01 - Goblins Read online

  He was startled. “What do you mean?”

  “Table that for a minute. What I want from you now is your word that you’ll never, ever leave me alone with that reporter again.” She shuddered to prove her point. “I am a doctor, Mulder. I know secret doctor things. If I’m forced to, if he lays one more paw on me, I swear I’m going to make sure he never touches another woman again.”

  Mulder held up a hand. “Okay, okay. I didn’t think he’d be that bad. Honest.” He frowned. “I guess this thing about his cousin’s boyfriend shook him up more than I thought.”

  Angrily she told him that was no excuse. It was perhaps understandable, but it was still no excuse. When he apologized again, she allowed herself a moment to calm down, then took the other chair and hauled her briefcase onto her lap.

  “What’s the other news?” he wanted to know, eyeing the case suspiciously.

  “Good news and bad news, actually.”

  He stared at her for so long, she thought he hadn’t heard. Then he slumped a little in resignation and gave her his full attention.

  “The good news is, you don’t have to go to Louisiana. You can’t find the file because Bette took it back just a few minutes ago.”

  He barely reacted, little more than a blink.

  “The other good news is, you’re still stuck with me.”

  A lopsided smile flared and vanished. “The bad news is,” he said dryly, “we’re going to North Dakota, no bathrooms, and we have to live in a tent.”

  “Not quite.” If it wasn’t so infuriating, this whole thing would have been laughable. “Actually, it’s New Jersey.”

  “What?”

  She looked up without raising her head. “New Jersey.”

  He frowned his puzzlement. “Why New Jersey? What—” His eyes widened in dismay. “Oh, God, Scully, please, not the Invisible Man.”

  She unsnapped the briefcase flaps and pulled out a folder marked with a red tab, set the case on the floor and the folder on her lap. She flipped it open and picked up the top sheet. Only then did she nod, and waited patiently until he had stopped muttering to himself and grunted for her to continue.

  “The—”

  “Hold it,” he said. “Wait a minute. What changed the mighty Douglas’ mind? Yesterday it was disappearing clowns, today it’s Claude Rains. I don’t get it. Does he really think this is an X-File?”

  Scully smiled. “I don’t know. But it seems your friend has a friend.”

  “Carl? The sports reporter Carl?” He didn’t believe it. “Carl Barelli has friends in high places?” He shook his head slowly; wonders never ceased.

  “Not quite,” she admitted. “Angie Tonero, his cousin, has a brother. The one who tried to dismember her soon-to-be boyfriend, remember? The brother’s name is Major Joseph Tonero. Air Force. Temporarily attached to Medical. You’ll never guess where he’s currently stationed.”

  Mulder didn’t bother. His expression was enough; he knew that McGuire Air Force Base was adjacent to Fort Dix. “And Major Tonero is… ?”

  “Apparently, a very good, dear, close personal friend of the Garden State’s junior United States senator, John Carmen.”

  Mulder clearly couldn’t decide whether to be amused or angry, and at the moment she wasn’t inclined to give him a hand. She only nodded when he said, “Whose office just happened to call the Director, right? Probably in the middle of the night. Probably causing the Director to be not all that happy, which means that when he called the mighty Douglas, our supposedly temporary Section Head lost a lot of sleep. Which, I suppose, means he’s really pissed off.”

  “To put it mildly.” She fussed with her skirt, her hair again. “Now, granted, we’re not supposed to be at the beck and call of individual members of Congress, but there are budgets and there are appropriations. And the senator is a ranking member of a couple of pretty important committees.”

  “I love this town,” Mulder groused.

  She handed over the paper. “This is the report on Frank Ulman.”

  He took it; he didn’t look at it until she stared him into it. When he was finished, no more than a cursory glance at best, she handed him the second one.

  “So what’s this?” he asked, barely giving it a glance as well. “A second opinion or something?”

  “No. And if you’d just look instead of griping…”

  He did as he was told as he gave her his best martyr’s sigh, and she only just managed not to laugh when he sat up so quickly he nearly slid off the chair. “Scully…” He read the papers carefully, one hand pushing through his hair.

