“Home,” the woman answered, crossing her legs again. “I was home. Watching TV.” Her smile was crooked. “Why, Agent Mulder? Am I a suspect?”
Mulder matched the smile, didn’t answer the question as he turned his back to her. “And you, Major?”
“How—” Tonero’s face darkened. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know who—”
“Chameleons,” said Scully mildly from her chair.
“Lizards,” Elkhart responded immediately, not quite as mildly. “Not, I’m afraid, from the goblin family.”
“Goblins?” The major’s voice rose. “Goblins? What are you talking about? What does some old woman’s rantings have to do with my cousin’s murder?”
Mulder shrugged. “I don’t know, Major. But just as you have to explore all possibilities within the scope of your projects, so do we, in murder investigations.” He turned to Scully. “Do you think we should come back later? I think they’re in a hurry.”
Scully agreed and headed for the door with the others.
Mulder, however, didn’t move. “Major, can I assume you’ll be around later this afternoon? Just in case?” He scanned the room. “Looks like you have a lot of work left here. And in your project office, too, I would guess.”
“Absolutely, absolutely.” Tonero moved again, and this time Mulder gave way. “Just call ahead, if you don’t mind. I have—” He gave Mulder a brief martyred look. “Superiors, if you know what I mean. This relocation makes them nervous.”
“I’ll bet,” Mulder said. “Nice to talk to you again, Dr. Elkhart,” and was gone before the woman could reply.
Once in the silent corridor, the door closed firmly behind them, he held up a palm to keep the others from talking, then checked left, toward the elevator bank, before looking in the opposite direction, where he saw another, single elevator. A snap of his fingers sent Webber there on the silent run, and a sign that told him there was no button to push.
“Well?” Andrews demanded when they reached the lobby.
“Well,” Mulder said, “they sure don’t make majors like they used to.” He took his left hand out of his pocket and held out his palm, showing them the key ring he’d lifted from the major’s desk.
“Not a word, Scully,” he said lightly when she began to object. He told Webber and Andrews to get back to town and track down Aaron Noel, Barney’s bartender, to see if the man knew how close Pierce and Ulman had been, and if Barelli had been in asking questions.
“And find out where that dispatcher—”
“Vincent,” Webber said.
“Right. Find out where she was last night, what time she came home. You know the drill.”
“What about you?”
Mulder shrugged. “If we leave now, whatever this key takes us to will be gone before we get back. We’re going to snoop around a little.”
“But isn’t that against—”
Mulder hushed him with a look and hurried outside with them.
The post looked deserted.
Nothing moved but a light rain that shifted now and then as a light wind passed through it.
He opened the door for Andrews, then stood back and wondered what the mighty Douglas would say when he found out that the other car was Swiss cheese and useless. He could see Webber and Licia arguing heatedly inside, but with the windows up, he couldn’t hear a word.
He almost intervened, rolled his eyes and changed his mind. That woman will be the death of me yet, he thought, and wished they’d be gone. Now. He wanted to be sure; he didn’t want them suddenly turning up again.
The car jerked forward a few feet and stalled.
He smiled gamely and decided to get inside before he added pneumonia to his ills. He mimed giving the car a push with one foot, waved when Webber saw him in the rearview mirror, and trotted back to the lobby when the engine fired and held. The receptionist was clearly puzzled, but he assured her they had only forgotten something in Major Tonero’s office and would be gone before she knew it.
The woman seemed to doubt it.
“Mulder,” Scully said as they walked purposefully toward the elevator bank, “if we get caught…”
He didn’t answer.
After a check over his shoulder, he took her elbow and ducked around the corner.
The corridor was empty, and only half the lights embedded in the ceiling’s acoustic tiles were lit.
Whispers from the front, echoing softly.
He found the right key on the second try, and held his breath until the door opened onto an empty car. Once in, he inserted the key again and sent them down.
Scully said nothing; she had been on this road with him too many times before. The obligatory warning had been given—if we’re caught; now she would be focused.
He wouldn’t disturb that; it was too valuable.
He only hoped the major was still too angry to think straight, and realize what was going on.
