01 - Goblins (4 page)

Mulder never asked how his friend always managed to get a pass without
calling ahead; he had a feeling he didn’t need to know the answer.

“So,” Barelli said, finally lighting on a chair, kicking aside the paper
balls as he stretched out his legs. He glanced through the doorway to the quiet
flow of agents outside, then back at the walls.

“So,” Mulder echoed.

“So where’s Scully?”

“She took some time off. She went West someplace, to see friends, I think.
She’s too cheap to send me a postcard.” A shrug with his eyebrows. “Today’s
Wednesday, the fifth, right? She’ll be back on Monday.”

“Too bad. I could’ve saved her.”

Mulder smiled, but it wasn’t wide, merely polite. Carl had been trying to get Scully out of the Bureau and into his
love life, not necessarily in that order, ever since he had met her just over a
year ago. Scully, although she claimed to be flattered by the attention, didn’t
think this was the guy who would, as she put it, light up her life.

Neither did Mulder.

While he liked Carl a lot, and they had good times together, the man was
incorrigible and unrepentant when it came to chasing women. As far as Mulder was
concerned, Scully was permanently out of bounds.

Barelli folded his hands over his stomach, pursed his lips, licked them, blew
out a silent whistle.

“What?” Mulder was puzzled. No handshake, no raucous invitation to
debauchery, no futile attempt to show him exactly how to shoot a basket. The
established routine had been abandoned, and he didn’t care for the way the man
refused to meet his gaze.

The reporter shook himself elaborately, forced a smile, crossed his legs.
“Sorry, pal. To be honest, I’ve had a pretty shitty week, all in all, and it
sure ain’t getting any better sitting in this place. When the hell are you going
to get a room with a view?”

“I like it here. It’s quiet.”

“It’s like a tomb is what it is.”

Mulder didn’t take the bait. “What’s the problem, Carl?”

The man hesitated before clearing his throat. “You remember Frank Ulman?”

Mulder wadded up another sheet. “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”

“He was at my sister’s a couple of Christmases ago. Skinny kid? Regular Army?
He kept hitting on my cousin Angie, she kept shooting him down, and you decided
to show him how to do it right.”

Suddenly, as he threw the paper ball, he remembered the night, and the memory
brought a smile. The kid, and he wasn’t much more than that, had paraded around
the Barellis’ suburban North Jersey house in his dress uniform, desperately
trying to find a woman who would be impressed by his bearing and ribbons. He was
so eager, he was laughable, and Mulder had finally taken pity on him.
Unfortunately, the heart-to-heart they had had in the rec room didn’t take.
Barelli’s cousin’s brother had had to be physically restrained from punching the
guy into the new year.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah.”

The ball went in.

“Well, a couple, three months ago, he and Angie got together. Kind of
serious, actually. I heard they were talking marriage and stuff.”

Mulder’s eyes widened. “Your cousin and that guy? Really? Why didn’t her
brother kill him?”

Barelli winced and looked away.

Oh shit, Mulder thought; open mouth, insert foot.

He abandoned his slouch for a posture more attentive. “Tell me.”

“He was killed last weekend.”

“Damn. Hey, I’m sorry, Carl. I didn’t mean—”

Barelli waved him silent. “It’s okay, don’t sweat it, you couldn’t have
known.” His smile was bitter. “Not exactly national news, you know?” Then he
inhaled slowly. “The thing is, Mulder, he was stationed at Fort Dix, some kind
of pissant clerical job, even though he thought he should have been something
else. You know, glamorous? Green Berets, something like that. Anyway, he got
himself into a fight at a bar in a nearby town, they call it Marville—”

“Over a woman, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah. Something like that. Anyway, he ended up at the base hospital Friday
night, busted up some, and was supposed to stay in bed until Sunday. Frankie
didn’t want to stay in bed, apparently. He was found on a road just south of the
post, on Sunday morning.”

“How?”

Barelli swiped at something invisible on his shirtfront. “Somebody cut his
throat.”

Mulder closed his eyes briefly, both in sympathy and at the image. “Have they
caught the one who did it?”

“No.”

