Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

“Is there something… is there something wrong with Mulder I should know about?”

The voice out of the dark was naturally husky, almost masculine; she had already seen its effect on Webber and Mulder, and wondered how well Licia knew how to use it. It could be a devastating weapon, no question about it. She smiled at the ceiling— when used for Good, not Evil.

“Dana?”

She sighed loudly and rolled onto her side. “No. He’s fine.”

“He sure seemed out of it.”

“It’s the beginning.”

“The what?”

Scully wasn’t sure how to explain; after all this time, she barely understood it herself.

“At the start of every case that really catches his attention, he gets… hyper. Charged up.” To say the least, she added silently. “Then, unfortunately, he has to get where the case is. He doesn’t like that, the traveling. In fact, he hates it. It’s valuable time wasted when he… we could be doing our job. So whenever he gets there, all that- initial energy has been expended on the trip. So he crashes.”

Silence for a moment before: “Will he be all right in the morning?”

She frowned her puzzlement. Concern was understandable for someone who hadn’t worked with Mulder before, but she thought she detected something more in the woman’s voice. Her eyes closed, half in a prayer that Andrews wasn’t going to screw things up by developing a crush.

“He’ll be fine,” she answered at last.

“Good.”

She said nothing.

The woman’s voice faded as she rolled over. “I’d hate to have my first real case screwed all to hell.”

Scully almost sat up to demand an explanation and, in the process, an apology. It was natural for someone like Andrews to want to shine first time out. God knows, she had prayed for it herself a hundred times before that first one. In fact, it had made her a nervous wreck. But not only didn’t Andrews seem nervous, she seemed almost too calm, too ready. And that could be just as bad.

Or, she thought, I could be overreacting because I’m so damn tired.

A truck growled by.

She yawned, and tucked the covers up under her chin.

“Dana?”

This time Licia’s voice sounded very small, very young.

“I’m listening.”

“Do you think I’ll have to use my gun?”

The corner of her mouth pulled back. “Hardly ever, Licia, believe me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She paused. “The government’s too cheap to buy us all that ammunition.”

Silence again, while she thought, dear Lord, I’m starting to sound like Mulder.

Then Andrews giggled, laughed, and said, “I guess I’ve been watching too many movies.” The rustle of sheets was followed by, “Good night. And thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and good night.”

Another truck drove by, this one in the opposite direction. Scully listened to the engine until she couldn’t hear it anymore, using the fading grumble to pull her into sleep.

Her last thought was of Mulder.

She hoped he wasn’t dreaming.

The blue of the previous day turned to thickening overcast shortly after Friday’s dawn. By the time Mulder and his team were on the road, Webber driving, a chill easterly wind had begun to coast down the road, sweeping leaves and brown pine needles in front of the car.

Mulder didn’t like it; it looked too much like late autumn.

Marville itself began a quarter of a mile from the motel, with a handful of houses squatting in clearings hacked out of the Barrens on either side of the road. Sandy, pebbled soil served as shoulders, and showed as bare spots on lawns looking as tired as the houses themselves.

He sensed right away the little town was dying.

The commercial district was five short blocks long, some of the businesses spilling around the corners. None of the buildings were more than three stories tall, mostly wood, a few with weather-stained stone or brick facades. He counted six that were for rent, and far too many whose display windows had been boarded up with plywood or painted a dead white. A narrow banner sagged over Main Street, announcing the community’s 150th anniversary, which made him wonder, as he often did, what had caused this place to attract settlers in the beginning. There was no river, the trees weren’t lumber quality, and Fort Dix hadn’t been established until 1917, neighboring McGuire Air Force Base some time later.

Webber snapped his fingers, and jerked a thumb to his left. “Barney’s Tavern.”

Mulder spotted the corner bar, one of several still operating on the street, and supposed that, whatever the reason for Marville’s founding, its eventual life support must have been traffic from the post and Air Force base. And solid support as well, from the looks of things. He could see, behind the faded paint and needed repairs, a town that had done quite well for the time that it had had, especially considering what must have been the fierce competition from other towns around it.

A stolid granite bank anchored the next corner, on the left. The shops here were still very much in business, or as much as they were going to get with the economy the way it was, and the Army post drastically cut back over the past several years.

“This is depressing,” Andrews said from the back seat. “How could anyone live here?”

“Cheap housing, for one thing,” Webber supposed, slowing to allow a trio of old women to make their way across the street. “It’s not near very much. I remember the map, but I don’t think you can commute all the way to Philadelphia from here easily. Not and make any money.”

Inertia, Mulder suspected, was the rest of the answer. No place to go when you can barely afford to live here. Anyone asked would probably give a different answer, but it no doubt boiled down to, “Why bother?”

“There,” Scully said, the first time she’d spoken since breakfast.

A single-story, long white clapboard building took a third of the block on the right. A new, gold-lettered sign in front marked it as the police station; an American flag drooped from a flagpole next to the double-door entrance.

Webber pulled into a space in front, rubbed his hands eagerly, and fairly leapt from the car, hustling around to open the rear door for Andrews.

Mulder moved more deliberately, waiting until Scully joined him. They didn’t speak, just exchanged quick are you ready glances and started up the concrete walk. Andrews wanted to know why they had to start here since the senator’s connections were with Fort Dix and the Air Force.

Scully averted her face from a mild gust. “Let’s just say it’s usually a little easier dealing with civilians.”

“Their loss,” said Webber brightly.

Mulder looked at him, looked at Scully, and pulled open the door, allowing the others to precede him into an open room that took up the entire front third of the building. A waist-high wood rail stretched from wall to wall, and just left of its center gate a uniformed dispatcher sat at her radio, scribbling in a logbook; behind her were three metal desks, none of which were occupied.

To the gate’s right a fourth, much larger desk faced the entrance. Behind it was a policeman whose uniform, Mulder reckoned, had been tailored for him ten years and twenty pounds ago. His face belonged to a man who spent most of his time outdoors, and a lot of that time drinking. His hair was brush-cut, and at one time had been red.

Mulder took out his wallet and held up his ID. “FBI, Sergeant, good morning.” He spoke politely, with well-practiced due deference. He introduced the others quickly. “We’re here to see Chief Hawks.”

Sergeant Nilssen wasn’t visibly impressed. He said nothing, just pushed away from his work and took his time walking to an unmarked door in the rear wall. Mulder saw the puzzlement in Webber’s expression, the outrage in Andrews’. “It’s their turf,” he reminded them quietly. “They didn’t ask for us, remember?”