Heads close together, they examined the numbered panels.
Camm mused out loud. “That’s the symbol for six—that must be the first number. Like a combination lock, you hit the numbers in the correct order: Greek, then Latin, then Hebrew, and you must hit only the correct number on each side. The first number, the one in Greek, is six, but what’s the right number for the Latin side? And, what’s the right one for the Hebrew side?”
She stared at Cal. “Does the number have to do with the mansion? Or maybe the grandfather clock? Maybe the Bible?”
Cal shrugged. “Why don’t we push on all the numbers in Latin to see which one goes in next, and then do the same with the Hebrew.” He reached for the box, but Camm grabbed his hand away.
“Wait!” she commanded. “Some of these boxes are very complicated. You’re assuming that only the correct number will move next. It’s possible that one or more incorrect numbers are now free to move in addition to the correct number.
“If you push an incorrect number before you push the correct number, you mess up the sequence. You may not be able to un-push that number. If we put in the wrong combination it may cause the box to lock up permanently. Let’s try to figure out the correct combination first, before you push any more numbers.”
“Okay.” Cal sat back. “Whatever the complete number is, it begins with six. I don’t remember anything with a six in the mansion, but the correct sequence for the languages was in the Bible, so I bet the specific numbers in the combination are there, too. You were always the teacher’s pet in Sunday School, so you tell me where we go in the Bible to find the correct numbers.”
Camm knitted her eyebrows. “This box is supposed to hold some kind of secret weapon that can be used against that monster or creature—whatever it is. Could the combination numbers have something to do with that horrible thing in the mansion?”
Cal’s eyes got big. “That’s it, the monster thing.” He stared at her, emphasizing the next two words, “The beast!”
Camm knew immediately what he was talking about—the number of the biblical beast was 666. Turning the box, she pushed on the carving with the Latin symbol VI—it slid in a quarter inch. Camm slowly let out her breath and looked up to meet Cal’s eyes.
Giving her two thumbs up, he said, “Go for it!”
Studying the chart, she found the Hebrew symbol for six—“ו”—so she pushed on the last symbol. It slid in. With a swish of air, the top of the box popped open slightly.
Barely breathing, their eyes met. “Just think,” Camm whispered, “no one has seen inside this box for seventy years.”
Raising the lid slowly to peer inside, they leaned over
until their heads touched. Inside a felt-lined indentation was a small, beautifully etched silver pistol with sculpted ivory grips. Below, in their own separate compartments, lay two green crystal bullets. Carefully carved into the pistol grip was the snarling head of a vicious rodent with sharp, biting fangs.
Somehow, that seemed appropriate.
XV
“Do you really think it was worth driving twenty-five miles each way into Ridgecrest just to get that ammo?” Camm looked away from the road for a moment to watch Cal in the seat next to her busily arranging boxes of ammo in his backpack. It was after school Monday afternoon. They’d had this discussion before, but Cal was adamant about having the right ammo.
“I know guns probably can’t kill that thing, but I feel better bringing along some real firepower. With the right guns and plenty of ammo, we can at least slow it down while we make the kill.” Cal stared out the side window into the blinding white light of a hot desert sun. “More importantly, we have to figure out how to keep a light shining on it long enough to see it while we shoot it. Without light, our firepower will be wasted.”
Camm turned on her blinker to pass a slowpoke car that she had been following through Poison Canyon. She had finally reached a straight stretch in the winding road as the canyon sides opened out into Searles Valley. “I know, so we must first figure out how that thing extinguishes lights. You keep saying that it is supernatural, so it can do supernatural things, but I need a better explanation, one that will give us some clue about how we can keep the lights burning during the attack.”
After sitting quietly for some time, watching the scenery fly by, Cal glanced over at Camm with a gleam in his eye. Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Maybe that thing is darkness itself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe, whatever else it is, it is also darkness. Darkness and light cannot exist at the same time in the same place. So, wherever it is, there can’t be light. The light gets extinguished. Also, if it can’t extinguish the light, like in your fireplace, maybe it can’t hang around.”
