Agent Allen turned sharply with the back wheels sliding, raising swirls of dust behind the Mustang. “We’ll see. We might come up with something yet.” She smiled at Camm. “It will just give us both one more reason to solve this case.”
The homes in Homewood Canyon were scattered along a lonely road in a narrow canyon. There was more greenery here, though the elms and other trees still looked stunted and sickly in the canyon. The few drought-resistant shrubs scattered around seemed to thrive a little better. The yards of green lawn and colorful gardens were evidence of the residents’ attempts to beautify the place.
Camm knew some of the families living in Homewood Canyon, and had often visited Lynnette and Laurie, two close friends from school who lived there. They often did their homework together and sometimes teamed up for special assignments. Camm and Lynnette always competed for the highest grade in each class while Laurie was just happy to be a varsity cheerleader.
Camm thought she knew the Canyon well, but did not recognize the little house they were pulling up to. Camm had never noticed it before. It was easily the smallest one along the road—small even by Trona standards—and frightfully rundown, desperately needing a new paint job and some serious repair work.
“Who lives here?” Camm asked, suddenly curious.
“I thought you knew everybody in Trona,” Agent Allen said with half a smile as she studied the dilapidated place.
“Trona is not as big as it used to be, but there are still about twenty-five hundred people living in and around Searles Valley. That’s a lot of people to know personally.”
Camm knew Agent Allen saw Trona as a tiny backwater town. But to Camm, it was home. While she couldn’t wait to leave and go somewhere exciting, like Yale, Trona was still her hometown. She had grown up here and, since her childhood, had found nothing wrong with it. She wished Agent Allen would ease up with the wisecracks.
The agent got out of the car and started to lean against it, but quickly changed her mind when she noticed it was completely covered with a thick layer of white dust.
She flipped through her ever-ready notebook. “Okay, here we are. This is Sarah . . . no one seems to know her last name, although she’s been here her whole life. She’s in her late eighties, or maybe early nineties. As far as I can determine, she is the last person alive who’d lived in the Searles Mansion. I believe she was working there when it was finally vacated and closed up for good.”
Camm leaned across the seat to look up at the agent. “I thought we found nothing in the mansion linking it to any disappearances, so why are you talking to her about the mansion?”
Agent Allen gave Camm an appreciative smile. “Good question! You’re thinking like a cop. Truthfully, the only reason we’re here is because we have no other leads. It’s a shot in the dark, but if we don’t come up with something, I am back to square one.”
“What do you mean, ‘back to square one?’”
Agent Allen sighed and peered at Camm over the top of her sunglasses. “That means there is nothing else to do until the next child is abducted.”
Camm gasped and started to stammer a reply, but couldn’t think of what to say. None of this was Agent Allen’s fault, so she ended up saying nothing.
The notebook snapped shut. “Let’s go try to find a lead.” Camm stayed in the car as Agent Allen started to walk away, only to suddenly turn back again. “Aren’t you coming?”
Camm looked perplexed. “I thought you said I couldn’t be there for the witness interviews.”
“You can’t, not for the interviews with the victims’ families. This woman, as far as I know, is not related to a victim. Besides, I can’t feel good about leaving you out here in a hot car. Come on. If you need to leave because of the direction the interview takes, I’ll tell you.”
Together they made their way to the small cottage, walking up a hard-dirt pathway to a decrepit front door. The paint had long since peeled off in the burning desert sun, and now the veneer was also beginning to split and crack. All the windows in the front were covered with aluminum foil. Agent Allen gave the door three firm knocks, rattling its frame. Camm worried that if they weren’t careful, the door would just collapse.
They waited, and then knocked louder. Still no response.
“Maybe she’s not here,” offered Camm.
“I doubt she has more than one car, and there it is.” Agent Allen pointed to an old Chevy that was so thoroughly bleached by the sun it was difficult to tell what its original color had been. “I doubt she goes out much, but you can tell from the tire tracks leading to the road that she uses the car occasionally. Unless she is out visiting a local neighbor, she is home.
