The X-Files: Goblins

SIXTEEN

Wrapped in nothing but a thin stubby towel, Mulder examined his reflection in the steam-shrouded mirror. He looked drawn, and probably a little too pale. But he certainly didn’t look like a man who had almost been killed. Twice in the same afternoon. However a man like that is supposed to look, that is. He rose up on his toes and inhaled sharply when he saw the full extent of the size and shape of the bruise below his ribs. That, he knew, was going to be hell in the morning.

He toweled off slowly so as not to aggravate either the bruise or the hammer and anvil gearing up in his skull. Deliberately slowly, because, as Scully had already sensed, he had begun to feel that electric spark of anticipation, the one that signaled the true beginning of the hunt.

He suspected that right now, Webber was having fits, and Andrews was pacing whether she was standing up or not. It was only natural. A little ordinary poking around had ended up in a deadly firefight, and they probably couldn’t stop the adrenaline from flowing. Action, they no doubt thought, was the key now, not methodical investigation. It didn’t matter that nothing but casings had been found at the site, and nothing at all at the site of his ambush.

Action. Get moving. Keep moving. Sitting down, having coffee, talking things out, was definitely not the way things were supposed to be.

As he dressed, he glanced around the room, not really seeing the furniture or the dingy walls. Hints and whispers had come to him while he’d let the warm water and steam do their work.

Hints and whispers.

Not all of them clear.

Still, the fever dreams he had had — and there was no other way to describe them — refused to let him go. Every throb in his skull, every touch of fire below his ribs, reminded him of what he had seen.

Not what he thought he had seen.

He slipped stiffly into his jacket, stuffed his tie into one pocket, and grabbed his topcoat.

And stopped.

What he should do now was head straight for the Queen’s Inn to meet the others.

Or he could slip away for a while, away from Scully’s watchful doctor’s eye, and—

The door opened suddenly.

He stumbled back, tripped over the edge of his bed, and fell on the mattress, his head nearly exploding.

“Jesus,” he said angrily.

Scully looked down at him without any sympathy at all. “I have an idea,” was all she said.

Major Tonero sat on the porch of his modest Cape Cod on the outskirts of Marville, a cigarette in one hand, a tumbler of scotch and soda in the other. Although he had been expecting the FBI to call on him since meeting those agents this afternoon, he wasn’t disappointed when they hadn’t. Their attention was elsewhere now. Whoever had ambushed them had unwittingly done him a great favor.

Now all he had to do was tell Rosemary about his conversation with their superiors, and they could begin the relocation procedure. By Sunday afternoon they would, with a little luck, be on their way.

He sipped, and blew a smoke ring.

It was chilly tonight, but not enough to keep him inside.

Besides, he preferred it out here. The neighborhood was small, quiet, so perfectly ordinary that there were times, both night and day, when he felt as if his superiors had dropped him into the middle of a television series, circa 1955. But it was definitely better than living with them, shortsighted and single-minded officers who lived and died for the service without once ever understanding what true potential there was.

He toasted that truth with another drink.

There were, now that he thought about it, only two problems remaining: what to do with Leonard Tymons, and what do with the Project’s subject.

He wasn’t worried, though. The answer would come. It always did.

A car sped up the block. He frowned, hating the disruption of his quiet evening, the frown deepening when the car squealed to a halt at the curb. He leaned forward — Rosemary?

After several seconds she climbed out and ran-staggered toward the house. He was up and at the steps before she reached them, taking her arms and hushing her until they were inside.

“Leonard,” she gasped, and dropped heavily onto the couch.

She looked like hell; in fact, she looked like a corpse, her hair damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color that unpleasantly accentuated her already pale face.

Shit, he thought angrily; why the hell can’t it be easy, just for once?

“Tell me,” he said, keeping his voice low.

He didn’t move when she told him what had happened at the Project lab, didn’t touch her when she began to tremble so violently she had to hug herself to calm down, didn’t offer a word when she finished and looked up at him, beseeching him for comfort.

He turned to the window and looked out at the lawn, hands clasped behind his back.

When he turned back, he smiled. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“He… he has to be by now.”

“There were backups, correct?”

She passed a hand over her face, forcing herself to think. “Yes.” She nodded hesitantly. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know how recent they would be. Leonard was always—”

“No matter.” He took a step toward the couch. “In his office?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. “And what about our friend?” His eyes widened in slight alarm and he glanced at the front door.

“No, don’t worry.” She inhaled deeply, slowly, and leaned her head back wearily, closed her eyes, as her left hand unbuttoned her coat and pulled it away as if she needed room to breathe. “We were in the elevator, and then… I don’t know where.”

Another step: “I’m correct in assuming that, without the proper medication, our friend will eventually…” His smile flashed and vanished. “Fade away?”

“Damnit, Joseph, what’s the matter with you? Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

He held out his hands, palms up, beckoning until she took them and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and into his arms. He kissed her ear, her cheek, her lips.

“Joseph?”

She was cold; cold with fear.

And trembling.

He whispered of the telephone call, and of the problems he had had until the problems, it seemed, had decided to take care of themselves. He whispered of the support he had given her to those in charge during that call. He suggested, in a whisper, that they take her car back to the hospital, to Dr. Tymons’ office, and retrieve the backup computer disks. Although no one had access to the Project level except themselves, it seemed as if they might be leaving earlier than expected.

