Charles L. Grant - X-Files 01 - Goblins

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Goblins

The X Files

Charles Grant

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as

"unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this

"stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not

to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Harper Paperbacks A Division of HarperCollins Publishers

10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers 10 East 53rd

Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

First printing: December 1994 Printed in the United States of America

HarperPrism is an imprint of HarperPaperbacks. HarperPaperbacks, HarperPrism, and colophon are trade-marks of

HarperCollins Publishers10 9 8

This is for Chris Carter, no question about it.

Because, quite literally, without his wonderful and addictive show, this book wouldn't exist, and I

wouldn't have anything to do on Friday nights but work.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many, many thanks, for reasons that would probably bore you to tears, to:

John Silbersack, editor and keeper of the edito-rial whip, for extreme patience under fire, and helping

me keep mine;

Howard Morhaim, fastest and best damn agent in the West;

The Jersey Conspiracy, whose enthusiastic sup-port kept me sane, and whose invaluable assis-tance

steered me away from making too many stupid mistakes—it isn't their fault if I made them anyway;

T. Liam McDonald, for the inside scoop;

Ms. Carolee Nisbet, Public Affairs Office, Fort Dix, New Jersey, who was always gracious and

helpful, especially when blathered memories of basic training kept getting in the way of intelligent

discussion—if you don't recognize some of the post as described here, the changes were made for story

reasons only, not because Ms. Nisbet steered me wrong.

And last, but never least, to Ashley McConnell, who called one night and ordered me to watch the

show, sent me information I couldn't do without, and still hasn't said, "I told you so." Yet.

ONE

The tavern was filled with ghosts that night.

Grady Pierce could feel them, but he didn't much care as long as the bartender kept pouring the

drinks. They were ghosts of the old days, when recruits, mostly draftees, were bused almost daily into

Fort Dix for basic training, scared or strut-ting, and hustled out of their seats by drill instructors with hard

faces and hard eyes who never spoke in less than a yell. The scared became terrified, and the strutters

soon lost that smug look they wore—it was apparent from the moment they were shorn of their hair that

this wasn't going to be a Technicolor, wide-screen John Wayne movie.

This was real.

This was the real Army.

And there was a damn good chance they were going someplace to die.

Grady ought to know; he had trained enough of them himself.

But that was the old days.

This was now, and what the hell—if the ghosts of the boys who never came back wanted to stand

behind him and demand he teach them again and this time do it right, well, hell, that was what they did, no

skin off his nose.

What he did these days was drink, and damned good at it he was.

He sat on his stool, bony shoulders hunched, hands clasped on the bar before him as if he were

saying grace before taking up the glass. His face under the mostly gray brush cut was all angles, sharp

and dark with shadows; he wore worn and stained fatigues loose at the waist, a too-large field jacket

torn at one shoulder, scuffed hiking boots so thin he could feel pebbles beneath the soles.

From where he sat at the bar's far end, he could see the dozen scarred darkwood tables, the

half-dozen dark booths along the side wall, the twenty or so customers bent over their drinks. Usually the

place was close to bedlam with top-of-the-voice, not always good-natured arguments about the Giants,

the Phillies, the 76ers, the government. Waylon would be howl-ing on the jukebox, a game on the TV

hanging on the wall, and beneath it all the comforting clatter of balls over at the pool table, floating green

in the light of the single lamp above it. There might even be a few working girls hanging out, joining in, not

always looking for business.

Good thing, too, he thought with a quick grin; most of the gals these days were a little long in the tooth

and short in the looks.

Tonight, however, was pretty damn miserable.

Rain all day, changing to a hard mist at sun-down. The temperature had risen, too, slipping pockets of

shifting fog into the alleys and gutters.

It was April, nearly May, but it felt a whole lot like November.

He glanced at his watch—just a few minutes past midnight—and rubbed his eyes with bony knuckles.

Time he was having one for the road, then getting on that road while he could still find it.

He reached for the glass, one ice cube and Jack Daniel's halfway to the rim. He frowned and pulled

his hand back. He could have sworn that that glass had been full a second ago.

Man, I'm worse than I thought.

He reached for it again.