Camm thought about it for half a second. “That’s all very esoteric and everything, but it’s not very helpful. We can’t kill it by Braille—we have to see it. To see it, we have to be able to keep a light on it. How do we keep the light on?”
They were silent again for a long time, both deep in thought.
Suddenly, Cal slapped his hand on his knee. “The second night we kind of saw it by moonlight. Remember? I don’t think it can extinguish moonlight.”
“Probably not, because that would mean extinguishing the sun, which is where the moon gets its light. But how do we get that thing to stand still in the moonlight while we shoot it?”
Thoughtfully, Cal considered that question. “Maybe we don’t need to worry about moonlight. I think I have a better idea.”
Before Camm could ask what Cal was thinking, she was suddenly distracted. She had turned off Trona Road to drive by the mansion, which was just now coming into view. Though normally isolated from all activity, the mansion was surrounded by cars.
Crowded into every available parking spot were sheriff’s deputy cars, police patrol cars, Agent Allen’s red mustang, a couple of big black sedans with federal plates and shaded windows, and a variety of other vehicles. Camm and Cal exchanged worried looks. Pulling off California Street, Camm parked across the street from the mansion to see what was happening.
Police officers and men in dark suits were filing out the side kitchen door. Immediately, Cal was out his door and crossing the street, so Camm hopped out to follow. A police officer stopped them at the property line. “Nothin’ for you kids here! This is government business. Now, move along, be on your way!”
Over the officer’s shoulder, Camm spied Deputy Tracy, one of the two deputies who had searched the mansion with her and Agent Allen. He had been friendly with Camm ever since. Now, as Camm caught his eye, he smiled and walked over to say, “Hi.”
“I know these kids,” he said, waving casually to the police officer. Before he could say more, Camm grabbed his arm, pulling him across the street to her car. “Tracy, what’s going on?”
The deputy hesitated. “You know, Mr. Samuel has disappeared. Last week, we found his car behind the mansion, but no sign of him. We tried canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone had heard or seen anything, but there is no neighborhood left by the mansion. It sits apart from everything in its own huge yard, and all the homes around it have been boarded up or abandoned. Besides, that mansion has thick stone walls. You could set a bomb off in there, and no one outside would even hear it.
“Anyway, someone saw flashes of light in an upstairs window the night Samuel disappeared. So, we decided to search the mansion again. We called your FBI buddy, and it was okay with her, so we got a search warrant. Before we could do the search, though, some big shot feds showed up, ones with more clout than the FBI, and they said we couldn’t go in. Allen drove up from L.A. to meet them here. They were having a big powwow in the kitchen.”
Camm glanced over at the sedans with the darkened windows. “Who are these new feds, if not FBI?”
The deputy lowered his voice. “NSA!”
Cal looked blankly at Camm. “What is that?”
Camm raised one eyebrow. “The National Security Agency. I thought they just did
surveillance on terrorists and foreign countries using drones and satellites and stuff like that.”
The deputy shook his head. “Since 9/11, who knows what they do. We just know they have clout and are super secretive. They have two fat old farts here, all the way from D.C., and they’re calling all the shots, and I mean all the shots. No one’s doing nothing with that mansion without their say-so, and right now they’re saying everyone stays out—period—end of discussion!”
Cal looked confused. “Since when did Trona have any national security issues, especially anything in that old mansion?”
The deputy jerked his head over at the Trona plant, which was spewing out billows of sulfuric smoke and steam as usual. “There’s a lot that goes on in that plant there that the rest of us don’t know about. Trust me! There are places in there that even I can’t get into. What that has to do with the mansion, I have no idea. But Trona definitely has issues.”
A hail came from the police officer across the street, and Tracy glanced around guiltily as if he’d said too much. “I better get back. We’re supposed to keep any spectators away.”
