The X-Files: Goblins

FOURTEEN

The room was empty.

Rosemary didn’t really expect to find anyone there; it was too soon after the woodland incident, and it also wasn’t easy for it to get away without being noticed.

What she hadn’t expected, however, and what frightened her, was the destruction.

She stood on the threshold, one hand absently rubbing her arm, a faint chill slipping across the back of her back. Although she couldn’t hear it, she swore she could feel the wind pummeling the hospital, could feel the building’s weight settling on her shoulders.

The notion made her angry, but she couldn’t shake it off.

Damn, she thought, and passed a weary hand over her eyes.

The mattress had been sliced open in a score of places, the stuffing strewn across the floor; the desk was overturned, one leg snapped off; the chair was little more than splinters.

The Blue Boy had been yanked off the wall and shredded.

In its place, scrawled in black letters:

I’m looking for you.

Major Tonero sat at his desk, hands folded on the blotter, staring at the telephone.

He was neither panicked nor overconfident, but since leaving the site of the shooting, he had begun to review his options. By the time he had stopped pacing the office, he knew what had to be done. And it galled him. Not that he considered the Project a failure; too much had been learned from it, too much progress gained. No, what galled him was—

The telephone rang.

He listened to it without moving.

At the seventh ring he cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.

“Good afternoon, sir,” was followed without prompting by a detailed summary of what had happened that afternoon, and what connection he suspected it had with the two incidents he had previously reported to those in charge. He spoke crisply and flatly, no emotion at all. When he finished, he listened.

He did not interrupt, speaking only when asked a question, his spine rigid, his free hand still flat on the blotter.

The voice at the other end was calm, a good sign, but he did not, could not, put himself at ease.

When the conversation arrived at the crux, thirty minutes had passed.

The last question was asked.

Tonero nodded. “Yes, sir, I do, with your permission.” He inhaled slowly. “I believe it’s time to explore other venues; there are several mentioned in my December report. This one, through no fault of ours, has been contaminated. I also believe the additional personnel now on site will not be put off, most especially after this afternoon’s incident. That they are from the Bureau means we can neither control nor contain them with any true degree of effectiveness or guarantee of success. However, I have no doubt we can make the transfer without discovery, and then the Bureau people can investigate all they want. They won’t find a thing.”

He listened again, and for the first time, he smiled.

“Yes, sir, I do believe you’re right — sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But we are still light years ahead of where we were the last time. This, I think, argues well for our eventual success.”

His smile broadened.

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that.”

The smile vanished.

“Indispensable? No, sir, to be honest, he is not. His objectivity and full commitment have been lost, I believe, and, frankly, his nerves are shot. I do not believe another relocation would be in the Project’s best interest. Dr. Elkhart, however, has been most helpful. It would be a severe loss if she were not to remain.”

He waited.

He listened.

“Forty-eight hours, sir.”

He nodded.

He replaced the receiver and for several long seconds sat without moving.

Then, as if he’d been struck across the shoulders, he sagged, and whispered, “Jesus!”

His hands began to tremble, and there was sweat on his brow.

Barelli sat at a window table in the diner, beginning to wonder if he had, in fact, wasted his time. Not that he didn’t doubt his reporter’s skills; that he was good was a given. But after nearly an hour with that police sergeant, with some comments from the others as they drifted in and out of the station, he had learned practically nothing he hadn’t known before — Frankie was dead, the killer was still out there, and nobody had a clue what the hell was going on.

And that goblin shit — Jesus Christ, what the hell did they think he was?

A round-faced wall clock over the register ticked closer to six as he sipped at cold coffee and stared at the traffic. The weather hadn’t discouraged anyone, it seemed. Men in uniform, soldiers in civilian clothes trying not to look like soldiers, strolled or drove past, filling the diner, moving into the bars that served food, lingering in front of the movie theater a block west of the police station.

Friday night in the middle of nowhere.

His stomach complained of all the caffeine he had drunk, and he popped an antacid tablet into his mouth, chewed it absently, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. Of course, there was still that “date” with Babs Radnor to keep. If he wanted to. And right about now, it looked as if it was the only game in town.

Another antacid, another scan of the street, and he dropped a few bills onto the table and went outside.

He scowled at the overcast. He hated this kind of day. If it was going to rain, he wished it would do it and be done with it; otherwise, why the hell didn’t those clouds just blow away?

He headed for the corner; his car was still parked in front of the police station.

Along the way he passed an old woman dressed in black from a heavy topcoat to a long scarf wrapped around her head. She held a large purse close to her chest, and an idle glance there made him stop and turn slowly.

What he had seen was the orange top of a spray paint can, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who she was.

He hurried after her, came abreast and said, “Miss Lang?”

She stopped and glared up at him. “Ms. Lang, if you don’t mind. Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter,” he explained, best smile, best voice. “I’m looking into the …” He lowered his voice, slipping her into his confidence. “Into the goblin affair.”

He waited patiently, watching her debate both the truth and the sincerity of what he had said.

A bus coughed past them.

Three young airmen on the corner broke into song.

Elly Lang eyed him suspiciously. “You think I’m a nut?”

“He killed a friend of mine. That’s not crazy at all.” When she didn’t walk away, he touched her arm lightly. “I’d be pleased if you’d join me for dinner.”

“And pump me, right?” she snapped.

The smile turned up a notch. “That, and for the company.”

She shook her head. “You’re full of it, mister, but I’m not going to pass up a free meal.” She took his arm and led him up the street. “You going to be cheap, or are we going someplace good?”

He didn’t laugh, but he wanted to; instead, he promised her the best meal this town could provide, which seemed, for the moment, to satisfy her. And as long as he didn’t run into Mulder or Scully, he had a feeling this was going to be a most informative, and lucrative, night.