  “Right,” she said. “Two killings. One week apart. Saturday night, early Sunday morning. Each victim with a slashed throat, no other injuries, no indication of robbery or sexual assault. That wouldn’t necessarily make them connected, except for the fact that now it seems there was a witness to the first murder too.”

  Mulder’s lips moved as he read the second sheet more carefully. “Another Invisible Man?”

  “Could be.”

  “Or the same one.”

  “Could be.”

  “This first guy”—he checked the report—“Pierce, he was drunk. So was the witness.”

  “No question.”

  He compared the reports again. “And the second witness, to Frank’s murder, she was drunk, too. And… drugs?”

  “That’s right. Heroin.”

  She saw the look, saw the slight quickening of his movements.

  “So…” He closed one eye, and his lips twitched into a faint smile. “So … maybe.”

  “Could be.”

  “Scully,” he said, “I give up, all right? You’ve made your point about Barelli. Several times, in fact.” He reached for the folder.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  The frown returned. “What is this? I’m being tortured because I wouldn’t look at the slides of your trip? You want me to personally break Carl’s arms?”

  “No. It’s just that there’s… well… a tad more bad news.”

  “Tad?” He leaned forward. “You just said tad?”

  “Hank, actually.”

  It took him a moment to figure it out, and dismiss it with a no big deal, we can live with it wave.

  “And company,” she added.

  Someone knocked on the doorframe.

  “What the hell does that mean, ‘and company’?” he snapped. “Scully, what’s going on, huh?”

  She stood, pointed to the door, and said, “Fox Mulder, meet the company.”

  “Hi,” said the tall blonde entering the office as Mulder stumbled to his feet. “I’m Licia Andrews. I’m really glad to meet you, Agent Mulder. Hank’s told me so much about you.”

  “Hank?” Mulder echoed dumbly as he shook her hand.

  Licia glanced at Dana. “Why, yes. Hank Webber. Didn’t he tell you? We’re partners. Sort of. We’re going to New Jersey with you. Right, Agent Scully?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dana said, enjoying herself immensely, and not the least bit ashamed of it. “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  The view from the apex of the Delaware Memorial Bridge was probably spectacular—the Delaware Bay below, wooded shoreline upriver, the ocean to the right, the factories and plants that lined the banks on both sides. It probably was, but Barelli never saw it. He hated the height, hated the seagulls gloating at him from eye level, and his knuckles bled white every time he crossed it. Still, it was better than flying by a factor of ten.

  And once on the north side, he aimed his battered yellow Taurus straight for the Turnpike, not wasting any time. Despite the call he had made even before he had seen Mulder, and despite the senator’s reassurances that the family matter would be expedited, he didn’t quite believe it.

  Especially after what Dana had said.

  After refusing, again, to succumb to his charms, she had coldly walked him to the hushed, vast lobby and had, for God’s sake, patted his goddamn arm as if he were a kid.

  “Stick to sports, Carl,�
� she’d said. “I’m sorry about the corporal, but use your head, okay?”

  He’d been so mad, he’d barely been able to kiss and hug her goodbye.

  Stick to sports.

  Who the hell did she think she was, Sherlock Holmes in a skirt?

  Besides, he was not a sports reporter. He was a reporter whose interests happened to lie in sports. There was a difference, and he was going to prove it.

  Fifteen minutes later he was speeding north on the Turnpike, through a speckled twilight rapidly slipping into dusk, ignoring the press of the forest on either side, or the late-hunting hawks that drifted patiently above the dense scrub oak and twisted pine that made up the Pine Barrens. He ignored the speed limit as well, keeping to the left of the two lanes, pushing seventy. The Yankees on the radio. Wind from the open passenger window stirring scraps of paper and crumpled tissues on the back seat and floor. A cigarette in his left hand.

