The X-Files: Goblins

SEVENTEEN

A single light over the table, barely reaching the first bed, and the second one not at all.

Scully sat with her back to the window, Mulder by the door, Webber on the edge of the dresser, Andrews on the edge of the near bed.

Mulder didn’t like it. He couldn’t see expressions; they were too much like spirits at the fringe of a séance, floating in and out of the dark as if they wore veils.

Scully’s fingers pushed at nothing on the table’s wood-grain surface. “I’ve been thinking about a moth I found on my wall.”

She hadn’t seen it right away, not only because it was too small, but also because its coloration almost blended in with the paint. That made her think of camouflage, and the goblin, who was able to hide in an alley without being seen, and hide in the woods without Mulder seeing. Despite what she had said before, she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that tactics like that were supported by an arsenal of camouflage suits and greasepaint, burnt charcoal, twigs and leaves worn as aids to blending in.

Although it was possible, it also required advance knowledge of where the target victim would be.

“And I don’t think such a package could be carried on someone’s back. It would be inefficient and clumsy.”

There was, for example, no way the killer — the goblin, if they had to call it that — could have known that Grady Pierce would pass by that alley that night, at just that time. Webber’s interview with the bartender had established that more often than not, Noel brought the ex-sergeant home himself. And they themselves hadn’t decided to visit the site of Corporal Ulman’s murder until they had finished lunch in the diner.

“Two questions,” she said, eyes down, as if speaking to the table.

“How did it know where to be?” Webber said.

She nodded.

“Unless it knows magic,” Andrews said, a smile in her voice, “how could it be ready with… whatever it wore to hide itself?”

Scully nodded again.

Mulder watched her fingers move, dusting, tracing circles.

“For now, let’s set aside the why of it, the killing. And the who.” She looked up, too pale in the light, and Mulder looked away. “The how, on the other hand…”

No one spoke.

A car backfired in the parking lot, and only Webber jumped.

An engine raced on the county road, another followed, and there were horns.

Mulder shifted stiffly as he watched her face. It bothered him sometimes, how smooth it was, without many lines, because it prevented him from really knowing just what she was thinking. Too often a mask. But her eyes, they were different. He could see them now, shadowed by the light over her head, and he could see that she was struggling with a reluctant decision.

He brushed a strand of hair from his brow.

The movement made her look, and when she looked, she inhaled slowly.

“Special Projects,” said Webber, startling them all. “That Major Tonero and his Special Projects.”

“I think so,” she answered. “But exactly what, I’m not sure.”

“Yes, you are,” Mulder said gently. “It’s not a goblin, at least not like Elly Lang says it is.”

Andrews made a faint noise of derision. “So what is it? A ghost?”

“Nope. It’s a chameleon.”

The wind rose.

A draft slipped through the window and fluttered the curtains.

Andrews slapped her thighs. “A what? A chameleon? You mean, a human chameleon?” She waved a hand in disgust. “No offense, Mulder, really, but you’re out of your mind. There’s no such thing.”

He didn’t take offense, although he knew she wanted him to. “There are lots of things that are no such thing, Licia. Some of them aren’t, some of them are.” He scooted his chair closer to the table. “I think Scully’s right. This is one of them that is.”

Andrews appealed to Scully. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”

A corner of Scully’s mouth pulled up. “This time, yes.”

He made a sour face at her, then swiped at his hair again. “A chameleon—”

“I don’t need a biology lesson,” Andrews snapped. “Or zoology. Whatever. I know what they can do.”

“They change colors,” Webber said anyway. “To fit their background, right?” He stepped away from the dresser. “Wow. Do you really think this is what we’ve got?”

Mulder held up a finger. “First, you’re wrong. Sort of. Chameleons can’t change color to fit every background. They’re limited to only a few, like black, white, cream, sometimes green.” He grinned. “Put him on a tartan tablecloth, he’d probably blow his brains out.”

Webber laughed, and Scully smiled.

