Charles Grant - The X-Files - Goblins

Without speaking, they sifted through the wreckage, not knowing exactly what they were looking for, knowing only that they’d know when they saw it. Then Scully rocked back on her heels.

“Mulder.”

He joined her, dusting his hands on his coat, and saw the blood. Lots of it, dry, and buried beneath plastic and blank sheets of paper.

“Not a gunshot wound, I think,” she said.

“Goblin.”

“I don’t know. It’s been here a while, though.” She poked at a large stain with a forefinger. “But not that long. We’re not talking about days.”

He guessed that the room on the right had been Tymons’ office, and Tymons’ alone. It didn’t have the feel of being shared with someone, like Rosemary Elkhart. This one had been the Project’s heart and control center. From here… he stood at the shelf and looked into the next room.

“Oh, boy,” he said. “Scully.”

She looked, and her eyes widened.

Mulder checked his watch. “Time, Scully. Not much left.”

The last room was a shambles as well, but it was the walls that fascinated him — one cream, one sand, one green, one black.

His fingers began to snap unconsciously.

This was it.

This was where the goblin was tested. One wall, one color.

Scully wasn’t sure. “So what did they do, Mulder? Line him up against the wall and wait? They could have done that with a sheet on a bed.”

Mulder looked at her sharply, and looked around the room again. His lips moved as if he were talking to himself before they parted in a satisfied grin. “Training,” he decided, and stood against the cream wall, unable to disguise the excitement in his voice. “Scully, it’s a training room.” He pointed. “Bed, desk, CD case there in the corner. Somebody lived here — no, somebody stayed here temporarily, maybe overnight, maybe for several days at a time.” He spread his arms along the wall. “Somebody who—”

Scully whirled on him. “Don’t say it, Mulder! I’m having a hard enough time as it is. Do not make it more complicated than it has to be.”

“But it’s not, Scully,” he insisted, pacing now, rubbing at his chin, his cheeks, pushing a hand back through his hair. “This is where the goblin learned how to change.” He turned in a slow circle. “Learned how to will the change, Scully, not wait for the change to happen.” He took a step toward her, and was stopped by her frown. “You said it yourself, right? He can’t carry every contingency around on his back. It’s impossible. Even for the most basic circumstances, it would be, for him, a dangerous hindrance.”

He looked to the door.

“A trained killer needs as few obstacles as possible. He needs a smooth way in, a smooth way out. No stops along the way for adjustments to a costume. No ripples. The quicker, the better.”

He looked around again, closer now, searching for something, anything personal, that would give him a hint to the room’s sometime occupant. But there was nothing left, and there was nothing left of the time he had hoped they would have.

On the way back to the elevator, Scully ducked into the control room and came out folding several pieces of paper she tucked into her shoulder bag. Blood samples. Not, Mulder thought, that they really needed them.

He knew who the blood belonged to.

On the way through the lobby, Mulder dropped the keys onto the absent receptionist’s desk, then followed Scully outside, anxious to get back to town.

The light rain had grown heavier, the air darker for it.

Another squad of soldiers marched by, absolutely silent.

“Mulder,” Scully said, “in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have a ride.”

It hadn’t occurred to him, and he didn’t think it mattered.

“And we don’t have an umbrella, either.”

She slapped him lightly on the arm and returned inside to use the phone.

He didn’t follow.

He watched the rain.

A human chameleon, he thought, slipping his hands into his pockets. An effective assassin, who could theoretically slip through the tightest of cordons.

In, and out.

No ripples.

Or, more frighteningly, a small army of them, living shadows slipping through the night.

No ripples.

Only death left behind.

It wasn’t a perfect disguise. It probably wasn’t effective in broad daylight, and the goblin — he couldn’t stop thinking of it that way—

wouldn’t be able to stay in the same room for very long. Even Scully had eventually spotted the moth.

Nevertheless… living shadows.

He shifted from foot to foot impatiently.

No question about it, Major Tonero was the project’s shepherd. He knew all of it, which meant he probably knew that Tymons was dead. Killed by the goblin? If so, was the goblin under the man’s direction?

But why kill the head of such a project?

Too easy — Rosemary Elkhart was second-in-command. There was no reason to believe she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, take over if she had to. And the best way to ensure that would be to make herself indispensable to those who were in charge. He pictured her in the major’s chair, and suddenly realized that was what had bothered him earlier. She was in his chair. She was comfortable using it. She had used it before.

“Well,” he whispered. “Well, well.”

“Stop thinking, Mulder, and move it,” Scully told him. She snapped open a large black umbrella, took his arm, and hustled down to the sidewalk.

They hadn’t gone a dozen paces before he took it from her before she poked his eye out. “Where did you get this?”

“You’d be surprised what you’ll find in the ladies’ room on a rainy day.” She hugged his arm tightly, quickly. “I called Chief Hawks, he’s on his way to pick us up.”

“So why—”

“The major isn’t going to stay in that office, Mulder, not when he finds out his keys are gone. He’ll check that setup first, using Dr. Elkhart’s keys, then probably come after us. I would like to be long gone before that, if you don’t mind.”

“He’ll follow us.”

“No, I don’t think so. We can’t disappear, Mulder. The senator, remember?”

He almost stopped then, but her momentum pulled him along.

“Carl.”

“What about him?”

Mulder stared into the rain, willing Hawks to come in at speed. “According to his notes, he was asking around about the goblin.” His chest tightened, his stride quickened. “Cleaning up, Scully. I think someone’s scared, and the goblin’s cleaning up.”

The telephone rang only once before Rosemary snatched up the receiver. She listened and said, “What are you doing, calling here? Suppose he had answered?” Without thinking, she began to weave the cord between her fingers. “Well, you’re lucky he’s not. He’s downstairs now. Those FBI agents were here, and he thinks they lifted his damn keys.” She watched the door without seeing it. “I think, if they didn’t know before, they know now.”

Her gaze shifted to the window, to the trails of water almost invisible against the grey air, the grey sky.

She stiffened.

“You can’t do that. No. It’s bad enough, but you can’t touch them.”

The goblin cleared its throat painfully. “Yes, I can.”

Rosemary almost rose out of the chair. “Damnit, will you listen to me? Just… just what we agreed, all right? Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

“Doctor, I can do whatever I want.”

She couldn’t believe it. First Tymons, now this.

“In fact, I think all that stuff you’ve been telling me is plain bullshit.”

“Look—”

“You know, I don’t think I’m affected much at all.” It laughed softly, and wheezed. “And if I am, Doctor… whose fault is that?”