  Goddamn bitch. He wondered why he wasted his time, and smiled mirthlessly at the all too obvious answer—she wouldn’t give in. He admired that. Hell, he admired her. And one of these days she would learn to admire him.

  Soon.

  It would be soon.

  Although he wasn’t exactly a national figure, his byline in this state carried with it no little recognition. He figured he could trade on that once he reached Marville, wherever the hell that was. It sounded like, and most likely was, a two-bit town that leeched off Fort Dix and McGuire. A celebrity like him should find loose tongues easily. A few drinks, a few questions, a few slaps on the back and a couple of knowing winks, and effing Fox Mulder could kiss this reporter’s ass.

  Besides which, Ulman had practically been family. The last time he had seen Angie, her eyes had been so puffed from crying she could barely see.

  Nobody, but nobody, did that to his people.

  In fact, with a little luck, he might catch the creep alone, the one who did Frankie in.

  He smiled again as he switched on his headlamps.

  The smile didn’t last.

  He couldn’t hold it.

  All he could hold was the steering wheel, and the idea that Carl Barelli wasn’t going to be deterred by some freak with a knife. He knew others saw him as soft, too long at the desk. Too often for them, those others found out different.

  Don’t worry, Angie, he promised to the early night; you hang in there, kid, Cousin Carl is on the job.

  Dana had never liked the way moonlight and headlight bleached the land of its color. There was never any real white, only black and shades of grey, and the things that moved between them.

  Graveyard time.

  She reached for her left ear and pinched the lobe, just sharply enough to hurt and wake her up. She had thought, had hoped, she would be done with long-distance driving for a while, but Mulder had insisted there was no sense waiting until tomorrow. They might as well get their act together and the show on the road so they’d be ready to work first thing Friday morning.

  That wasn’t so bad, actually. He had volunteered to do all the driving, brought the coffee and some sandwiches, and had somehow convinced Webber that he ought to drive on alone with Andrews, get to know her, let her get to know him. Partners, he had lectured solemnly and truthfully, had to be able to predict each other’s reactions so backs could be guarded and missteps minimized when the action got hot. What he had failed to tell them was that the action hardly ever got hot, except in the movies.

  Unless, of course, the partner was Fox Mulder.

  Licia hadn’t minded; Webber, to Scully’s amazement, had actually seemed flustered.

  Now she figured them to be fifteen minutes ahead, their first assignment to book rooms in a motel called the Royal Baron, a recommendation Mulder had picked up from a visiting agent stationed in Philadelphia.

  There was no question it would be as horrid as it sounded. Mulder was an expert at picking such places. He called it a knack; she knew it was a curse.

  “You okay?” He glanced over. “You can sleep if you want.”

  “Mulder, it isn’t even nine. If I sleep now, I’ll be awake at dawn.” She watched him for a moment, then reached over and turned down the heater. The night was chilly, but it wasn’t that cold. “What’s the matter?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “This breaking into pairs isn’t your style.”

  “Maybe, but four agents driving into a place called Marville would be like a parade, don’t you think?”

  “And two cars with agents isn’t?”

  He said nothing.

  A mile passed, black and grey, before she repeated her earlier question. “And don’t jive me, Mulder, I’m not in the mood.”

  He laughed silently. “Good lord. First ‘tad’, now ‘jive’. What the hell did you do on that vacation?”

  “I didn’t change the subject every time I was asked a question.”

  He drove on, thumb tapping lightly on the wheel. “I had a visitor the other day.”

  She listened as he told her about the man at the Jefferson Memorial, not saying a word. At one point she pulled her coat closer across her neck; when he had finished she had folded her arms across her stomach. She didn’t doubt that the meeting had occurred, but she had never been able to fully accept his absolute belief in extraterrestrial life, or his notion that there were those in the government, and those seemingly beyond the government’s reach, who were just as convinced, and were as dangerous to him as any murderer they had ever sought.

  Add to that the equally bizarre idea that among those Shadow People, as he called them, there were also a handful who were actually on his side, and in any other human being she would see a full-blown case of whatever lay beyond extreme paranoia.

