Mojave Green

by The Brothers Washburn

  They weren’t looking for her in the jumble of giant rocks, but stood talking just outside the pile, with one flashlight carelessly shining through the gaps among the rocks. From where they were standing, they could not see down into the mine, but the light was again illuminating the dead body in front of Camm.

  Once more, she could see it clearly. She didn’t want to look at it, but she couldn’t peel her eyes away. She was close enough that if she leaned forward just a little, she could kiss it.

  The shrunken skin pulled the face back into a look of perpetual horror, the mouth gaping in an endless, silent scream. The terrified look frozen on its face, along with the wide open mouth, set in an anguished, but mute shriek, made her think of a painting she had studied in a humanities class in college, but now the effect had lost all artistic appeal.

  It took all her willpower to keep from retching. She closed her eyes, but that did little to relieve her anxiety. Opening one eye, she thought again of the silent scream frozen on the shriveled face.

  Letting her sick humor take control again, Camm brought her forefinger to her lips and quietly shushed the body. “Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, nodding her head toward the people standing outside. “We don’t want them to catch us.”

  Her newfound friend quietly obeyed.

  Somehow, talking to the dead body made it seem less terrifying. Camm relaxed a little, but did not move. The people talking outside moved farther down the hill, taking their light with them, casting Camm and her friend back into utter darkness.

  She—or they, if you included her buddy—had no choice but to wait out the search. Cramping began to grip her calves and buttocks. That, at least, was a problem her lifeless buddy no longer had to deal with. He could just rest on the spike through his chest.

  Finally, after an eternity, the lights all moved away and the voices disappeared. With trepidation, she climbed up to peer out the mouth of the mine. The searchers, with all their search lights and cars, had moved north, correctly thinking that was the direction she wanted to go.

  Camm expelled a sigh of relief. She turned toward the dead body, now hidden in the inky darkness. More to comfort herself than anything else, she said out loud to her deceased mine companion, “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  From somewhere in the blackness of the mine, not too far from where she was standing, came an agitated reply. “You rather frightened me, too.”

  XIV

  Cal and Lenny stood side by side, staring at the ginormous grandfather clock in front of them. The glass front had been shattered, the face of the clock peppered with shotgun pellets, and the hands and pendulum were missing.

  Lenny picked up a large piece of broken glass, still showing small etchings that were both intricate and hand-made, and slowly shook his head. “Dude, tell me again why Camm shot the clock. It’s, like, all ruined and broken and everything.”

  Once the boys realized there really were two mansions, one back home and one in their present dimension, a lot of things finally made sense to Cal. The one in Trona that he and Camm always saw during the day was the clean and tidy version. The untidy mansion that Cal and Lenny were in now was the one that appeared at the striking of midnight and apparently only stayed until morning, when the tidy version came back again with the sunrise. The nighttime version carried all the signs of their struggles—the bullet holes, broken doors and chairs, the dried blood, dead bugs, dust, dirt, and green slime. It was also the one with the broken grandfather clock that Camm had accidently shot with the shotgun when fighting the green rat.

  Feeling exasperated, Cal explained again, “She was trying to shoot the rat, man. The rat was in front of the clock, and she was just freaked out. She hit the rat, but she also hit the clock. You had to be there to understand. You would have freaked out, too. Anyone would have.”

  The boys stared at each other for a moment, then Lenny glanced back at the ruined clock, thoughtfully rubbing the fast-growing stubble on his chin.

  Finally, Cal asked, “Do you think we can fix it?”

  Lenny shrugged. “We don’t even know how it works.”

  “But you figured out the clock was what turned the mansion on and off, causing it to move between the different dimensions. I mean, if you figured that much out, surely you got an idea of how it works.”

  “Dude, when I was little, I didn’t know about how electricity and stuff worked, but I knew a light switch turned a light on and off.”

