Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

“Look,” he finally told them, “we have to work with these people, you understand? We need them on our side so we can do our job and get back to Washington as quickly as we can. I don’t care what you think of them personally,” he said to Licia, “but you keep your comments to yourself from now on, understood?”

She hesitated before nodding, and he made a note to have Scully Dutch uncle her later.

Webber, chastened even though he hadn’t been the one scolded, cleared his throat. “Uh, Mulder? Who’s Babs?”

Mulder nodded toward the far end of town. “Babs Radnor. She’s the owner of the motel.”

Webber frowned. “How did you know that?”

Without looking at Scully, he said, “Spooky, Hank. I’m just damn spooky,” turned and pointed to a brick-faced diner across the street. “We’ll meet there about one for lunch, okay?” He told Hank and Andrews to canvass the area around Barney’s, talk to everyone they could find about the dead men, the bar’s reputation, the night of the murder, anything at all that might yield them information the reports hadn’t told them.

Webber almost saluted as he led his partner off, leaning close, whispering urgently.

“Hello,” Mulder said quietly as Scully came up beside him. “My name is Agent Webber, FBI. Tell me all you know or I’ll smile you to death.”

She slapped his arm lightly. “Give him a break, Mulder, okay? He’s not all that bad.”

He agreed. “But it’s not him I’m worried about.”

He looked at the sky, at the lowering clouds, and smelled the first hint of rain as the wind strengthened, snapping the tired banner, scattering debris in the gutters. At that moment, nothing moved on the street.

No pedestrians, no cars, not even a stray dog or cat.

“Ghost town,” Scully said.

“Graveyard,” he answered.

They walked east along Main Street, Mulder on the outside. The deserted moment had passed, and shoppers, not many, drifted in and out of stores, while automobiles and pickups made their way between the traffic lights. Few bothered to look at him and Scully, and those who did smiled faintly and moved on.

A breeze drifted down the sidewalk, picking up strength, flapping his open topcoat against his legs, slipping an unpleasant chill inside his suit. Scully followed the meandering progress of a mongrel along the curb. “Did you notice how he changed? Hawks, I mean?”

He nodded. “Cop for us, hick for Licia. The man’s no dope. I’m actually a little surprised he didn’t ask for help right away. As far as I can tell, when they need a detective, he’s it. And what’s with Andrews, anyway?”

She shrugged. “First case jitters?”

He supposed it could be, but he didn’t like it. Like the assignment of this case, it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t doubt she was competent; she wouldn’t have gotten this far otherwise. Something, however, would have to be done about that superior attitude she had taken in the station. Behavior like that would shut Hawks up faster than a judge’s order.

As Barney’s slipped by them on the far side, he glanced over and saw, as before, nothing special. A tired bar in a tired town. Pick it up and put it down in Michigan or Oregon, it wouldn’t change. And immediately he thought it, he realized he had probably made a big mistake, letting her go with Webber. The man had a knack for getting people to talk to him. That face, that grin, that shock of red hair was disarming. He hoped it would be enough to offset Licia Andrews.

The morning light dimmed.

The scent of rain grew stronger.

From the corner of his vision he watched Scully tracing the probable path Grady Pierce had taken, leaving the bar, making his way at some point across the street, maybe weaving, maybe not. An empty street. Light rain.

“He didn’t see anybody,” he said as they approached the alley. It was set between a pair of three-story brick buildings, clothing stores on the ground floor in both, what looked to be apartments above.

Scully didn’t question him. “Or he didn’t notice.”

“That late, in this town? On a Saturday night? It may not be very healthy, but it isn’t dead yet. He would have noticed. Especially if it was raining.”

Again Scully didn’t argue. She only said, “Unless he knew him.”

A sideways glance: “Sexist comment, Scully. I am offended.”

“Impersonal pronoun, Mulder. I am unbiased. So far.”

Just as they reached their destination, a gleaming white patrol car pulled in at the curb, facing in the wrong direction. Chief Hawks slid out, jacket and tie in place, hair barely touched by the breeze now a wind. As he came around the trunk, he was greeted by several pedestrians, and he responded in kind, calling each by name. He slipped a hand into a pocket as he joined them, pushing the suit jacket behind his arm.

Mulder saw the shoulder holster.

The chief shivered, rolling his shoulders against the damp. “Are you sure about this?”

“I know it’s old,” Mulder answered, “but it’s always better than reading about it in a report.”

“Visualization,” Scully added.

Hawks nodded understanding. “So…?”

The alley was a few inches wider than six feet, extending another twenty yards to a twelve-foot-high, weather-stained stockade fence. Although there were no garbage cans or a Dumpster, there were small fluttering islands of wind-deposited trash against the base of the walls. There were no windows. There were no fire escapes. The yellow crime scene ribbon had long since been taken down.

They stood on the sidewalk, forcing what foot traffic there was to walk behind them.

The stores on either side had sale signs in their windows, but the one on the right was dark, nothing on display. Above, the windows were all curtained or blind with shades.

Somebody died here, Mulder thought; some poor guy bled to death here.

It was time to walk the crooked path.

Hawks pointed: “Grady was found there, a couple of feet in, sitting against the wall. Even with the rain, it looked like he took a shower in his own blood.”

Mulder took a single step in and hunkered down, looking at the spot, looking over and up at the wall. He saw no evidence of the dying, but he could sense it here just the same.

Scully stood behind him. “He was killed where?”

Hawks walked around them and stood about a yard from Mulder. “The way the blood trail was — and again, remember it was raining — it looked like he was cut here, took a step or two, maybe trying to get to the street, and ended up there, where Agent Mulder is.” He moved aside when Scully took his place. “The thing is, those streetlights don’t reach in very far. A couple of feet at most, and I’ll bet he wasn’t seeing all that clearly.”

“Mulder?”

He rose slowly, watching her turn until her back was against the right-hand wall.

“The killer was standing about here.”

Hawks frowned. “How do you know that?”

“The autopsy report,” she said, gaze constantly shifting, examining the ground, the opposite wall, the ground again. “If your Doc Junis is right, he’d have to be. Can I borrow your pen?”

The chief, looking for and not getting a reaction from Mulder, handed her a ballpoint, which she held in her right hand as if it were a knife, not for stabbing but for cutting.

“The photographs weren’t all that clear,” she continued, almost as though she were talking to herself. “But look…” She gestured until Hawks stood with his back to the street, then stood in front of him and, before he could move, whipped the pen through the air at his throat.

He jumped.

Her apology was a sardonic smile. “No blood on the walls. It was a single slash, very strong, cutting jugular and carotid. There wouldn’t have been a gusher, so to speak, but some significant blood would have hit the walls if he’d been facing in or out.” She handed the pen back. “There was none.” She pointed in. “And there wasn’t any back there, either.”