J.R. smiled gently and left.
Camm pushed off her ledge seat to pace around the space she had come to think of as her own—the cave opening and her little sleeping alcove. She needed to put together what J.R. had been telling her with what she already knew. She knew J.R. must be connected somehow with the mansion and the green rat. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew it was important.
She was sure the “switching point” had something to do with what had happened to Cal and Lenny, and that when
J. R. referred to “it,” he was talking about the rat. She was still confused, though, by the “V. ready seer pans” and most of the rest as well.
The identity of the corpses was still a mystery, but they had to be connected with the mansion. The Three Stooges had serious gashes and body wounds that must have caused their deaths. Camm had no doubt they were killed by the green rat.
Marching up to the cave opening, Camm stood in front of the sentry to examine him in the sunlight. She saw no signs of the cause of his death. Maybe it was the rat, maybe the snake, or maybe something else altogether. Or maybe it wasn’t important.
Camm was running out of clues. She couldn’t stay in this cave forever, and J.R. wasn’t saying anything new. It was time to move on, but she wanted to stay in J.R’s good graces. She might need to talk with him again, and in any case, she might need a place to hide again.
She saluted the sentry. “Carry on.”
Camm turned on her heel and went in search of J. R.
When she left the mansion, she had been heading north toward Homewood Canyon. That still seemed like a good idea. Maybe she should talk to Sarah again. Of course, Sarah talked in circles, too. Maybe she should bring J.R. with her. Perhaps, by joining J.R.’s circles with Sarah’s circles, the answers she needed could be put together.
XXIV
“You guys keep working. I won’t be gone long. You should be able to get that brief ready before I get back.”
Sean and Jim startled at the interruption and stared back at her, nervous as always when she spoke to them. Papers were slowly chugging out of the ancient printer Martha had found in the small office used by the boys. Another find had been a collating machine, antiquated, but still usable. Although she did all her basic work online, she had started printing and collating the briefs she wrote for the Judge Advocate General’s office as a backup record of her work and as a mild form of rebellion.
Besides, she needed something to keep Sean and Jim busy. Both boys wore permanent GPS wrist monitors. They were prohibited from leaving the Navy Base at any time and were not allowed any outside communications. Their office barracks contained no phones. Martha believed this was to discourage the boys from trying to make phone calls.
It had been easy to deduce that the two boys had been through a traumatic experience, probably similar to her own. But they weren’t talking. Only their pale, strained faces and the way they jumped at sudden or strange sounds gave them away.
Martha’s mouth twisted wryly. Those Swift Creek bullies have scared them into silence.
She wished she could help them, but she could not admit she had met up with a swarm of giant spiders and had been chased by a monstrous snake without revealing that she had not forgotten everything. She was sure she was being monitored most, if not all the time.
She called to the boys, “If you get done before I get back, do something fun. I found an old Pac-Man program on my computer. Believe it or not, Pong was there, too. Those games were before your time, but you might want to try them out for their historical value.”
Leaving the sterilized offices to Sean and Jim, Martha drove her government-issue jeep to a natural history museum in Ridgecrest called the Maturango Museum. Its grounds were studded with Native American artifacts and art work.
Martha had figured out that “Maturango” was a local Indian word, and Maturango Peak was the name of the highest point along the Argus Mountain range. The peak was located within the boundary of the China Lake Naval Weapons Station in an area closed to the general public.
Though the museum was small and under-funded, she soon found what she was looking for. Thumbing through a large locally published picture book, she studied page after page of ancient pictographs that had been discovered on the rocks in the area around China Lake and Searles Valley. Martha carefully thumbed through the photographs, looking for symbols similar to those she had seen in the old Searles Mansion. Several of the pictographs consisted of a backward ‘S’ figure with a tear drop at the top end.
Is that a snake? Martha decided to seek help.
Back behind some bookshelves in the library portion of the museum, Martha found a schoolmarm-type woman with pince-nez reading glasses, her hair pulled back into a bun.
