Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

He tried to stand, grimaced, and sagged back. “My jacket.”

It had been tossed on the dresser. She fetched it and looked it over.

“I hit it twice, once pretty hard.” He leaned forward under the light. “There’s nothing there, Scully. No paint, no oil, no nothing.”

She dropped the jacket onto the bed. “A suit, that’s all. Skin-tight, latex, who knows? No goblins, Mulder. Just people in disguise.” She pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”

She knew he still wasn’t feeling well when he made no cracks, just nodded wearily and shifted stiffly to the mattress. As he settled down, she brought him a glass of water and aspirin and watched him drink.

“What about the major and his people?” he asked. His eyelids fluttered. “Hank’s right, that’s kind of fishy.”

“Later,” she ordered. “You’re not doing anybody any good, least of all yourself, when you can’t think straight.” Her frown deepened. “Get some rest. I’m not kidding. I’ll drop by later to see how you’re doing.”

“What about the others?”

She smiled prettily and headed for the door. “Oh, I think we’ll manage. We’ll muddle through somehow.”

She opened the door and looked over her shoulder. He hadn’t closed his eyes; he was staring at the ceiling.

Then his gaze shifted. “Scully, what if I’m right?”

“Rest.”

“What if I’m right? What if they’re out there?”

She stepped out, the door closing behind her. “They’re not, Mulder. For God’s sake, rest, before I—”

“How do you know they’re not? You can’t see them, Scully. They’re out there, somewhere, and you can’t see them.”

The room was empty.

Rosemary didn’t really expect to find anyone there; it was too soon after the woodland incident, and it also wasn’t easy for it to get away without being noticed.

What she hadn’t expected, however, and what frightened her, was the destruction.

She stood on the threshold, one hand absently rubbing her arm, a faint chill slipping across the back of her back. Although she couldn’t hear it, she swore she could feel the wind pummeling the hospital, could feel the building’s weight settling on her shoulders.

The notion made her angry, but she couldn’t shake it off.

Damn, she thought, and passed a weary hand over her eyes.

The mattress had been sliced open in a score of places, the stuffing strewn across the floor; the desk was overturned, one leg snapped off; the chair was little more than splinters.

The Blue Boy had been yanked off the wall and shredded.

In its place, scrawled in black letters:

I’m looking for you.

Major Tonero sat at his desk, hands folded on the blotter, staring at the telephone.

He was neither panicked nor overconfident, but since leaving the site of the shooting, he had begun to review his options. By the time he had stopped pacing the office, he knew what had to be done. And it galled him. Not that he considered the Project a failure; too much had been learned from it, too much progress gained. No, what galled him was—

The telephone rang.

He listened to it without moving.

At the seventh ring he cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.

“Good afternoon, sir,” was followed without prompting by a detailed summary of what had happened that afternoon, and what connection he suspected it had with the two incidents he had previously reported to those in charge. He spoke crisply and flatly, no emotion at all. When he finished, he listened.

He did not interrupt, speaking only when asked a question, his spine rigid, his free hand still flat on the blotter.

The voice at the other end was calm, a good sign, but he did not, could not, put himself at ease.

When the conversation arrived at the crux, thirty minutes had passed.

The last question was asked.

Tonero nodded. “Yes, sir, I do, with your permission.” He inhaled slowly. “I believe it’s time to explore other venues; there are several mentioned in my December report. This one, through no fault of ours, has been contaminated. I also believe the additional personnel now on site will not be put off, most especially after this afternoon’s incident. That they are from the Bureau means we can neither control nor contain them with any true degree of effectiveness or guarantee of success. However, I have no doubt we can make the transfer without discovery, and then the Bureau people can investigate all they want. They won’t find a thing.”

He listened again, and for the first time, he smiled.

“Yes, sir, I do believe you’re right — sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But we are still light years ahead of where we were the last time. This, I think, argues well for our eventual success.”

His smile broadened.

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that.”

The smile vanished.

“Indispensable? No, sir, to be honest, he is not. His objectivity and full commitment have been lost, I believe, and, frankly, his nerves are shot. I do not believe another relocation would be in the Project’s best interest. Dr. Elkhart, however, has been most helpful. It would be a severe loss if she were not to remain.”

He waited.

He listened.

“Forty-eight hours, sir.”

He nodded.

He replaced the receiver and for several long seconds sat without moving.

Then, as if he’d been struck across the shoulders, he sagged, and whispered, “Jesus!”

His hands began to tremble, and there was sweat on his brow.

Barelli sat at a window table in the diner, beginning to wonder if he had, in fact, wasted his time. Not that he didn’t doubt his reporter’s skills; that he was good was a given. But after nearly an hour with that police sergeant, with some comments from the others as they drifted in and out of the station, he had learned practically nothing he hadn’t known before — Frankie was dead, the killer was still out there, and nobody had a clue what the hell was going on.

And that goblin shit — Jesus Christ, what the hell did they think he was?

A round-faced wall clock over the register ticked closer to six as he sipped at cold coffee and stared at the traffic. The weather hadn’t discouraged anyone, it seemed. Men in uniform, soldiers in civilian clothes trying not to look like soldiers, strolled or drove past, filling the diner, moving into the bars that served food, lingering in front of the movie theater a block west of the police station.

Friday night in the middle of nowhere.

His stomach complained of all the caffeine he had drunk, and he popped an antacid tablet into his mouth, chewed it absently, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Of course, there was still that “date” with Babs Radnor to keep. If he wanted to. And right about now, it looked as if it was the only game in town.

Another antacid, another scan of the street, and he dropped a few bills onto the table and went outside.

He scowled at the overcast. He hated this kind of day. If it was going to rain, he wished it would do it and be done with it; otherwise, why the hell didn’t those clouds just blow away?

He headed for the corner; his car was still parked in front of the police station.

Along the way he passed an old woman dressed in black from a heavy topcoat to a long scarf wrapped around her head. She held a large purse close to her chest, and an idle glance there made him stop and turn slowly.

What he had seen was the orange top of a spray paint can, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who she was.

He hurried after her, came abreast and said, “Miss Lang?”

She stopped and glared up at him. “ Ms. Lang, if you don’t mind. Who are you?”