"You sure about that?" Aaron Noel, who was more muscle than any man had a right to own and still

be able to move, flipped a drying towel over his shoulder and leaned back against the shelf fronting the

smoke-fogged mirror. His white T-shirt was tight, the sleeves cut off to give his upper arms some room.

He was a younger man who looked as if he had lived one lifetime too many. "Not that I'm complaining,

Grady, but I ain't taking you home tonight again, no offense."

Grady grinned. "You my old lady now?"

"Nope. But the weather sucks, right? And every time the weather sucks, you get the mis-eries, drink

too much and pass out, and then I gotta lug your sorry ass to that sorry hole you call a house." He shook

his head. "No way. Not tonight." He waggled his eyebrows. "Got a meet-ing when I'm done."

Grady glanced at the window by the exit. Past the neon he could see the mist, the dark street, the

empty storefronts on the other side.

"So?" the bartender said, nodding toward the unfinished glass.

Grady straightened, yanked on an earlobe and pinched his cheeks. It was an old trick to see if he was

numb enough yet to go home and sleep without having those damn dreams. He wasn't, but he wasn't

drunk enough to defy a man who could break his back with his pinky, either.

If the truth be known, Noel was good for him. More than once over the past fifteen years, he had

stopped Grady from getting into fights that would have easily turned him into one of his own ghosts. He

didn't know why the guy cared; it had just turned out that way.

He considered the glass carefully, grimaced at the way his stomach lurched with acid, and said with a

resigned sigh, "Ah, the hell with it."

Aaron approved.

Grady slipped off the stool and held onto the bar with his left hand while he waited for his bal-ance to

get it right. When he figured he could walk without looking like he was on a steamer in a hur-ricane, he

saluted the bartender and dropped a bill beside the glass. "Catch you around," he said.

"Whatever," the bartender said. "Just get the hell home and get some sleep."

Grady reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a Yankees cap, snapped it open and jammed it

onto his head, and made his way toward the door.

When he checked over his shoulder, Aaron was already talking with another guy at the bar.

"Good night, gentlemen," he said loudly, and stepped outside, laughing at the way some of them

snapped their heads up, eyes wide, as if he'd just shaken them out of a nap.

As soon as the door closed behind him, the laughter twisted into a spasm of coughing, forcing him to

lean against the brick wall until it passed.

"Jesus," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "Quit drinking, quit smoking, you old

fart, before they find you in the damn gutter."

He paused at the curb, then crossed over and moved on up the street, keeping close to the closed

shops, the empty shops with plywood for windows, and decided as he did that he'd finally had it with this

burg. As the government kept chipping away at Dix's assignments, folks up and left, and nobody came in

to take their place.

Hell, if he was going to drink himself to death, he might as well do it somewhere pretty, Florida or

something, where at least it stays warm most of the damn year.

He hiccuped, spat on the sidewalk, and belched loudly.

On the other hand, he decided the same thing every damn night, and hadn't moved yet.

Goddamn Army.

Too old, pal, we don't need you anymore. Take your pension and split, you old fart.

He belched again, spat again, and seriously considered going back to Barney's, to have a farewell

drink. That would shake them up, no question about it.

Half a block later he stopped, scowling at himself, and squinted down the street. The tar-mac was a

black mirror, streetlight and neon twisted and shimmering in the puddles. Nothing there but small shops

and offices, a distant traffic light winking amber.

He looked behind him.

The street was deserted there, too.

Nothing moved but small patches of fog.

You're spooking yourself, bud; knock it off.

He rolled his shoulders, straightened his spine, and crossed to the other side. Two more blocks, a left,

a right, and he'd be at the worn-down apartment complex where he had spent most of the years since his

discharge.

He could find the damn thing blindfolded.

He glanced back again, thinking someone from the bar was following him.

The end of the block, and he turned around.

Damnit, there was someone back there. It wasn't so much the sound of footsteps as it was a

presence. A feeling. The certainty that he wasn't alone. He knew that feeling well—it had almost driven

him around the bend, over there in the jungle, knowing they were in the trees, watching, waiting, fingers

on triggers.

"Hey!" he called, glad for the sound of his voice, wishing it didn't echo so much.

Nothing there.

Yes, there was.

Screw it, he thought, turning with a disgusted wave of his hand; I don't need the aggravation.