“Excuse me,” Martha asked. “Do you work here?”
The woman gave Martha a friendly smile. “I volunteer here one day a week. Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, uh.” Martha stumbled a little. Something about this woman made Martha uncomfortable. She pointed at the backward “S” pictograph. “I see this symbol a lot in these pictures. Do you know what it means?”
“Why, of course dear. That is the local Native American symbol for snake.”
“I see. Did they worship the snake or something? Because you see it a lot.”
The woman smiled again. “We don’t know what they worshiped for sure, but I don’t think that putting the symbol on the rocks around where they hunted meant they worshiped snakes. It may very well mean they were afraid of them.”
“They were afraid of snakes?”
“Yes, of course, dear. Lots of people are afraid of snakes. Just because the snakes were indigenous to this area doesn’t mean those early people weren’t afraid of them.”
“I see,” Martha repeated. She hesitated, then asked, “The symbol is large in comparison with the pictographs of people, but I guess that relative size in these Native American drawings doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that is a pictograph of a very large snake—maybe even a giant snake.” The woman gave Martha a matronly smile, but behind her glasses, she stared at her intensely, as if looking for her reaction.
While her insides went cold at the mention of a giant snake, Martha didn’t react. She returned the smile. “Thank you! That is very interesting.”
She tried to say interesting in such a way that made it sound as if it was not interesting. She turned and started to walk away from the woman, but then turned back. “Excuse me, but I didn’t get your name.”
The woman gave Martha another one of her smiles. “Of course, dear. Everyone just calls me Miss Cathleen.”
XXV
Mr. C sat upright in his chair, a look of annoyance written across his face. His fingers nervously drummed on the armrest. Agent Allen smiled at his irritation. She had hauled two more chairs into the pool room so she and Agent Kline could also be seated. She would not be left standing while she argued with these two old men. Not again. Mr. S was also present, his hand bandaged where he had lost his finger tip.
Mr. C swept them all with an especially stern look. “We are not killing the rat. I believe that course of action would be extraordinarily unwise.”
Agent Allen heaved a heavy sigh. They had been at this argument for some time. Mr. S and Agent Kline had been largely silent, but Agent Allen had insisted on killing the green rat before midnight. At midnight they were going to start the clock and try to bring Cal and Lenny back. Mr. C remained vehemently opposed to the idea of killing the rat.
Agent Allen decided to try a different tactic. “Then, you come up with a better idea. Once we start the clock, that rat can transition into the mansion on the other side, where the boys are now. On our side, that thing is trapped in the secret stairway. If it transitions into the other mansion’s stairway, it can get out into the cellar by opening the door. It will be free to move between that world and this one, and go wherever it wants. And we know what it likes to eat!”
Mr. C drummed his fingers, staring hard at Agent Allen. “Then we have no choice. We will delay the transition until a later time, until after we get the rat under control.”
“NO!” Agent Allen bolted straight up in her chair. “Those boys are expecting us to bring them back tonight. Who knows what will happen to them if they stay any longer? We don’t even know if they have anything to eat. We told them—no—you told them,” Agent Allen pointed at Mr. S, “that we would try again tonight at midnight. We can’t let them down now.”
Mr. C slapped the arm of his chair for emphasis. “We can’t risk the rat getting loose. We all agree on that. We cannot—we should not kill it. It is essential to the science we are doing here. I believe we will need it as the guardian once we get both clocks working in sync and get the dimensional frame back on this side again.”
“We cannot let those boys down.” Agent Allen leaned forward and spoke slowly and sternly. “We must make every effort to bring them back tonight.”
Finally, Mr. S spoke up. “I agree with Agent Allen. Those boys must be brought back if at all possible. True, they are in danger there, and as dangerous as the rat is here, the boys could be upsetting the system of things over there. We’ve got loose cannons on both sides.”
Mr. C sat back in his chair. “It seems we are at an impasse.”
