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.
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.