Pitch Green

by The Brothers Washburn

  The next morning, Cam grinned and waved at Cal as her Bug cut in front of his Camaro on the way to school. Cal had spent the major part of Sunday muttering threats of extinction as he scrubbed foul-smelling gunk off his car and tried to hide the deep scratches.

  Camm’s friends chattered during lunch about the fun they had had over the weekend, and she joined the complaining chorus about Mr. Grubb’s impossible, time-consuming math homework assignments. Did he think that nobody had anything better to do? From the corner of her eye, Camm watched Cal loudly exchanging insults with some of the guys on the football team as they ribbed him about the scratches on his car. Things seemed to be back to normal.

  “I don’t know if I can ever be normal again,” Camm said. By unspoken agreement, she and Cal had met at the Joneses’ swing set after school. “School felt so unreal today. Everything my friends were talking about was so meaningless. I just kept thinking, no one here has been attacked by a vicious creature that seems to have supernatural powers, or been inside a mansion that cleans and repairs itself perfectly each night. None of my friends has seen someone like Mr. Samuels get murdered, or get splatted off a balcony while he was trying to save them.”

  “Or had a monster rip your dog to shreds in front of you, and then try to do the same thing to you, too.” Cal spoke forcefully through clenched teeth.

  Camm glanced up from her swaying canvas seat, feeling guilty again. “We have got to get some help, or things will never be normal again. I think we should go to the sheriff. Mr. Samuel didn’t act like the sheriff was helping him, but I think Tracy would help us. Or better yet, I could tell Agent Allen everything and get the FBI to investigate.”

  “Sure, and then we will both be locked up as crazies for the rest of our lives.” Cal slowly pounded a metal strut. “No one will believe our story. They’ll think we killed Mr. Samuel. And how can we prove otherwise? All evidence of our fight with the creature is gone, and we don’t dare lead them down to the stone dungeon where Mr. Samuel’s skull is probably sitting on the shelf right now, because that would just be further evidence that we must have had something to do with his death.”

  Camm stared dismally at the ground. “They would probably just accuse us of putting his bones down there in the first place. They would think we carried that horrible picture down there and set up that whole room as a ruse to try and justify our totally crazy story. And who can blame them? We were in the mansion illegally when someone got killed, and we cannot even explain completely, let alone prove, what really happened.”

  Cal nodded. “Our story sounds crazy even to me. They’ll just lock us away forever with the other psychopaths.”

  As Camm walked dejectedly back to her home, their inability to decide what to do next was deeply unsettling to her. It exposed a chink in her armor. She had always known her own mind, and as she dealt with normal day-to-day events, the answers had always come quick and clear. For the first time in her life, she had no idea what to do next. She had always been so sure of herself, but now she knew she needed help. She just didn’t know where to go to get it.

  So it was a relief when she received an unexpected call from Agent Allen. “Smith, how are things in the thriving metropolis of Trona, California?”

  Camm was glad to hear her voice, but unsure how to answer. She wanted to tell the truth, but knew better. “You know, the same,” she lied. “Things are always the same in Trona.”

  Missing the hesitancy in Camm’s voice, Agent Allen continued, “I have news. Our research department found some old news articles about some suspicious events in that old mansion. People were maimed and killed there back in the early 1940s. And guess what, it happened while our friend, old lady Sarah, was working there.

  “And guess what else. That grumpy old Mr. Samuel is Sarah’s grandson. Turns out, her maiden name is Daniel, but her married name is Samuel. Anyway, Smith, I wondered if you could do me a favor. Would you mind going back to Sarah and asking her about the stuff that happened in the mansion while she was there?”

  Camm’s mind raced as she tried to think of a way to get Agent Allen to come back to Trona. “I thought there was a court order that prevented us from talking to her.”

  “We got a copy of the order from the court; it only prevents the FBI and local law enforcement from talking to her. It says nothing about a civilian like yourself.”

  Camm didn’t like the way this was going. “Wouldn’t I be acting as your agent, on behalf of the FBI?”

  A chuckle came over the phone. “You’re a pretty smart girl. That argument can be made, but let’s leave that to the lawyers.”

  “Can’t you come? I’d feel better if you could come with me.”

  “I can’t come this weekend. In fact, I can’t come until late next week, and I can’t come at all unless you find me something to come back and investigate. Go back and talk to Sarah. Help me find something to come back for, and I’ll double your wages.”

  Great! Camm thought, as Agent Allen chuckled at her own joke. Two times zero was still zero, but Camm persisted, “There is something you should know. Things are getting worse, and there is a new reason why you should come back.”

  “What is that?”

  The news was all over town, so Camm didn’t think it would sound suspicious for her to share it with Agent Allen. “Mr. Samuel has disappeared. No one knows where he is.” That wasn’t quite true, though Camm wasn’t saying more. “His car was found behind the mansion, and he is gone. Isn’t that enough probable cause to get another search warrant to search the mansion again?”

  “That’s smart thinking. I’m impressed. But we searched it once already. What are we going to find searching it again?”