If it was another drunk, he didn't care; if it was some kid looking for a quick mugging, he didn't care

about that either because he didn't have anything worth taking.

But by the end of the block he couldn't help it; he had to look.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

A sudden breeze made him narrow his eyes as it sifted mist against his face, and when he did, he saw

something move at the mouth of a narrow alley about thirty feet back.

"Hey, damnit!"

No one answered.

And that pissed him off.

Bad enough the Army had fucked him over, and bad enough he hadn't been able to leave this damn

place and leave the ghosts behind, but he was not about to let some goddamn punk mess with his head.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and marched back, breathing slowly, deeply, letting his anger

build by degrees instead of exploding.

"Hey, you son of a bitch!"

No one answered.

Nothing moved.

By the time he reached the alley, he was in full-bore fighting mode, and he stood at the mouth, feet

slightly apart, fists on his hips.

"You want to come outta there, buddy?"

A sigh; maybe the breeze, maybe not.

He couldn't see more than five feet in—three stories of brick on either side, a pair of dented trash

cans on the left, scraps of paper on the ground, flut-tering weakly as the breeze blew again.

He wasn't sure, but he thought the alley was a dead end, which meant the sucker wasn't going

anywhere as long as he stood here. The question was, how far was he going to push this thing? How

drunk was he?

He took one step in, and heard the breathing.

Slow, measured; someone was trying very hard not to be heard.

This didn't make sense. If whoever it was had hidden himself back there, Grady would have heard

him moving around. Had to. There was too much crap on the ground, too much water. His own single

step had sounded like a gunshot.

And the breathing sounded close.

"I ain't got time for this," he muttered, and turned.

And saw the arm reach out of the brick wall on his right.

The arm, and the hand with the blade.

He knew what it was; God knows he had used it himself dozens of times.

He also knew how sharp it was.

He almost didn't feel it sweep across his throat.

And he almost managed to make it to the street before his knees gave out and he fell against the wall,

staring at the arm, at the hand, at the bay-onet as he slid down, legs stretched out before him.

"Goddamn ghost," he whispered.

"Not quite," someone answered. "Not quite, old man."

That's when Grady felt the fire around his neck, and the warmth flowing over his chest, and the

garbage beneath him, and the fog settling on his face.

That's when he saw the face of the thing that had killed him.

The afternoon was pleasantly warm, the sky a sharp and cloudless blue. The sounds of Thursday

traffic were muted by the trees carrying their new leaves, although the cherry trees hadn't yet sprung all

their blossoms. The tourists were few at the Jefferson Memorial, mostly older peo-ple with cameras

around their necks or cam-corders in their hands, moving slowly, taking their time. A handful of joggers

followed the Tidal Basin rim; two paddle boats glided over the water, seemingly in a clumsy, not very

earnest race.

That's why Fox Mulder preferred this place over the others when he wanted time to think. He could

sit undisturbed on the steps, off to one side, without having to listen to terminally bored tour guides

chattering like robots, or schoolkids laugh-ing and horsing around, or any of the rest of the circus that

Old Abe or the Washington Monument managed to attract.

His dark blue suit jacket was folded on the marble step beside him. His tie was pulled-down and his

collar unbuttoned. He looked much younger than his years, his face as yet unlined, his brown hair unruly

in the light breeze that slipped over the water. Those who bothered to look in his direction figured, he

supposed, that he was some kind of academic.

That was all right with him.

His sandwich was almost done, a plastic cup of soda just about empty, when he saw a tall man in a

dark brown suit moving around the edge of the Basin, staring at those he passed as if expect-ing to

discover someone he knew. Mulder looked quickly from side to side, but there was no way he could

duck around the building or into the trees without being seen.

"Hey!" the man called, catching sight of him and waving.

Mulder smiled politely, but he didn't stand.

This was not what he needed on a great day like this. What he needed was his sandwich, his

soda—although he'd prefer a cold beer in a bottle, preferably sitting in a booth at Ripley's, in

Alexandria—and maybe that short brunette over there, taking slow tight circles on a pair of in-line skates,

earphones attached to a Walkman at her waist. He supposed maintaining balance was a lot like being on

ice skates; it seemed to be the same principle. Not that he was all that good when roller skates had

wheels at the corners, spending, as he had done, more time on his rump than attaining great speeds.

