvenile 
shenanigans and enforce consideration.  He'd hoped to swallow 
his first cup of coffee in peace while looking through his 
small cache of information, but the R.A.s in charge and the 
Lilliputian coffee maker all seemed worthless to that end.  

Desperate, he threw on his coat and sought java uptown.

Once he found his way to Union Street, parking was plentiful.  
The college girl behind the counter graced him with a smile as 
he took his Starbuck's Grande in tow.  Embracing the cool air 
and light fog, he opted to walk the distance down the sloping 
brick road toward the West Green.

Vague uneasiness dogged him.  He was itching to attack this 
new case with both hands, to find what had become of the 
missing girl using his own brand of expertise.  Scully would 
pitch in when she arrived, providing backup information and 
insight, complementing his eclectic rhythm.  Yet Hostetler 
intended to hobble their efforts with ambiguity fostered by 
his own paranoia.  

Mulder felt a mixture of resentment and compassion for the 
man, knowing how it felt to stand in such lonely shoes.

Now, he'd been saddled with a psychic detective.  He shook his 
head at the irony, knowing that any other time he'd be 
intrigued, even jazzed by the prospect.  Today he wanted only 
Scully's input and familiar presence.  

He'd lost more than a few hours of sleep flopped on the couch 
in his usual sprawl in front of the TV, running tapes in his 
head.  Scully's distaste for "purveyors of psychic ability" 
hadn't quite mellowed, but he couldn't fault her quick prep 
and willingness to dive into the paranormal confines of this 
case.  Maybe her recent exposure to Harold Pillar and Benjie 
Tillman had been beneficial after all.  

She'd arrive in Hocking later this morning, bringing with her 
the two things he craved most: research and her tender 
responsiveness.  It was, after all, day four.

Tall oaks denuded by winter spread protective fingers over one 
end of the West Green as students buzzed around him.  In the 
light of morning Amanda's dormitory looked less imposing, even 
hospitable.  Brick construction, four stories.  Bell towers 
capped by old-style copulas, which Mulder assumed hadn't been 
used for decades.  A women's dorm; ruffled, colorful curtains 
scalloped many of the tall windows.    

Sipping his coffee, he focused on the third floor, which was 
Amanda's.  At the same time his peripheral vision caught 
someone else in the act of watching the same building, her 
arms and hands outstretched in a gesture of benediction.
 
She was nearly tall as Mulder.  Thin as a display mannequin, 
the woman wore charcoal gray and black.  Her long skirt 
swirled with each movement, as did the billow of crimped 
elbow-length hair.  He couldn't decide if it shone blonde, 
gray, or a feathered blend of both in the thin morning light.

He assessed, paused.  Took a few steps closer before he shot 
into the dark.  "Willow Nightingale, I presume?"

When the woman turned to face him, Mulder saw that her eyes 
had been closed; opened they were soft brown, dreamy from 
absorbing whatever it was she sought the moment before.  Her 
loose coat swung askew, offering him a glimpse of burgundy 
cloth and tight cleavage.  He blinked, flicked his gaze 
higher.  She wore makeup that accentuated the brown of her 
eyes.  Face pleasing, not pretty.  Age indeterminate, but on 
the basis of skin alone he put her somewhere over forty.  

"Willow Wind Nightingale," she clarified, extending her hand 
and shaking his free one with a tight grip.  The stipple of 
pressure on the side of his palm told him that every one of 
her fingers bore a chunky ring.  Her voice was undulating, a 
clear warble.  

"An early bird."

"In like company," she smiled.  "I was expecting you to show 
up unannounced this fair morning, Agent Mulder."

He nursed a smirk, feeling slightly second-guessed.  

"By virtue of ESP," he asked, "or from the mouth of Dean Dave 
Hostetler?  Last night I told him I'd be doing a little 
scouting around Wilson before we met up at his office with the 
student."

"Whichever impresses you or enhances my value in this 
investigation.  It doesn't really matter, does it?"

"What matters is finding Amanda Carmichael alive and 
unharmed," he said firmly.

"I agree."

Hand to hip, Mulder continued his scan of the building.  "Can 
you tell me what were you were doing a minute ago?"

