Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

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.”