The X-Files: Goblins

TWENTY-ONE

Despite the day’s gloom, the Queen’s Inn’s lights were kept low, giving the room an evening feel. Two diners sat at the counter, each reading a newspaper; a family of six sat in the last booth, one of the children describing the movie he had seen on TV that morning, complete with explosive sound effects and dialogue quotations. A busboy swept the already gleaming floor. In the parking lot, a trailer truck took its time making a wide U-turn, causing a minor backup and a brief flurry of angry horns.

“Another peaceful day in the country,” Mulder said glumly. He sat by the window, pushed into the corner, his topcoat draped over the seatback. Although his head no longer throbbed to distraction, his side refused to give him respite. He squirmed, thought he was settled, and then a quick stitch made him shift again.

The others didn’t seem to notice his discomfort.

Hank sat across from him, gleefully, for Scully’s benefit, attacking a steak with all the trimmings he’d been able to think of, while Andrews and Scully settled on salads. All he could think of was pancakes and bacon, so forced himself to order just a sandwich. Two seconds later, he had forgotten what kind it was.

The truck finished its turn.

The kid finished the movie to the laughing applause of his family.

Mulder shifted again. “Do you know what W. C. Fields said about children?”

Licia asked him who W. C. Fields was.

“I’m not old, you know,” he said to Scully’s infuriatingly blank expression. “Really. I am not old.”

“Eat, Mulder,” she ordered. “We have work to do.”

There was, then, mostly silence as they finished their meal. And once the table had been cleared, Scully flipped over her paper place mat and pulled out her pen, and looked to Mulder, who nodded it was her show, be my guest.

The family left.

The men at the counter paid and left as well.

“Pierce,” Scully said, lightly jabbing the place mat with her pen, “was killed on a Saturday night. So was Corporal Ulman. Almost a pattern until last night.” She paused, and Mulder was grateful she didn’t mention Carl’s name. “It’s my guess Dr. Tymons is dead, too. Probably sometime yesterday.” She filled them in quickly on what they had seen at Walson after the others had left, but gave neither of them a chance to comment. “The Project, whatever it is, is over.”

“For now,” Mulder added.

“All right. For now. And we don’t have much time.” She tapped the place mat again. “All the deaths are the same — throat slashed, deeply. This isn’t a professional’s attack. The violence… and the fact that each one came from the front, not behind…” She took a breath and shook her head. “It’s almost psychotic. And the strength to do this indicates it’s probably a man. Or,” she added, when Mulder opened his mouth to comment, “a woman, okay. These days, there are a lot of women who go for weight training, defense training, things like that. We can’t rule that out.”

“Which means,” Andrews said sourly, “we’ve narrowed it down to about eight or nine thousand people, right?”

“Wrong.”

Mulder sat up, staring at the doodles Scully had drawn on the paper.

“While Pierce may have died just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, it’s pretty obvious the others are connected. The corporal worked for Major Tonero — although we can’t guarantee he knew everything that was going on, Carl Barelli was asking questions about goblins, and Dr. Tymons was the Project head.”

She scribbled Tonero’s name and circled it.

“I also think Mulder’s right — the Project’s in danger, and the goblin is cleaning house. Which is why we have someone staying with Ms. Lang.” She circled Rosemary Elkhart’s name. “That gives us motive. Hide the mistakes, bury the evidence. Literally.”

“But if Tymons really is dead,” Webber said, “won’t that kill the project for good?”

“Oh, no. Not by a long shot. Dr. Elkhart, no matter what the major thinks, is in charge now. Nothing we said in that office fazed her, while the major was only partly acting. So I’m assuming she’s gotten hold of the records, and I don’t doubt she’d be able to have another center up and running before very long.”

Andrews leaned forward eagerly. “She could have been planning it, you know. For weeks. Months, even. Something about the project, maybe it’s almost ready, you know? I mean, done. Maybe she wants all the glory.”

Scully tapped the name again. “I don’t think there’s any maybe about it, Licia.”

“Then she did it!” Webber exclaimed.

Mulder blinked. “What? You think she’s the goblin?”

Webber nodded, then shook his head, then threw up his hands. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He brightened. “But she could be directing it. I mean, wouldn’t she know who was a threat and who wasn’t?”

Scully smiled. “Weekend nights,” she reminded them. “Only weekend nights.”