Mulder’s fingers began to tap eagerly on the table. “But within certain limits, yes, he can adjust his pigmentation.”

“I don’t believe this,” Andrews muttered. “I swear to God, I don’t believe it.”

Mulder ignored her; he wanted Scully to follow and watched her as he spoke, in case he made a mistake.

“Now, contrary to popular opinion, chameleons don’t change at will, right?”

She nodded.

“It’s things like temperature or emotion that cause the coloration to alter. When they get scared or angry. I don’t think they sit down at breakfast and decide to be green for a day.” He sat back, then stood.

“Careful, Mulder,” Scully cautioned.

“But we can’t do that,” he said to Webber. “Right?”

“Change color? Hell, no. Except when we get tan or something.”

“Right.” He moved to the door, snapping his fingers at his side, turned and gripped the back of his chair. “But suppose our Major Tonero and his group — Tymons, right? and Elkhart — suppose they’ve been able—”

Around the edges of the drapes he spotted flashing lights and yanked open the door. In the parking lot below he saw a police cruiser, warning bar alit and swirling color. A patrolman looked up. “Hey, you the FBI?” he called.

Mulder winced and nodded.

The policeman beckoned sharply. “The chief wants you right away. We got another one.”

Two patrol cars, parked sideways, and a quartet of orange-stained sawhorses bracketed a fifty-yard section of the street. An ambulance was parked nose-in to the curb, and two attendants leaned against it, smoking and waiting. Blue and red lights swarmed across branches and tree trunks, and the faces of two dozen onlookers gathered on the sidewalk opposite the scene. Flashlights danced in back yards, and in the distance a siren screamed.

There was very little talk.

Mulder and Scully followed their driver around the barrier; Webber and Andrews were behind them in the other car.

Hawks met them at the foot of a gravel driveway. “Man walking his dog,” he said, pointing to a young man standing in the street, a terrier in his arms. “He found him.” He sounded angry.

“Are you sure it’s the same?” Scully asked.

Up the drive two men knelt beside a body in high grass between the gravel and the porch; one of them was Dr. Junis.

“See for yourself.”

Mulder moved first, but he didn’t have to go all the way before he saw the victim’s face. “Damn!” He turned to block Scully. “It’s Carl.”

“You know him?” Hawks demanded.

Scully inhaled sharply and stepped around the two men, nodding as Junis glanced up and recognized her.

“He’s a reporter,” Mulder explained, disgust and sadness in his voice. “A sports reporter.”

“Sports? Sports, for God’s sake? So what the hell was he doing here?”

“Corporal Ulman’s fiancée was his cousin. He wanted me to come up and look around. I guess… I guess he was doing a little looking on his own.”

“Jesus.” Hawks clamped his hands on his hips, glowering, breathing heavily. “Son of a bitch, what the hell’s going on around here? Mulder—” He stopped and wiped a hand over his face. “Mulder, is there some shit you’re not telling me?”

A man on the porch called the chief, who hesitated before telling Mulder to stay where he was. When he left, Mulder scanned the growing crowd, and the shadows the cruiser lights created between the trees, between the houses. It was bad enough when the victim was a stranger, but this… He crammed his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground until footsteps on the gravel made him look up.

“Come on,” Scully said gently, her voice trembling slightly.

Hawks called them from the steps, and held out a piece of paper found jammed into the doorframe. It was a note from Barelli, requesting an interview which, he promised, would be paid for by a complete dinner at the best restaurant in town.

“Who lives here?” Mulder asked.

The house was rented by Maddy Vincent. The day-shift dispatcher, Hawks added. A gesture to figures moving around the inside told him the woman wasn’t home, and no one knew where she was. “No surprise, it’s Friday night,” the chief said in disgust. “Shit, she could be in Philadelphia for all I know. Or…”

Mulder checked the porch, the blood on the flooring and on the door. Carl was attacked here, he thought, and the force of the attack, and his probable retreat from it, sent him over the railing. Where he bled to death without ever getting his story.