"I was sensing that Amanda had been very unhappy.  She was 
thrilled about attending college, but afraid of separating 
from her family and childhood home.  Those feelings increased, 
the good feelings destroyed by the bad.  She was... very 
insecure here."  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  "Yes, this 
place was frightening to her."

"Sounds pretty much like a typical reaction for most girls 
leaving home for the first time," he quipped.

"Are you accusing me of 'shotgunning', Agent Mulder?  For the 
record, I don't stoop to using such a common ploy."

He knew the term was insulting, had wrangled over it with 
Scully during the week of the LaPierre incident last year.  
She'd accused Piller of the same manipulative technique when 
he stammered out generalized statements and claimed "hits" 
when in fact there was nothing substantive.  His observations 
were vague and ambiguous enough to prove true for anyone at 
some point in time.  Yet, there were things he'd observed 
about Harold Piller that Scully, in the midst of debunking, 
hadn't observed.  

His face warm, Mulder took too big a sip of the hot coffee and 
ended up burning his tongue.  "Sorry.  No offense intended."  

"And none taken.  But we should understand one another since 
we're to work as a team."

"That goes both ways, I hope."

The woman called Willow nodded in concurrence.  "If you 
research the history of these grounds you'll find that the 
Shawnee tribe used this very spot for burial and worship.  
Centuries ago they were driven out, cheated by U.S. treaty, 
and robbed of their lands.  The university followed suit and 
further desecrated this sacred ground."

"Tell Hostetler that and you'll piss off more than just dead 
Indians."

"Numerous spirits are restless here; I felt it as soon as I 
arrived.  Such electricity!  It's remarkable how distinctive, 
how powerful, this area is."

"Apparently the Dean hasn't done all his LIFE homework either.  
He's under the impression you're a longtime resident of 
Hocking."

"Standard FBI background checking should have told you 
everything you'd want to know about me," she one-upped, 
looking back toward the building, "but I can see you haven't 
felt it necessary.  I was born in southeastern Ohio, which 
makes me reasonably local."  

"You're supposed to be clairvoyant.  Psychically gifted."

"True.  However it appears I've yet to prove myself to you."  
She smoothed a mass of hair back over one shoulder.  
"Parapsychology is a curious mixture of science and 
supernatural endowment, Agent Mulder.  It also requires some 
suspension of our usual human perceptions.  I do hope you're 
prepared for both in the days ahead."

Mulder gave a half-hearted grin.  "Bring it on."

"I like that attitude; the work you do in the FBI sounds 
fascinating.  Dean Hostetler shared a bit of your background 
with me so I'd have some preparation for this assignment.  And 
for you, as my associate."

"I hope he showed a little restraint." 

Willow turned to face him, her expression compassionate as she 
sought eye contact.  She reached out a jeweled hand to grasp 
his arm.

"Your work and belief in the paranormal impresses me," she 
said, "because I see that you're an intelligent man with an 
open mind.  That's a rare thing.  You're willing to explore 
phenomena that are usually unperceived by other people in the 
natural world.  In fact, your insight and perspective on this 
case will be invaluable if we're to uncover what's become of 
this poor girl and the forces that are at work here."

"Do you suspect foul play?"

"I favor... other probabilities, which we'll discuss after 
touring the dormitory.  I'll know more then." 

Compelled by her intensity and the kindred flavor of her 
speech, he moved closer.  The mindset was refreshing, 
undemanding, and stroked his ego.  

He felt his guard relaxing.  

"Sometimes I see a natural, but extreme progression outside 
the realm of what's considered normal," he confided.  "Bizarre 
possibilities waiting to be explored.  Doors that open to 
other doors.  I dunno, call it a 'blue sense'."  He gave a 
cynical chuckle.  "Most of the time it gets chalked up to 
either luck or plain lunacy."

"That's unfortunate.  By the FBI in general?  Or your partner 
in particular?"

He took a slow step away from her grasp, in order to snap the 
physical connection between them without appearing rude.  

"Our cases require a balance between paranormal hypothesis and 
cogent scientific proof.  I'm grateful she makes me fight for 
honesty and truth on every case we're assigned."

"I sense otherwise.  But well said, Agent Mulder.  It seems 
loyalty is another one of your attributes."