“So what are you saying?” Andrews asked with a frown. “We narrow it down to only those people who are free on weekends?” She shook her head. “Give me a break, okay?” She reached out to push at the place mat. “Do you know how many troops there are at Dix, for one thing? And every one of them—”

“Damn!” Mulder said.

Scully jumped, and he apologized with a quick gesture, but he had followed her road, marked the signposts, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he already had the answer.

“What?” Webber said anxiously.

“Louisiana,” he answered, speaking to Scully.

All she could do was look.

“That guy in Louisiana, he was supposed to have disappeared in the middle of a circus ring. Walked through a crowd of people and didn’t come out the other side. But he was still there, Scully. He just didn’t look the same way.”

“And how do you know that?”

His left arm rested along the back of the seat, forcing him to turn toward her. “You’ll be happy to know that I don’t think he just disappeared in a puff of sawdust. He had to be there; he was just different, that’s all. The police were looking for one thing, so they didn’t see anything else.”

“Okay, so things weren’t what they seemed. What does that have to do with this?”

“Ghosts and goblins, Scully. Ghosts and goblins.”

“Meaning?” Andrews said testily.

“Meaning our field of suspects has just been made considerably smaller.”

Rosemary stood his pacing, his ranting, for as long as she could. Then she came around the desk and said, “Joseph.”

He ignored her. “God damn them, anyway. Did you see the way they spoke to me? Who the hell do they think they are?”

“Joseph.”

He shook his head in exasperation. “This is too much. It’s just too much.” His face reddened, and he aimed a kick at one of the cartons. “And I even packed my damn keys away! Jesus H. Rosie, the whole world’s gone nuts!”

She leaned back against the desk.

“Son of a bitch bastards are not — I repeat, are not — going to get away with it. I’ll call that goddamn senator myself and—”

“Joseph!”

He whirled on her, one fist up, but she didn’t flinch. She only softened her expression, and beckoned with a crooked finger. “Joseph.” Her voice deep in her throat. “Joseph.”

His chest rose and fell, the fist trembled and fell away.

“Joseph, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“What? How the hell—”

“Nothing to worry about,” she repeated calmly, and beckoned him again.

This time he moved, close enough for her to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Everything we need from downstairs we already have. Everything we need from here is ready to ship.”

“Yes, but—”

She hushed him with a finger on his lips. “And everything you need is right here, too.”

She kissed him softly, quickly, and used all her remaining control to stop herself from slapping him.

“You have the orders?”

He leaned around her and yanked open the center drawer, pulled out a folder and handed it to her. “Signed and sealed, Rosie.”

“Good.” She pressed the folder against her chest. “Now we can either forget about downstairs altogether, because no one will see it for weeks, maybe even months. Or we can get Captain Whatshisname from Battalion to clean it up.” She smiled. “After all, what are soldiers for?”

“I say we just leave it.” The flush had receded from his cheeks and brow. He puffed a little, slipping back into his role. “And I say we don’t wait for tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I can get us a flight tonight.”

She considered it, and nodded. “Not too late, though. I want to get there in time to get a decent night’s sleep.”

His expression made her shudder. “Who says we’ll get any sleep?”

“I do, you dope.” She slapped his shoulder playfully and slipped around him, heading for the door. “We sleep, we see the right people, you take that leave, and then… who knows?”

Tonero laughed. “Okay, Rosie, okay.” Then he frowned. “But what about—”

“All taken care of, darling.” She picked up her coat from the chair. “All it takes is one phone call.”

She waved, showed him a little chest movement, and left before he could think of anything else. There was no doubt he would make all the proper arrangements; she trusted him that much. As for the actual flight itself… she never had minded traveling alone.

In Elly Lang’s apartment, the telephone rang.

Mulder knew that Scully was about to tug on the reins, haul him in before his excitement got the best of him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help the way his hands moved, darting from the notes on the place mat to his uneaten sandwich to tracing diagrams in the air only he could see.

“Civilian, first.” He made sure they were listening with a look and a gesture. “Dr. Elkhart has no influence over military personnel without Major Tonero. And Tonero isn’t about to use the military for project experiments. If it blew up, he’d lose his ticket to whatever election he’s hoping to win when he retires.”

Hank gaped, astonished. “How—”

“Us, second.” He touched Scully’s shoulder to keep her attention, and looked at Andrews. “It wasn’t magic that told the goblin where we were yesterday. It wasn’t magic that told the goblin where Carl would be last night.” He scratched through his hair, then slapped it impatiently back into place. “Somebody knows us. Somebody who knows where we are most, if not all, of the time.”