“Damnit,” he said, and stomped down the steps. “Damnit!”

An hour later, Carl’s body was gone and those neighbors who’d been home had all been interviewed.

No one had seen anything; no one had heard anything. A call had gone out to Officer Vincent’s friends in the vain hope she hadn’t left town. A check with the station told them Barelli had stopped in only a short while ago, specifically looking for the dispatcher.

“But why?” Hawks leaned heavily against his patrol car, his face drawn and tired, his voice hoarse. Most of the crowd had retreated to nearby houses; two of the cruisers had left. “What the hell did he think he knew?”

Mulder held up a small notebook. “Nothing that he wrote down.” He handed it over. “He had dinner with Miss… Ms. Lang, and wanted to see your dispatcher. All he had were more questions.”

“He’s not the only one,” the chief growled.

Mulder sympathized with the man’s frustration, but it didn’t extend to telling him about the major. That, he decided grimly, was someone he wanted to talk to himself, without the complications Hawks was bound to create.

The chief finally mumbled something about getting back to his office, and Mulder wandered over toward his car, where the others waited. They said nothing as he turned to stare at the empty house, ribboned now in yellow, a patrolman on the steps to keep the curious away. The dusting had been completed, but he doubted they would find any useful prints besides Barelli’s and Vincent’s.

Goblins, he thought, don’t leave handy clues.

He was angry. At Carl, for playing in a game well out of his league, and at himself, for the helplessness he felt for not knowing enough. It was a waste of energy, he knew that, but there were times, like now, when he simply couldn’t help it.

He walked back to the middle of the street and stared at the house, ignoring the damp wind that whipped hair into his eyes.

Carl was a big man, and definitely not soft. He had to have been surprised. A single blow, and it was over. He had to have been surprised.

“Mulder.” Scully came up beside him. “We can’t do any more here.”

“I know.” He frowned. “Damn, I know.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “Major Tonero.”

Scully looked at him sternly. “In the morning. You’re exhausted, you’re not thinking straight, and you need rest. He’s not going anywhere. We’ll talk to him in the morning.”

Any inclination to argue vanished when she nudged him into the car; any inclination to do some work on his own vanished as soon as he saw the bed.

But he couldn’t sleep.

While Webber snored gently, and murmured once in a while, all he could do was stare at the ceiling, wondering.

Finally he got up, pulled on his trousers and shirt, and went out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing while he watched the trees across the road move slowly in the slow wind.

He thought of Carl and the times they had had; he thought of the man who had tried to kill him that afternoon, an afternoon that seemed years distant, in another lifetime; he shivered a little and rubbed his arms for warmth as he wondered why Carl had wanted to talk to Officer Vincent. Elly Lang was obvious, but what did Hawks’ dispatcher have to do with the goblins?

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

He didn’t jump, didn’t turn his head. “The day you figure out how to turn off my brain, Scully, let me know.” He shook his head, but carefully. “Amazing, isn’t it.”

“Your brain?” She leaned her forearms on the railing. “It’s okay, but I wouldn’t call it amazing.”

“Chameleons,” he said. He nodded toward the woods. “Somewhere out there somebody has figured out a way, maybe, to create natural protective coloration in a human being. I don’t know what you’d call it. Fluid pigmentation?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that’s—”

“It was your idea.”

“Yeah, but I still don’t know. Do you have any idea what kind of genetic manipulation that would require? What kind of control on the cellular level that would mean?”

“Nope.” He glanced at her sideways. “But if you tell me, maybe I’ll be able to get some sleep after all.”

She rolled her eyes as she straightened. “Go to bed, Mulder. Just go to bed.”

He smiled at her back, suddenly yawned, and did as he was ordered.

Sleep, however, was still hard to come by.

Aside from the aches in his head and side, he couldn’t help thinking about the possibility that there could be someone in the room right now, standing against the wall there.

Invisible, and watching him.

Waiting.

And he wouldn’t know it until a knife tore out his throat.