“Maybe,” Agent Kline put in, “we could tranquilize it. You know, with powerful tranquilizer guns. Shoot it and knock it out.”
“With what?” Mr. C sounded annoyed again. “Things from this world don’t always work on things from the other world. And, I think, vice versa. What are we going to shoot it with?”
Agent Kline furrowed his brow. “I suggest a cocktail of ketamine with some kind of strong sedative. Ketamine works on horses. It might work on the rat, especially in large doses.”
Mr. C shook his head. “Not good enough. Might is just not good enough. Besides, where do we get ketamine by tonight? I doubt there is any in Trona.”
“No, but there will be in Ridgecrest,” Mr. S pointed out. “A number of people in Ridgecrest and Trona have horses. I’m sure a veterinarian in Ridgecrest will have some.”
Agent Allen was relieved to hear Mr. S had come over to her side, at least on the issue of trying to bring the two boys back.
“But, what if it is not enough? What if it doesn’t work?” Mr. C persisted.
Agent Kline glanced around. “We could add lysergic acid diethylamide to the cocktail.”
“LSD?” Agent Allen was incredulous. “You want to shoot that crazy rat full of LSD? Like it’s not crazy enough already? Who knows what it will do if it is tripping out on LSD?”
Agent Kline shrugged. “I just know at one time it was used quite effectively as a tranquilizer for horses.”
Agent Allen sat back in her chair to think. “What did Camm and Cal use when they almost killed it? Why can’t we use what they used?”
“We’re not sure how they got it,” Mr. S explained, “but we believe they shot it with snake venom. Not from local snakes, but venom from a snake on the other side. Probably from that giant Mojave Green snake that chased you.”
Mr. C snorted. “You’re welcome to try and milk that thing if you want to.”
“Now, now.” Mr. S momentarily raised an eyebrow at Mr. C.
Then he suggested, “Let’s not mix the two. Let’s shoot the rat with two different darts. One dart will have the ketamine cocktail and the other will have LSD. Perhaps one or the other will work, or perhaps they will work in concert. I think that is our best option.”
Agent Allen shook her head. “I can’t believe you want to shoot that thing up with LSD. Anyway, we might be able to get ketamine, but where do we find LSD in time for tonight?”
Misters S and C exchanged glances.
Mr. S responded, “We already have some.”
XXVI
Dusk was falling as Camm made her way down the hillside toward the outlying homes in Trona. J.R. stumbled next to her. She steadied the old man, holding onto his arm, the one he still had. Neither Camm nor J.R. noticed they were being stealthily followed. Two sets of eyes kept them in sight at all times.
Camm had determined she needed to get J.R. together with Sarah. Maybe they could understand each other. She knew she couldn’t bring Sarah to the cave and had concluded there was no way J.R. could walk all the way to Homewood Canyon. The solution to her problem had come to her while sitting outside the cave, looking down on her tiny desert hometown.
Her friend, Becky Jimenez, lived with her parents on the edge of town in a weather-beaten, sun-blanched house. Becky had been in Camm’s high school graduating class, one of thirty-three graduates. Becky had not left town. Instead, she now worked at the plant.
During high school, Becky’s parents had bought her an old Dodge Dart. It was a beat-up old car, sand blasted and sun baked to the point its original color could not be determined. The ignition had malfunctioned, so Becky’s dad had hard wired it so it could be started without a key. One had only to turn the ignition to engage the starter.
The car was parked behind the house most of the time. Camm knew Becky hated taking it anywhere, even to work, because it was so worn and ugly. Her plan was to walk J.R. down to the Jimenez house and borrow the car to drive out to see Sarah. Afterward, Camm would see that the car was returned.
She was sure Becky would gladly give her permission if asked, but knowing what Camm did about Swift Creek, Camm figured it was better for Becky if she just took the car.
As Camm approached the edge of town, she suddenly noticed J.R. was not with her. Anxiously glancing around, she saw him hiding behind a large bush they had just passed.
