Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

She did stand then, angrily shaking her hand until the cord fell off. “Goddamnit, listen to me, you idiot! If I have to—”

“Doctor.” The voice was calm. Very calm.

Rosemary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “What?”

“We have an agreement. I’ll do what you want.”

She leaned forward, bracing herself on the desk with one hand. “Thank you. It’ll be fine, just fine, as long as we don’t panic.”

“I’ll do what you want.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then don’t, Doctor. Don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

“Oh, really? And what if… hello? Damnit, hello?”

The line was dead.

She gaped at the receiver, then slammed it back onto its cradle. Calm again; she had to regain calm again, be the eye in the storm. It was not, yet, a disaster that those damn agents probably knew something. They could snoop around all they wanted, but they didn’t know it all. As long as she made sure she, and Joseph, didn’t panic, they never would.

At least not until it was too late.

But she was afraid for the goblin. Despite her assurances, she knew what little control she had was practically gone. Like all the others, those too deep in the woods to be found — here, and elsewhere — the strain and the treatment had proved too much.

This one had lasted the longest, however.

This one was the proof of her triumph.

She grabbed her purse and coat and hurried from the office. Joseph would have to come to her for a change, once he stopped blowing off pompous steam. She still had some last-minute packing to do.

Just a few more weeks, she prayed as she made for the elevators; just get me out of here in one piece, give me a couple more weeks, and if it’ll be over.

Really over.

The door slid open as the overhead bell chimed softly.

She took a step, and froze.

The car was empty. She could see that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to go in.

With a low groan of frustration she used the fire stairs instead, yanking on her coat, cursing her own weakness, but oddly grateful for the harsh sound of her heels on the steps.

Scully decided her vacation hadn’t been nearly long enough, not by half. A Marville patrol car had picked them up minutes after they left the hospital, just about the time the rain had stopped. The driver, though polite, refused to answer any of Mulder’s questions.

“Talk to the chief,” was all he would say. It sounded to her as if Hawks’ equanimity at having the FBI in town was being sorely tested.

Now they sped toward town, and she couldn’t help feeling that everything was moving too fast. She needed time to think, and she wasn’t getting it. She was reacting, rather than acting; otherwise, she never would have taken Mulder’s leap from experimental camouflage to full-blown, controlled human chameleon, with no stops along the way.

It wasn’t like her; not at all.

She braced herself when the car momentarily lost traction on its way around a bend, and wished she had tried to get a hold of Webber instead. And when the driver said, “Sorry, ma’am” once he regained control, she almost snapped his head off.

Not like her at all.

Then Mulder folded his arms on the back of the seat and rested his chin on them. He said nothing, but she could feel him at her shoulder. Her eyes closed briefly at a flurry of leaves across the windshield.

“Mulder, I’m sorry about Carl.”

He grunted.

She realized then that that was part of her problem. She hadn’t liked Barelli; he was crude, too slick, and too full of himself. But for reasons she would never understand, he had also been Mulder’s friend, and she hadn’t said a single word of sympathy, of commiseration. The moment she had seen the reporter’s body, she had clicked into professional mode.

She hadn’t let the murder touch her.

It had obviously touched her friend.

“We have to get to Elly,” he said at last.

She agreed, and asked the driver to take them there instead of the station.

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I was told—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mulder said. “We’ll take the heat. You can tell him we pulled rank. FBI, pushy feds, stuff like that.”

For a second, Scully thought the man would flat out refuse. Then he grinned, shrugged, and: “Whatever you say, sir.”

“So punch it.”

“You got it.”

And it took all of Scully’s self-control not to grab the dashboard.

Traffic increased as Marville began, Saturday shoppers and wanderers taking their time to make the business district last as long as they could make it. The driver took a back-road, corner-cutting shortcut to avoid the main street, and pulled up smoothly in front of the apartment building.

“You want me to wait?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yes,” she told him as she opened the door.

He took the radio mike and called in: “Maddy, this is Spike. We’re at the Goblin Lady’s place. Maybe the chief should meet us here, huh?”

The radio hissed. “I’ll tell him. Watch your back.”

“You got it,” he said, and hooked the mike back on its cradle.

“That’s it?” Mulder asked, sounding disappointed.

“You mean, ten-four, that kind of stuff?” The driver shook his head. “The chief hates radio talk. He says it makes us sound too much like cop shows.” He laughed. “Besides, half the guys keep getting the numbers wrong anyway. Maddy knows what we’re saying, so…” He shrugged.

Scully was already outside, looking up at the bay window. The curtains were closed. She turned slowly as Mulder left the car, and clamped a hand hard against her chest.

“Mulder!”

Immediately she ran across the street without checking for traffic, heading straight for the small park and Elly Lang, sitting motionless on her bench. The old woman faced the empty ball field, bundled in a black coat, a black umbrella canted over her head.

She didn’t turn when Scully called her name.

No, she thought, leaping the curb and racing across the wet grass; damnit, no.

“Elly!”

She heard Mulder behind her, drifting to her right to come up on her flank.

“Elly!”

She grabbed the bench back and propelled herself around, damning herself for not thinking of this sooner.

If they were too late, she would personally rip Tonero’s medals off, one by one, and pin them back on his bare chest. One by one.

Suddenly a hand snapped out from beneath the umbrella, and she yelped as she jumped to one side when a stream of bright orange nearly caught her on the chest.

The old woman stared at her without blinking. “Oh. It’s you.” And she tucked the spray can back into her purse. “I must be getting slow.”

Scully didn’t know what to say, could only nod while she tried to catch her breath. “I thought—”

“Yes,” Elly said. “I can see that.” Her gaze shifted when Mulder came up beside her. “They won’t hurt me, you know. Never have. I figure they figure an old lady can’t do them much harm.”

“Ms. Lang,” Mulder said, “this one is different.”

Scully dropped onto the bench and gently pushed the umbrella to one side. “It’s killed at least three people that we know of, Ms. Lang. We think you could be in danger.”

Elly humphed. “You don’t know much about goblins, young lady.” She shook a bony finger in Scully’s face. “You should study more. You’re a smart girl. You should learn more. Goblins,” she said, “don’t kill anyone. Never have.”

Dana looked to Mulder for support, and he hunkered down in front of the old woman, one hand gently on her knee so he wouldn’t topple. “Ms. Lang, this one is sick.”