01 - Goblins Read online

  It was what he was good at; very good, if you paid attention to some of the talk around the office. Although he really didn’t see it that way. It was, simply, what he did, and he had never really bothered to analyze it.

  When the younger man finally looked as if he were either going to cry or scream, Mulder swallowed, touched his chin with a finger, and pointed. “If I remember, Hank, you were the one who came up with the Biloxi connection. We all missed it. You got it.”

  Webber blushed.

  He couldn’t believe it—the kid actually blushed, ducked his head, scuffed his shoe on the step. Mulder decided that if he said, “Aw, shucks,” he would have to be killed.

  “Thanks,” he said instead, fighting hard not to grin. “That… well, that means a lot.” He gestured vaguely. “I didn’t mean to interrupt but…” He gestured again. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “I did. Honestly. Thanks.”

  “So.” Webber backed away, and almost toppled off the step. He laughed self-consciously, his right arm flapping. “So, I guess I’ll get back, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ll be—”

  Mulder held up what was left of the sandwich.

  “Right. Sure.” He waved, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of sunglasses, and slipped them on.

  Suddenly he wasn’t a kid named Hank Webber anymore.

  Suddenly he was a man in a suit too dark for the weather, wearing sunglasses too dark for the sun. Suddenly he wasn’t a part of the scene anymore. If he had painted a sign on his back, he couldn’t have said FBI any better.

  Mulder smiled to himself as Webber walked off, practically marching, and washed the last of his lunch down with the soda. Then he glanced around, not really seeing anything, before hooking his jacket with a forefinger, draping it over his shoulder, and moving into the memorial itself.

  He liked it in here, especially now, when there was no one else around. It didn’t feel like a cathedral, the way Old Abe’s place did, yet he was in awe just the same of the man who rose above him. Jefferson wasn’t a god. He had his faults. But those faults only made his accomplishments all the more remarkable.

  This was where he liked to work puzzles out, following crooked mental paths to see where they led, maybe hoping some of the third president’s genius would rub off on him.

  In here he couldn’t hear the traffic, the tourists, nothing but the sound of his shoes on the polished marble floor.

  What he had to consider today was a case in Louisiana that involved at least one brutal murder, one daylight robbery of $25,000, and witnesses who swore on every Bible handed to them that the person who had done it had vanished into thin air. In the middle of a circus tent. While wearing the costume of a hobo clown.

  His instincts were usually pretty reliable. This time they suggested this had nothing to do with an X-File, those cases he specialized in, that had about them an air of the bizarre, the inexplicable.

  The paranormal.

  The kind of cases the Bureau officially frowned upon, but couldn’t always ignore.

  Which was why he had been shown this one. This kind of thing, whether the upper echelon liked it or not—and they usually didn’t—was his specialty.

  Louisiana just didn’t have that X-File scent.

  Still, there was always a chance he was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. His usual partner, Dana Scully, had told him that so often, he had finally suggested she print up cards: Mulder, this is an ordinary case, only with weird stuff; aliens, monsters, and UFOs need not apply. Whenever he began to think that X the unknown was actually something they should look into, she was supposed to hand him a card, or staple it to his forehead, and get on with it.

  She hadn’t thought that very funny.

  Except for the stapling part.

  Still, he had been right often enough in the past, even if she was too stubborn to admit it.

  What he was afraid of now, what always kept him alert, was that every case with supposed “weird stuff” in it would make him jump before he thought, and thus bring down the wrath of his superiors, forcing the X-File Section closed.

  It had already happened once.

  He didn’t want it to happen again.

  Especially when he had been so close to final proof that the Earth wasn’t alone… so close…

  Too close for some.

  Others would call that paranoia; he called it simply watching his back. Not for the knife. For the razor.

  The fact that he tended to elaborate on or improvise on the Bureau’s standard operating procedures also hadn’t made him many friends in high places.

  That the Section had been reinstated was a stroke of good fortune, but he never gloated.

  He did his job.

  Looking.

  Always looking.

  Following the crooked path.

  He wandered around to the back of the statue, tracing his fingers along the marble base.

  What he wanted to do now was make sure that this Louisiana thing was weird stuff, nothing more.

  He had to be sure that he wasn’t so desperate that he saw only what he wanted to see, not what was really there.

  Not so easy to do these days, when he had been so close.

  So damn close.

  He stepped back as he slipped into his jacket and looked up at the president, dark bronze and gleaming, towering above him.

  “So what do you think?” he said quietly. “You bought the stupid place, is there anything out there?”

  A hand gripped his shoulder.

  When he tried to turn, the grip tightened, ordering him to stay where he was.

  His throat dried instantly, but he did as he was bidden. He wasn’t afraid, just wary.

  He lowered his head slowly to keep his neck from cramping.

  The hand didn’t move, nor did it relax its grip.

  “Well?” he asked mildly.

  Mint; he smelled an aftershave or cologne with a faint touch of mint, and the warmth of the sun on someone’s clothes, as if he’d walked a long way to reach him. The hand was strong, but he couldn’t see it without turning his head.