“Or,” he whispered after she snuggled, wriggled closer, and kissed him back, hard, “we could always wait until morning.”

It was her turn to whisper as she began working on his shirt: “Joseph, you can be one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

“But for good reason, Dr. Elkhart. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Barelli almost felt guilty leaving the old woman alone at the Company G, but since everyone there seemed to know her, and like her, the guilt passed as soon as he was outside.

It had been, from the beginning, an evening of surprises.

The establishment itself, around the corner and halfway down the block from Barney’s, was a low clapboard building outlined in soft blue neon. In its large front window a neon trooper marched guard duty around stencil-style letters that spelled out company G. A shiny black film over the glass prevented anyone from seeing inside, but once through the door he had been pleasantly surprised. The restaurant-lounge was a single large room, softly and indirectly lighted, with black plastic and glass, gleaming chrome and brass. A bar ran along the left-hand wall, and the carpeted floor held a score or more tables, about half of which were taken. A dance floor took up most of the back, with a low stage against the wall.

The food, too, had been more than decent, and the drinks inexpensive. Elly Lang ordered well and ate carefully, as if expecting to make the meal last all night. When he asked her about herself, she smiled and told him little except for the reputation the community had given her.

All because of the goblins.

By the time he had finished he knew he had heard all she had to say. Not ranting, exactly, but it sounded like a story she had told a hundred times, and not much different from what he had learned at the police station.

She had, pleasantly, dismissed him when his mind began to wander, and although he stopped short of kissing her on the cheek, the almost-gesture had made her laugh and shoo him away.

Now, on the street, he considered returning to the station to have a talk with the dispatcher. Because of their job, they usually knew more than anyone, and he remembered Sergeant Nilssen telling him their regular operator was a young woman, Maddy Vincent.

Which was when he remembered his date with Babs Radnor.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Damn.”

He would have to go back and make some kind of excuse. She had been taken with his reporting reputation, he knew that much, so maybe she wouldn’t be all that unhappy when he assured her he wasn’t about to head home right away. A rain check until tomorrow seemed the most likely way out.

He hurried up toward Main Street, changing his mind about driving, deciding that a phone call would do. If he played it right, sounded right, she might even be excited for him, now and later.

He shivered then and wished he had brought a topcoat with him.

True night had settled over the town, starless, feeling like rain. Houses and buildings slipped into the protection of the dark, neon and street-lamps giving the street needed color, and a semblance of life it didn’t have when the sun shone.

There were just enough pedestrians to make the district seem almost lively; a street cop spoke to a disgruntled knot of teens; a cruiser trolled slowly westward, not caring about the traffic it backed up behind it; several shops were open late, ghosts of customers inside.

The wind had died.

Still, he hunched his shoulders as he hurried westward, grumbling when he reached the police station without finding a public phone. He looked over, shrugged a what the hell, and took advantage of the first break to sprint to the other side. Once in, he had to wait for several minutes. Unlike his earlier visit, tonight the station was busy — two cops leading two lurching drunks back toward the cells, the radio in constant chatter, a man in plainclothes at a desk arguing with two women, one of whom had a bloody bandage wrapped around her hand. When he finally caught the desk sergeant’s attention, he was told brusquely that Officer Vincent wasn’t on this shift, he would have to wait until morning.

He couldn’t.

The idea had taken hold, and now he couldn’t shake it.

A handful of smiling lies inflating Vincent’s importance to his story gave him an address and directions; a flourish of notebook and pen proved to the officer that Barelli wasn’t about to spell his name incorrectly.

By the time he was back on the sidewalk, he realized he was out of breath.

Easy, boy, he thought; take it easy, don’t blow it now.

Two blocks up, one block down, the sergeant had told him. An easy walk, and a chance for him to think of the questions he’d need to ask.

The house was easy to find — it was the only one on the street without any lights.

He knocked, rang the bell, even wandered around to the back door and knocked again, but Officer Vincent wasn’t answering.

No matter, he decided, and parked himself on her front steps; she has to come home sometimes, and when she does, I’ll be waiting right here to make her famous.

He sat, he smoked, he listened to the neighbors on the left have a beast of a battle. He walked around for a while to keep warm, but always within sight of the house. And when he checked his watch under a streetlamp and realized it was only a few minutes past eight, it occurred to him that Maddy Vincent might not be home for hours. It was Friday night, and she was single, and what the hell had he been thinking?

He was nearly at the corner when he stopped cursing his stupidity and trotted back across the street, pulling his notebook out of his jacket pocket. Just to be sure she’d be around, he would leave a note. Not too obvious, a little mysterious. Pique her policewoman’s interest. He would save the sweet talk for when he saw her.

It took him four tries before he was satisfied and tore the page free. The next thing was a place to put it so the wind wouldn’t blow it halfway to the next county.

He settled for folding it in half and sticking it between the door and the frame.

Then he turned around, dusting his hands, and saw the shadow standing on the porch.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” the shadow said.

Barelli didn’t see the blade until it was too late, and there was nothing left to do but open his mouth and try to scream.