He did not immediately get up to go see her. He would let her wait—partly as a power ploy, partly out of sheer rudeness. He justified the latter with the thought that maybe he could discourage such unannounced visits in the future.
When he finally did get up to go see her, there was pain in every step he took walking down the hall. He wore expensive, supposedly comfortable shoes, yet it felt as if he were walking barefoot on sharp rocks. His doctors told him he had idiopathic neuropathy of the lower extremities, which meant his feet hurt, and they didn’t know why.
Idiots!
The man himself had two PhDs and an MBA. He was tired of people with all the right degrees but none of the right answers. Whether in his work or personal life, he thought very little of doctors who didn’t know why. He paid people to know why!
He also had a severe pain in his lower back, which radiated down both legs when he moved. As a result, he walked slowly, never hurrying. He knew he should use a cane when he walked, to help relieve the pain, but he eschewed the idea. He was afraid it would make him look feeble. Though he was starting to show the signs of age, he was far from weak. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.
The FBI agent stood up as he entered the conference room. The look on her face said she was annoyed at having to wait, which pleased him. She extended her right hand in an offer to shake his. He ignored it.
With his hand, he indicated her chair. “Sit.”
He sat opposite her and waited for her to talk. She was studying his face, so he studied hers. She was young with clear, confident eyes—she showed no fear. It didn’t seem so very long ago he was like her, thinking the world was a logical place, and he had it all figured out. He almost wished he could go back to that simpler time in his life when his self-confidence over-powered all doubts, and he had no chinks in his armor.
After several moments, when she didn’t say anything, he began to wonder what kind of game she was playing. He didn’t like games, unless he was setting the rules, so he lowered his chin and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?”
“I don’t know if you remember me,” she began. “I was the FBI agent in Trona, you know, when all that stuff . . .”
He interrupted, “I remember you very well, Special Agent Linda Allen. I remember the incident in Trona. I remember everything.”
The way he said it made it sound as if he literally remembered everything, not just what happened in Trona.
He continued tersely, “What do you want?”
Agent Allen scowled at him, crossed her legs, and folded her arms against her chest. “I think you already know what I want. Another child is missing from Trona. Like the others, he has just completely disappeared with no evidence as to what might have happened to him. I want to know what is going on. I thought your people had the situation under control.”
The last sentence sounded like an accusation. It was an accusation.
If the man had been in the habit of using profanity, he would have used an obscene response. He should have been told of this before now—what was he paying his people for? He did not like hearing things for the first time from the FBI. He did not like being caught off guard.
As upset and annoyed as he was, his face showed absolutely no response to her comment. There was no trace of emotion or even acknowledgment. He did not reply to her either. To reply would either demonstrate his ignorance or admit responsibility, neither of which he wanted to do. He simply looked at her with a level gaze, his eyes unflinching.
The agent shifted nervously in her chair. “Well, what do you know about it?”
Although he did not show it, this question angered him more. She knew who she was talking to and had no right to accuse him or question him. From the beginning, she had been in way over her head, and now, she was walking on thin ice. He was tempted to just send her away without further discussion, but in this case, the truth wouldn’t hurt—she wouldn’t believe it anyway. Leaning forward, he almost smiled. “Nothing.”
“I can’t believe that,” she shot back.
“I don’t care what you believe.”
He remained calm and impassive. He was actually enjoying this conversation—it was always a relief when the truth suited his purposes.
“How do we know it wasn’t your creature out and about again?” This was another accusation, but again the truth suited his purposes.
“It was not.” He felt like sighing, but consciously re-
strained it.
“How can you know?” She was becoming angry.
“I know.” His face did not change expression—it was none of her business how he knew.
Her face hardened. “There is another child missing. No one knows how or why. We’ve been through all this before. This is no coincidence. Now, I have to go back to Trona to make another investigation. But this time, I know so much more. This time, I will start with a search of the mansion. I know right where to search, too. Is that what you want me to do?”
She sat straighter in her chair. “I’m just asking for a little help here. You know something, but you won’t tell me anything. I can’t believe this. If this goes to the media . . .”
The man finally showed an inkling of emotion. He leaned forward and with deliberate intent interrupted her. “This will not go to the media.”
“But, if it did . . .”
“You’re not listening to me. It will not.” Although his voice was flat and his face impassive, there was no doubt as to the seriousness of his intent. He cocked his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. The expression said volumes—more than her career was on the line.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do then if you won’t—”
“I have no expectations of you or the FBI, except that you will do your job. I am not your superior.” Oh, but he really was. “Go to Trona and investigate the missing child. That is your job.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand and stopped her. He had said all he was willing to say. It was time to cut the conversation short before she could ask any more impertinent questions.
“You will do your job. I will do my job. Now, this interview is over. See yourself out.” He got up and left the room without another word.
He always made an effort to walk so that no one could tell he was in pain. However, on occasion, he could not hide a slight limp, especially when he was angry, as he was now. When he got back to his office, he picked up the phone and dialed a familiar extension.