NINETEEN
The corridor was short, and the air not quite stale. No ceiling lights here—just a hooded bulb at the far end, and one at the entrance. The floor, like the walls, was unpainted concrete. “Like a bunker,” Scully whispered. In and out was the order of the day. They hurried to the first door, and Mulder turned the knob. It was unlocked and, when he looked in, empty. A desk, metal shelves on the wall, a small, open safe on the floor beside the desk, and a blackboard.
Nevertheless, they searched, checking drawers and corners. Tonero had said that Tymons was already gone, but Mulder doubted it was to the relocation point. By the looks of it—the papers and pads left behind in the desk, the handful of books on the shelves—this room had been emptied in a hurry.
“I smell gunpowder,” Scully said, returning to the corridor. “And smoke.” She wrinkled her nose. “Something else. I’m not sure.”
The middle door was unlocked as well, and open a few inches. Mulder pushed it with his foot and stood back, shaking his head.
“Jesus.”
What was once on the single shelf was now on the floor, smashed and scattered, some of it scorched or charred. He counted the hulks of at least three monitors and a pair of keyboards; he counted at least a half-dozen bullet holes in the wall beneath what looked to be a one-way window.
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?”
She did stand then, angrily shaking her hand until the cord fell off. “Goddamnit, listen to me, you idiot! If I have to—”
“Doctor.” The voice was calm. Very calm.
Rosemary closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “What?”
“We have an agreement. I’ll do what you want.”
She leaned forward, bracing herself on the desk with one hand. “Thank you. It’ll be fine, just fine, as long as we don’t panic.”
“I’ll do what you want.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then don’t, Doctor. Don’t ever talk to me like that again.”
“Oh, really? And what if… hello? Damnit, hello?”
The line was dead.
She gaped at the receiver, then slammed it back onto its cradle. Calm again; she had to regain calm again, be the eye in the storm. It was not, yet, a disaster that those damn agents probably knew something. They could snoop around all they wanted, but they didn’t know it all. As long as she made sure she, and Joseph, didn’t panic, they never would.
At least not until it was too late.
But she was afraid for the goblin. Despite her assurances, she knew what little control she had was practically gone. Like all the others, those too deep in the woods to be found—here, and elsewhere—the strain and the treatment had proved too much.
This one had lasted the longest, however.
This one was the proof of her triumph.
She grabbed her purse and coat and hurried from the office. Joseph would have to come to her for a change, once he stopped blowing off pompous steam. She still had some last-minute packing to do.
Just a few more weeks, she prayed as she made for the elevators; just get me out of here in one piece, give me a couple more week
s, and if it’ll be over.
Really over.
The door slid open as the overhead bell chimed softly.
She took a step, and froze.
The car was empty. She could see that, but she still couldn’t bring herself to go in.
With a low groan of frustration she used the fire stairs instead, yanking on her coat, cursing her own weakness, but oddly grateful for the harsh sound of her heels on the steps.
TWENTY
Scully decided her vacation hadn’t been nearly long enough, not by half. A Marville patrol car had picked them up minutes after they left the hospital, just about the time the rain had stopped. The driver, though polite, refused to answer any of Mulder’s questions.
“Talk to the chief,” was all he would say. It sounded to her as if Hawks’ equanimity at having the FBI in town was being sorely tested.
Now they sped toward town, and she couldn’t help feeling that everything was moving too fast. She needed time to think, and she wasn’t getting it. She was reacting, rather than acting; otherwise, she never would have taken Mulder’s leap from experimental camouflage to full-blown, controlled human chameleon, with no stops along the way.
It wasn’t like her; not at all.
She braced herself when the car momentarily lost traction on its way around a bend, and wished she had tried to get a hold of Webber instead. And when the driver said, “Sorry, ma’am” once he regained control, she almost snapped his head off.
Not like her at all.
Then Mulder folded his arms on the back of the seat and rested his chin on them. He said nothing, but she could feel him at her shoulder. Her eyes closed briefly at a flurry of leaves across the windshield.
“Mulder, I’m sorry about Carl.”
He grunted.
She realized then that that was part of her problem. She hadn’t liked Barelli; he was crude, too slick, and too full of himself. But for reasons she would never understand, he had also been Mulder’s friend, and she hadn’t said a single word of sympathy, of commiseration. The moment she had seen the reporter’s body, she had clicked into professional mode.
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