The X-Files: Goblins by Charles L. Grant

Author:Charles L. Grant [Grant, Charles L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-09-07T02:01:41+00:00

Carl Barelli was furious as he sped back through the woods toward Marville.

First, that sanctimonious toad, Tonero, tried to pass off the glop in the Officer’s Mess as some kind of fancy food, instead of taking him to a decent restaurant; then tried to hand out some pious bullshit about family unity and Angie’s peace of mind being more important than interfering with official investigations; and then he had the nerve to march Carl out to his car and tell him, with a smile, to go on back home and write about baseball or something.

He had fumed behind the wheel, debating the chances of his landing in jail if he went back inside and popped the toad one on the point of his spongy jaw.

Then an MP ran up, intercepted Tonero, and the two were hustled into a car. The next thing Carl knew there were sirens and men with rifles boiling out of the Provost Marshal’s office, and, after a suitable interval, he followed them.

To the goddamn woods.

Where another goddamn MP suggested with drawn .45 that the reporter find something else to report on, this area was sealed off to civilians.

“Bastards,” he muttered, and muttered it often until suddenly he grinned.

He had seen a town cruiser at the scene, which meant the locals were involved, which meant…

He laughed aloud, and by the time he pulled up in front of the police station, his mood had lightened considerably. A quick check of his hair in the rearview mirror, an adjustment of his tie and jacket, and he was inside, smiling at the two men at desks near the back of the room, and the front desk sergeant, who couldn’t have looked more bored if he were dead.

“I’d like to see the chief,” Carl said, as politely as his excitement would allow.

Sergeant Nilssen told him gruffly the chief was out, and there was no sense hanging around. He had work to do, half his people had some kind of lousy flu, and those who were around had police business to attend to.

A dispatch radio muttered static to itself while a gawky young officer flipped through a logbook.

Carl’s smile didn’t waver. “Then perhaps you can help me, Sergeant. I work for the Jersey Chronicle. My name is Carl Barelli, and I’m—”

Nilssen’s boredom vanished. “Barelli? The sports guy in the paper?”

Amazing, Carl thought smugly; absolutely amazing.

“That’s right, Sergeant. But today I’m looking into the death of a friend of mine. Corporal Frank Ulman.”

“Man, yeah,” the sergeant said, grinning. “So you want to hear about the goblins, right?”

� The smile still didn’t waver. “That’s right. Can you help me?”

The policeman leaned back in his chair, hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Anything you want to know, Mr. Barelli. All you have to do is ask.”

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