01 - Goblins by Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead) Page A

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