He winked at Camm and started walking back across the street, but Camm stopped him. “Please tell Agent Allen I’m here. I’d like to say hi.”
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” he called over his shoulder as he hurried back across the street.
Camm and Cal stood in silence digesting the news, Cal kicking the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Finally, he looked up at Camm. “This is going to make everything much harder.”
“Maybe,” Camm offered, “we just tell them what we know and turn the black box over to them, and let them take care of it.”
Cal squinted in the direction of the mansion. “Nah, these new guys from the NSA, they know more than we think they know, else they wouldn’t be here. Remember? It was the government that shut down the investigation back in 1941, and they’re probably here to do the same thing again. Don’t kid yourself. Whatever they know, they’re not here to kill it, they’re here to protect it—they’ve probably been protecting it all along. To them, a few lost children are just unavoidable collateral damage. If anyone is going to kill that thing, it has to be us.”
“But Cal, if it is a matter of national security, should we be messing with it? There are things here we don’t understand.”
Cal stared at Camm like he couldn’t believe what she had just said. “It kills little children, Camm. It kills and eats little children. It killed Mr. Samuel, and it keeps trying to kill us. It came to your home looking for you, and not to borrow a cup of sugar either. It came to kill you. It will come back, too. It’s not done yet. You can bet on it. It will not only go after you, but your parents, too, and then me and my family.”
Cal paused, breathing heavily. “It killed Hughie and Ginger. You heard what those old women said; it’s evil. It has to be killed or it will keep on killing. Right now, the only people with the knowledge and a weapon to fight back are you and me!”
“Okay, okay!” Camm put her hand on Cal’s shoulder to calm him down. “You’re right, I know. But like you said, this does make everything much harder.” She gestured her hand at the car-cluttered street, but before she could say more, she saw Agent Allen crossing the street toward them with a brisk, almost formal pace, her face anything but happy.
The agent’s face relaxed as she approached the two teenagers. “Hi, Smith. Hi, Jones. Nice to see Trona’s best out to meet me.” She shook Camm and Cal’s hands with her usual firm grip.
“So,” Camm began, “I hear we won’t get another tour of the mansion. Is the NSA here to shut down the investigation?”
Agent Allen scowled across the street. “Federal agents can be such jerks.” She chuckled. “I guess the FBI is included in that assessment, too.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Though I swear the NSA thinks it is above everything and everyone. The President of the United States couldn’t get in that place right now.”
“Why is the NSA interested in Trona, anyway?” Cal asked.
“If I knew, Jones, I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that it has something to do with a project, codenamed Swift Creek. That information is in the old public record, so I can tell you. The NSA denies that, of course, but I’ve been doing some research, and somehow it’s all connected to that massacre back in ’41.
“But the truth is, I really don’t know anything—I may never know anything. They say the FBI can continue its investigation of the missing children as long as it stays away from the mansion and the chemical plant, which is strange. Why the chemical plant? What do they know that I don’t? Anyway, right now the mansion is my only lead, but it’s out of bounds, even for the FBI.”
Camm chewed her lower lip. “Are they locking it up again?”
“Tight as a drum. They have put a hasp and a padlock on the backdoor, and everything else is sealed from the inside. They want alarms and surveillance cameras, too, but the mansion has no electricity. A team of electricians will be out here tomorrow, and then that mausoleum will be sealed and monitored twenty-four seven.
“Seems Mr. Samuel had some kind of assignment in connection with the Swift Creek project to see to the security of the mansion. He must have reported on us when we did our first search. Now that he is missing, the NSA is taking over.”
They stood in silence for a moment, and then Agent Allen said, “I got to get back. I’m getting nowhere, but at least I can give them a little more what for before I have to leave.”
She shook Cal’s hand, then surprised Camm with a light hug. With a half-smile, Agent Allen pointed at Camm and said sternly, “You’ve got the right stuff, kid. Don’t you give up on Yale.” With a determined step, she then crossed back to the mansion.
