Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

“Jesus,” he said angrily.

Scully looked down at him without any sympathy at all. “I have an idea,” was all she said.

Major Tonero sat on the porch of his modest Cape Cod on the outskirts of Marville, a cigarette in one hand, a tumbler of scotch and soda in the other. Although he had been expecting the FBI to call on him since meeting those agents this afternoon, he wasn’t disappointed when they hadn’t. Their attention was elsewhere now. Whoever had ambushed them had unwittingly done him a great favor.

Now all he had to do was tell Rosemary about his conversation with their superiors, and they could begin the relocation procedure. By Sunday afternoon they would, with a little luck, be on their way.

He sipped, and blew a smoke ring.

It was chilly tonight, but not enough to keep him inside.

Besides, he preferred it out here. The neighborhood was small, quiet, so perfectly ordinary that there were times, both night and day, when he felt as if his superiors had dropped him into the middle of a television series, circa 1955. But it was definitely better than living with them, shortsighted and single-minded officers who lived and died for the service without once ever understanding what true potential there was.

He toasted that truth with another drink.

There were, now that he thought about it, only two problems remaining: what to do with Leonard Tymons, and what do with the Project’s subject.

He wasn’t worried, though. The answer would come. It always did.

A car sped up the block. He frowned, hating the disruption of his quiet evening, the frown deepening when the car squealed to a halt at the curb. He leaned forward — Rosemary?

After several seconds she climbed out and ran-staggered toward the house. He was up and at the steps before she reached them, taking her arms and hushing her until they were inside.

“Leonard,” she gasped, and dropped heavily onto the couch.

She looked like hell; in fact, she looked like a corpse, her hair damp with perspiration, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color that unpleasantly accentuated her already pale face.

Shit, he thought angrily; why the hell can’t it be easy, just for once?

“Tell me,” he said, keeping his voice low.

He didn’t move when she told him what had happened at the Project lab, didn’t touch her when she began to tremble so violently she had to hug herself to calm down, didn’t offer a word when she finished and looked up at him, beseeching him for comfort.

He turned to the window and looked out at the lawn, hands clasped behind his back.

When he turned back, he smiled. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

“He… he has to be by now.”

“There were backups, correct?”

She passed a hand over her face, forcing herself to think. “Yes.” She nodded hesitantly. “Yes, of course. Although I don’t know how recent they would be. Leonard was always—”

“No matter.” He took a step toward the couch. “In his office?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully. “And what about our friend?” His eyes widened in slight alarm and he glanced at the front door.

“No, don’t worry.” She inhaled deeply, slowly, and leaned her head back wearily, closed her eyes, as her left hand unbuttoned her coat and pulled it away as if she needed room to breathe. “We were in the elevator, and then… I don’t know where.”

Another step: “I’m correct in assuming that, without the proper medication, our friend will eventually…” His smile flashed and vanished. “Fade away?”

“Damnit, Joseph, what’s the matter with you? Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

He held out his hands, palms up, beckoning until she took them and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and into his arms. He kissed her ear, her cheek, her lips.

“Joseph?”

She was cold; cold with fear.

And trembling.

He whispered of the telephone call, and of the problems he had had until the problems, it seemed, had decided to take care of themselves. He whispered of the support he had given her to those in charge during that call. He suggested, in a whisper, that they take her car back to the hospital, to Dr. Tymons’ office, and retrieve the backup computer disks. Although no one had access to the Project level except themselves, it seemed as if they might be leaving earlier than expected.

“Or,” he whispered after she snuggled, wriggled closer, and kissed him back, hard, “we could always wait until morning.”

It was her turn to whisper as she began working on his shirt: “Joseph, you can be one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

“But for good reason, Dr. Elkhart. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Barelli almost felt guilty leaving the old woman alone at the Company G, but since everyone there seemed to know her, and like her, the guilt passed as soon as he was outside.

It had been, from the beginning, an evening of surprises.

The establishment itself, around the corner and halfway down the block from Barney’s, was a low clapboard building outlined in soft blue neon. In its large front window a neon trooper marched guard duty around stencil-style letters that spelled out company G. A shiny black film over the glass prevented anyone from seeing inside, but once through the door he had been pleasantly surprised. The restaurant-lounge was a single large room, softly and indirectly lighted, with black plastic and glass, gleaming chrome and brass. A bar ran along the left-hand wall, and the carpeted floor held a score or more tables, about half of which were taken. A dance floor took up most of the back, with a low stage against the wall.

The food, too, had been more than decent, and the drinks inexpensive. Elly Lang ordered well and ate carefully, as if expecting to make the meal last all night. When he asked her about herself, she smiled and told him little except for the reputation the community had given her.

All because of the goblins.

By the time he had finished he knew he had heard all she had to say. Not ranting, exactly, but it sounded like a story she had told a hundred times, and not much different from what he had learned at the police station.

She had, pleasantly, dismissed him when his mind began to wander, and although he stopped short of kissing her on the cheek, the almost-gesture had made her laugh and shoo him away.

Now, on the street, he considered returning to the station to have a talk with the dispatcher. Because of their job, they usually knew more than anyone, and he remembered Sergeant Nilssen telling him their regular operator was a young woman, Maddy Vincent.

Which was when he remembered his date with Babs Radnor.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Damn.”

He would have to go back and make some kind of excuse. She had been taken with his reporting reputation, he knew that much, so maybe she wouldn’t be all that unhappy when he assured her he wasn’t about to head home right away. A rain check until tomorrow seemed the most likely way out.

He hurried up toward Main Street, changing his mind about driving, deciding that a phone call would do. If he played it right, sounded right, she might even be excited for him, now and later.

He shivered then and wished he had brought a topcoat with him.

True night had settled over the town, starless, feeling like rain. Houses and buildings slipped into the protection of the dark, neon and street-lamps giving the street needed color, and a semblance of life it didn’t have when the sun shone.

There were just enough pedestrians to make the district seem almost lively; a street cop spoke to a disgruntled knot of teens; a cruiser trolled slowly westward, not caring about the traffic it backed up behind it; several shops were open late, ghosts of customers inside.