  Camm knew what they’d find: Hughie’s ghost costume, a secret passage, a painting of a green rat, and lots of human skulls and bones. Camm couldn’t tell her about it now, not on the phone, but if Agent Allen would just come back to Trona, there was a lot that Camm could help her accidently find in that old mansion.

  “There may be something there connected with Mr. Samuel’s disappearance—something new. His car was abandoned at the mansion. He had keys to the mansion—he may have gone inside. We will be searching for something different this time.” Camm couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice.

  “You talk to Sarah, and I’ll call the sheriff about Mr. Samuel. If Mr. Samuel doesn’t show up, I’ll see you next week.”

  With a cheery good-bye, Agent Allen hung up.

  Camm felt a little relieved and a lot guiltier. She knew if Mr. Samuel happened to show up, it wouldn’t be in one piece. She called Cal and asked him to come over to her house while her parents were gone, so they could make plans for Agent Allen.

  “I’m in the middle of a sandwich,” he complained, his mouth obviously still munching. “I’ll be over as soon as I’m finished.”

  Camm knew that when Cal was eating, he couldn’t be rushed. He’d start with a sandwich—a huge sandwich of his own making—along with chips and soda pop. Then, he’d feel like having some dessert, maybe ice cream—and all this was just a snack. He’d be hungry again in a couple hours and ready to eat a full meal for dinner.

  Since she had some free time on her hands, Camm got on the Internet and started doing research on Trona, the potash plant, the Searles Mansion, and the Samuel family. By the time Cal showed up, crunching a cookie and smelling like peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, Camm had made some important discoveries.

  “Whatcha’ doin’?” Cal said, looking over her shoulder, leaning in close, but being careful not to touch her.

  “I’ve been doing research, and I’ve found out that what we have always been told about the Searles Mansion is wrong. The mansion has nothing to do with John Searles at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, John Searles died in 1897. The mansion wasn’t built until after the turn of the century. And guess who built it.”

  Cal shrugged his shoulders, looking around for another chair.

 
“Alberto Supmeti Samuel, our Mr. Samuel’s great-grandfather.”

  “No kidding!” Cal pulled up a chair next to Camm and sat close where he could see her laptop screen.

  “Yeah, I started doing research on Trona, and at first I just found stuff about the Pinnacles and how Hollywood comes out here to make TV shows, commercials, and movies. Remember? Like Lost in Space and the Planet of the Apes remake?

  “Then I found stuff on John Searles and how he started mining the chemicals in the dry lake bed. He died before there was ever really a town here, and certainly before the mansion was built.

  “Alberto Samuel Sr. bought the mining rights from Borax Smith after the turn of the century, and built Trona as a company town. Borax Smith got the rights from the John Searles estate right after Searles died. Originally, all the homes were owned by Samuel’s company, and all the workers were paid in plant script, not real cash. Samuel was the one who built the mansion. I think he had more money than he knew what to do with.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to have that problem,” Cal inserted.

  “It seems he was a man of many talents. He was a chemist with broad scientific interests and a sculptor and painter, some kind of traditional artist. He was trained somewhere in Europe.”

  “Did he paint all those weird paintings in the mansion?”

  “I guess. Anyway, he was a self-absorbed, certifiable mad scientist, who was not well liked by his employees. Before we went back into the mansion Saturday night, I crawled into the old library and read about some stuff that happened in the mansion back in 1941, just before the U.S. got pulled into World War Two.

  “People were killed in that house and others were injured or maimed under some kind of mysterious circumstances, which don’t seem so mysterious now. Among those killed that night were Alberto Sr. and his son, Alberto Jr.”

  “Where did our own Mr. Samuel come from if his great-grandfather and grandfather both died at the same time back in 1941?”

  “That’s another weird thing. Mr. Samuel’s father was born about six months later. His mother was a maid at the mansion.”

  “So, young Junior had taken a personal interest in the household staff, eh?” Cal grinned and wagged his eyebrows.

  Camm continued without even rolling her eyes. “Evidently. But there is a marriage certificate dated just before he died. It seems he got her pregnant, and then married her.”

  “Married who?”

  “Sarah Daniel Samuel. You know, the pretty little green-eyed maid in that picture you found in the mansion. She is now that old woman Agent Allen and I visited out in Homewood Canyon. She is Mr. Samuel’s grandmother.”

  “Did they ever find out how those people died back in 1941?”

  “Never officially. I think I know, though, and so do you. But it all kinda got covered up with the start of the war.”

  Cal scooted his chair closer to Camm’s to see the computer screen better. “What’s World War Two got to do with some puny little desert town and murders way out here?”

  “Actually, quite a lot. Did you know that out of one hundred and thirty something elements on the periodic table found in nature—you know, not manufactured in a lab—one hundred and eight are found right here in our own dry lake bed?”

  “And . . .?” Cal said with a look that said, Get to the point.

  “Well, at the start of World War Two the only place in the whole United States where anyone could get potash in any large quantities was right here in our puny little desert town.”

  Everyone in Trona knew about potash—it was one of several major chemicals mined from the dry lake and sold by the plant.

  Camm continued, “Potash was a necessary ingredient to make gun powder. The government needed lots and lots of gun powder to fight the war, and so it needed lots and lots of potash.”