He paused for emphasis, distressed.  "It goes beyond loyalty -
- I trust her with my life." 

"Commendable," Willow conceded, "but do her skills have a 
place in this particular investigation?"

"What are you implying?"

"I'm wondering whether her presence here is really needed.  So 
does Dean Hostetler, apparently."

"She's my partner; it's non-negotiable."

"Well, then," Willow said with a complacent toss of her hair, 
"let's discuss the task ahead, especially since we've been 
placed under such severe restriction by the Dean."

"We?"

"Usually I have a team member with me to videotape and take 
electronic readings while I become sensitive to the area.  We 
bring in sensors, thermometers, and special devices to record 
visible and UV spectrums.  Aura monitors, negative ion 
detectors, oscilloscopes, spectrographs, and other delicate 
equipment.  So you see, Agent Mulder, during a paranormal 
investigation the scientific aspects would be extraordinarily 
covered, as well as the supernatural ones."

"I suppose Hostetler's put the kibosh on all that."

"Yes, sadly.  So we'll need to use other resources, you and I.  
Our wits, intuition, and talents.  Perhaps you'll find other 
answers along the way -- to questions you've been asking 
yourself."

Mulder felt his throat tighten.  "About what?"

"A female person you love, who's very close to you."

His mind flew to Scully.

"Not a lover," she cautioned, as though reading his thoughts.  
"Nothing fleshly or sexual.  Someone before... younger, 
frightened... a sister, perhaps."

"I never mentioned anything about family to you."

"Perhaps it was the Dean again," Willow said with a sigh.  
"He's done some background checking as well, for his own 
personal interest."  

"My life," stated Mulder tersely, "is nobody's business."

She paused to close her eyes, as though savoring the awkward 
dark wave that rushed between them.  

"You don't have to say anything now," she murmured.  Her voice 
was low, melodic, strangely soothing his agitation.  He forced 
himself to count to ten, then waited until her eyes opened to 
hold his gaze.  "Please, Agent Mulder, be prepared for the 
unexpected."

"You're fishing," he accused, knowing the word would rankle.

"No."  Graceful fingers rippled through the mass of hair and 
she smiled with compassion.  "I merely touched you several 
times while we talked.  Remember?"

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

Outskirts of Hocking, Ohio
March 14
8:35 AM

Being incognito had its drawbacks, Scully decided.  Her only 
compensations were comfort and clear weather.

Waiting for a rental car and the lengthy drive from the 
airport had gobbled precious hours.  It was frustrating that 
the flight to Wood County Airport, West Virginia was the only 
one available on such short notice the previous night.  
Mulder, on the other hand, had received preferential treatment 
from the administration.  Flown by private plane directly to 
the university airport, he'd arrived in a fraction of the 
time.

She weighed Mulder's suggestions about wardrobe, but drew the 
line at appearing on campus looking like an overage 
adolescent.  Instead, she felt at ease and sultry in indigo 
jeans and a thin sweater that hugged her curves.  Chunky-
heeled boots and her black leather coat completed the 
ensemble.  

If Mulder didn't approve, that was his problem.  

Half an hour from Hocking, her cell rang with a call from a 
furious partner.  He growled that there had been a change of 
plan.  The interview at Dean Hostetler's office was to be 
rescheduled, taking place before her arrival.  He assumed it 
wouldn't be lengthy and would fill her when she joined him. 

"Why am I not surprised," she muttered, only slightly appeased 
by his annoyance on her behalf.  "Listen.  Since my motel is 
on the way, I'll check in first when I get into town and be 
right over to join you."

"Next on our agenda is a tour of Wilson Hall's hot spots.  
Spooky shit, Scully.   We'll be over there next if you miss 
us."

"You've met Willow, I gather."

"Yeah.  I'll be interested in comparing notes tonight, among 
other things.  Do you need directions to Cutler Hall?"

"I can manage," she huffed, as she rummaged on the seat beside 
her for the motel address.  "But it'd be nice if you could 
call when the interview's over and save me the trouble of 
tracking you down."

She heard hesitation in his voice, mixed with sheepishness.  
"That may not be possible, but I'll try."

"For God's sake, Mulder.  Are we talking tremors in the force 
here?  Will you be shattering some sacred 'aura' by using your 
cell?"