The tall white-haired man on the other end of the line knew who was calling. “Yes?”
“We have to go back to Trona. Tonight.”
“Why?”
“I believe there has been another cross over.”
“Impossible, we have it under constant electronic surveillance and the chain is on it twenty-four-seven now. The phase device has been stopped. We would know.”
“Not it. I believe something else has crossed over.”
“Oh, no! What?”
“I don’t know, but another child is missing.”
“Has this ever happened before, where something else crossed over?”
“I don’t know. As you are aware, the records are spotty.”
There was hesitation. It went without saying that neither one wanted to go back to Trona.
“We must go tonight. The FBI have already started their investigation. Either the device is working again or something new is happening—either way, we don’t want to be surprised.”
“Very well.”
After a long pause, they both hung up without another word.
The man gazed out his window again. The signs of a bright and beautiful spring were everywhere, but he didn’t see them. His face was as dark and cheerless as always.
He knew he needed to hurry home to get his travel bag packed, but he was reluctant to get up. He didn’t want to face the impossible reality that existed in Trona.
Why was this happening on his watch? This was not his fault.
The whole thing began long before he was even born. No one knew for sure what was really happening. Even with the best scientific minds leading the way, even with the federal government’s deep pockets funding the research effort, still no one knew.
The science used in the old mansion was apparently ancient, and yet so far advanced it could not be explained with any of the current scientific theories. The applications used by the Trona chemical plant went beyond what anyone now living had ever dreamed of and his team of scientists was being forced to rewrite even the most fundamental principles of science in an effort to explain what was happening. So far their efforts had been fruitless.
The US Federal Government was trying to control a technology that for all practical purposes should not exist—a technology that defied all rational attempts at explaining its logical basis, at least in this world.
This was not his fault, but he knew he would get the blame if things got out of control again. It was his job to control the uncontrollable. Whatever was going on in Trona, he would take care of it—even if it killed him.
V
Bob woke with a huge headache. His mouth felt like it had cheek-to-cheek carpet. He was sitting in the sand, leaning against the bumper of his car. The sun was up, and the light felt like needles pressing into his eyes. He must have had a good time last night (though he didn’t remember most of it) because he had a very bad hangover. And he really had to pee.
He struggled to his feet and peered inside his car. Three of his buddies from Trona High School were comatose inside. They had parked several miles north of town, east of Valley Wells, on an old dirt road that appeared to go nowhere. Beer bottles were strewn across the sand around the car, and only cold ashes remained from what had been a fire the night before.
Bob limped, his right foot asleep, over to some mesquite bushes a few yards from the car. The acrid smell of strong urine wafted through the air. Bob gave a loud sigh of relief, and then shivered, as if with a chill, though the morning air was already getting warm.
Before he could zip up his pants, his vision wavered, and he suddenly felt dizzy and nauseated. Trying to step back while pulling his zipper up, he lost his balance and fell into the puddle of his own urine. Rolling onto his side, he jumped to his feet, swearing as he went. There was a wet patch on his right pant leg covered in sand. He brushed off the sand, and then scooped up another handful to rub over the wet patch, trying to clean it off.
This will give the guys a good laugh, he thought as he turned to see if anyone in the car was watching him. He froze in place, and then whirled to look in every direction. The car was gone. His car was gone. It had been right . . . there. He walked over to the spot.
His first thought was that his buddies had left him. But he hadn’t heard the car drive off. He had walked only a few feet away. Besides—he patted his pocket—he still had the keys.
He spun around again, looking in every direction. No car. Nothing. Only bushes and sand. He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed his temples with his forefingers. His head throbbed! The pain made it difficult to think.
What is happening? Am I still asleep? Think!
He opened his eyes, hoping the car would have reappeared, but was disappointed. Still no car. Nothing. NOTHING!
Staring in dumb amazement, Bob finally noticed that not only was his car gone, but so were all the empty beer bottles that had been strewn on the ground around it. In fact, he saw no litter anywhere. Even the ashes from their fire last night were gone.
Hardly daring to look, Bob searched for the dirt road they had driven out on last night. It was missing, too.
How can a dirt road just disappear?
Another sudden chill passed through him in spite of the hot desert sun.
He closed his eyes again and slowly lifted his head, facing south. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see what he was afraid he wouldn’t see. The whole town of Trona with its chemical plants and suburbs was gone. His mouth fell open. “Holy . . .”
He didn’t finish. Somehow there were no words to express his dismay.
Ouch! His head ached. Man! I need to think.
Something had just happened that had never happened before. Without warning, the world had suddenly changed. He needed his brain to start working now. Something was happening, and he needed to figure it out—his life might depend on it.
Bob looked to his right. With a sigh of relief, he saw something he recognized. There was Argus Peak, the most prominent mountain bordering Searles Valley, right where it should be. In front of him, there was the dry lake bed right where it should be. He looked to his left. There were the Slate Range Mountains where they should be.
