Pitch Green

by The Brothers Washburn

  “Well, she is eighteen, if just barely. As her parent, you can stay if you want. But of course, Camm is not a suspect. I am just talking to her as a witness.”

  “Would you rather I left?” Camm’s mother half turned, unsure whether to go or stay.

  “It is up to you.” The tone of the agent’s voice made it clear she preferred to talk with Camm alone.

  “Oh, I’ll just be down the hall then.”

  Camm and Agent Allen sat down. There was an uneasy silence—uneasy for Camm, as Agent Allen thumbed through a little notebook. “Here we go,” she said, finding her place in her notes. “Several years ago, you were present when the Jones boy disappeared on Halloween. Do you remember that?”

  Did Camm remember that? It was seared into her memory. Hardly a day went by without her thinking of it. Something about this interview—so many years after it had occurred—suddenly annoyed her. “Of course, I remember that night. How could I forget it? How could anyone forget it? He was my neighbor. His family still lives next door.”

  The agent nodded as if she already knew that.

  Camm hesitated, then burst out, “Aren’t you a little late getting here? I mean, after seven years I would think the trail would be way cold.”

  Agent Allen tilted her head, studying Camm with interest.

  She uses her badge to intimidate people, Camm thought spitefully, and is surprised it doesn’t work on me.

  Agent Allen cleared her throat. “I am investigating several disappearances over the last . . .”—she paused as she glanced through her notes—“. . . over the last several decades. It seems Trona has developed a talent for losing its children.”

  “We don’t lose them,” Camm shot back, feeling as if she had been personally insulted. “Someone is taking them!”

  Agent Allen raised an eyebrow and smiled as she studied Camm. “Well, whoever that someone is has been taking children for over fifty years. We know of a dozen or so confirmed and unexplained disappearances in the last couple of decades, and before that there were probably at least a couple dozen more.”

  Camm sat back, arms folded. Agent Allen stared fixedly at her. “That is a lot of kidnappings for a town like Trona. Statistically speaking, that is above the bell curve—far above.”

  Camm wasn’t about to buckle under the agent’s pressure. “Why did it take you so long to get here, then?”

  The agent considered Camm thoughtfully. Then, relaxing back into her chair, she spoke easily. “I just received the assignment, and I’m here now. The latest disappearance, the McKay boy, brought it to our attention. I have been assigned to look into all the disappearances to see if there is a connection.

  “I need your help. Every year or so, a child comes up missing, never to be seen again. There is never a ransom demand and never any leads. Besides the fact that all the disappearances occurred in Trona, there doesn’t appear to be any connection between cases, at least on the surface. Now, about Hugh Jones . . .”

  She was flipping her notebook back to Hughie’s page, when the backdoor flew open, and Cal bounded into the dining room, excited and out of breath. “I smell fresh bread!”

  Camm smiled. Now that she thought about it, she wondered what had taken him so long. Ever since they were little, Cal had had the talent for detecting fresh, warm bread, or, for that matter, hot chocolate-chip cookies, pies, and cupcakes. If there was something good to eat at Camm’s house—and there frequently was—Cal would have a sixth sense about it, and without fail, would show up, appetite in hand.

  When Cal saw Agent Allen, his expression switched from anticipation to curiosity. Camm sighed and said to Agent Allen, “This is Hughie Jones’s big brother.”

  Both Camm and Agent Allen stood. It annoyed Camm that Cal was giving Agent Allen the once over like every boy in school did with every new girl.

  “Cal, this is Special Agent Linda Allen of the FBI.”

  His eyes widened as he looked the agent over again. “Oh,” was all he was able to say.

  Still annoyed at the way he was gawking, Camm continued, “Special Agent Allen, this is my neighbor, California Gold Jones.”

  As soon as she said it, Camm knew it was a mistake. Cal was embarrassed by his full name, especially in front of strangers—especially in front of important female strangers. She could tell from the perturbed look on his face that he would seek revenge, and Camm knew exactly how he would do it.

  “Excuse me?” Agent Allen said with a perplexed look. “Somehow, I didn’t get that in my notes.” She leaned forward to shake his hand.