"Maybe something like that.  I'll see what I can do when the 
time comes."

"No, don't bother."  She muttered a curt farewell and hung up.   

The Hocking Super 8 was no different from any other Scully had 
experienced over the past seven years.  Sandwiched between a 
pizza joint and the laundromat, she found it looking chipped 
and tired.  She detected faint smells of smoke and burnt 
coffee when she entered the check-in office.

The manager read her impatience and bustled into action behind 
the counter.  His eyes stayed mostly on paperwork, but she 
noticed furtive peeks as he checked out her breasts between 
the gaping edges of her leather jacket.  "Will one key do it 
for you, ma'am?"  

"No, make that two, please," she said, her voice crisp.  She 
scribbled her signature and shoved the slip toward him.  A wad 
of free area maps lay in stacks nearby, including a campus 
directory.  Snagging one of each and the key cards, she made 
to leave.

"Sure you don't want a nice double up on the second floor?  
Non-smoking, too.  I notice most of the ladies prefer not to 
be on ground level."

"Thanks, but no.  Room one-twenty-three will be fine."

"Whatever you say," he said amiably, tidying up and offering a 
smile.  "Coffee's always hot and I set out donuts every 
morning."

For a split second Scully saw vestiges of Al Sloan in his shy, 
apologetic grin and salt-and-pepper tangle of hair.  She 
decided she could turn a magnanimous cheek and forgive the 
ogling, as she had at the Hoover gym.

"So," she began, turning toward the window and keeping her 
tone light, "how far is campus from here?"

"Oh, just a hop, skip and a jump up Richland Avenue.  You ever 
been here before?  'Cause if you need to know anything, where 
to eat, what to see, how to get there, I'm as good as you'll 
get.  Lived here all my life."

"A townie?"  She tossed out the scrap of lingo, hoping Mulder 
had it right. 

"You got it, born and bred.  My great granddaddy even laid 
some of the original brickwork over at the old loony bin when 
they expanded it in 1924."

Scully threw him a look.  "You mean the old mental health 
center?"

"Yup, it's about a half mile from here, up Downey Lane.  But 
no more loonies in there now."

"Why?"

"Shut down about five years ago when the university purchased 
the whole property.  Cost 'em millions.  Turned it into high-
end administrative offices and some kind of art museum.  Now 
all the mental cases go over to the spiffy new regional 
facility near Albany.  Everything's squeaky clean."

"And what was it before?" 

Her interest piqued, Scully gave him her full attention and 
leaned elbows on the counter.  The time span he'd mentioned 
seemed significant considering what her research had uncovered 
the night before.

"Shit, I could tell you tales that'd make your hair curl," he 
whispered, leaning toward her.  "That thing's got history out 
the old wazoo.  Before it closed down it got a lot of 
attention for treating some famous multiple personality guy.   
But in the old days there'd be hundreds of patients.  Inmates 
I called 'em, men and women both.  At night you could hear 'em 
screaming from a mile away, wanting outta that place.  Rumors 
were, they'd torture the poor devils with inhumane treatments, 
then lobotomize 'em afterward.  You know what that is, don't 
you?"

Though she gave no outward sign, Scully's scalp prickled as 
her mind flashed back to the bowels of a musty trailer.  Her 
fingers grew numb and rubbery from duct tape clamped around 
each wrist.  Panic seized her throat.  Before her, Gerry 
Schnauz's eyeballs wiggled, his breath stank.  He closed in 
with the glistening leucotome, all the while extolling his 
urgent, appointed need to silence the screamers in her head.

"Yes," she said dryly, tucking the maps under her arm.  "I 
know what that is."

"Don't mean to run you off with weird stories.  But like I 
said, if you need information about local history I know it 
all.  The name's Glenn, at your service."

"Thank you.  I'm... Dana.  And if you could tell me the 
quickest way to get to Cutler Hall I might take you up on that 
offer sometime."

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

Hostetler's Office, Cutler Hall
March 14
8:43 AM

Dave Hostetler was clearly nervous, stammering as he spoke.  
Willow turned away as he wedged both hands into his pants 
pockets and put on a brave face.

