01 - Goblins (17 page)

“No, don’t worry.” She inhaled deeply, slowly, and leaned her head back
wearily, closed her eyes, as her left hand unbuttoned her coat and pulled it
away as if she needed room to breathe. “We were in the elevator, and then… I
don’t know where.”

Another step: “I’m correct in assuming that, without the proper medication,
our friend will eventually…” His smile flashed and vanished. “Fade away?”

“Damnit, Joseph, what’s the matter with you? Haven’t you listened to a word
I’ve said?”

He held out his hands, palms up, beckoning until she took them and allowed
herself to be pulled to her feet and into his arms. He kissed her ear, her
cheek, her lips.

“Joseph?”

She was cold; cold with fear.

And trembling.

He whispered of the telephone call, and of the problems he had had until the
problems, it seemed, had decided to take care of themselves. He whispered of the
support he had given her to those in charge during that call. He suggested, in a
whisper, that they take her car back to the hospital, to Dr. Tymons’ office,
and retrieve the backup computer disks. Although no one had access to the
Project level except themselves, it seemed as if they might be leaving earlier
than expected.

“Or,” he whispered after she snuggled, wriggled closer, and kissed him back,
hard, “we could always wait until morning.”

It was her turn to whisper as she began working on his shirt: “Joseph, you
can be one arrogant bastard, do you know that?”

“But for good reason, Dr. Elkhart. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Barelli almost felt guilty leaving the old woman alone at the Company G, but
since everyone there seemed to know her, and like her, the guilt passed as soon as he
was outside.

It had been, from the beginning, an evening of surprises.

The establishment itself, around the corner and halfway down the block from
Barney’s, was a low clapboard building outlined in soft blue neon. In its large
front window a neon trooper marched guard duty around stencil-style letters that
spelled out company G. A shiny black film over the glass prevented anyone from
seeing inside, but once through the door he had been pleasantly surprised. The
restaurant-lounge was a single large room, softly and indirectly lighted, with
black plastic and glass, gleaming chrome and brass. A bar ran along the
left-hand wall, and the carpeted floor held a score or more tables, about half
of which were taken. A dance floor took up most of the back, with a low stage
against the wall.

The food, too, had been more than decent, and the drinks inexpensive. Elly
Lang ordered well and ate carefully, as if expecting to make the meal last all
night. When he asked her about herself, she smiled and told him little except
for the reputation the community had given her.

All because of the goblins.

By the time he had finished he knew he had heard all she had to say. Not
ranting, exactly, but it sounded like a story she had told a hundred times, and
not much different from what he had learned at the police station.

She had, pleasantly, dismissed him when his mind began to wander, and
although he stopped short of kissing her on the cheek, the almost-gesture had
made her laugh and shoo him away.

Now, on the street, he considered returning to the station to have a talk
with the dispatcher. Because of their job, they usually knew more than anyone,
and he remembered Sergeant Nilssen telling him their regular operator was a
young woman, Maddy Vincent.

Which was when he remembered his date with Babs Radnor.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Damn.”

He would have to go back and make some kind of excuse. She had been taken
with his reporting reputation, he knew that much, so maybe she wouldn’t be all
that unhappy when he assured her he wasn’t about to head home right away. A rain
check until tomorrow seemed the most likely way out.

He hurried up toward Main Street, changing his mind about driving, deciding
that a phone call would do. If he played it right, sounded right, she might even
be excited for him, now and later.

He shivered then and wished he had brought a topcoat with him.

True night had settled over the town, starless, feeling like rain. Houses and
buildings slipped into the protection of the dark, neon and street-lamps giving
the street needed color, and a semblance of life it didn’t have when the sun
shone.

There were just enough pedestrians to make the district seem almost lively; a
street cop spoke to a disgruntled knot of teens; a cruiser trolled slowly
westward, not caring about the traffic it backed up behind it; several shops
were open late, ghosts of customers inside.

The wind had died.

Still, he hunched his shoulders as he hurried westward, grumbling when he
reached the police station without finding a public phone. He looked over,
shrugged a
what the hell,
and took advantage of the first break to sprint
to the other side. Once in, he had to wait for several minutes. Unlike his
earlier visit, tonight the station was busy—two cops leading two lurching drunks
back toward the cells, the radio in constant chatter, a man in plainclothes at a
desk arguing with two women, one of whom had a bloody bandage wrapped around her
hand. When he finally caught the desk sergeant’s attention, he was told
brusquely that Officer Vincent wasn’t on this shift, he would have to wait until
morning.

He couldn’t.

The idea had taken hold, and now he couldn’t shake it.

A handful of smiling lies inflating Vincent’s importance to his story gave
him an address and directions; a flourish of notebook and pen proved to the
officer that Barelli wasn’t about to spell his name incorrectly.

By the time he was back on the sidewalk, he realized he was out of breath.

Easy, boy, he thought; take it easy, don’t blow it now.

Two blocks up, one block down, the sergeant had told him. An easy walk, and a
chance for him to think of the questions he’d need to ask.

The house was easy to find—it was the only one on the street without any
lights.

He knocked, rang the bell, even wandered around to the back door and knocked
again, but Officer Vincent wasn’t answering.

No matter, he decided, and parked himself on her front steps; she has to come
home sometimes, and when she does, I’ll be waiting right here to make her
famous.

He sat, he smoked, he listened to the neighbors on the left have a beast of a
battle. He walked around for a while to keep warm, but always within sight of
the house. And when he checked his watch under a streetlamp and realized it was
only a few minutes past eight, it occurred to him that Maddy Vincent might not
be home for hours. It was Friday night, and she was single, and what the hell
had he been thinking?

He was nearly at the corner when he stopped cursing his stupidity and trotted
back across the street, pulling his notebook out of his jacket pocket. Just to
be sure she’d be around, he would leave a note. Not too obvious, a little
mysterious. Pique her policewoman’s interest. He would save the sweet talk for
when he saw her.

It took him four tries before he was satisfied and tore the page free. The next thing was a place to put it so the wind
wouldn’t blow it halfway to the next county.

He settled for folding it in half and sticking it between the door and the
frame.

Then he turned around, dusting his hands, and saw the shadow standing on the
porch.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” the shadow said.

Barelli didn’t see the blade until it was too late, and there was nothing
left to do but open his mouth and try to scream.

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.