Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

“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.”