  “Mr. Mulder.” A smooth voice, not very deep.

  He nodded. He was patient. Not often, however; both his temper and his temperament never had liked short leashes. He tried to adjust his shoulder, but the fingers wouldn’t let him.

  “Louisiana,” the voice said, fading slightly, telling him the man had turned his head. “It’s not what you hope, but you shouldn’t ignore it.”

  “Mind if I ask who you are?” Still mild, still calm.

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I ask if—”

  “Yes.”

  The grip tightened, pinching a nerve that made Mulder’s eyes close briefly. He nodded, once. He understood—keep your mouth shut, ask no questions, pay attention.

  Voices approached outside—children, for a change sounding respectful, not rowdy.

  A car’s horn blared.

  “The fact, Mr. Mulder, that your Section has been reactivated does not mean there still aren’t those who would like to make sure you stay out of their way. Permanently.” A shift of cloth, and the voice was closer, a harsh whisper in his left ear. “You’re still not protected, Mr. Mulder, but you’re not in chains, either. Remember that. You’ll have to.”

  The grip tightened again, abruptly, just as the voices entered the memorial and turned to echoes. His eyes instantly filled with tears, and his knees buckled as he cried out softly. A lunge with his arm couldn’t prevent his forehead from slamming against the pedestal as he went down. By the time his vision cleared, no more than a few seconds, he was kneeling, head down, and when he looked to his right, grimacing, the only person he saw was a little girl with an ice cream cone, braids, and a vivid blue jumper.

  “Are you okay, Mister?” she asked, licking at the cone.

  He touched his shoulder gingerly, swallowed a curse, and managed a nod while taking several deep breaths.


  A woman appeared behind the girl, gently easing her away. “Sir, do you need help?”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Just felt a little dizzy, that’s all.” Bracing one hand against the pedestal got him to his feet. The woman and the girl, and about a dozen others, backed away warily as he moved. “Thanks,” he said to the woman.

  She nodded politely.

  He stepped outside.

  The breeze attacked his forelock, and he swiped at it absently. His shoulder stung, but he barely noticed it. What he did notice was the breath of ice across the back of his neck.

  Whoever the man was, there had been no threats, but there had been no promises either.

  And for the first time in a long time, he felt that tiny rush of excitement that told him the hunt was on again.

  Not the hunt for the bad guys.

  The hunt for the truth.

  THREE

  Corporal Frank Ulman was tired of lying in bed. His back was sore, his ass was sore, his legs were sore. The only thing that wasn’t sore was his head, and he figured that would fall off if he had to count the holes in the ceiling one more time.

  It was, no question about it, a lousy way to spend a Saturday night.

  What made it worse was the fact that he was here because he had been stupid. Really stupid. All he had wanted last night was a quiet drink, pick up someone for the evening because his regular girl had to work, and wake up the next day without a hangover. No big deal. So he had wrangled a pass from the sarge, no sweat, put on his civies, and hitched a ride into Marville with a couple of half-bald Warrant Officers who spent the whole time bitching about the way the DoD couldn’t make up its mind whether to close Dix down or not.

  They had dropped him off at Barney’s Tavern.

  He went in and had his drink, passed a few words with the muscle-bound bartender, watched a couple of innings of Phillies baseball on the TV, and listened while the curiously noisy crowd gabbed about old Grady getting his throat slashed the weekend before.

  It was a shame. He had kind of liked the old fart, had bought him a drink now and then, and enjoyed listening to his stories. Grady had called him “Sal,” because, he said, Frankie looked like some old actor or something named Sal Mineo. After the first couple of times, Frankie hadn’t bothered to correct him. If the old guy thought he looked like a movie star, it was no skin off his nose.

  Now that Grady was dead, so was Sal.

  Too bad.

  Another drink, another inning, and he made his first mistake: He tried to pick up a woman sitting by herself at a table near the back. Not bad looking in the tavern’s twilight, but he wasn’t about to be fussy. Angie wasn’t here, and he was. Just like always. It was a mistake because the bitch didn’t want to be picked up, said so loudly when he persisted, and finally suggested that he perform a certain number of mind-boggling, and definitely unnatural, sexual acts upon himself on his way home to his momma.

  His second mistake was dropping a twenty on the table in front of her and telling her to either put up or shut up, and don’t forget the change.

  His third mistake was not listening to that muscle-bound bartender, who told him to get his sorry ass out of his bar before the roof fell in.

  Corporal Ulman, with too many boilermakers and a hell of an attitude under his belt, called the bartender a fag.

  The next thing he knew he was in Walson, the Air Force hospital on post, getting stitched under the chin, getting a cast on his left arm, and getting a facefull of the sarge, who had been waiting for him when the cops brought him in.

  Bed rest was the order, take these pills, stay out of trouble, don’t come back.

  All day he stared at the barracks ceiling, his left arm throbbing in a sling, his face a road map of yellow and purple bruises.

  Nobody felt sorry for him.

  The sarge had told him that when he got up the next day, he was going to be busted. Again.