  In Mulder, however, it almost seemed plausible.

  All right, she admitted; maybe more than “almost.”

  The Tweed Man, on the other hand, was more likely a coincidence, nothing more, and when she said so, he only grunted. Not entirely convinced, but with no solid reason to think otherwise.

  “So what does this case mean to… whoever?” she said, staring out at the dark by her shoulder. “And what does it have to do with Louisiana?”

  “Beats me. I’m not a psychic.”

  She shifted. “Mulder, weird stuff, remember?”

  He tapped his forehead. “Got it stapled right here.”

  She caught the grin and held her silence until the silence made her sleepy. Then: “So what does it mean to you?”

  “I don’t know. Well, yes, I do. It means we have two people dead, and there’ll probably be more.” A glance, a quick smile. “That’s all, Scully, that’s all.”

  She nodded her approval, even though she knew there was no question he was lying.

  SEVEN

  The Royal Baron Motel was a long, white and red, two-story stucco building facing the two-lane county road that led into Marville. On the west side was the office, whose spotlighted top was supposedly a bejeweled gold crown; on the east was a restaurant; between them were two dozen rooms, twelve up and twelve down, with a red iron stairway in the center and at each end.

  Behind it, and across the road, there was nothing but dense forest.

  The restaurant—booths along the windows, round tables at the far end, and a long counter—was called the Queen’s Inn.

  Exhausted, Mulder slumped by the window in a red leatherette booth, still feeling as if he were on something that moved and had no intention of stopping. His head throbbed, his vision blurred now and then, and all he really wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed for a while. Webber and Andrews, however, had been waiting in the office, rooms already booked, just as he and Scully had pulled up. Despite his protestations, he was dragged off for something to eat.

  They were the only customers in the room; the young waitress spent her time dusting gleaming tables and whispering to the cook through the serving gap in the back wall.

  He didn’t order anything—the very thought of food made his stomach
lurch—but when the orders arrived, he had to admit that the plate of silver dollar pancakes Webber had in front of him actually smelled pretty good.

  “That bacon’s going to kill you,” Scully said dryly, nodding to the double side order beside Webber’s plate.

  “My guilty pleasure,” Webber told her with a boyish grin, and poured what Mulder figured was at least a gallon of syrup over the heavily buttered stack.

  Scully watched in amazement. “Never mind.”

  Andrews had contented herself with a cup of soup, her lean face etched with weariness, her topcoat buttoned all the way to her chin.

  Outside the window, a breeze danced with a handful of dead leaves, guiding them onto the road where they were scattered by a passing car.

  “So are we going to check it out tonight?” Webber wanted to know.

  Mulder looked at him blankly. “What?”

  The agent pointed over Mulder’s shoulder with his loaded fork, then yanked it back when syrup began to drip on the table. “Marville. Are we going to check it out tonight?”

  He shook his head. “Not until morning. Then the first thing we have to do is introduce ourselves to the local chief, let him know we’re here.”

  Webber nodded. “Hawks.”

  Mulder blinked.

  “Hawks,” Webber repeated. “Todd Hawks. The Chief of Police. That’s who he is.”

  “Ah.”

  Webber glanced at his partner, but her attention was on the empty road, and stifling a fierce yawn with her hand. “Didn’t you read the file? I mean, it’s all in there. About him. Hawks, I mean.”

  A gust shimmered the window.

  Andrews shivered, but she didn’t look away.

  “Fox?”

  “Mulder.” He pushed a hand back through his hair. “Don’t call me Fox. Mulder is fine.”

  Webber nodded once, correction noted and filed, it won’t happen again.

  This kid, Mulder thought wearily, is going to drive me up the wall.

  And since he knows the drill full well, he must either be too excited, too eager, or he’s scared. That wouldn’t be surprising. So far, the young man’s field work had been primarily confined to the immediate DC area. Now he was out here, no convenient home office to run to, working with a guy supposed to be more than a little off-center.