The skater shifted suddenly, and he blinked, realizing for the first time how tan she was, and how snug

her red satin shorts and red T-shirt were.

Then a shadow blocked his view.

It was the redhead.

"Mulder," the man said, standing two steps below him, grinning like an idiot, "where the hell have you

been?"

"Right here, Hank."

Special Agent Hank Webber stared over Mulder's head at the daylit figure of Thomas Jefferson

standing tall beneath the dome. A puz-zled frown came and went. "Never did see this place, you know

what I mean?" He shook his head, scratched through his dark red hair. "What do you want to come to a

place like this for?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's nice. It's quiet." He deepened his voice. "It's not the office."

Webber didn't take the hint. "So, did you hear what came in?"

Mulder just looked at him.

"Oh." The younger man grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. Of course you wouldn't hear. You were here."

"Hank, your powers of deduction have never failed to give me a shiver." He smiled when the younger

man sputtered, telling him with a ges-ture that it was only a stupid joke. Hank was a good man, but there

were times when Mulder thought him dense as a post. "Hear what?"

"Helevito."

He sat up slowly, lunch momentarily forgot-ten. "What about him?"

"They got him."

He didn't know whether to laugh, cheer, shock the kid with a victory dance, or play it the Bureau way

by simply nodding, as if the outcome of a three-month manhunt for a kidnapper had never been in doubt,

especially since the kid-napped child had already been recovered safely. What he decided to do was

take another bite of his sandwich.

Webber hooked a thumb in his belt. "Yep. Not two hours ago. You figured it right, Mulder. They

staked out his cousin's place in Biloxi, and sure enough, he comes strolling in this morning all by his

lonesome. Spent most of the night on one of those new riverboats, pissing away half the ran-som money

at roulette. Most of the rest evidently went to some blonde." He laughed and shook his head. "I heard the

first thing he said was, 'I knew I should've played thirty-six and red.'"

He nodded.

Mulder took another bite, another sip, and waited.

"So." Webber squinted as he checked out the memorial again.

A quartet of nuns chattered past, smiling at him, smiling at Mulder.

The skater left, not even a glance in their direction.

Webber sniffed, and fussed with his tie. "So."

"Hank, I am eating my lunch. I am enjoying the fresh air, the sunshine… and I am especially enjoying

the peace and quiet that comes with not being at the Bureau for a while. I'm not sure what you want me

to say."

The younger man seemed bewildered. "But… but if it hadn't been for you, they never would've gotten

him, right? I mean, nobody else figured out his gambling problem, right? Nobody else knew about that

cousin. So…" He spread his hands. "So aren't you glad?"

"Overjoyed," he answered flatly.

And instantly regretted it when Webber's expression sagged into youthful disappointment. He knew

the kid believed that every bust was righ-teous, every arrest an occasion for celebration, every crook

large or small put behind bars a reason to dance. What he hadn't figured on was, between the first bust

and the fourth and the fiftieth and the mil-lionth, the exhilaration was always there. Always. And the

feeling that finally one of the bad guys lost.

But the good agents, the best ones, never for-got that on the far side of that exhilaration there was

always someone else waiting in line.

It never ended.

It just never ended.

That fact alone sometimes turned a perfectly good agent into a cynic who made mistakes. And it

sometimes got him killed.

Mulder didn't want that to happen to him.

He had too much to do.

He had too much yet left undone.

On the other hand, he also hadn't finished his lunch, and there were still five other folders wait-ing on

his desk in varying stages of investigation. He wasn't the primary agent on any of them, but he had been

asked to take a look, to see if he could spot something the others had missed.

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 swal-lowed,

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 ges-tured

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 top-pled 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 sand-wich.

"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 any-more. 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 hook-ing 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 accomplish-ments 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 mur-der, one

daylight robbery of $25,000, and wit-nesses 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 actu-ally 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 sup-posed "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, how-ever; 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 as he slipped into his jacket. 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.

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 reg-ular girl had to

work, and wake up the next day without a hangover. No big deal. So he had wran-gled 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

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GoblinsTheXFilesCharlesGrantIfyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacover,youshouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisherandneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis"strippedbook."Thisisaworkoffiction.Thecharacters,incidents,anddialoguesareprodu...

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