  Camm explained, “His parents moved to California from North Dakota and liked the weather better here. Actually, they liked everything about California better, so they named their first child after their favorite TV show, California Gold. It was on PBS back then. His full name is California Gold Jones, but everyone just calls him Cal.”

  Agent Allen arched both eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Did you get Camm’s full name in your notes?” Cal asked.

  Camm knew the payback was coming. If anyone disliked her name more than Cal disliked his, it was Camm. Agent Allen gave her a quizzical, sideways glance.

  Cal smiled. “Agent Allen, this is Camelot Mist Smith.”

  Agent Allen rolled her eyes. “Let me get this straight. Your name,” she pointed at Cal, “is California Gold Jones, and your name,” pointing to Camm, “is Camelot Mist Smith?”

  Camm sighed. This was not how she wanted to impress people she just met. “Let me explain. Our parents have been friends for, well, forever, and they thought—”

  “Don’t bother,” Agent Allen cut her off. “From now on, you will be just Smith and Jones.”

  “Which of us is which?” Cal joked.

  Agent Allen did not look amused. “I am here talking with Smith about your younger brother’s disappearance seven years ago. Let’s see, his name was . . .” She flipped through her notebook.

  “Victor Hugo Jones.” Cal finished for her.

  Agent Allen’s eyes widened as she made an obvious effort to control her facial expression. Camm tried to salvage the situation. “We just called him Hugh, for short, or usually Hughie. You know, it just sounded better.”

  Camm despaired, wondering what this FBI agent must be thinking of their little town deep in the Mojave Desert. “Not everyone has weird names. It’s just our two families, really, and maybe the Gondalfarinos. Most people here have normal names.” For some reason, Camm felt she needed to defend Trona.

  “Don’t forget Reverend Justenough,” Cal jumped in unhelpfully. “His family gave their kids weird names too, you know. They have Handie Justenough, Willie Justenough, and the youngest, Dickie Justenough.”

  “Cal!” Camm snapped. “That’s not why she’s here.”

  Agent Allen reseated herself and looked up at the ceiling.

  She must think she’s on Mars, Camm thought.

  Agent Allen gave them both a calm, professional look. “Please, both of you sit down. I just want to ask a few questions. That is all. This won’t take long.”

  California Gold Jones and Camelot Mist Smith both sat down obediently. Having her true name revealed had taken the fight out of Camm, and now she just wanted to answer questions and avoid embarrassing herself any further.

  “Where did you last see Vic—I mean Hughie—your little brother?” She nodded toward Cal.

  Cal glanced quickly at Camm before answering. “We were out trick-or-treating in front of the old Searles Mansion.”

  “You were trick-or-treating at the Searles Mansion?” Agent Allen asked, scribbling in her notebook.

  “No.” Cal shook his head. “No one lived there then. No one lives there now. No one has lived there since anyone can remember. We were just walking in front of it going from one house to the next when Hughie fell.”

  “He fell?” Agent Allen continued making notes.

  “He tripped on his costume,” Camm said. In one breath, she continued to explain about the ghost costume, the
skidding tires, little Ruthie in her witch outfit, and then about Hughie disappearing.

  When she finished, Agent Allen asked, “Did anyone search the mansion at the time?”

  “Yes.” Camm was thoughtful. “I mean, I remember the sheriff’s car out in front, and I remember seeing the mansion’s front doors open. I was told the sheriff’s deputy was inside. That is the only time I have ever seen the front doors open, and the only time anyone has ever actually gone inside, at least that I know of.”

  “Me too,” Cal added. “The only time in our lifetime.”

  “Are you sure it was searched?” Agent Allen persisted.

  Cal shrugged. “They told my mom and dad they searched it and found nothing related to Hughie’s disappearance.”

  “How big is this house?”

  “It’s huge.” Cal’s arms stretched out wide. “I mean, it’s bigger than anything else in town, except the plant. It’s just this humongous, very old, abandoned mansion.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone live there?”

  “It’s haunted.” Again, Cal glanced at Camm.