  So he figured he didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to lose when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited for the dizziness to pass. He had to get out. Walk around a little. Get some fresh air. Maybe find a card game and tell a few stories of his own. Anything but count those damn holes again.

  Clumsily he dressed in boots and fatigues, made it as far as the door before he felt the first ache, deep in his jawbone. It almost sent him back, but now it was a matter of pride. A busted arm, a few bruises, what kind of a soldier would he be if he let something like that keep him on his back?

  He checked the second floor corridor and saw no one, heard nothing. Why should he? Everyone else was having a good time, bumping around Marville, Browns Mills, drinking themselves blind, getting laid, catching a flick.

  The thought made him angry.

  One goddamn lucky punch, one lousy mistake, and here he was, practically a cripple. And he wouldn’t put it past one of the guys to call Angie and tell her everything.

  Son of a bitch.

  What he needed, he decided then, wasn’t a card game, it was a drink. Something to calm him down, something to ease the pain.

  He knew just where to get it.

  Five minutes later, after slipping a cheap and slim flashlight into his hip pocket and dry-swallowing one of the pain pills the doc had given him, he was in and out of Howie Jacker’s room, two pints of Southern Comfort tucked into his shirt. The jerk never learned to lock his locker, his loss, Frankie’s gain.

  Five minutes after that he was outside. Behind the brick barracks the woods began, and he slipped into them quickly, making his way along a well-worn path toward a clearing half a mile in. He’d been invited there last summer, a place reserved for those who wanted to drink, or whatever, alone, without the hassle of officially leaving the post.

  Actually, the clearing was beyond the post’s boundary, which meant that its users were technically AWOL.

  Not that anybody cared.

  One part of these damn woods was the same as another.

  He took the first sip almost before the barracks lights were blocked by the trees, gasping at the hundred-proof sweetness, smacking his lips as the throbbing began to fade. This was a great idea, and beat counting holes all to hell and gone. He took another drink, tucked the pint into the sling, and pulled out the flash. The beam was narrow, but he only needed it to warn him of pine boughs and oak branches. The trail itself had been used so often, it was practically a ditch.

  He moved quickly, glancing up now and then in hopes of seeing the stars or the moon. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the woods. Not really. For a city boy, he had learned to take them or leave them.

  What he didn’t like was the voice the trees had.

  When the breeze blew, there were whispers, like old men talking about him behind their hands; when the air was still, the leaves still moved, nudged by night things who stayed just out of reach of the narrow white beam.

  He drank again.

  The woods talked to him.

  He stopped once and checked behind him, slashing the beam up the trail, seeing nothing but grey trunks and colorless underbrush.

  He drank, walked, and cursed when he realized the first pint was already empty. He tossed the bottle aside angrily, took out the second one, and slipped it into the sling. Later; that one was for later.

  The breeze kicked into a gust of strong wind, damp and cool.

  The branches danced and whispered.

  Okay, he thought, so maybe not such a hot idea after all. Maybe he should just go back, lay down, drink himself into a stupor and let the sarge do his worst in the morning.

  His head ached, his arm ached, his jaw ached.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  Another gust shoved him off the trail, the beam blurring across the ground, sparkling as it passed through pockets of mist.

  Something moved, out there in the dark.

  Something large.

  Frankie swayed, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much, wishing he hadn’t taken those pills first.

  His stomach fel
t on fire, and sweat had broken out across his brow and down his spine.

  It wasn’t warm at all.

  The wind had turned cold.

  He heard it again, something moving toward him, not bothering to mask its approach.

  His first thought was Jersey Devil, and he giggled. Right. A real live monster in the middle of New Jersey. Right. Tell me another.

  His stomach lurched.

  He swallowed hard and hurried on, swerving around a bush whose thorns clawed at his legs. His broken arm burned now, too, and he cradled it with his free hand, sending the beam sideways, poking at the black without pushing it away.

  When he collided with a sapling that threw him to the ground, he cried out, cursed, kicked himself awkwardly to his feet and demanded to know who the hell was out there, he was a sick man, he was lost, goddamnit, and he didn’t need this shit.

  The wind tugged at his hair, plucked at his shirt.

  A drop of rain splattered on the tip of nose.

  “Oh great,” he muttered. “That’s just fucking great.”

  Something in the trees overhead.

  Something in the dark just behind.

  He wiped his face with a forearm, used the flashlight like a lance as he found a clear path and broke into a slow trot. It wasn’t the right trail, but it had to lead somewhere, and right now somewhere other than here was exactly where he wanted to be.

  Stupid; he was stupid.

  The sarge was going to kill him, Angie was going to kill him, and Howie would definitely kill him when he found his stash gone.

  Something behind.

  Something above.

  Light rain slipped between the leaves, between the branches.

  God, he thought, get me outta here.

  He swerved easily around a gnarled oak, dodged the grasp of a cage of white birch. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing now, and the wind, and the patter of the rain, but he couldn’t stop running. Every step exploded in his arm, but he couldn’t stop running, following the sweep and dart of the beam until he rounded a thicket and the ground was gone.

  He yelled as he tumbled into a ditch, screamed when he landed on his arm, and blacked out until the pain brought him back.