The concentrated green scum had another valuable attribute. She learned to use it to cloak physical things such as her bicycle and articles of clothing.
The scientists at building C14 had built an apparatus that flushed the remains of their experiments. The refuse flowed down the tunnel that ended at a natural spout ten feet above in the ceiling. When they “flushed” it took time for the remains to fall into the pool below. She had no doubt that the bones would combine with the limestone material into what were called ‘bathtub stalagmites.’ Years from now, if cavers ever found the grotto, a horrible freak show would petrify them.
The entry point at the top of the cavern was called a ‘showerhead’ in spelunk speak. Toilet seemed the more apt word. Upon completion this summer, building C14’s replacement, building G7, would put an end to Genevive’s flushing stuff down the tunnel. She still wondered at how Genevive’s bad science department led by Dr. Krabbi rendered bodies to bare bones. Did they cremate the individuals? Melt the flesh away?
At this point Genevive scientists weren’t aware of the solution’s true potential. The green slime sitting in the pool in front of her could make an entire army transparent.
Laurel became a little girl again, standing at the edge of the shore with her father. Excited, she hesitated to test the cold water that rushed ashore in waves.
“Don’t be afraid,” her father had said.
What would father tell her now?
She avoided the green scum and the bones, both animal and human, that littered the sink below the spout.
The pool acted as a verdant mirror that captured the surrounding luminescence. She watched herself remove her clothes. Her wrinkled body belonged to someone else. She would gladly return it to them soon.
The pool beckoned. Beside her the ancient Miwok Northern Giant, Ke’-lok, gave his approval.
She slid into the pool, breathless, absorbing its energy. There were no words to describe how she felt. Nothing else mattered as her body pulled in the energy to nourish itself.
Sometime later, her body temperature began to rise. She must have been basking in the pool for two hours or more. Overexposure meant tissue damage that could lead to an agonizing death.
Laurel rose out of the pool, refreshed, feeling incredible. A goddess replaced her image in the mirrored water.
She was Hoo-soo’-pe, the Miwok water maiden.
# # #
Laurel used her pulley system to scamper up the rope, an easy task now. At the top she vaulted into the cave, landing on both feet. She raised her arms like a gymnast, scoring a perfect ten.
She felt invincible. The transparency caused her face to glow. It could light up the cave without the lanterns. Gone were the diaphanous green veins amid the sickly jade skin tone. She touched her cheek, pleased to find the skin texture that rivaled that of a newborn baby.
Her energy, fueled by the magic in the pool, overwhelmed her. It lent her body perfection while making her invisible to the rest of the world. She required scant light now for the transparency to take effect.
Laurel had constructed a makeshift cabinet out of crate planks tied together with twine. A battery operated multiband radio set on top backed up by a small hand cranked military generator. Next to it stood a framed photograph of her parents. She lifted Jillian’s large photo journal. Inside, a sealed envelope with her name written in Jillian’s hand dared her to open it.
The manila envelope contained several documents. The first appeared so old that it could have come from the Smithsonian. The original land grant deed between the Miwok Indian tribe and the federal government had been sealed in plastic to preserve it.
An attached letter from Attorney T. Maynard Bryce, of the State of California, swore to the authenticity of the Miwok deed. He offered the federal government’s doctored deed that enabled Genevive Labs’ purchase as evidence. He claimed to possess incriminating e-mails and official correspondence exchanged between an unnamed U.S. Senator and Genevive executives, obtained by a private investigator.
The attorney expressed his confidence that Jillian Foxworth had a strong case against Genevive and the federal government. A successful verdict would return the land to the Foxworth family and members of the Miwok tribe. Bryce promised not to take any action until he heard from Jillian. His final words cautioned her on the danger of this information ending up in the wrong hands.
A yellow Post-it note clung to the inside of the manila envelope. It read, “Laurel, if anything happens to me please contact Attorney Bryce. All of the assertions contained in these documents are true. Bryce is prepared to proffer a lawsuit against Genevive Labs and the federal government.
Love always, Jillian.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
The Mail Boxes Etc. store in the Santa Reina Mall opened at 8:59 a.m. Halliday paid cash for a six month mailbox rental under the name of Henry Ogden. Mr. Ogden’s previous address had been Halliday’s apartment. The thief currently resided at San Quentin.
He dropped the tiny flash drive containing Laurel’s evidence into the lock box. It contained Dr. Krabbi’s memo describing how Genevive had been dumping materials beneath building C14 as well as the document that pointed toward a mole at Santa Reina PD.
Afterwards, he ate breakfast at a Starbucks on the first floor. He sipped on a grande hot latte, contemplating Jillian’s evidence of land fraud that had Palmier so worked up. That could seal the deal against Genevive. He needed to talk to the chief, find Laurel, and return to Jillian’s basement. The documents must be hidden there. If they had been in her hot springs safe they would already be in Palmier’s hands.
The spare phone that he had retrieved from his apartment reverted to voicemail after several rings. Laurel didn’t answer the phone he had given her. He hung up. Palmier’s 2:00 p.m. deadline loomed like storm clouds over the sierras.