“Witnesses?”

The man snorted. “Oh yeah, right. In the middle of the night out in the
middle of nowhere? Jesus, Mulder, gimme a break.” Then he shrugged. “Yeah.
Actually, there was one. A woman.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his
legs. “But Jesus, Mulder, she was hysterical and drunk and maybe doped up. You
know what she said? She said the damn tree grew an arm and killed him.”

Arlen Douglas could have been anywhere from his early forties to early
sixties. His perpetually tanned face was finely lined, his hair an aristocratic
mix of brown and silver, and his figure one of someone who was in close to
perfect shape. He sat behind his desk and took a single swipe at his tie before
closing the manila folder that lay before him on the leather-trim blotter.

It hadn’t taken him long to make the office his—framed photographs of his
family on the desk, framed photographs of him and three presidents, a handful of
movie stars, and a dozen senators on the walls. An American flag in a brass
stand to the right. Behind him, a large window whose view of the city was cut
off by pale beige blinds.

When his intercom buzzed, he touched a button, said, “Send him in, Miss
Cort,” and checked his tie again.

Special Agent Webber opened the door hesitantly, smiled, and stepped across
the threshold.

Another hesitation before he closed the door and marched to the desk.

Douglas prayed that the kid wouldn’t salute him.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Indeed I did, Hank.” He tapped the folder. “A fine job your team did on that
Helevito case. A very nice job indeed.”

Webber beamed. “Thank you, sir. But it wasn’t really my team, it was Agent
Mulder’s.”

Douglas smiled without showing any teeth. “Of course. But it seems you came
up with a vital piece of the puzzle, and exhibited some very fine investigative
techniques.”

He waited while the young man did his best to contain his pleasure. This, he
thought, was going to be a piece of cake.

“Tell me something, Hank, how did you like working with Fox Mulder?”

“Oh, boy,” Webber said enthusiastically. “It was great. I mean, they teach
you all that stuff at Quantico, but it doesn’t really have anything to do
wit…” He stopped himself and frowned briefly. “What I mean, sir, isn’t that
Quantico doesn’t do its job. Not at all. I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Douglas said, still smiling, hands now flat on the
folder. “It doesn’t come alive, does it, until you actually see it all in
action.”

“Yes, sir. Exactly.”

Well, of course, it doesn’t, you idiot, he thought. Someone was going to owe him big time for this. Real big time.

“And you found working with Mulder instructive?”

“Absolutely.”

“By the book, everything in its place, nothing for anyone to be ashamed of?”

He knew the young man would falter, and he did, torn between his liking for
Mulder and his loyalty to the Bureau. Douglas was well aware that Mulder used
the book when he had to, and his own, rather unique experience when necessary.
The problem was, that experience. Half the time, it seemed like nothing but
hunches; the other half consisted of such wild speculation that Douglas was
amazed the man had any arrest record at all.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind, Hank. It’s not really important.” He
slid his hands off the folder. “As I said, this is fine work. Thanks to you, we
should have no trouble in court putting Helevito away for most of the rest of
his life.” The smile faded to an expression that was both an invitation to the
inner circle and a warning against betrayed confidences. “But before you decide
to make Mulder your hero, there’s something you should know.”

Webber frowned his puzzlement.

“And something I’d like you to do for me.” The smile returned, this time with
teeth. “A personal favor. One, I think, which will not hinder your advancement
in the Bureau one iota.”

* * *

Mulder wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say next. He had already explained
to Barelli as carefully as he could that he couldn’t take on the case without
authorization, or without a request from the local law enforcement agency, but
the reporter refused to accept it. He kept insisting this was Mulder’s kind of
thing, right up his alley.

Weird stuff, Mulder thought sourly; famous throughout the whole damn world
for weird stuff.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, making sure Carl heard and saw the regret. “You
said yourself the woman had been drinking. And was hysterical. As anyone very
well might be who had witnessed something sudden and gruesome like that. Which
is why, believe it or not, eyewitnesses aren’t always the best way to pursue a
case. Get three people at the scene of a violent crime like this, and I’ll
guarantee three different versions of what happened.”