  “So, why hush up the killings and stuff?”

  “That part I’m not sure about, except that they did hush it up. They locked up the mansion and barred everyone, including the Samuel family, from ever living there again. At the same time, the government entered into a huge contract with the plant to buy all the potash they could produce, and the plant has been producing it in large quantities ever since.”

  Cal squinted at the computer screen, then looked at Camm. “Wow, it’s a good thing one of us is so smart.”

  “I was just doing some research, trying to figure stuff out. That’s all,” Camm answered modestly.

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant me,” Cal retorted with a laugh. Camm laughed, too, and socked him playfully as she always did when he caught her off guard and embarrassed her.

  Cal became serious again. “Somehow, all of this has something to do with that thing in the mansion. If we’re going to kill it, we need to find out more about it, like . . . does it have any weaknesses? There must be some way to kill it.”

  “There you go again, ready to head off on a crazy crusade. I think you need to forget killing that thing, although I agree we need to find out more about it so we will be ready next week to help Agent Allen discover as much as possible about the mansion.”

  Camm went on to tell Cal about her conversation with Agent Allen and her assignment to visit Sarah Daniel Samuel. “Will you come with me to see Sarah this Sunday afternoon?”

  “Sure! That seems the best time to visit a little old lady. We don’t have any football practice on Sunday, anyway.”

  Camm nodded. “And my parents will still be gone for the weekend.” Camm’s father worked in research and development at the plant, and he had gone with her mother to a seminar in San Francisco. “They’re staying over the weekend for a little vacation by themselves. They say I’m old enough to be at home alone for a few days, so it’s a little vacation for me, too.”

  Cal looked suddenly concerned. “Like my dad always says, you can’t be too careful in today’s world. I’m older and more experienced, you know. I’d be glad to spend the night here just to make sure you are safe and sound until your parents get back.”

  Camm punched him again—this time with some real force. “Yeah, that’s just what I need right now. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need any help from you. I’ll do just fine on my own.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.” Cal nodded slowly and stood to stretch. “But I could make your life a whole lot more interesting.”

  Camm laughed as she escorted Cal out the backdoor. “I think I’ve already got too much interesting as it is—I really couldn’t handle any more.”

  XII

  It sniffed the air and began to salivate. Yes, this is her stronghold; she is here.

  Camm turned over in bed and hugged her covers tight around her. The days were warming up, as they always did in the spring, but the nights were still cool. Come summer, it would stay hot all night long. Most nights the temperature would not drop below ninety degrees, while other nights it would just float above a hundred.

  Camm enjoyed the cool nights when she could sleep with her window open, mostly free of the plant’s noxious odors. Pioneer Point was far enough north of the plant that the sulfuric fumes were not as strong; the prevailing winds tended to blow the fumes south toward Westend, the other direction down the valley. Residents there constantly lived with the plant’s odors.

  Camm drowsily peeked at her alarm clock from one eye. The time was 12:24 a.m. She snuggled down into her bed, but didn’t fall back asleep. Something had woken her. Gradually, she became more awake, plagued by a nagging feeling that something was wrong. What was it? She pushed herself up in bed, her back to the wall, and pulled the covers up to her neck. She strained to hear and see through the darkness. What was wrong?

  A breeze blew through the window, and Camm wrinkled her nose, making a sour-lemon face. What was that smell? Suddenly, her hands and feet turned ice cold. She recognized that smell—rotten eggs, only a hundred times worse.

  That thing had come to her home—it had found her somehow. It could be out there right now, and she was all alone in the house.

 
Camm threw back the covers and sprang out of bed. For a few seconds, she stood in the middle of her room, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as her eyes frantically searched every dark corner. She felt an overwhelming need to act immediately, but could not come up with the first thing to do. She just kept thinking, It came to my house; it came to my house.

  Camm pressed her hands to the sides of her head and took two long, deep breaths, before saying out loud, “Think. Think.”

  She calmed a little, just enough for her first thought of action to come to her, Shut the window! In one leap, she sprang onto the middle of her bed and slammed her sliding aluminum window shut; its catch automatically locked.

  Jumping off the bed, she ran to the front door, locking it. In her sleepy Pioneer Point neighborhood, she had not felt a need to lock doors, until now. Racing, she rushed to lock the door to the garage before sprinting next to latch the kitchen door.

  From the kitchen, Camm surveyed the dining room, panting. The six-foot sliding glass door to the backyard was a pale gray rectangle in the moonlight. Without wasting another second, she hurried to latch the slider, her fingers trembling. The latch seemed weak and flimsy in her hand, the glass door thin and brittle to her touch. Neither would provide much protection against a creature that had splintered through solid wood doors in the mansion.

  Fighting down her panic, she flinched as something moved in the backyard. Or had it? She wasn’t sure. Frozen for a moment, she saw her own reflection staring wildly back at her in the glass door. She winced at her weak, pathetic image, standing there in her flannel Santa’s elves pajamas.

  Looking away, she realized her mind was racing uncontrollably in a dozen different directions. Why can’t I focus? Come on, think! What do I do next? Then she remembered. She was such a dummy. It doesn’t like light!