The X-Files: Goblins

TWENTY-THREE

He knew he must have looked like a fool, racing headlong through the rain, one hand held loosely over his head in feeble protection against the hail that, so far, was no larger than a pea. That didn’t stop it from stinging, however, and stinging badly.

He bolted across the street, veering sharply when a minivan nearly clipped him on his blind side. He skidded, fell into a parked car, and used it to propel him onto the sidewalk again. The hail stopped. The rain didn’t.

He didn’t want to, but he had to slow up — his side had begun to pull, and he couldn’t help thinking that something had torn in there.

Hang on, Elly, he thought; hang on.

At the next intersection, he paused under a tree, half bent over, hands hard on his hips, and took precious seconds to get his bearings, and his breath back. Another block west, he thought, swallowed hard, and tried to run, snarling when he couldn’t do much better than a fast trot.

A winter-raised section of concrete made him swerve onto a lawn, where he slid on the wet grass and went down on his hands and knees. It felt good, not moving, and it took him a moment to get back on his feet.

He had no choice but to run now, forcing the pain in his side to another place, one that didn’t bother him, one he knew would exact a great price when he couldn’t concentrate any longer.

The wind pushed a curtain of water into his eyes. He slapped it away angrily without missing a step as he charged off the curb and across the tarmac to the other side. He figured Scully, with her luck, would beat him there anyway, but at least now he was moving, doing something instead of cursing traffic and feeling helpless.

Reaching the next corner seemed to take hours, and when he stopped, he almost panicked.

This wasn’t right; he was on the wrong street.

Strings of mist like ghosts moved slowly through the rain; a storm drain overflowed, creating a shallow pond across the intersection.

This wasn’t right, and he didn’t know which way to go.

Then he saw the park across the way and up the block, the benches and ball field obscured by the rain. His lips parted — it wasn’t quite a grin — and he moved on, his face turned toward the houses he passed to keep his vision clear.

The police car was gone.

The lamp was out in Elly’s window.

He slowed as he approached the front walk, slipping his left hand into his pocket to wrap around his gun. Front or back? Wait for Scully, or do the stupid thing and go in on his own?

He had no realistic alternative.

He reached the front walk just as a horn honked several times in quick succession. Turning as he ran, he saw Scully bump the pink Cadillac up over the curb and practically throw herself into the street.

Sometimes you just live right, he thought, and waved her around to the back, ran up the steps and stopped with his hand on the knob.

The wind shrieked overhead.

Something rattled down a drainpipe.

He fought his lungs into calming, then stepped into the foyer. Slowly now, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give Scully enough time, he sidled to the door and put an ear to the damp wood.

Nothing; the storm made it impossible to hear a thing.

He tried the knob, and closed his eyes briefly when it turned, mouthed a damn, and turned it, using his shoulder to push the door inward.

The living room was dark, and empty, grey light from the bay window the only illumination. Rain shadows rippled across the furniture and carpet. An ivory-topped cane lay on the floor in front of the couch.

He could see no light in the kitchen, or in the bedroom at the front room’s far side.

He chose the kitchen first.

Keeping as close to the wall as he could, he moved down the short hall. As far as he could see, no one sat at the little table, and he could see no welcome, telltale shadow in the back door window.

Water slipped from his hair and down his spine.

A shudder briefly hunched his shoulders.

Closer, gun aimed toward the ceiling, and he braced himself, counted to three, and stepped quickly into the kitchen, sweeping the barrel ahead of him.

No one was there.

He eased back toward the living room, heard a scraping, and spun around as Scully came through the back door, a sharp shake of her head letting him know there was no one outside, and no sign of Elly.

Or the goblin.

No words, then. Hand signals told her they must be in the bedroom. She nodded, once, and he took the hall again, shoulders brushing along the wallpaper.

Listening, and hearing only the wind, only the rain.

When he sensed Scully directly behind him, he stepped in and crossed the floor in four long strides. The bedroom door was open, but it was too dark for him to see much more than the shadowed outline of a brass headboard.

Time, he thought; no time.

Scully positioned herself opposite him at the door, and at her nod, they went in, he high, she low.

“Damn.” He kicked at the bed.

The room was empty.

They were too late; Elly Lang was gone.

Rosemary adjusted the bag’s strap over her shoulder, smoothed the lapels of her coat, and shook her head.

“You’re an idiot, Joseph,” she said, opened the door, and left.

“Maybe she’s hiding,” Scully said.

Mulder doubted it, but together they took less than five minutes looking into every place large enough to hold a woman Elly’s size, not at all surprised when all they found was dust and cans of orange spray paint.

He stood in the middle of the living room, absently tapping the gun against his leg.