  The boys stared at the ruined clock in silence. Finally, Cal straightened his shoulders. It was time to make decisions and do something. He was used to having Camm around to take control and decide what should be done, but Camm wasn’t here. They needed to do something, so Cal took charge.

  “Okay,” Cal started, “let’s first canvass the mansion, and see what we can find. Maybe there is water or food. There could be tools or something else we can use. After that, we’ll take a closer look at the clock. It might just be damaged on the outside. Maybe the inner workings are okay, and all we have to do is rehang the pendulum and put the hands back on. It might work.”

  “Dude.” Lenny shrugged his shoulders, implying he had no better idea.

  Getting inside the mansion in the first place had not been easy. Ever since they had arrived, Cal and Lenny had circled the mansion several times each day, inspecting every outside surface, looking for some chink in the armor. Cal had never noticed before, but all the windows on the ground level were protected with metal bars. Every outside door was thick, iron-hard oak and double or triple locked.

  In the end, the compelling need to inspect the grandfather clock had made them daring. Lenny boosted Cal up to a narrow window ledge on the second level where Cal tried to jimmy the latch with his pocket knife. The ledge was only slightly wider than Cal’s feet. When Cal started to lose his balance, he leaned in to keep from falling off the ledge and crashed through the window instead. Not very neat, but it did finally get them in.

  Putting aside their worries about the grandfather clock, Cal and Lenny started on the first part of Cal’s plan with enthusiasm. Because food had been constantly on their minds lately, they decided to begin their search in the kitchen.

  The first bright note was the discovery that the faucets in the kitchen produced water. Where the water came from, they didn’t know. It tasted a little stale with a slight sulfur odor, but was water just the same.

  However, they did not find a single morsel of food anywhere in the cavernous kitchen. That disappointment was hard to bear because, when the rubber met the road, the prospect of hunting a live animal, and then killing, cleaning, cooking and eating it did not strike either Cal or Lenny as too appetizing. Especially after their lizard snack. Cal would have given anything for a bowl of his favorite baked beans. Both Cal and Lenny were very hungry.

  They split up, hoping to explore the entire structure before nightfall. Cal knew he should examine the small stone room at the bottom of the spiral stairs. That was where the picture of the green rat was kept, and where he and Camm had seen the rat draw its last breath. But he didn’t feel ready to go down there yet, not even with his .357 Magnum in hand. Lenny was interested in seeing the stone room, but did not push the issue.

  Cal started on the third floor, going room to room, looking under, over, and in everything. He found little that would be helpful, just a lot of old furniture, dust, and dirt. He did find a few old candles, which would help when it got dark. He also discovered a number of bullet holes and spent shell casings from firefights he remembered and ones he knew nothing about.

  After a while, Lenny yelled for him. “Dude! Come down here. Check this out!”

  Cal hurried downstairs and found Lenny in a small closet-size room on the main floor, not far from the huge fireplace. Inside the room were three large utilitarian backpacks. They looked like military issue with printed names and ranks, but Cal didn’t recognize the colors or insignia on them. They did not appear to be of US origin.

  Lenny raised
an eyebrow. “What do you think, man?”

  Cal studied them closely for a few seconds. “Mr. Samuels told Camm and me that he sent mercenaries in to kill the rat, and they never came back. This could be their gear. Let’s check ’em out. We may find weapons or tools or something.”

  Cal started in one backpack and immediately gave an excited whoop as he pulled out extra rounds of .38 Special ammo and a long, elegantly formed hunting knife.

  Lenny opened another backpack and began digging inside. He licked his lips. “Dude, there may be food here!”

  The white-haired man sat in a comfortable chair against the back wall. His tall companion was in an identical chair in the opposite corner. An elegant pool table sat in the middle of the room. A true slate table made of black walnut and dark oak, beautifully carved in every respect, it was part of the original mansion furnishings. The two men had enjoyed many hours playing pool. It was the only positive thing about the mission so far.