Tonero wasn’t in his office, wasn’t anywhere on post that she could tell, but Rosemary ordered herself not to panic. There was still time to make corrections. There was still time to salvage something of the years she had put in.

She returned to the hospital, nodding silently to the receptionist and making her way down a corridor to an elevator stenciled authorized personnel only. From her pocket she took a small key ring and inserted a silver key into a vertical slot where, ordinarily, a summons button would be. When the door slid aside, she checked the hall and stepped in.

The key took her down.

She didn’t bother to watch the floor indicator; the elevator only stopped at three levels — the second floor, where the major’s office was, the main floor, and a subbasement.

The car stuttered to a halt and the door opened; she stared uneasily down the length of the dimly lighted corridor.

It seemed a lot longer tonight, and her heels a lot louder on the concrete floor.

The faint thrum of distant machinery was the only other sound.

As if performing for an invisible audience, she made a show of smoothing her smock over her chest, of caressing a palm over her hair as she walked. Confidence, outside and in, was the key. As long as she kept to her plan, as long as she didn’t lose her head, everything would be fine.

She tested Tymons’ office door; it was locked.

She opened the Project Center door and nearly screamed when she saw him bending over one of the computers.

“Jesus, Leonard,” she said, stepping in. “I didn’t know you’d be here. What are you—”

He turned to face her, and in his right hand was a rectangular block of black metal about six inches long. In his left hand was a gun. “Just stay where you are, Rosemary, all right? Just… stay where you are.”

“Leonard, what the hell are you doing?”

He smiled wanly. “Correcting a few things, that’s all.”

She looked around the room, not seeing anything out of place until her gaze reached the first computer screen. Though the machine was on, the screen was blank. So was the second one.

He waved his right hand. “It was so easy, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” He held up the block. “Why go through the whole mess when all you need is a magnet.”

“My God, Leonard!”

“One pass, and poof!” He dropped the magnet on the shelf. “Poof. All gone.”

Outrage prevented her from speaking, and fear of what Joseph would do when he found out.

“The thing is,” Tymons said calmly, and put a bullet through the nearest computer.

She jumped, but the gun kept her from fleeing.

“The thing is, you see, nobody’s ever really going to know, are they? I mean, there’s no sense going to the papers or the TV stations, because no one would ever believe it.”

He shot another one, showering the floor with splintered plastic and shards of glass.

She took a step back.

He glanced at her sideways, his expression rueful. “I’m still going to try, though. Despite the odds, I’m really going to try.”

“You can’t,” she said hoarsely, her throat lined with sand. She cleared it and tried again. “You can’t.” Her left hand fluttered helplessly from her chest to her throat and back again. “All those years, Leonard, all the work we’ve done. All the time. For God’s sake, think of all the time!”

“All the failures,” he said flatly. “All that time, and all those failures.” He spat dryly. “Buried, Rosemary. We had to bury our failures.”

He’s insane, she thought; my God, he’s insane.

“Listen, Leonard, if that’s what… if you don’t care about the work…think about—” She jerked a thumb at the ceiling. “You can’t.”

“Why? You mean those stupid oaths we signed?” He fired at the third and last monitor and hunched a shoulder to protect himself against flying shards. “Meaningless, Rosemary. By the time I’m through, they won’t mean a thing.”

“I’ll deny it,” she threatened. “I’ll tell anyone you tell that I don’t know a thing.”

He straightened. “My dear doctor, I’m sorry, but you won’t live long enough to have the chance.”

She backed up hastily until the wall stopped her, the open door to her right. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe, and a small fire in the workings of one of the destroyed computers had begun to lift feathers of smoke into the room.

“They’ll come after you, Leonard,” she warned, swallowing hard, fighting the nausea that roiled in her stomach. “Even if you can get off post, you won’t be able to hide for long. A week, maybe a month.” Sweat stung her eyes, but she didn’t dare move her hands to wipe it away. “You’ve just signed your own death warrant.”

He shrugged. “Like I care, Rosemary? Like I really give a damn?”

Without warning he emptied his clip into the shelves, the explosions deafening, damage almost total. She couldn’t help but scream then, more in rage than fear, hands up to protect her face from the spinning, flaming debris. Before she could move, he had replaced the clip with a fresh one from his pocket.

And pointed the gun at her head.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

All she could think was This is crazy, this is wrong.

“Go away.”

She didn’t move, didn’t understand.

“Rosemary, go away.”

When she looked, the gun was at his side, but the defeat in his voice wasn’t reflected in his face.

“Maybe,” he said, “you’ll last longer than I.”

Disgust twisted her features, but she refused to say a word for fear he would change his mind. Although she wanted desperately to rail against the destruction of all their work, she wanted more desperately to get out of this alive.

“Go away,” he whispered, and shook the gun at her.

Without further urging, she bolted clumsily into the corridor, and hadn’t taken two steps toward the elevator when she kicked herself in the ankle and fell hard into the wall. She cried out, more in surprise than pain, and cried out again when she heard a gunshot.

Another.

At that she ran, keeping her stinging arm braced against her side, fumbling with her free hand for the keys.

At the elevator door the key slid off the control plate twice before she was able to insert it properly. “Come on, damnit,” she whispered urgently, willing her nerves to settle down. “Come on, come on!”

The door opened and she virtually threw herself into the car, spun around and inserted the key a second time.

It wasn’t until the door had hissed closed that she realized she wasn’t alone.

No, she thought; not after all this, no.

“You know,” said a rasping voice behind her, “I’m getting pretty good at this, don’t you think?”