“Think,” he told himself. “Think!” When Scully rejoined him, he shook his head. “She either left on her own, or she’s been taken. And I don’t think she—”

The front door slammed open, and they instantly dropped into defensive crouches, their guns aimed and ready to fire.

“Hey, no!” Webber cried, throwing up his hands. “Jeez, guys, it’s me!”

“Hank,” Mulder said, ready to strangle him. He straightened stiffly and lowered his weapon. “You are an idiot. Don’t you know better than that?”

Webber tried to point in several directions at once. “I’m sorry. I saw the car, and the outside door was open, and I thought…” He paled. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” Without looking at either of them, he dropped into the chair and leaned over, hands dangling between his legs. “I could have been killed, you know that? I’m so stupid, I could have been killed.”

Scully offered him no sympathy. She stood in front of him, and poked his foot with her shoe. “Where’s Andrews?”

“What?” He looked up, confused. “What are you talking about? She was right—”

“Here,” Andrews said, standing in the doorway. Her gun was out, and it was aimed at Mulder’s head. “Right here.”

“How much do you charge to go to the airport?” Rosemary asked the cabbie.

“Which one?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Lady, are you kidding? In this weather?”

“Whatever it is,” she said, holding up her pursue, “I’ll double it. For the trip over. And for your trip back.”

He shook his head doubtfully. “Lady, I don’t know. They’re saying there’s flash floods—”

She took out her gun. “You either make money, or you die.” She smiled. “Your choice.”

Andrews shifted to her right so she could still keep Mulder in her sights while keeping the wall at her right shoulder.

He held his empty hands wide at his sides. “You’re not doing an awful lot of thinking.”

She shrugged. She didn’t much care. “Do I have to?” She shrugged again. “You’re going to die, what’s there to think about?”

“One against three is pretty awful odds,” Scully said.

“Oh, God,” Webber moaned. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oh, shut up,” Andrews snapped. “Christ, how the hell did you ever get in the Bureau?”

Mulder’s gun was on the coffee table with Scully’s, and all a leap for it would get him would be a bullet in the side, or in the head. Scully, who had been ordered to sit on the couch, was in no better position.

“Look,” he said, “Elly is out there somewhere, with the goblin.”

Webber sagged forward, one arm across his stomach. He sounded terrified. “Oh Christ.” He retched dryly.

“What do I care about an old lady?” Andrews said. “And if you think you’re going to stall me long enough for the cavalry to come, forget it. I watch movies, too, Mulder. I’m not as stupid as you think.”

He denied any such idea with a shake of his head, and wished Webber would stop that infernal groaning. He couldn’t hear himself think, and it was only making Andrews angrier than she already was. Then he snapped his fingers, making Scully jump and Andrews steady her gun hand. “Douglas.” He frowned. “You work for Douglas?” His expression hardened. “Of course you do. Because you’re not Bureau at all. Which makes me wonder who the mighty Douglas really works for?”

“Time’s up,” she said blandly.

“Oh, God,” Webber gasped and slipped off the chair and onto one knee. “Oh, God, I’m gonna die.”

With a look, Andrews dared Scully to make a move, then swung the gun back to Mulder, and smiled him a farewell.

He threw himself backward just before he heard the shot, bracing himself for the impact, landing on his back and rolling to his left when he didn’t feel a thing.

He heard Andrews cry out, though, and heard her fall, her gun clattering across the hall floor.

“Nice dive,” Scully told him. She was on the floor by the table, her hand around her gun.

Webber pushed himself back into the chair and closed his eyes, his gun hand dangling over the armrest. “I almost missed her,” he said to the ceiling. “Christ, can you believe it? I almost missed her.”

Mulder jumped to his feet, angry and relieved at the same time. But he said nothing. He picked up his weapon, tucked it into his pocket, and stood over the fallen Andrews. Webber hadn’t missed; the entry wound was through her right eye.

He pointed. “You will answer questions later, Hank. Right now, you stay with her. And I mean stay with her.”

He didn’t argue. His face was pale, his lips trembling; the only sign that he heard was a weak flutter of his hand.

Then Scully looked out the window and said, “Mulder, the park,” and he was out the door at a run, taking the three steps at a leap.

She was there, on her bench, huddled beneath her umbrella, and probably had been there the whole time. He had been so intent on getting into the apartment, he hadn’t bothered with a single glance across the street once he reached the building.

“Elly, are you all right?”

He slowed when he reached the sidewalk, walked when he started across the grass.

The woman nodded, but the umbrella was loose in her grip, and it nearly fell.

“It’s okay, Elly,” he said when he reached the bench. He leaned down and brushed a hand over her knee, then held up a hand to shade his eyes from the rain while he looked over the muddy field to the trees on the other side.

She could be there, he thought; damn, she could be anywhere.

“Mulder,” the goblin said. “I thought I told you to watch your back.”