“Look, Fox, I know—”

Mulder held up a palm. “What I’m saying is, Carl, that this woman was
obviously severely shaken up. Like I said, anyone would be, and—”

“Speak for yourself,” a dry voice said from the doorway.

Barelli instantly leapt to his feet, a great, wolfish smile cracking his
solemnity. “Dana! Darlin’!”

Mulder merely looked to the door. “You’re back early.”

Dana Scully made a face, tossed her purse at him and shrugged out of her
light topcoat. “I got back last night. I got tired of looking at interstates.
After a few days they’re all the same—boring. And very exhausting.”

She didn’t look exhausted to him. Her light auburn hair was in place, her
slightly rounded face clear of any hint of weariness, and her clothes—a ruffled
blouse and wine-colored jacket with matching skirt—were impeccable!

As practically always.

“You look perfect,” Barelli said, crossed the room and engulfed her in a hug.

“Hi, Carl.” She accepted the hug for only a few seconds, then slipped out of
it so deftly Mulder wanted to applaud.

He nodded toward his friend instead. “Carl has a problem, but I’m afraid we
can’t help him.”

“Bullshit.” Barelli laughed heartily. “You just need some convincing, that’s
all. And this is just the little lady who can do it.”

Scully avoided another hug by catching the purse Mulder tossed back to her
and, at the same time, preempting the other chair.

“So how was the trip?”

She took her time answering. “Nice. Very relaxing.”

“You should have stayed the whole time.”

“What, are you kidding?” Barelli folded his arms and leaned against
the jamb. “You don’t know that little lady very well,
Mulder. Can’t keep her mind off business for more than two hours at a time.” His
smile was seductive, he knew it, and he used it. “Which makes me glad to see
you, Dana. Maybe you can talk this guy into giving a friend a hand.”

Scully quickly glared at Mulder, who had already raised his hands to offer
mock applause. Instead the right hand shot to scratch at the back of his head,
while the left answered the perfectly timed ringing phone beside him.

He listened.

He watched Dana watching him.

He hung up and said, “Carl, I’m sorry, but I have to see the boss.” as he rose
and reached for his suit jacket. “Let Dana know where you’re staying and I’ll
call you later.”

“Mulder?” Dana frowned.

“No, don’t worry, I’m not in trouble.” He paused at the door. “I don’t think
I’m in trouble.” He stepped over the threshold and looked over his shoulder.
“How can I be in trouble? We just closed a big case.”

Diamond Street was barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic on its easy
downward slope toward the Potomac River. Richly crowned hickory and maple lined
the worn curbs, hiding for most of its length old and small, brick and clapboard
homes with front lawns scarcely large enough for the name. At the top of the
slope were a handful of businesses, spillovers from South Washington Street. On
the west side was Ripley’s, flanked on the left by a corner grocery, and on the
right by a narrow three-story Victorian converted to a dress shop on the ground
floor, law offices above. The bar’s simple brick facade was deliberately no
advertisement; all there was was a dark green padded door over which hung a scripted sign in red. No window large or small. It was a neighborhood bar, no
outsiders or the outside need apply.

Mulder stepped in and immediately stripped off his coat, sighing a little,
pushing a weary hand through his hair. To his left were a half-dozen small
tables, already taken; to his right, a wall covered above dark wood wainscoting
with film and old radio show posters framed in polished wood. As soon as his
vision adjusted to the dim lighting, all except for the bar itself from short
candles in amber chimneys on the tables and sconces on the walls, he moved
slowly toward the back, down a narrow aisle created where the mahogany bar
began. That was filled too, but the noise level was low.

Conversation, quiet laughter, a few nods and smiles in his direction.

When the bar ended, the room opened up into a large square, with more tables,
and high-backed booths settled against the walls. There was no TV, no jukebox;
the background music piped through hidden speakers was barely loud enough to
register. Sometimes it was country, sometimes jazz, sometimes themes from films
and Broadway shows. It all depended on the mood Stuff Felstead was in when he
opened for lunch.

It didn’t take Mulder long to recognize the soundtrack from
Alien.
Stuff had apparently seen him coming.