Free 01 - Goblins by Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead)
Authors: Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead)
third of the block on
the right. A new, gold-lettered sign in front marked it as the police station;
an American flag drooped from a flagpole next to the double-door entrance.
Webber pulled into a space in front, rubbed his hands eagerly, and fairly
leapt from the car, hustling around to open the rear door for Andrews.
Mulder moved more deliberately, waiting until Scully joined him. They didn’t speak, just exchanged quick are you
ready glances and started up the concrete walk. Andrews wanted to know why
they had to start here since the senator’s connections were with Fort Dix and
the Air Force.
Scully averted her face from a mild gust. “Let’s just say it’s usually a
little easier dealing with civilians.”
“Their loss,” said Webber brightly.
Mulder looked at him, looked at Scully, and pulled open the door, allowing
the others to precede him into an open room that took up the entire front third
of the building. A waist-high wood rail stretched from wall to wall, and just
left of its center gate a uniformed dispatcher sat at her radio, scribbling in a
logbook; behind her were three metal desks, none of which were occupied.
To the gate’s right a fourth, much larger desk faced the entrance. Behind it
was a policeman whose uniform, Mulder reckoned, had been tailored for him ten
years and twenty pounds ago. His face belonged to a man who spent most of his
time outdoors, and a lot of that time drinking. His hair was brush-cut, and at
one time had been red.
Mulder took out his wallet and held up his ID. “FBI, Sergeant, good morning.”
He spoke politely, with well-practiced due deference. He introduced the others
quickly. “We’re here to see Chief Hawks.”
Sergeant Nilssen wasn’t visibly impressed. He said nothing, just pushed away
from his work and took his time walking to an unmarked door in the rear wall. Mulder saw
the puzzlement in Webber’s expression, the outrage in Andrews’. “It’s their
turf,” he reminded them quietly. “They didn’t ask for us, remember?”
“Still,” Webber answered.
Mulder had neither the time nor the inclination for a quick lesson on the
politics of competing law enforcement agencies. He kept his attention on the
sergeant, who stood in the open doorway, one hand on a cocked hip, the other
trying to scratch the small of his back, then his nape. Beefy, maybe, but not
very soft. A glance at the dispatcher, who stared back at him without apology.
She was in her late twenties, evidently enamored of heavy makeup and the way her
wavy brown hair puffed down to her shoulders.
When she finally nodded a greeting, he nodded politely back.
“Slow day?” Scully asked her, looking around the empty room.
She shrugged—her name tag read Vincent —and waved one hand. “Guys are
on the road.” A faint smile. “Rush hour, you know?”
Scully chuckled as the woman coughed lightly into a fist.
“Poison ivy?” Mulder said, nodding at the blotches of white lotion on the
back of her hand. “I hate that stuff.”
Vincent made a face in agreement. “Yeah, I got it—”
“Hey.”
The sergeant beckoned with a crooked finger.
Webber stiffened, but Scully touched his arm as Mulder led the way through
the gate, smiling, always smiling, thanking the sergeant as he stepped aside to
let the others precede him.
Nilssen didn’t smile back. After an expressionless, just shy of openly rude
once-over, he returned to his desk, leaving Mulder to make the introductions
again, this time to Todd Hawks.
The Marville chief was younger than Mulder expected, not much older than his
mid-forties, thick black hair brushed straight back from a widow’s peak that
pointed at where his heavy eyebrows nearly met across the bridge of a slightly
hooked nose. He did not wear a uniform, nor did he wear a tie. White shirt and
black trousers, their matching jacket on an antler coat rack in the corner.
His desk was battleship gray, just like the others, the only
the right. A new, gold-lettered sign in front marked it as the police station;
an American flag drooped from a flagpole next to the double-door entrance.
Webber pulled into a space in front, rubbed his hands eagerly, and fairly
leapt from the car, hustling around to open the rear door for Andrews.
Mulder moved more deliberately, waiting until Scully joined him. They didn’t speak, just exchanged quick are you
ready glances and started up the concrete walk. Andrews wanted to know why
they had to start here since the senator’s connections were with Fort Dix and
the Air Force.
Scully averted her face from a mild gust. “Let’s just say it’s usually a
little easier dealing with civilians.”
“Their loss,” said Webber brightly.
Mulder looked at him, looked at Scully, and pulled open the door, allowing
the others to precede him into an open room that took up the entire front third
of the building. A waist-high wood rail stretched from wall to wall, and just
left of its center gate a uniformed dispatcher sat at her radio, scribbling in a
logbook; behind her were three metal desks, none of which were occupied.
To the gate’s right a fourth, much larger desk faced the entrance. Behind it
was a policeman whose uniform, Mulder reckoned, had been tailored for him ten
years and twenty pounds ago. His face belonged to a man who spent most of his
time outdoors, and a lot of that time drinking. His hair was brush-cut, and at
one time had been red.
Mulder took out his wallet and held up his ID. “FBI, Sergeant, good morning.”
He spoke politely, with well-practiced due deference. He introduced the others
quickly. “We’re here to see Chief Hawks.”
Sergeant Nilssen wasn’t visibly impressed. He said nothing, just pushed away
from his work and took his time walking to an unmarked door in the rear wall. Mulder saw
the puzzlement in Webber’s expression, the outrage in Andrews’. “It’s their
turf,” he reminded them quietly. “They didn’t ask for us, remember?”
“Still,” Webber answered.
Mulder had neither the time nor the inclination for a quick lesson on the
politics of competing law enforcement agencies. He kept his attention on the
sergeant, who stood in the open doorway, one hand on a cocked hip, the other
trying to scratch the small of his back, then his nape. Beefy, maybe, but not
very soft. A glance at the dispatcher, who stared back at him without apology.
She was in her late twenties, evidently enamored of heavy makeup and the way her
wavy brown hair puffed down to her shoulders.
When she finally nodded a greeting, he nodded politely back.
“Slow day?” Scully asked her, looking around the empty room.
She shrugged—her name tag read Vincent —and waved one hand. “Guys are
on the road.” A faint smile. “Rush hour, you know?”
Scully chuckled as the woman coughed lightly into a fist.
“Poison ivy?” Mulder said, nodding at the blotches of white lotion on the
back of her hand. “I hate that stuff.”
Vincent made a face in agreement. “Yeah, I got it—”
“Hey.”
The sergeant beckoned with a crooked finger.
Webber stiffened, but Scully touched his arm as Mulder led the way through
the gate, smiling, always smiling, thanking the sergeant as he stepped aside to
let the others precede him.
Nilssen didn’t smile back. After an expressionless, just shy of openly rude
once-over, he returned to his desk, leaving Mulder to make the introductions
again, this time to Todd Hawks.
The Marville chief was younger than Mulder expected, not much older than his
mid-forties, thick black hair brushed straight back from a widow’s peak that
pointed at where his heavy eyebrows nearly met across the bridge of a slightly
hooked nose. He did not wear a uniform, nor did he wear a tie. White shirt and
black trousers, their matching jacket on an antler coat rack in the corner.
His desk was battleship gray, just like the others, the only