Read Online 01 - Goblins by Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead)
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double
side order beside Webber’s plate.
“My guilty pleasure,” Webber told her with a boyish grin, and poured what
Mulder figured was at least a gallon of syrup over the heavily buttered stack.
Scully watched in amazement. “Never mind.”
Andrews had contented herself with a cup of soup, her lean face etched with
weariness, her topcoat buttoned all the way to her chin.
Outside the window, a breeze danced with a handful of dead leaves, guiding
them onto the road where they were scattered by a passing car.
“So are we going to check it out tonight?” Webber wanted to know.
Mulder looked at him blankly. “What?”
The agent pointed over Mulder’s shoulder with his loaded fork, then yanked it
back when syrup began to drip on the table. “Marville. Are we going to check it
out tonight?”
He shook his head. “Not until morning. Then the first thing we have to do is
introduce ourselves to the local chief, let him know we’re here.”
Webber nodded. “Hawks.”
Mulder blinked.
“Hawks,” Webber repeated. “Todd Hawks. The Chief of Police. That’s who he
is.”
“Ah.”
Webber glanced at his partner, but her attention was on the empty road, and
stifling a fierce yawn with her hand. “Didn’t you read the file? I mean, it’s
all in there. About him. Hawks, I mean.”
A gust shimmered the window.
Andrews shivered, but she didn’t look away.
“Fox?”
“Mulder.” He pushed a hand back through his hair. “Don’t call me Fox. Mulder
is fine.”
Webber nodded once, correction noted and filed, it won’t happen again.
This kid, Mulder thought wearily, is going to drive me up the wall.
And since he knows the drill full well, he must either be too excited, too
eager, or he’s scared. That wouldn’t be surprising. So far, the young man’s field work had
been primarily confined to the immediate DC area. Now he was out here, no
convenient home office to run to, working with a guy supposed to be more than a
little off-center.
That almost, but not quite, made him feel better.
Andrews finished her soup, yawned, and stretched her arms stiffly over her
head, clasping her hands and popping her knuckles. “God,” she said huskily.
“God.” The topcoat did nothing to mask her figure.
Mulder felt Scully’s shoe poke his ankle, so he figured he must have been
staring, even though nothing had registered. That more than anything convinced
him it was time to stop being sociable and make his good nights. What he hadn’t
counted on, however, was Webber trying to save the Bureau a buck by booking only
two rooms, one for the ladies, one for the men.
As he unlocked the door and staggered in, tossing his small suitcase on the
nearest bed, he said, “If you snore, Hank, I’m going to have to shoot you.”
Webber laughed nervously, swore he slept like a baby, and laughed again while
he unpacked, toiletries neatly arranged in the bathroom, fresh suit hung on the
clothesrack by the bathroom door, the rest put away in the second drawer of a
low dresser that stretched halfway along the left-hand wall.
Mulder was too tired to watch the ritual; he’d take care of his own things in
the morning. He washed, he undressed, he was in bed and sleeping within ten
minutes, ignoring the soft voice of the news on the TV.
He dreamed.
of a room not quite fully dark, outlines of bedroom furniture, outline of
a window where the moon crept around the curtains;
a cool night and all the voices that go with it, from soft whispering leaves
to the call of tree frogs and crickets;
a faint rumbling, but he knew he didn’t live near the tracks, knew it wasn’t
a train;
louder, and the light around the curtains brightened to a glare, spearing
suddenly into the room, shifting, slants and darts stabbing across the walls,
the bed and the figure that lay on it, the ceiling, as if its source was
spinning slowly outside the window;
frightened
he was frightened, standing by the door, slowly dropping
side order beside Webber’s plate.
“My guilty pleasure,” Webber told her with a boyish grin, and poured what
Mulder figured was at least a gallon of syrup over the heavily buttered stack.
Scully watched in amazement. “Never mind.”
Andrews had contented herself with a cup of soup, her lean face etched with
weariness, her topcoat buttoned all the way to her chin.
Outside the window, a breeze danced with a handful of dead leaves, guiding
them onto the road where they were scattered by a passing car.
“So are we going to check it out tonight?” Webber wanted to know.
Mulder looked at him blankly. “What?”
The agent pointed over Mulder’s shoulder with his loaded fork, then yanked it
back when syrup began to drip on the table. “Marville. Are we going to check it
out tonight?”
He shook his head. “Not until morning. Then the first thing we have to do is
introduce ourselves to the local chief, let him know we’re here.”
Webber nodded. “Hawks.”
Mulder blinked.
“Hawks,” Webber repeated. “Todd Hawks. The Chief of Police. That’s who he
is.”
“Ah.”
Webber glanced at his partner, but her attention was on the empty road, and
stifling a fierce yawn with her hand. “Didn’t you read the file? I mean, it’s
all in there. About him. Hawks, I mean.”
A gust shimmered the window.
Andrews shivered, but she didn’t look away.
“Fox?”
“Mulder.” He pushed a hand back through his hair. “Don’t call me Fox. Mulder
is fine.”
Webber nodded once, correction noted and filed, it won’t happen again.
This kid, Mulder thought wearily, is going to drive me up the wall.
And since he knows the drill full well, he must either be too excited, too
eager, or he’s scared. That wouldn’t be surprising. So far, the young man’s field work had
been primarily confined to the immediate DC area. Now he was out here, no
convenient home office to run to, working with a guy supposed to be more than a
little off-center.
That almost, but not quite, made him feel better.
Andrews finished her soup, yawned, and stretched her arms stiffly over her
head, clasping her hands and popping her knuckles. “God,” she said huskily.
“God.” The topcoat did nothing to mask her figure.
Mulder felt Scully’s shoe poke his ankle, so he figured he must have been
staring, even though nothing had registered. That more than anything convinced
him it was time to stop being sociable and make his good nights. What he hadn’t
counted on, however, was Webber trying to save the Bureau a buck by booking only
two rooms, one for the ladies, one for the men.
As he unlocked the door and staggered in, tossing his small suitcase on the
nearest bed, he said, “If you snore, Hank, I’m going to have to shoot you.”
Webber laughed nervously, swore he slept like a baby, and laughed again while
he unpacked, toiletries neatly arranged in the bathroom, fresh suit hung on the
clothesrack by the bathroom door, the rest put away in the second drawer of a
low dresser that stretched halfway along the left-hand wall.
Mulder was too tired to watch the ritual; he’d take care of his own things in
the morning. He washed, he undressed, he was in bed and sleeping within ten
minutes, ignoring the soft voice of the news on the TV.
He dreamed.
of a room not quite fully dark, outlines of bedroom furniture, outline of
a window where the moon crept around the curtains;
a cool night and all the voices that go with it, from soft whispering leaves
to the call of tree frogs and crickets;
a faint rumbling, but he knew he didn’t live near the tracks, knew it wasn’t
a train;
louder, and the light around the curtains brightened to a glare, spearing
suddenly into the room, shifting, slants and darts stabbing across the walls,
the bed and the figure that lay on it, the ceiling, as if its source was
spinning slowly outside the window;
frightened
he was frightened, standing by the door, slowly dropping
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