Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

“Rosemary.”

She sagged, and whispered, “Damn.”

The soft hum of fans, the creak of his chair’s wheels as he pushed away from the shelf desk and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Maybe,” she said, “there’s a way.”

“Maybe,” he answered, “there’s a Santa Claus.”

Her face hardened again, and she gestured him back to his position. “Santa Claus or not,” she told him, “we will find a way.” She glanced at him sideways. “If not, we’ll just get another.”

The music had changed to the muted soundtrack from Damn Yankees when Trudy Gaines slipped into the seat opposite Mulder, lit a cigarette, and brushed a strand of damp hair from her brow as she blew smoke at the ceiling. “One day, he’s going to find everyone in here puddled on his precious floor.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow. “You’re warm?” He hadn’t noticed.

She nodded, and even in the gloom he could see the lines, the shadows, that made her more her age. “I think I’m getting the flu or something.”

He finished the last burger, picked up his second beer. “So take a day off.”

“You pay my rent?”

“You give me that autographed Thing From Another World poster?”

“In your dreams, G-man. In your dreams.”

The Golf Caps’ argument grew louder.

“Jesus,” she muttered.

“What’s up?” The person in the booth was still in shadow; all he could see was one arm, in a tweed, elbow-patched sleeve.

“The Redskins,” she said in disgust.

He couldn’t help a laugh. “What? May’s just started, for God’s sake.”

She looked at him with one eye open. “It’s always autumn when you’re a Redskins fan, Mulder, don’t you know that?”

One of the Golf Caps stood, his chair scraping back. Before anyone could move, a man in shirtsleeves, a white apron tied around his waist, appeared by the table. He was, Mulder thought, the perfect walking cadaver. Only the badly arthritic hands spoiled the image. Evidently the Golf Cap didn’t think Stuff Felstead could do anything but glower. He was wrong. Ripley’s owner said something so low only the other man could hear. It was enough. He sputtered, gestured placatingly and by his expression suggested to his companion that they leave.

It was over in less than ten seconds.

“Magic,” Trudy said, catching him staring.

“Probably. After all this time, I still don’t see how he does it.”

“Keep it that way,” she advised him. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.” She set her palms flat on the table. “Well, break’s over. Gotta finish up.”

“Nice visiting with you, too,” he said, sweeping up the last of the ketchup with the last french fry. “So what’s the problem?”

She froze halfway out of the booth, avoiding his gaze, staring at the seatback behind him.

He waited.

Finally, she slumped back and shook her head. “It’s silly.”

“Probably.”

“I feel like a jerk.”

He reached out his hand and waggled it until she handed him his coat. “You’re off in ten minutes, you’ve had another fight with your boyfriend, you have a tort quiz tomorrow, and you want a walk home in case he tries to hassle you.”

She didn’t blink. “You know, Mulder, sometimes you’re damn weird.”

He shrugged. “So they tell me.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. No problem.”

A quick smile was her thanks as she returned to work, and fifteen minutes later she was back, heavy sweater over her arm. He paid at the register at the end of the bar and followed her to the street. His own apartment was a couple of blocks past King Street, closer to the Potomac; she lived the same distance in the opposite direction. He didn’t mind. It was a nice night, a comfortable breeze, and Trudy spent most of the time complaining about her landlady in a way that, at one point, had him laughing so hard he tripped over a raised section of sidewalk.

He didn’t fall. A quick, exaggerated turn kept his balance.

But not so quick that he didn’t see the man in the tweed jacket strolling behind them a block away.

It didn’t register at first because they had already reached her place, a renovated colonial divided into a half-dozen apartments, hidden beneath a clutch of oaks. She kissed his cheek quickly for thanks and hurried up the walk, fussing in her purse for the keys.

He didn’t leave until the front door was open and she was inside.

Then he turned around and headed back the way they had come, hands in his pockets, whistling softly. His footsteps were loud. Traffic didn’t exist. A dog raced silently across a sloped lawn to check him out, tail wagging, fangs bared. Mulder gave the animal a smile and walked on.

Checking the shadows for a shadow that didn’t belong.

By the time he had crossed King Street again, he had begun to scold himself. After all, people had to live someplace, some of them actually lived in the same area he did, and the Tweed Man was probably one of them.

His own building was on a quiet residential street. Well-kept dark brick with a slight arch over the recessed entrance. Hedges that made the tiny lawn seem even smaller. As he slipped his keys out of his pocket, he began making a list of things he’d have to do in the morning, not the least of which would be to try to change Douglas’ mind.

A disappearing murderous clown was not his idea of a good reason to see Louisiana.

By the time he reached the door he was already in bed; all he had to do was get his body settled in the same place.

He turned the lock and absently glanced over his shoulder.

The Tweed Man strolled by on the other side of the street, cigarette in one hand tracing orange in the dark, face hidden by a felt hat pulled low.

Weariness slowed Mulder’s reaction. In the few seconds it took to convince himself he wasn’t imagining it, the man was gone, lost in the shifting shadows between widely spaced streetlamps.

Dana Scully stood amid the clutter of Mulder’s office and flapped her arms hopelessly. There were times when she admired the way he could find needles in haystacks and times like this, when she wanted nothing more than to put a match to it and force him to start from scratch. Which, she knew, wouldn’t change a thing. Two days later it would look just the same.

Hefting her briefcase in one hand, she turned with a resigned sigh to the woman standing in the doorway and said, “Sorry, Bette, but I don’t think it’s here.”

“Sure it is,” the secretary said brightly. She crossed the room to a waist-high shelf built out of the wall, shoved a pile of papers aside and held up a blue-tagged folder. “I can smell ’em a mile away.”

A cheery smile, and she was gone, leaving Scully openmouthed and slightly annoyed. She didn’t mind cases being targeted to other teams; that was part of the game, and part of the procedure. And that particular case was, by FBI standards, so perfectly ordinary she was surprised Mulder hadn’t pushed it on himself. What she did mind was the new Section Head’s near-imperious refusal to give his reasons. If he wasn’t happy with the way things were going, he simply changed teams. Fresh minds and fresh bodies was his only explanation.

“Hey.”

Mulder came through the door, dropped his coat onto the back of his chair. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about that Louisiana thing.”

Dana shook her head. “Mulder—”

He dropped into his chair, swiveled it around to face her, and tented his fingers beneath his chin. “Not that I think it’s really going to be as bizarre as the mighty Douglas thinks it is, but I’ve been looking through the folder, see…” He reached over to the shelf without looking. “I think what they’ve got there is a—”