“Listen to the chimes,” Laurel had said.
She meant the wind chimes on the hill above Genevive Labs. Listen for what? A warning or a code of some kind?
He tossed the used napkin in the trash barrel and muttered, “Come on, Halliday.” She wouldn’t have uttered those words unless they were significant. Laurel had a good head on shoulders despite the load that had been heaped on her. He had to figure out what she meant.
Before she escaped last night she said, “I can’t...”
She couldn’t do what?
He had been handing her the phone when she said it. Maybe she meant that she couldn’t call from the cave. Perhaps the phone lacked a signal. That wouldn’t stop her from going out in the open to make a call. What if she feared they would make a fix on her location from the phone’s GPS? Yes, that must be it.
“Listen to the chimes.” He would return to the hill today. According to Laurel, she would be fully transparent, or invisible, after her dunk in the cave. Last night’s dark escapade, a bad dream that lingered on the cusp of a nightmare, troubled him. He knew there would be no mention of the death of the scientist at Deer Valley in the Tribune. Genevive’s mad scientists were probably already probing the man’s body.
In the light of day doubts challenged his analytical mind. Had he missed a more plausible explanation of Laurel’s condition?
He dashed his thoughts as he headed over to the police station.
Back at the office, Halliday dug into his bottom desk drawer. He found the box of various stationary that he had seldom had occasion to use. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security letterhead had several creases. He addressed it to Special Agent Stanley Tolbert. The bureau would forward it to Tolbert now working for the DOD. Despite the man’s reluctance to get involved when they’d last spoke, he had to take a chance with Stan. Halliday had no one else to confide in.
During the next hour he worked on the hand written letter to Tolbert, afraid to enter anything into his computer, linked to the PD system. Halliday included a blurb promising that he had copies of evidence against Genevive Labs’ wrongdoings. He wrote down what he knew about Palmier, the DOD, and the missi
ng persons. He did not include information regarding Laurel’s transparency or the evidence in the lock box.
Halliday sealed the envelope before placing in a case file marked “McKinley” buried in bottom of the drawer. Then he headed to the coffee machine.
While he waited for the coffee maker to dispense the brew, Betsy stood at the end of the hall mimicking a traffic cop. She waved at him. Making a large arc with her right arm, she pointed at the chief’s office. He held up the coffee cup while pointing to the coffee urn with his other hand.
Betsy gave him an urgent look.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He needed some time to think things out before the next episode with the chief.
When Betsy didn’t lift her head when he shuffled past, it meant a bad sign. He said, “Good morning to you, too.”
Brayden’s “girl Friday” for the twenty-some years, gave a muffled reply while Halliday trudged into the chief’s office.
The chief reminded Halliday of a weary hunting dog who, after years of faithful chase, got rewarded with castration. It must be tough dangling from Palmier’s strings. The old man slumped over with elbows meshed into the desk, hands clutching heavy cheeks. Illness had attacked him from two fronts, mental and physical. Halliday couldn’t help him with either.
“Two deaths in one night,” Chief Brayden said. “What the hell’s going on around here?”
You tell me, chief. “Tommy Hartnett was as dependable as the Santa Reina Tribune.”
“The Tribune’s days are numbered, too,” the chief said while waving at the chair in front of his desk in the same manner that Halliday had seen New Yorkers flag taxis.
He took a seat.
“As you are probably aware, one of Genevive’s security men attempted a U-turn on a narrow mountain road last night. He went over the edge.
Halliday nodded, although this was the first he had heard of it.
“I sent Gladstone out on it. This is to remain in-house until we learn the details.”
The chief wouldn’t mention the Deer Meadow incident. Did he not know about it? He sure as hell had to know about Halliday’s visit to the cabin.
“What is it, John?”
“Nothing.” He wondered if Laurel had been involved with the security man’s accident. “What was the security man doing there in the middle of the night? Was he alone?”
Halliday watched closely to gauge the chief’s response. When Waylen returned Halliday to his car last night he’d been miffed that the other security man had left the scene.
The chief said, “Yeah, he was alone. No one knows what happened at this point.” As if in a trance he added, “We’ll find alcohol or drugs involved. Just like with Tommy Hartnett.”
Halliday waited for him to continue.
“Tommy left the Skunk Drunk Tavern near Visalia last night. He ran off Highway 99. Crashed head-on into a parked produce truck. He had a blood alcohol level above point two percent.”
It sounded the same as Palmier’s spiel last night. Halliday had been through too much over the last twenty-four hours to be shocked, but it saddened him. “Drunk or not,” he said, “Tommy could navigate every road in the county asleep.”
The chief scoffed. “Are you saying Hartnett’s death was no accident either?”
Halliday imagined Tommy Hartnett’s fear when he looked in the rear view and saw a white pickup on his tail. They must have pulled the truck in front of him. “Who arrived on the scene?”
The chief said, “Sergeant Dave Garcia.”
Sergeant Garcia again. “Chief, normal behavior for Tommy Hartnett over the last fifty years has been to get drunk on the weekend. I’m thinking he got distracted by someone or something.”