“J.R., what are you doing?” she whispered loudly. He didn’t answer, but pointed toward a nearby street. A dark colored SUV was headed up the road. Camm ducked behind the bush with J.R. just before the headlights struck her. Once the car had rolled slowly past, Camm helped J.R. up, and they continued toward the Dodge.
Camm studied the old man hobbling beside her. Constantly vigilant, J.R. seemed to notice everything going on around him. He must have been hiding in that cave, keeping out of sight, for years and years. No wonder she had never heard anything about him. Sadly, she decided, avoiding cars and strangers must be second nature to him now. What a lonely life.
When they got to the car, Camm was perturbed to find it locked. Why would anyone want to steal this car? Which was ironic because that was exactly what she planned to do. Though the car was locked, the windows were down a little. In Trona, no one ever parked a car in direct sunlight with all the windows closed. The inside of the car would literally turn into a hot oven. Fortunately, Camm was able to squeeze her arm into the car and pull up the latch.
Opening the car door, she turned to help J.R. into the front seat. He was missing again.
“J.R., J.R., where did you go?” Camm scanned the nearby bushes for him.
“I’m right here!” The loud voice startled her. It certainly did not belong to the old man from the cave. Around the corner of the house came a short, thick man in a dark suit and white shirt, obviously an agent of Swift Creek. He approached, looking at her suspiciously. “What do you want? Why are you calling my name?”
Her blood ran cold. She recognized him as one of the agents from the mansion. He hadn’t said two words to her the whole time she was imprisoned there and had even avoided looking at her.
All I need, she thought. An agent who has a grudge against me for killing Roberts.
“Well, what do you want? Why are you calling my name? Who are you anyway?”
He spouted off questions in an abrupt official manner, like a police officer might question a suspect. Camm’s initial thought was to run, but she couldn’t leave J.R.—her J.R., that is.
As the short agent scowled at her, it finally occurred to her, he didn’t recognize her as the escapee from the mansion. He made no effort to go for his gun, to detain her, or to call for back-up. He just wanted to know why she was c
alling his name.
Looking especially annoyed, he leaned forward and asked loudly, “You called me. What do you want?” Each word was pronounced slowly and precisely, as if he were talking to an idiot.
Camm’s mind raced for a response.
“I wasn’t calling you,” was all she could think to say.
The agent put his hands on his hips as his scowl deepened. “I heard you call my name. You were calling for J.R. I am J.R.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. What are the odds of finding another J.R.?
Scrambling for a reply, she mumbled, “I, uh, I wasn’t calling you. I don’t know your name. I was, um, calling for my dog.”
The agent peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. “Your dog’s name is J.R.?”
Camm tried not to glare at him. So what if it is?
Deciding not to be a smart aleck, her mind calmed. She was in control of the situation. This agent didn’t remember her. She need only play along, and she wouldn’t get caught.
“My dog’s name is Jeter, you know, after the Yankee baseball player. I was calling for Jeter.” She flashed a big, harmless smile at the agent.
Agent J.R. continued to scowl at her. He seemed to sense something was wrong, but couldn’t put his finger on it. “Who are you anyway? Identify yourself.”
“My name is Becky Jimenez. I live here.” Camm pointed at the house. “You questioned us a few nights ago. Remember?”
The agent’s brow furrowed. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Okay. I thought you were calling J.R.” He shifted nervously. “Did you get your evacuation orders? Only workers are allowed in town.”
“Yes, I know. I was working today. I just came by the house for a few things.”
“Okay. Carry on, Miss, uh . . .”
“Miss Jimenez.”
“Yea, I remember. Miss Jimenez. Carry on.” He turned and strode away.
What a dufus!
After the agent had rounded the corner and disappeared, Camm hurriedly searched for her J.R. She found him crouched behind the garbage cans next door. He certainly was good at hiding. She sighed. She wished he would give her some warning when he saw someone coming.
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