  Camm’s eyes shot daggers at him. “It is not!” She really felt she needed to defend her town now. She didn’t want the FBI thinking they were all a bunch of superstitious hicks. “We do not believe in ghosts.” At least she didn’t. “It is just a big ol’ mansion that used to belong to the town founder, John Searles.”

  “And, who is John Searles?”

  Camm explained about this nineteenth century gold prospector, who found borax instead of gold and made a fortune. “So, the valley is named Searles Valley, and the lake is Searles Lake.”

  “There’s a lake?” Agent Allen looked puzzled. “When I drove in from L.A., I didn’t see a pond, much less a lake.”

  “It’s a dry lake,” Cal said. “That big, empty white area covering half the valley opposite the town, used to be a lake.”

  Agent Allen nodded. “I see. So, that’s Searles Lake.”

  “It used to be a landlocked lake thousands of years ago.” Camm took over. “All the water flowed into this valley where it stayed and eventually evaporated away, leaving tons and tons of chemicals behind. That’s what we do in Trona. We extract chemicals from the dry lake bed and then sell them.”

  “Like what?” The agent continued scribbling her notes.

  “Like borax, boron, potash, sulfur, and trona, like the name of our town. It’s a chemical, too. They even get a little silver and gold out of the dry lake bed.”

  “You seem to know a lot about your hometown.” Agent Allen directed this comment to Camm, but Cal responded first.

  “She knows a lot about everything. Seriously, she’s our class brain—thinks she’s going to Harvard or something—anything to get away from Trona.”

  Camm gave him another dirty look. “I am not the class brain. I just think it’s interesting, and anyway, you should know about the town you live in, that’s all.”

  “Well, Smith,” Agent Allen said, “I think I can use you. I’m going to hire you as my expert on this locality and everything about it, including its peculiarities.”

  “You’re going to hire me?” Camm was flattered.

  “Yep, to work for free.” Agent Allen chuckled. “I have other witnesses to talk to, and I want to investigate the disappearance sites. I especially need to do a thorough search of this old mansion you’ve been telling me about. As much as you can, Smith, except for some witness interviews, I want you with me to tell me about the people and what they do around town. I want the benefit of your local insight, especially in the mansion.”

  Camm looked nonchalant, but inside, her thoughts were racing. She couldn’t believe her luck. She was finally going to see inside the Searles Mansion—not only see inside, she was going to help search it. She had waited for this moment for the longest time.

  III

  Camm had hoped they would enter the mansion through the enormous front oak doors—ten feet high, at least six inches thick and covered with dark, ominous carvings—but the twin handles were chained together and secured with a very large master lock.

  As it turned out, getting into the mansion was more difficult than anticipated. It was owned by the same company that owned the Trona chemical plant, and for some reason—which was never really explained—the company did not want anyone inside the mansion. One of the plant managers, a Mr. Samuel, was adamant the FBI could not search the mansion.

  Agent Allen was forced to obtain a search warrant. But that wasn’t going to make much of a difference when they learned the key to the master lock could not be found. Apparently, it was lost shortly—and conveniently—after the mansion was opened to investigate Hughie’s disappearance. Fortunately, there were other doors into the mansion—the key to the back kitchen door was located. Mr. Samuel was clearly unhappy about the search, but with a federal search warrant, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “The sheriff’s deputy who searched the mansion after Hughie’s disappearance told me he didn’t do a thorough search, just a casual walkthrough and quick inspection of the premises,” Agent Allen told Camm as they pulled up to the mansion. “We’ll do better than that.”

  Trailing Agent Allen to the kitchen door, Camm’s excitement grew in spite of the creepy feeling she felt every time she neared the building. For the first time in seven years, the mansion was opened, and she was going in. She entered the kitchen behind Agent Allen and two of the local sheriff’s deputies, Todd and Tracy, homegrown Trona boys, who had been assigned to help the FBI with the search.

  It was an old-fashioned kitchen with two immense brick ovens. Copper pots and pans hung from a trellis above the work area, reflecting the light flowing in from the high windows. Knives, cleavers, bone saws, and other cutting instruments were all arranged on a pegboard along the wall. Some of the larger cleavers were the size of a fireman’s ax. The black iron griddle was the size of a small bed, scrubbed of all stains. The marble countertops were polished to look like white mirrors, but gave the room a feel like a mortuary instead.