As Camm and Cal got back into the Volkswagen, Cal gave Camm a sideward glance. “So? What’s this about Yale?”
Camm sighed. “I’ll tell you later. I guess FBI agents aren’t that good about keeping secrets after all.”
Once they were on their way, Cal leaned back and closed his eyes. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Yes, we go tonight. But how do we get in?”
“Don’t worry about that. I have a key.” Cal grinned.
Actually, she wasn’t worried about that—getting into the mansion was the least of Camm’s worries.
Camm sat at a small writing table by her bed, putting her signature on what she had titled her Last Will and Testament. She didn’t know how to legally do a will, so she just made a list of her personal property and who should get what if she didn’t make it back from the mansion. She had penned a note at the bottom of the page, telling her parents that she loved them.
Thinking of the plans she and Cal had made for the night, she turned to stare at the black wooden box now resting on top of her bed. Kneeling down beside the bed, she opened the lid to study the contents of the box once more.
The inside of the box was mostly solid wood with carved indentations carefully designed to hold the small pistol and the two strange bullets. The pistol and bullets fit so perfectly in the velvet-lined mold carved for them that they made no noise when the box was shaken.
The pistol was very small, the size of a derringer. It had two barrels, running horizontal to each other, two triggers, and two hammers. Camm studied the bullets closely, wondering if she had two chances to kill the creature, or if it took both bullets to do the feat.
The bullets were odd and meticulously handcrafted. Made of some kind of hard crystal encasing a green liquid, each bullet was loaded into a heavy silver shell. At the tip of each crystal was some kind of burnished steel, pointed and needle sharp.
Camm heard her mother approaching and jumped up to quickly slip the box under her pillow, flipping her will face down on top of the writing table. She noticed her hands shaking.
“Camm,” her mother began as she entered the room, but stopped in surprise. “You’ve cleaned your room . . . without being asked.”
Camm walked over to her mother and sur
prised her even more with a big, tight hug. Her mother hugged back, and then took Camm’s face in her hands, looking intently at her. “Camm, are you feeling okay? You do feel kind of warm.”
Camm laughed a humorless laugh. “Why, because I cleaned my room, and that means I’ve got to be sick?”
Camm’s mother laughed, too. “Of course not, silly, but you’ve been out of sorts. Are you ill? Honey, are you constipated?”
Camm laughed again. Constipation had always been her mother’s first guess any time Camm did not feel or act well.
“I’m fine,” Camm assured her. “Please, none of your homemade concoctions. It’s just . . .” Camm had to think. “It’s just that I have an important test coming up, and I’m worried about it.”
“Oh, Camm!” Her mother gave her a gentle squeeze. “You always do well at school. You’ll do just fine, I’m sure.”
“That reminds me, Mom. I’m going to study late tonight, so I won’t be home ’til real late.”
“I worry when you stay out too late, honey. But, of course, now that you’re eighteen, you have no curfew. Use your good judgment.” Camm’s mom gave her another squeeze. “You’ve always been a good girl. We never have to worry about you, do we?”
Camm studied her mother’s eyes. If you knew what I’m planning to do tonight, you’d worry, she thought.
In fact, worry now showed on her mother’s face as she studied Camm uneasily. Camm forced a cheerful smile. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. I’m fine, really. No need to worry about me.”
After another big hug, her mother left the room without saying anything more. Camm shut the door, thinking that her mother deserved to know the truth—the whole truth—but she knew her mother would not be able to handle the truth.
Camm wished desperately that she had someone to confide in, anyone—her parents, Agent Allen, even Deputy Tracy—but she knew no one would believe her. And if they somehow did, they’d do everything in their power to stop her. She couldn’t allow that.
Camm sighed. Both she and Cal knew what they were doing was absolutely necessary. They had no choice but to do it on their own. While Camm regretted getting Cal involved, she was very glad he was going to be with her tonight. She knew there was no way she would have gotten this far without him.
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