01 - Goblins by Charles Grant - (ebook by Undead) Read Free Book Online

rent?”
    “You give me that autographed Thing From Another World poster?”
    “In your dreams, G-man. In your dreams.”
    The Golf Caps’ argument grew louder.
    “Jesus,” she muttered.
    “What’s up?” The person in the booth was still in shadow; all he could see
was one arm, in a tweed, elbow-patched sleeve.
    “The Redskins,” she said in disgust.
    He couldn’t help a laugh. “What? May’s just started, for God’s sake.”
    She looked at him with one eye open. “It’s always autumn when you’re a
Redskins fan, Mulder, don’t you know that?”
    One of the Golf Caps stood, his chair scraping back. Before anyone could
move, a man in shirtsleeves, a white apron tied around his waist, appeared by
the table. He was, Mulder thought, the perfect walking cadaver. Only the badly
arthritic hands spoiled the image. Evidently the Golf Cap didn’t think Stuff Felstead could do anything but glower. He was
wrong. Ripley’s owner said something so low only the other man could hear. It
was enough. He sputtered, gestured placatingly and by his expression suggested
to his companion that they leave.
    It was over in less than ten seconds.
    “Magic,” Trudy said, catching him staring.
    “Probably. After all this time, I still don’t see how he does it.”
    “Keep it that way,” she advised him. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
She set her palms flat on the table. “Well, break’s over. Gotta finish up.”
    “Nice visiting with you, too,” he said, sweeping up the last of the ketchup
with the last french fry. “So what’s the problem?”
    She froze halfway out of the booth, avoiding his gaze, staring at the
seatback behind him.
    He waited.
    Finally, she slumped back and shook her head. “It’s silly.”
    “Probably.”
    “I feel like a jerk.”
    He reached out his hand and waggled it until she handed him his coat. “You’re
off in ten minutes, you’ve had another fight with your boyfriend, you have a
tort quiz tomorrow, and you want a walk home in case he tries to hassle you.”
    She didn’t blink. “You know, Mulder, sometimes you’re damn weird.”
    He shrugged. “So they tell me.”
    “Fifteen minutes?”
    “Sure. No problem.”
    A quick smile was her thanks as she returned to work, and fifteen minutes
later she was back, heavy sweater over her arm. He paid at the register at the
end of the bar and followed her to the street. His own apartment was a couple of
blocks past King Street, closer to the Potomac; she lived the same distance in
the opposite direction. He didn’t mind. It was a nice night, a comfortable
breeze, and Trudy spent most of the time complaining about her landlady in a way
that, at one point, had him laughing so hard he tripped over a raised section of
sidewalk.
    He didn’t fall. A quick, exaggerated turn kept his balance.
    But not so quick that he didn’t see the man in the tweed jacket strolling
behind them a block away.
    It didn’t register at first because they had already reached her place, a
renovated colonial divided into a half-dozen apartments, hidden beneath a clutch
of oaks. She kissed his cheek quickly for thanks and hurried up the walk,
fussing in her purse for the keys.
    He didn’t leave until the front door was open and she was inside.
    Then he turned around and headed back the way they had come, hands in his
pockets, whistling softly. His footsteps were loud. Traffic didn’t exist. A dog raced silently across a sloped lawn to check him out,
tail wagging, fangs bared. Mulder gave the animal a smile and walked on.
    Checking the shadows for a shadow that didn’t belong.
    By the time he had crossed King Street again, he had begun to scold himself.
After all, people had to live someplace, some of them actually lived in the same
area he did, and the Tweed Man was probably one of them.
    His own building was on a quiet residential street. Well-kept dark brick with
a slight arch over the recessed entrance. Hedges that made the tiny lawn seem