  This kitchen is larger than my whole house, Camm thought.

  “Todd, start here and check the cutlery for traces of blood,” Agent Allen instructed the older, more-experienced deputy.

  “All of it?” The deputy eyed the many dozen pieces of gleaming, brushed steel placed along the pegboard.

  Agent Allen gave Todd a hard look, an eyebrow raised. He nodded curtly and began taking equipment out of a bag he carried.

  “When you’re done, inspect all the cupboards and shelves. Carefully,” Agent Allen added as she walked out into the dining room. As Camm followed, she heard Todd grumbling under his breath. There were dozens and dozens of cupboard doors, shelves, and drawers. Off to one side was a walk-in pantry in a size worthy of the kitchen it had once supplied. It would take some time to adequately search just the kitchen itself.

  The dining room was larger than the kitchen. Built-in cabinets surrounded the room with cut glass doors displaying many different sets of elaborate china. In the center of the room was an oval mahogany table over thirty feet long. Its legs, and the backs to the three dozen chairs set around it, were all carved with intricate baroque designs.

  Agent Allen walked to one end of the table and placed her hand on it. After a moment of thought, she turned to face Camm. “Smith, do you notice anything odd?”

  Camm looked around more carefully. Everything was so big, lavish, and ornately expensive, it all seemed odd. But she shook her head, no, anyway.

  Agent Allen took her index finger and wiped it along the top of the table, and then held it up to her face where she could see it clearly. “There is no dust,” she said matter-of-factly. “No one has been in this giant mausoleum for over seven years, and from what I have been able to gather, there has been no cleaning staff here for at least forty years, maybe sixty or more. Yet, there is no dust, no cobwebs, and no dead bugs or flies anywhere. In fact, as far as I can tell, everything is immaculate. Back in the kitchen, all the pots and
pans were clean and sparkling. Even the sinks were spotless. How does this house stay so clean?”

  She stepped over to one of the beautifully carved china cabinet doors and ran her finger along it, again bringing it to her face for inspection. “Everything is clean, clean, clean—like a clean freak lives here. For an old, abandoned mansion, this place is just too clean . . . way too clean.” Her lips thinned as she turned to Camm. “Clearly, we’ve been misinformed. Someone is obviously taking care of this mansion.”

  Giving Camm a knowing look, Agent Allen turned and walked briskly into the main hall. Camm hurried behind, trying to ignore an unearthly feeling that she was no longer in her own space and time. She felt like a trespasser in an alien world.

  If she thought the dining room was immense, the only way to describe the main hall was massive. Several regular-sized Trona homes could all fit together in just this one room. The ceiling soared over forty feet high. Ornate balconies surrounded the hall on three sides, jutting out from both the second and third floors. Directly across from each other some distance back from the front doors, identical, wide spiral staircases climbed up to the balconies on each side of the long rectangular hall.

  Camm was fascinated with the woodwork. Every surface was done in wood, mostly hard, dark wood like black oak, black walnut, mahogany, and dark cherry. Teak and different types of redwood were also evident, along with ash and imported wood that defied identification. All of the trim, wall panels, chair rails, molding, and ceiling tiles were intricately carved in baroque patterns similar to the dining room. The mansion felt more like a museum than a home.

  Looking closer at the carvings, Camm saw within the designs gargoyles, devils, goblins, and predatory animals of all kinds, frozen in different postures of hissing, growling, and attacking. It was all one beautifully carved tangle of fangs, talons, claws, and demonic eyes. One particular design stood out among the rest—and repeatedly so; it was a backwards S with a teardrop hanging from the upper terminus.

  Further adding to the museum motif, the floor was a smooth black slate. At the far back end of the hall sat a musty moss-colored stone fireplace, big enough to accommodate a standing teenager—Camm could have lain down on the grate, stretching out completely, and still had room to spare. Three giant logs lay in the grate waiting to be lit.