  Agent Allen had been sent for, and she was taking her time in coming. The short man supposed it was fair retaliation for keeping her waiting in Washington D.C. When the door opened and she strode in, he could tell she was annoyed that the only two chairs in the room were taken. Making your victim stand was a well-known, yet simple, technique for asserting dominance.

  Agent Allen placed her hands on her hips and with some impatience said, “Well?”

  He had to admit to himself that she cut quite a striking figure. She was tall, lean, and athletically built. Her hair was pulled back into a businesslike ponytail. She wore practical, but masculine, clothes. The clothes, however, emphasized the female aspects of her physique and made her more attractive.

  In his younger days, he could have been interested in a woman like her. Not just because of her physical appearance. In fact, not primarily because of it. She was more attractive because she was intelligent and assertive. She was attractive because of her natural leadership abilities and her creative methods in attacking problems. But the days of romantic interest in a woman were gone to him. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t mind making her a permanent member of his team. She was tough and had a lot to offer. He had been annoyed with her in Washington D.C., but he had come to respect her here in the field.

  He began, “We would like your assessment of Miss Smith’s situation and any thoughts you may have as to how we can locate her.”

  Agent Allen shifted her weight from one foot to the other and studied his face closely. “Before we go any further, I would like to know what to call you. I mean, I can keep referring to you as ‘old man number one’ and ‘old man number two’ if you don’t mind sharing references with kindergarten bathroom terminology.”

  The man smiled in spite of himself. He nodded his head toward his taller companion. “You can refer to him as ‘Mr. S’ and to me as ‘Mr. C.’ ”

  Agent Allen rolled her eyes. “Mr. S and Mr. C, huh? S and C, as in Swift Creek?”

  Mr. C continued, “Please, your assessment of Miss Smith?”

  She rolled her eyes again. “My assessment is that you screwed up by keeping Camm here in the mansion, and then screwed up again by letting her escape.”

  The man refused to be offended. He and his companion were well aware of the mistakes that had been made. They would not make the same mistake twice.

  Mr. S spoke. “Do you have a theory as to where she might be now?”

  “She is a smart girl and adept at thinking on her feet. As you know, she is the only person we know of who has been able to kill the green rat. She won’t make any foolish or careless mistakes. I don’t think she would go to the home of any of her friends here in Trona. She would know that is where we would start looking. She wouldn’t hide out in any of the abandoned houses either. They are too easy to search. She might be up in the hills hiding. She might not. She does know the surrounding landscape better than all the rest of us put together.”

  Mr. C stated flatly, “You really don’t know.”

  “I really don’t.”

  Mr. S continued. “How would you suggest, then, that we go about finding her?”

  “I would keep your boys busy by checking with her friends, just in case, but basically, I don’t think you need to do anything. You will find her soon enough.”

  Mr. C leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not going anywhere. I mean, she’s not leaving Trona. She will not be content until Cal Jones returns. She will come back on her own, when she has developed a plan to help her best friend and to mess up whatever it is you two are doing.”

  The two men looked at each other. What she suggested seemed very reasonable.

  Mr. S asked, “What do you suggest we do about her friend, Martha Bussey? She has recuperated enough—we don’t need to keep her here. Besides, as you implied, this place is not as secure as we thought.”

  Agent Allen nodded. “She says she doesn’t remember what happened. That is certainly plausible, given her injury. But I would keep her close. See if you can get her a clerkship with the court in Ridgecrest, or maybe a legal position on the base, you know, China Lake Naval Weapons Station. We may be able to use her as bait to bring Camm in.”

  The men had not considered that option. This Agent Allen was impressive. Mr. C got up from his chair, walked over to the pool table, and started racking up the balls. He glanced up at Agent Allen. “We are going to assign you to work with Agent Williams, since Agent Roberts is dead. You two will continue to search for Miss Smith.”

  “You mean with J.R.? That will not work. I don’t want to be paired with him.”