“Or the years had finally caught up with the old Looney. Leo didn’t find anything unusual. No severed brake lines, no oil slicked road… No ghosts.”
Halliday resented the insinuation. “I talked to Tommy yesterday afternoon.”
The chief spat, as if to expel a bad taste left in his mouth.
Halliday grunted. “Tommy might have been an oddball but he excelled at snooping around.”
The chief didn’t argue Tommy’s ability. His expression told Halliday not to go further.
Halliday had a disturbing epiphany: Tomorrow was October 31st, either the last day of his life or the first day of the rest of his life. “Tommy snooped around the hot springs yesterday during your investigation.”
The chief’s expression said, “Aw, shit.” He said, “I saw the little weasel sniffing around the grounds. I also came across a skunk.”
“Tommy said he wandered out back to the apartments. I guess you didn’t see that.”
Whatever confidence the chief had left vanished. He appeared to have stopped breathing. His face flushed crimson.
“You okay chief?” He didn’t want to cause the man to have a heart attack.
The chief barked, “Dammit, don’t go there.”
“I have to go there, chief.”
When the old man’s color began to return Halliday said, “The lives of innocent people are on the line.”
“It’s not what you think.”
It never is. “Tommy listened at the door to your conversations.”
The chief rubbed his hand across his mouth. “So what did he hear?”
His tone had shifted to a soft whisper.
“I don’t have to tell you what Tommy heard, do I, chief? You were there, along with Palmier and the security chief, Altman.”
The chief leaned back, shaking his head. “What are you going to do, John? Are you going to be the hero? Clean up this town? Drive Genevive out? I told you the first day on the job that this little one-horse town would never measure up to Diplomatic Security. You remember what you said?”
Halliday didn’t have a chance to answer.
“You said, ‘I just want to be left alone. Stay under the radar.’”
He had no response.
“Well, goddammit John, you’re going to create a tsunami here if you pursue this.”
“What does Palmier and Genevive have on you chief? It must be pretty incriminating to forsake the town. I mean, hell, you’re a legend here. What about your family?”
The chief’s face twisted. Halliday saw Brayden torn between his audacity and the man’s own failings.
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with here, John.”
If he heard one more cliché Halliday would overturn the Chief’s desk. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry for Brayden. Instead, he took out the copy of Dr. Krabbi’s memo. He laid it on the desk.
“Why are you showing that to me? Take it to the mayor’s office. Show it to him. You know what he’s going to say? He’s going to say, ‘Why are you showing this to me?’”
The bitterness in Chief Brayden’s voice staggered him. “Chief, you need help. We can bring in the FBI. I know some feds who would help.”
The chief stabbed at the evidence in front of him. “You haven’t contacted the FBI or any other government agency, have you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
The chief leaned back in the chair. He raised fleshy arms. His neck coiled. “I received a call from Genevive security. The bio-extremists, Morning Glory, are already arriving on site. Genevive expects trouble tomorrow.”
October 31st.
The chief glanced over at the photograph of his family. “Meet Brad Palmier at his admin building tomorrow morning. I’ve already notified him. Word is these bio-extremists are planning something nasty. Genevive security should be able to handle. Still, we need to show our presence.”
The chief was throwing Halliday under the bus.
Brayden glared at him. “I expect you to support Genevive Labs tomorrow, John. We both know how important your job is to you.”
“I’m like Tommy H,” he said. “I’m dependable. Remember?”
Before he rose to leave the chief said, “Did you find her?”
He didn’t respond.
&nbs
p; The chief slid a folder across the table to him. “I thought you might be interested in this report,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Take it and read it.”
The sardonic reply confirmed what Halliday already knew. He had unofficially been written off as a member of the chief’s team.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Nothing had changed. Betsy offered that abandoned meerkat gaze as Halliday left the chief’s office.
He strode down the dark hallway over broken clay tiles that didn’t speak his language. Leo’s guffaw entertained a trio of officers.
Although his office needed organizing, it didn’t matter. Halliday grabbed his keys off the cluttered desk. He headed for the exit. Something told him he wouldn’t be returning.
As he maneuvered down the broken PD steps a voice called out from behind, “Halliday, wait up.”
He cranked his neck.
Gladstone said, “Can we talk in private?”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Okay, follow me.”
Laurel had his phone. Halliday couldn’t be contacted by the chief, Palmier, or anyone else who wanted a piece of him. He steered the Saab east on Main Street until it merged into county road 117. He kept Gladstone’s Ram truck in his rear view mirror.
Fifteen minutes later he pulled into the Rhineland Deli.
Halliday found a private spot underneath a large yellow umbrella in the far corner. He ordered a liter bottle of König Pilsener export beer along with the usual bratwurst sandwich with fries. Gladstone had the same, with a coke.
“Jesus, Halliday, I’ve never seen you drink a beer while on duty.”
“Tomorrow’s October 31st, Halloween.”
Gladstone’s brow furrowed. “So?”
Transparency: Bio-Tech Cavern Secrets Untold Page 22
