Hank laughed; Andrews only snorted and shook her head.
Dana, for her part, did her best not to react, because she recognized the signs — he was high on an idea, the bits and pieces of the puzzle beginning to give him some kind of picture. The problem with him was, that picture was often one no one else saw but him.
It was what made working with him at once so fascinating and so damn exasperating.
Rather than try to derail him, however, it was better to give him his head and go along for the ride. For a while.
So she suggested they clean up and meet in the restaurant in half an hour or so for coffee. Her tone brooked no argument. When Andrews left without a word, Scully’s expression sent Hank along as well, deciding it would be a good thing to take a walk around the building.
When they were alone, Mulder’s expression sobered. “I saw it, Scully. I’m not kidding, I really saw it.”
“Mulder, don’t start.”
He spread his hands on the table. “It’s not like I’m the only one, you know. Even Chief Hawks admitted there were others.” He held up a palm to keep her quiet. “I saw it — okay, just a glimpse — but I also touched it. It wasn’t my imagination, it wasn’t wishful thinking. I touched it, Scully. It was real.”
She leaned away from him, thinking. Then: “I’ll grant you it was real. He was real. But it wasn’t any goblin, no supernatural creature.”
“The skin—”
“Camouflage. Come on, Mulder, Fort Dix is a training base. That means there are personnel who are experts in all sorts of weaponry… and camouflage. God knows how elaborate they can be, but it’s probably a lot more now than just smearing greasepaint on your face.”
He tried to stand, grimaced, and sagged back. “My jacket.”
It had been tossed on the dresser. She fetched it and looked it over.
“I hit it twice, once pretty hard.” He leaned forward under the light. “There’s nothing there, Scully. No paint, no oil, no nothing.”
She dropped the jacket onto the bed. “A suit, that’s all. Skin-tight, latex, who knows? No goblins, Mulder. Just people in disguise.” She pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”
She knew he still wasn’t feeling well when he made no cracks, just nodded wearily and shifted stiffly to the mattress. As he settled down, she brought him a glass of water and aspirin and watched him drink.
“What about the major and his people?” he asked. His eyelids fluttered. “Hank’s right, that’s kind of fishy.”
“Later,” she ordered. “You’re not doing anybody any good, least of all yourself, when you can’t think straight.” Her frown deepened. “Get some rest. I’m not kidding. I’ll drop by later to see how you’re doing.”
“What about the others?”
She smiled prettily and headed for the door. “Oh, I think we’ll manage. We’ll muddle through somehow.”
She opened the door and looked over her shoulder. He hadn’t closed his eyes; he was staring at the ceiling.
Then his gaze shifted. “Scully, what if I’m right?”
“Rest.”
“What if I’m right? What if they’re out there?”
She stepped out, the door closing behind her. “They’re not, Mulder. For God’s sake, rest, before I—”
“How do you know they’re not? You can’t see them, Scully. They’re out there, somewhere, and you can’t see them.”
FOURTEEN
The room was empty.
Rosemary didn’t really expect to find anyone there; it was too soon after the woodland incident, and it also wasn’t easy for it to get away without being noticed.
What she hadn’t expected, however, and what frightened her, was the destruction.
She stood on the threshold, one hand absently rubbing her arm, a faint chill slipping across the back of her back. Although she couldn’t hear it, she swore she could feel the wind pummeling the hospital, could feel the building’s weight settling on her shoulders.
The notion made her angry, but she couldn’t shake it off.
Damn, she thought, and passed a weary hand over her eyes.
The mattress had been sliced open in a score of places, the stuffing strewn across the floor; the desk was overturned, one leg snapped off; the chair was little more than splinters.
The Blue Boy had been yanked off the wall and shredded.
In its place, scrawled in black letters:
I’m looking for you.
Major Tonero sat at his desk, hands folded on the blotter, staring at the telephone.
He was neither panicked nor overconfident, but since leaving the site of the shooting, he had begun to review his options. By the time he had stopped pacing the office, he knew what had to be done. And it galled him. Not that he considered the Project a failure; too much had been learned from it, too much progress gained. No, what galled him was—
The telephone rang.
He listened to it without moving.
At the seventh ring he cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.
“Good afternoon, sir,” was followed without prompting by a detailed summary of what had happened that afternoon, and what connection he suspected it had with the two incidents he had previously reported to those in charge. He spoke crisply and flatly, no emotion at all. When he finished, he listened.
He did not interrupt, speaking only when asked a question, his spine rigid, his free hand still flat on the blotter.
The voice at the other end was calm, a good sign, but he did not, could not, put himself at ease.
When the conversation arrived at the crux, thirty minutes had passed.
The last question was asked.
Tonero nodded. “Yes, sir, I do, with your permission.” He inhaled slowly. “I believe it’s time to explore other venues; there are several mentioned in my December report. This one, through no fault of ours, has been contaminated. I also believe the additional personnel now on site will not be put off, most especially after this afternoon’s incident. That they are from the Bureau means we can neither control nor contain them with any true degree of effectiveness or guarantee of success. However, I have no doubt we can make the transfer without discovery, and then the Bureau people can investigate all they want. They won’t find a thing.”
He listened again, and for the first time, he smiled.
“Yes, sir, I do believe you’re right — sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. But we are still light years ahead of where we were the last time. This, I think, argues well for our eventual success.”
His smile broadened.
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate that.”
The smile vanished.
“Indispensable? No, sir, to be honest, he is not. His objectivity and full commitment have been lost, I believe, and, frankly, his nerves are shot. I do not believe another relocation would be in the Project’s best interest. Dr. Elkhart, however, has been most helpful. It would be a severe loss if she were not to remain.”
He waited.
He listened.
“Forty-eight hours, sir.”
He nodded.
He replaced the receiver and for several long seconds sat without moving.
Then, as if he’d been struck across the shoulders, he sagged, and whispered, “Jesus!”
His hands began to tremble, and there was sweat on his brow.
Barelli sat at a window table in the diner, beginning to wonder if he had, in fact, wasted his time. Not that he didn’t doubt his reporter’s skills; that he was good was a given. But after nearly an hour with that police sergeant, with some comments from the others as they drifted in and out of the station, he had learned practically nothing he hadn’t known before — Frankie was dead, the killer was still out there, and nobody had a clue what the hell was going on.