Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

A trickle of water slipped out of her hair and down her spine.

“All right,” she said aloud, as much for the sound as the comfort. “All right. It’s all right, you’re alone.”

That didn’t stop her from turning on the hanging lamp over the table to help banish the room’s shadows, or from drying off as fast as she could, with the bathroom door wide open. Once that was accomplished, dressing was quick and easy — blouse, skirt, matching wine jacket. By then she was almost calm, and she looked in the dresser mirror as she smoothed the blouse over her chest, deciding that one of these days, Bureau or not, she would get herself a fashion life.

Back into the bathroom, then, to wield a brush through her hair, using her reflection as a sounding board as she practiced telling Mulder what his stupid notions were doing to her. It didn’t help. Her reflection just gave her the same sardonic look he would when he heard. If he heard. By the time she was finished, she had decided this was something her partner did not need to know.

A lopsided smile sent her into the front room, where she started and gasped when she spotted someone pacing her at the corner of her vision.

“Listen carefully,” Rosemary said urgently. She stabbed a thumb at the door. “He’s trying to destroy us. Tymons. He’s afraid, and he’s a coward. He doesn’t care about you, me, or the Project. He wants… he wants us all dead.”

A silence then, and she held her breath, praying.

“He didn’t approve of me from the beginning, you know.” Still hoarse, now with sullen rage. “He thought I was too… emotional.”

Rosemary agreed silently.

A giggle: “He’s really scared of me, you know.”

“Yes. I know.”

The giggling stopped. “What can I do? I’m not stupid, Dr. Elkhart. I know what’ll happen if you stop helping me. What can I do?”

Rosemary tried to think, tried to set the priorities that would keep her intact.

“Do you need him? Dr. Tymons?”

There wasn’t a second’s hesitation: “No. No, we don’t.”

“Others?”

“Three,” she said without having to think. Then concern made her stand when a wrenching cough made her wonder if they could pull it off. “Can you do it, dear? Are you well enough?”

“I can do it. Really. But it’ll take time. A couple of days, maybe. I can’t—”

The coughing increased, grinding into spasms that made Rosemary reach out a hand, grip a shoulder, and squeeze until it was over.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, rubbing now, soothing. “It’s going to be okay.”

And she believed it. It would be all right. Everything would be all right.

Then she spoke the names.

Scully’s right hand was already reaching for the gun on the bed when she realized the movement was only her reflection in the dresser mirror.

Too damn many mirrors around here, she thought sourly, and pointed at it as if to order it to find someone else to scare.

She froze.

Something moved on the wall behind her. A slight movement she would have missed had she simply glanced in that direction.

She watched, waiting, thinking maybe it had only been a shadow cast by a passing car.

It moved again, and she turned and made her way between the beds.

A moth fluttered its wings slowly and began to make its way toward the ceiling.

Fascinated, licking her lips, she climbed onto the bed, balanced herself, and looked away.

Looked back, and it took a full second before she could find it again.

“Well,” she whispered.

A tentative smile came and went.

Then she bounced on the mattress, just high enough to snatch the moth away in a loose fist. Feeling its wings beat against her palm. Whispering to it as she opened the door and flung it away. Standing back, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

She needed another test, and footsteps outside made her think fast.

With the hanging lamp on again, the night-stand lamp off, she sat on the far bed and pushed herself back until she rested against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. She could barely see herself then, but she could see just the same.

A key turned in the lock.

She heard it but didn’t move.

The door opened and Licia stepped in. “Scully?”

Dana opened her mouth, but kept silent.

Andrews headed for the bathroom. “Scully, you in there? Look, are you going to leave me with that boy all night? Damn, you should hear—” She pushed the door open and cut herself off, sighed, turned, and yelped when she noticed Scully sitting on the bed, pointing at her.

“Jesus!” Her hand splayed across her chest. “God Almighty, Scully, I didn’t see you there. Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

Scully smiled. “You didn’t see me.”

Andrews scowled. “Of course not. It was dark. You’re sitting in the dark.”

Scully pushed at the hanging lamp. “Not really. But you see me now, right?”

Andrews didn’t know how to answer, her lips working without a sound. Finally she said, “Well… yes. I guess so.” She laughed at herself. “Of course I do. The light was—”

Scully pushed off the bed, shoved her gun into her purse, and reached for her coat. “Go get Hank,” she said. “Meet me at Mulder’s.”

“Again?”

“Again.” Scully pushed her gently but firmly outside. “God help me, but I have a feeling Mulder is right.”

Andrews gaped. “Goblins? About the goblins?”

“Something like that.” She couldn’t believe she had just said it. “Yes, something like that.”

Wrapped in nothing but a thin stubby towel, Mulder examined his reflection in the steam-shrouded mirror. He looked drawn, and probably a little too pale. But he certainly didn’t look like a man who had almost been killed. Twice in the same afternoon. However a man like that is supposed to look, that is. He rose up on his toes and inhaled sharply when he saw the full extent of the size and shape of the bruise below his ribs. That, he knew, was going to be hell in the morning.

He toweled off slowly so as not to aggravate either the bruise or the hammer and anvil gearing up in his skull. Deliberately slowly, because, as Scully had already sensed, he had begun to feel that electric spark of anticipation, the one that signaled the true beginning of the hunt.

He suspected that right now, Webber was having fits, and Andrews was pacing whether she was standing up or not. It was only natural. A little ordinary poking around had ended up in a deadly firefight, and they probably couldn’t stop the adrenaline from flowing. Action, they no doubt thought, was the key now, not methodical investigation. It didn’t matter that nothing but casings had been found at the site, and nothing at all at the site of his ambush.

Action. Get moving. Keep moving. Sitting down, having coffee, talking things out, was definitely not the way things were supposed to be.

As he dressed, he glanced around the room, not really seeing the furniture or the dingy walls. Hints and whispers had come to him while he’d let the warm water and steam do their work.

Hints and whispers.

Not all of them clear.

Still, the fever dreams he had had — and there was no other way to describe them — refused to let him go. Every throb in his skull, every touch of fire below his ribs, reminded him of what he had seen.

Not what he thought he had seen.

He slipped stiffly into his jacket, stuffed his tie into one pocket, and grabbed his topcoat.

And stopped.

What he should do now was head straight for the Queen’s Inn to meet the others.

Or he could slip away for a while, away from Scully’s watchful doctor’s eye, and—

The door opened suddenly.

He stumbled back, tripped over the edge of his bed, and fell on the mattress, his head nearly exploding.