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

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