"Agent Mulder, I -- I apologize again for the change in plans.  
The student you're to speak with has an exam scheduled for 
this morning and I have another obligation to take care of.  
We'll need to get it over with as quickly as possible."

"Don't screw this up if you want our cooperation," Mulder 
fumed.  "My partner's almost here and you're not cutting her 
out of the action, Hostetler."

"If I could delay this I would, believe me.  We all have to be 
a little flexible under the circumstances."

"So you and the job stay under someone's thumb," finished 
Mulder with a sneer.  "Am I right?"    

"I'm sorry if it seems unfair, but that's the way it is.  I'll 
try to explain later."

"Oh, one more thing before you go and this student arrives -- 
you've got a helluva big mouth."

Hostetler's face fell.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Later," said Mulder pointedly, clapping a hand to the door 
and inclining his head in dismissal.   

The Dean left just as a student entered the outer office and 
spoke to the secretary.  Here comes trouble, Mulder thought 
wryly.

Looking like every parent's nightmare the young woman slouched 
in the doorway of the Dean's office.  She read the room with 
glances that seemed almost feral.  Wearing an insouciant 
attitude of disrespect, she scuffed her Doc Marten boots into 
the room and waited.

He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd flipped them the bird 
by way of introduction. 

More outrageous was her fashion sense: dark eyeliner, short 
stiff hair, an overabundance of jewelry, some of which adorned 
her face and ears.  The pencil-thin legs of her jeans were 
torn at one knee.  Deliberately, he guessed.  Her smallness, 
crossed arms, and pouting defiance reminded him of Scully's 
demeanor when cornered -- lifted chin spoiling to meet the 
world head-on.

In a show of courtesy he smiled and extended his hand.  He 
introduced both himself and Willow, and indicated where the 
girl should sit.   

"So this is what FBI looks like."  Her voice was high-pitched, 
unimpressed.  She plopped on the edge of the seat and spread 
her knees like a man, as though to dispel any impression of 
femininity.  

"Like a door-to-door salesman, I've been told.  You're Kirsi 
Toskala?"

The girl returned his stare.  "For legal and ID purposes, 
yeah.  But I answer to Cricket."  She cast a look of 
undisguised contempt at Willow Nightingale.  "What's your 
story?  The Dean make you park your broom outside?"  

"Hey, now..." said Mulder, his tone placating despite his 
surprise. "Let's keep this friendly."

The psychic smiled.  "It's quite all right.  I'm simply here 
to observe."

"My ass," the girl muttered.  She swung her attention back to 
Mulder.

"You know by now that one of your dorm mates, Amanda 
Carmichael, vanished a few days ago," he said.  "I need to ask 
you some questions concerning that disappearance.  Please tell 
me anything that you think could aid in her recovery."  

Cricket shrugged.  "I'd be within my rights to refuse, but go 
ahead.  I have nothing to hide because I don't know anything.  
She didn't even live on my floor."

"Your floor," he echoed.  "You mean the fourth?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"According to Dean Hostetler everyone in Wilson Hall thinks 
your room is haunted.  What do you think?"

"I think it's their problem; it doesn't bother me and I'm 
still here."

Leaning forward with his fingers laced together, he masked a 
smile, impressed by the girl's spirit.  She was sharp-eyed and 
intelligent, but a tricky read.  He tossed out more questions, 
trying his best to keep it casual and engaging.  Push too hard 
and Cricket was sure to clam up on him or walk out.  For the 
sake of the case he took care to tread lightly on the sharp 
crust of this young woman's gritty defiance.  If necessary, he 
could arrange to speak with her at another time and place.
 
To her credit, Willow sat quietly apart, internalizing her 
impressions.  She'd deferred to Mulder from the outset, even 
with Hostetler, and let him work without interference.  A team 
player.  Something he could appreciate and took for granted 
after years with Scully.  There was a smooth effortlessness 
about the way this interview progressed that made him feel the 
arrangement, though peculiar, had possibilities after all.

While he interacted with the girl, a quick glance told him 
that Willow's eyes had closed.  Her mouth was curved bow-like 
into an expression of serenity, and the light through the 
window blinds haloed her face and silvery hair.

He blinked at the illusion.  For one fleeting moment she 
appeared more pretty than pleasing.

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

End of Chapter 4
Continued in Chapter 5