Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

He was bewildered and lifted a shoulder. “So?”

“So Mrs. Radnor only spoke with Licia for five or ten minutes. So Licia has been fighting you every inch of this investigation. So Hank and I are the only ones who have used that car, and I know damn well I didn’t hit or run over any tree.” She stopped. Looked outside. “Hawks said they found the spot where the shooter had backed off the road into the woods. It wasn’t a clear area.” Her hands danced an apology over her lap. “I didn’t read her notes, Mulder. She said she had them, I even watched her put them in her briefcase… but I didn’t read them. And she didn’t bring them to your room.”

“Scully—”

“I screwed up.” Her hands again. “Damnit, I screwed up.”

“Nope,” he said, rocking back and forth, body English for the car. “If I was dead, then you would have screwed up.” She saw the grin. “Then I’d have to haunt you.”

“Mulder, that’s not funny.”

“But you don’t believe in ghosts and goblins.”

Hail bounced off the hood.

She jumped when a car honked behind them.

“So,” he said, “what do we do?”

“We take care of business,” she said without hesitation. “And when that’s done, we take care of more business.”

He nodded, groaned when traffic came to a complete halt, and finally unsnapped his seat belt. “Take the car.”

She reached out to grab his arm, but she was too late. “Mulder!”

He stood in the middle of the street, rain dripping into his eyes. He pointed. “I can’t wait, Scully. I can’t. Just…” He flapped the hand helplessly. “Just come after me as fast as you can.”

He was gone, the cars behind discovered their horns, and she slid awkwardly into the driver’s seat, all the while watching him race to the sidewalk and around the next corner.

If there were any rules left in the book that he hadn’t broken, she couldn’t think of them.

All she could think of was, watch your back, Mulder. For God’s sake, watch your back.

He knew he must have looked like a fool, racing headlong through the rain, one hand held loosely over his head in feeble protection against the hail that, so far, was no larger than a pea. That didn’t stop it from stinging, however, and stinging badly.

He bolted across the street, veering sharply when a minivan nearly clipped him on his blind side. He skidded, fell into a parked car, and used it to propel him onto the sidewalk again. The hail stopped. The rain didn’t.

He didn’t want to, but he had to slow up — his side had begun to pull, and he couldn’t help thinking that something had torn in there.

Hang on, Elly, he thought; hang on.

At the next intersection, he paused under a tree, half bent over, hands hard on his hips, and took precious seconds to get his bearings, and his breath back. Another block west, he thought, swallowed hard, and tried to run, snarling when he couldn’t do much better than a fast trot.

A winter-raised section of concrete made him swerve onto a lawn, where he slid on the wet grass and went down on his hands and knees. It felt good, not moving, and it took him a moment to get back on his feet.

He had no choice but to run now, forcing the pain in his side to another place, one that didn’t bother him, one he knew would exact a great price when he couldn’t concentrate any longer.

The wind pushed a curtain of water into his eyes. He slapped it away angrily without missing a step as he charged off the curb and across the tarmac to the other side. He figured Scully, with her luck, would beat him there anyway, but at least now he was moving, doing something instead of cursing traffic and feeling helpless.

Reaching the next corner seemed to take hours, and when he stopped, he almost panicked.

This wasn’t right; he was on the wrong street.

Strings of mist like ghosts moved slowly through the rain; a storm drain overflowed, creating a shallow pond across the intersection.

This wasn’t right, and he didn’t know which way to go.

Then he saw the park across the way and up the block, the benches and ball field obscured by the rain. His lips parted — it wasn’t quite a grin — and he moved on, his face turned toward the houses he passed to keep his vision clear.

The police car was gone.

The lamp was out in Elly’s window.

He slowed as he approached the front walk, slipping his left hand into his pocket to wrap around his gun. Front or back? Wait for Scully, or do the stupid thing and go in on his own?

He had no realistic alternative.

He reached the front walk just as a horn honked several times in quick succession. Turning as he ran, he saw Scully bump the pink Cadillac up over the curb and practically throw herself into the street.

Sometimes you just live right, he thought, and waved her around to the back, ran up the steps and stopped with his hand on the knob.

The wind shrieked overhead.

Something rattled down a drainpipe.

He fought his lungs into calming, then stepped into the foyer. Slowly now, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give Scully enough time, he sidled to the door and put an ear to the damp wood.

Nothing; the storm made it impossible to hear a thing.

He tried the knob, and closed his eyes briefly when it turned, mouthed a damn, and turned it, using his shoulder to push the door inward.

The living room was dark, and empty, grey light from the bay window the only illumination. Rain shadows rippled across the furniture and carpet. An ivory-topped cane lay on the floor in front of the couch.

He could see no light in the kitchen, or in the bedroom at the front room’s far side.

He chose the kitchen first.

Keeping as close to the wall as he could, he moved down the short hall. As far as he could see, no one sat at the little table, and he could see no welcome, telltale shadow in the back door window.

Water slipped from his hair and down his spine.

A shudder briefly hunched his shoulders.

Closer, gun aimed toward the ceiling, and he braced himself, counted to three, and stepped quickly into the kitchen, sweeping the barrel ahead of him.

No one was there.

He eased back toward the living room, heard a scraping, and spun around as Scully came through the back door, a sharp shake of her head letting him know there was no one outside, and no sign of Elly.

Or the goblin.

No words, then. Hand signals told her they must be in the bedroom. She nodded, once, and he took the hall again, shoulders brushing along the wallpaper.

Listening, and hearing only the wind, only the rain.

When he sensed Scully directly behind him, he stepped in and crossed the floor in four long strides. The bedroom door was open, but it was too dark for him to see much more than the shadowed outline of a brass headboard.

Time, he thought; no time.

Scully positioned herself opposite him at the door, and at her nod, they went in, he high, she low.

“Damn.” He kicked at the bed.

The room was empty.

They were too late; Elly Lang was gone.

Rosemary adjusted the bag’s strap over her shoulder, smoothed the lapels of her coat, and shook her head.

“You’re an idiot, Joseph,” she said, opened the door, and left.

“Maybe she’s hiding,” Scully said.

Mulder doubted it, but together they took less than five minutes looking into every place large enough to hold a woman Elly’s size, not at all surprised when all they found was dust and cans of orange spray paint.

He stood in the middle of the living room, absently tapping the gun against his leg.

“Think,” he told himself. “Think!” When Scully rejoined him, he shook his head. “She either left on her own, or she’s been taken. And I don’t think she—”