Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

Mulder shook his head. “Sorry, Hank, no.”

“Oh, man,” Webber said, almost in a moan. “Wait ’til Licia hears this one.”

Carl Barelli was furious as he sped back through the woods toward Marville.

First, that sanctimonious toad, Tonero, tried to pass off the glop in the Officer’s Mess as some kind of fancy food, instead of taking him to a decent restaurant; then tried to hand out some pious bullshit about family unity and Angie’s peace of mind being more important than interfering with official investigations; and then he had the nerve to march Carl out to his car and tell him, with a smile, to go on back home and write about baseball or something.

He had fumed behind the wheel, debating the chances of his landing in jail if he went back inside and popped the toad one on the point of his spongy jaw.

Then an MP ran up, intercepted Tonero, and the two were hustled into a car. The next thing Carl knew there were sirens and men with rifles boiling out of the Provost Marshal’s office, and, after a suitable interval, he followed them.

To the goddamn woods.

Where another goddamn MP suggested with drawn.45 that the reporter find something else to report on, this area was sealed off to civilians.

“Bastards,” he muttered, and muttered it often until suddenly he grinned.

He had seen a town cruiser at the scene, which meant the locals were involved, which meant…

He laughed aloud, and by the time he pulled up in front of the police station, his mood had lightened considerably. A quick check of his hair in the rearview mirror, an adjustment of his tie and jacket, and he was inside, smiling at the two men at desks near the back of the room, and the front desk sergeant, who couldn’t have looked more bored if he were dead.

“I’d like to see the chief,” Carl said, as politely as his excitement would allow.

Sergeant Nilssen told him gruffly the chief was out, and there was no sense hanging around. He had work to do, half his people had some kind of lousy flu, and those who were around had police business to attend to.

A dispatch radio muttered static to itself while a gawky young officer flipped through a logbook.

Carl’s smile didn’t waver. “Then perhaps you can help me, Sergeant. I work for the Jersey Chronicle. My name is Carl Barelli, and I’m—”

Nilssen’s boredom vanished. “Barelli? The sports guy in the paper?”

Amazing, Carl thought smugly; absolutely amazing.

“That’s right, Sergeant. But today I’m looking into the death of a friend of mine. Corporal Frank Ulman.”

“Man, yeah,” the sergeant said, grinning. “So you want to hear about the goblins, right?”

� The smile still didn’t waver. “That’s right. Can you help me?”

The policeman leaned back in his chair, hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Anything you want to know, Mr. Barelli. All you have to do is ask.”

Tonero remained in the back seat of his staff car, watching as the MPs began to make their way slowly and methodically back toward the road. His driver was gone, ordered to sniff around to see what unofficial word he could pick up. It was better than talking to the captain in charge. Tonero knew the man well, and knew that the MP wouldn’t give away a thing.

The car rocked a little when the wind slapped it.

He glanced warily out at what sky he could see, hoping he’d be able to get out of here before the storm broke.

This was not turning out to be one of his best days. Tymons was jumpy and Rosemary was getting pushy; and he knew without doubt that Barelli wasn’t going to leave until he had gotten some kind of crumb to fill his meager reporter’s plate.

He sighed for all the injustices dropped on him since waking, and sighed again when the front passenger door opened and Tymons slipped in at the same time that Rosemary slipped into the back, beside him.

“We heard,” Tymons said, agitation making his voice too high.

“What’s going on?” Rosemary asked more calmly.

“I’m not sure. Someone tried to take care of the FBI, as near as I could tell.”

Tymons groaned.

“It wasn’t us,” Rosemary snapped at him. “Jesus, Leonard, use your head.”

“We should abort,” was the answer. “We don’t have any more control. We have no choice, we have to abort.” He twisted around to look at the major. “Joseph, the FBI isn’t going away now, you know that. No more just having a look around and running back to D.C. They’re going to dig. And they’re going to find something.”

Tonero gripped Rosemary’s leg briefly to keep her silent. “Leonard, I want you to pay attention.”

“Joseph, we—”

“These people,” and he indicated the MPs, “are looking for a shooter, okay? Not us and ours. There is no connection, and no connections can be made. Use your head, Doctor, use your head.”

Tymons jumped as if slapped. “I don’t know. They’re going to ask questions.”

“Well, that’s no problem,” Rosemary answered. “We’ll just make sure there isn’t anyone around to answer.”

Tonero looked at her in astonishment.

She shrugged. “We may not have complete control, but we still have some.” Her smile was cold. “Simple suggestions ought to do it.”

“Jesus!” Tymons shoved his door open. “You’re crazy, Rosemary. And as Project Director, I forbid it.” He slammed the door and stalked away.

Tonero didn’t look, didn’t care where he was going. What he cared about was this new woman beside him. Something had changed since a few hours ago. Something drastic. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he liked it.

“You better leave,” he said quietly.

“And the problem?”

He gave her his best smile. “In for a penny, Rosie. In for a penny.” He patted her knee. “Use your best judgment. Just be sure, all right? Whatever you do, just be sure.” Then he grunted and took her arm to stop her. Ahead, he saw a man and woman helping a second, somewhat disheveled man out of the woods. Shit, he thought.

“Rosie, I think you’d better stick around a minute.”

“You are not dead, Mulder,” Scully complained. “Don’t lean so hard.”

She couldn’t help a smile, though, at his melodramatic sigh. He might be different, but he was still a man, not above playing sick and injured to the hilt.

Someone called to them, and they stopped on the road.

“Well,” Mulder whispered. “Well, well.”

A man in uniform fairly marched toward them, and, when he was close enough, quietly demanded a report on Mulder’s condition. When Scully balked, he ducked his head in apology. “Sorry. Major Joseph Tonero, Agent Scully. Air Force Special Projects.” His smile turned to Mulder. “This incident happened on my watch, so to speak, and I apologize for being slow getting here. A late lunch with an old friend. But I don’t have to tell you how concerned I am. Is everyone all right?” Before she could answer, he rubbed his hands together. “Good, good. I’d hate to think what would happen if we lost an FBI.”

His smile was intended to be warm, but Scully didn’t buy it. The man was less a career soldier than a politician, she decided as she briefed him; his medical knowledge doesn’t go much farther than using a bandage.

As soon as she was finished, two others came up behind him — a tall, balding civilian, and too nervous for her peace of mind, and a striking, hard-edged blonde whose bearing was military, but she too was civilian. Neither spoke much save for a perfunctory mumbling of sympathies.

The major introduced them as part of his team, offering their services should the need arise. Scully assured him matters were well in hand, but thanked the officer for his concern.

“As a matter of fact,” she added, “we were going to see you this afternoon, when we were done.”