  Mr. S stated firmly, “Nevertheless, that is what we have decided. He will be the senior agent and direct the search, with your input, of course.”

  Agent Allen stepped forward and leaned on the pool table. “Listen to me! I’m not working with J.R. He’s dangerous and he’s a putz.”

  Mr. C removed the rack and limped to the wall where he hung it on a hook. He calmly placed the cue ball on the table. Raising an eyebrow, he cautioned, “Don’t get hysterical.”

  Agent Allen removed a cue stick from the wall and unexpectedly slammed it down on the pool table. The hard wood against the slate top made a loud smack. Both men jumped.

  Having gotten their full attention, Agent Allen replaced her hands on her hips and calmly lectured, “Hysterical means ‘excessive or uncontrolled emotion, without an organic cause.’ It comes from the Greek term for womb, and therefore refers to women who can’t control themselves. The term is sexist, and I won’t allow its use in reference to myself, especially when I have not demonstrated excessive or uncontrolled emotion.

  “I won’t work with J.R. He’s a putz.” She hesitated, trying to think of the black agent’s name. “I will work with Agent Kline.”

  Mr. C stood up straight and stared at her for several seconds, sorting his options. A show-down on this matter would be pointless. He could reassert his dominance when it mattered. Finally, he bent over the table and picked up the cue stick left there by Agent Allen. Taking aim, he hit the white ball with a thud. It spun toward the triangle of colored balls, knocking them in all directions. Five balls went into pockets—all of them solid colors.

  Mr. C glanced up at her briefly. “Very well. Go find Agent Kline and have him come here. You and he can go search for the young girl until we think of something better for you to do. You are probably right. She will eventually come back to the mansion on her own.”

  Mr. S stood up, took a cue stick and started to chalk it. Without looking at Agent Allen, he calmly dismissed her. “You may go.”

  Without another word, she turned and walked briskly from the room.

  As Mr. C prepared to take his next shot, he commented, “I like her. I think she may be very useful to us.” He smacked the cue ball again sending a ball into the side pocket.

  “I like her, too. We may want to make her permanent.”

  “Agreed.” A double bank shot went in the corner.

  Cal and Lenny sat on the fr
ont steps of their mansion, each of them eating an MRE, which was military jargon for “Meals Ready to Eat.” They hadn’t found many packets, so they had to make them last. The sun was setting, and all was perfectly calm around them. Nothing stirred as they voraciously consumed the old, dry contents of the packages. The evening’s meal was gone all too soon. Both of them were still hungry.

  The sun cast an amber glow on the sparse clouds. Daytime temperatures had been very hot, and it hadn’t rained since the boys arrived.

  Lenny spoke. “Have you noticed that backward S emblem in the carvings inside? You see it all over the place. You know, the backward S with kind of a teardrop on the end.”

  Cal rubbed his still empty stomach. “Yea, we saw it when we first came to the mansion. And it was on the Japanese puzzle box, too.”

  “Dude, I’ve seen that before, in an anthropology class. That is a Native American pictograph for a snake.”

  Cal leaned back. “Whoa. All of a sudden that makes sense.”

  Lenny leaned back with him, gazing up at the sky. Suddenly, he pointed to the northern horizon. “Dude. Look at those clouds over there.”

  Cal saw two thin clouds that were long and parallel, very high in the sky, fading off behind the mountains. “Yeah? What about them?”

  Lenny chewed his lip, a serious expression on his face. “That looks exactly like a contrail.”

  “A what?” Cal was rummaging through the MRE packaging to make sure he hadn’t missed any crumbs of food.

  Lenny shot Cal a look of exasperation. “The evaporation cloud, or trail, caused by high altitude jet aircraft!”

  Cal shrugged his shoulders and gave Lenny a blank look. “You think so? In this world? That’s not possible, is it?”

  All Lenny said was, “Dude.” This time it meant, Anything is possible.