“Damn,” Hank said. “Somebody who even knows what the hell we had for breakfast!”

It was all Mulder could do to keep the young man from jumping out of his seat.

“Right,” Scully said, her eyes slowly widening. “And she was supposed to have a date with him last night. It was in his notes.” She slipped out of the booth and grabbed her shoulder bag. “We talk to her now. Before—”

“Absolutely,” Mulder agreed. “But not for the reason you think.”

“But it has to be,” Andrews protested. “God, it all fits. She’s alone, so she comes and goes whenever she wants and nobody to question her, she has that equipment to keep in shape—” She grabbed Webber’s arm, to pull him from the booth. Her voice began to rise. “She—”

Scully silenced her with a harsh wave and stared at Mulder. “Well?”

He moved more slowly, wincing when his side stabbed him again, dragging his coat along behind him. “She’s not going anywhere, Scully.” He tilted his head toward the window. “It’s still too light.”

He urged the others ahead with a nod, then tugged on Scully’s coat to keep her back.

“It’s not her,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“How can you know that?”

He shook his head — tell you later — and gestured to Webber to cover the back, Andrews to stay outside.

“I don’t know,” Scully said, following him into the office.

“Three against one?” He banged the counter bell. “Come on, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“She’s psychotic,” she reminded him when he hit the bell again. “And she’s strong, Mulder.” Her hand slipped into her purse, and didn’t come out.

Mulder struck the bell once more, then rounded the counter and pushed through the beaded curtain. “Mrs. Radnor?” A staircase immediately to his left was dark. From the room at the back he heard muffled music, and hurried down the short hall.

“Mrs. Radnor!”

He stepped into the room, where the motel owner pumped furiously on a stationary bike, headphones on, listening to music from a cassette player lashed to the handlebars. She started when she saw him, her eyes wide and mouth open when she saw Scully, and the drawn gun.

“What the hell?” She held up one hand while the other very slowly pulled the headphones off and switched off the player. “Mr. Mulder, what’s going on?”

“You don’t seem terribly broken up about Carl Barelli,” Scully said, keeping the gun at her side.

Mrs. Radnor tried to speak and couldn’t; she could only look at Mulder for help, and an explanation.

He grabbed the handlebars and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Radnor, I haven’t got time to explain, but I need to know something.”

“Hey, I run a clean place here,” she said. “You can’t—”

“Frankie Ulman.”

“I — what about him?”

“You told Agent Andrews you saw the corporal bring a date here every so often.”

The woman nodded, her hands shifting to grip the towel draped around her neck.

“You told her you didn’t know who the woman was.”

“Well… yes.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t have time, for one thing.” She forced a laugh. “She was in such a hurry, I don’t think we talked more than five or ten minutes.”

Mulder frowned, but shook it off. “You lied, Mrs. Radnor,” he said carefully, and shook the bike slightly when she started to protest. “You knew who it was. You know just about everyone around here, and you knew who it was.”

She mopped her face, a stalling tactic, until Scully cleared her throat and made sure she remembered the gun. “I don’t want to get people in trouble, you know? It’s bad for business. Word gets around and—”

“Mrs. Radnor,” he snapped, “we don’t have time for this, okay? I’m only going to ask you once: Who was that woman?”

When she told him, he whirled. “Scully, get the car and Webber.” He turned back as Scully charged from the room. “Mrs. Radnor, I have a favor to ask.”

“What?” She couldn’t believe it.

He smiled, and she softened almost immediately. “I need to borrow your car.”

“What?” This time she almost yelled.

Jesus, woman, he thought, would you please stop—

“Commandeer,” he said quickly. “I must commandeer your car.”

Her face brightened. “Wow. You mean, like in the movies.”

“Exactly.” He took her arm and pulled her gently from the bike. “Just like the movies.”

“But you had two—”

“The other one was shot up. But you know that already, right?”

Excited, flustered, she fumbled in her purse, held out the keys, and snapped them back. “Is this one going to get shot up?”

“I sincerely hope not,” he said truthfully, took the keys from her hand before she could change her mind, and ran.

“But what if it is?” she yelled after him.

“The President will buy you a new one!” he yelled back, slammed through the front door, and grabbed the edge to swing him back inside.

“Pink,” Mrs. Radnor called. “It’s the pink Caddy in back.”

Pink, he thought as he ran out again; terrific.

And thought terrific again when the storm finally broke, and broke hard.