He looked back to his right and expelled his breath in disappointment. He should have been able to see Trona Road, the highway back to town. A mile or two to the west should have been a ribbon of asphalt running north and south. Instead, he saw nothing but sagebrush and sand.
Bob realized that while he was still in the Searles Valley, all vestiges of civilization and humanity were missing. Anything man-made—his car, the beer bottles and litter, the whole freaking town—was gone.
The morning breeze was cool, but the sun was hot. Already thirsty, Bob checked around again, shrugged his shoulders, and, not knowing what else to do, started walking in the direction where Trona used to be. He still had the wet urine stain on his pant leg.
Jim jerked awake, then regretted the sudden action. Movement intensified his headache. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of Bob’s car. The sun shone mercilessly through the car windows, and with his hand, he tried to block the glare from his eyes.
Gazing vacantly out the window, Jim saw Bob, facing the other way, taking a leak in some nearby bushes. As Jim watched, Bob’s image wavered and blurred, like a mirage or when a view is obscured by heat waves rising off a distant hot-road surface. Bob stumbled—the wavering intensified. Bob was falling, then he just evaporated into the desert air. Bob was gone.
Jim sat up straight and stared out the window for a better look. No Bob. He blinked his eyes several times and looked again. No Bob. He scoured his eyes with both fists, trying to rub away whatever was blocking his vision. Still no Bob.
“Hey!” he cried. “Hey, wake up back there!” He reached over the seat and slapped the knee nearest to him. The only response was a slight moan and some shifting in the back seat. Jim tried again, slapping the knee as hard as he could. “Hey, wake up, man, wake up!”
“What!” This came from an angry Sean. “Stop with the slapping! What’s the matter with you? And stop yelling! You’re hurting my head.”
“Bob’s disappeared!”
Sean adjusted himself in the seat, frowning as he tried to get comfortable. He reclosed his eyes. “He’ll be back. I mean, where can he go?” The words trailed off into a mumble.
Jim whacked him again. Now Sean came wide awake. Jumping forward in his seat, he socked Jim in the side of his head, which did not agree with Jim’s hangover headache.
Jim held up his hands. “Stop, man, stop! I have to tell you somethin’.”
“Dude!” Sean shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you slapping on me?”
“Just listen, man, just listen for one minute and stop yellin’.”
Jim held his head in both hands, trying to get his thoughts together. The third boy in the car, Dave, was blinking his eyes rapidly as he started to wake up.
Jim continued, “Bob was right there, by those bushes. I was looking right at him, right there, peeing in those bushes. And then, all of a sudden, he went all fuzzy or something. I mean, he looked all squiggly like, and then he wasn’t there no more. He was right there, and then he was gone. Like, poof! He just disappeared.”
Sean looked intently at Jim—his expression was half scowl, half question mark.
Dave shook his head as if trying to straighten out his brains. “What are you yapping about? And why are you talking so loud? You’re hurting my head.”
Sean’s scowl deepened. “What
do you mean, ‘he looked all squiggly’?”
“I was looking straight at him, and then he went . . .” Jim made squiggly motions with his hands. “And then he just vanished.” Jim’s fingers made a motion like a small explosion. “You know, like into thin air!”
Sean frowned. “Dude, you’re still loaded.”
Dave rubbed his tongue with his fingers and gagged. “Yuck, tastes like I ate a whole jackrabbit, fur and all.” He shuddered, then opened his car door and stepped out.
“No, man!” Jim started to panic. “Where are you going?”
“You know, water the shrubbery. Just doin’ my part for the planet.” Dave slammed the door behind him as he shuffled off towards some nearby sagebrush.
Dave stood facing south, head tilted back, eyes closed. A look of relief washed over his face. Jim watched from the car, his whole body tense, waiting for Dave to disappear. Sean watched Jim with an angry expression that said he might slug him at any moment.
Both Jim and Sean froze as a strange sound seeped into the car—a sound like a baby rattle on steroids or rocks tumbling around in a dryer. Still staring at Dave, Jim’s eyes suddenly widened and almost popped out of his head. He pointed toward Dave, yelling in a high squeaky voice, “What’s that, man? What’s that?”
Sean turned his head to look at Dave, and his jaw dropped open. Staring bug-eyed, his mouth moving soundlessly, he finally emitted a whispery noise that sounded like, “Oh!
Oh! Oh!”
Without thinking, Jim moved his finger over to a switch on the armrest and pushed it, locking all the doors in the car.
Dave heaved a huge sigh of relief. He felt so much better. Now, he thought, let’s go home and get a huge carb-loaded breakfast with lots of OJ, and we’ll all feel better. He finally opened his eyes. That wasn’t there before.
Directly in front of him was what appeared to be a huge snake head, raised and cantilevered out on a huge snake body. If it was a snake head, it was enormous, the size of a fifty-gallon barrel. The eyes were perfectly round and perfectly black. There were symmetrical markings under the eyes, and two dark holes made the nostrils. The long slit of a mouth opened and a forked tongue shot out, wisping across Dave’s face. It wasn’t wet with saliva, but dry and raspy like sandpaper.
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