“Look at this door.” The agent tapped it gently. “It doesn’t look like it’s been used much. Let’s see if there is another door over on the side where she parks her car.”
Picking their way through the rocky yard to the side of the house, they found a door, only slightly less decrepit. When the agent rapped on it, they heard scuffling inside. They waited, but nothing else happened. The agent knocked louder—more scuffling. Finally, the knob turned and the door cracked open two inches.
At first, Camm couldn’t see anything—her eyes had gotten used to the brilliant sun outside. Even with some of the side windows free of aluminum foil, there wasn’t much light inside. Camm eventually lowered her gaze and saw a single eye peeking at them from about four and a half feet off the ground, with a shock of white hair above it. The eye stared unblinkingly at them. No one said anything.
Agent Allen broke the ice. “Excuse me, are you Sarah?”
“Who are you?” The voice was weak and shaky, hard to hear. “Why do you ask? What do you want?”
Agent Allen held up her badge. “I’m Special Agent Linda Allen with the FBI. Are you Sarah? I just have a few questions for you.”
The door opened a little more, revealing what could have been a hobbit, right down to the bare feet. “What do you want?” she repeated. “Are you the police?”
Agent Allen smiled. “I’m FBI. May I ask a few questions?”
There was a slight pause before the door creaked open for them to enter a dark, dank kitchen. A single small table sat in the center with four chairs around it. The floor was a mosaic of warped and broken vinyl tiles, and the counters were covered with faded, decomposing linoleum. The house smelled of putrefied oil, rotting vegetables, and unwashed clothes. Camm wrinkled her nose and hesitated when the old woman indicated with her shriveled hand that they should sit on the stained chairs. Agent Allen seated herself as if right at home, and Camm gingerly followed her lead.
The old woman sat, too, her bare feet not quite touching the floor, staring at them with large green eyes, which appeared even larger through her round, wire-framed glasses. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited for someone else to speak first.
“Are you Sarah?” Agent Allen asked again. She was trying to read her notes, but her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness.
The woman nodded.
“What is your last name?”
The woman hesitated for a long while before answering. “It says Sarah Daniel on my birth certificate.”
Agent Allen wrote down the response in her notebook. “Did you once work at the large mansion in town? The one next to the chemical plant?”
Another long hesitation. “That was a long time ago—a very long time ago. I don’t remember what happened there.”
Camm glanced at Agent Allen, wondering if she and the agent were thinking the same thing, but the agent only asked calmly, “What did you do and when did you work there?”
Sarah looked up at the ceiling as if the answer were written there. “Oh, I don’t remember. It was a long time ago—so long ago. I don’t remember what happened there.”
“How old were you when you worked there?” the agent pushed.
“I wasn’t old like I am now. I was young, and I was pretty like this one.” She pointed at Camm. Camm leaned back, away from the knobby, poi
nting finger. The woman looked to be a hundred with white, thin hair and a small, wizened face. So many older people in the desert developed tough, leathery skin, but not this woman. Her skin was wrinkled, but soft, and extremely fragile, as if you could puncture it by just one touch.
Agent Allen cleared her throat, still pushing. “How young were you when you worked at the mansion?”
“I was young—I don’t know—I think I was fifteen years old. I was a maid there, you know. There were lots of staff back then: a butler and housekeeper, valets, footmen, maids, cooks, coachmen, doormen, and even a few gardeners. Can you imagine gardeners out here in the desert?” She laughed quietly. “They didn’t do well, I can tell you that.”
The agent was writing. “Where did you work in the mansion?”
“I don’t remember what happened there. It was too long ago. I don’t remember the black box. People died, so we didn’t go back. It was evil, so we couldn’t go back. We don’t talk about it. We don’t remember it . . . too long ago . . . too much time.”
“Who died?” the agent asked without looking up.
Camm stayed quiet, her body tensed.
The old woman closed her eyes and shook her head. Her lips trembled. “Oh, no, oh, no. We don’t talk about it, because it is evil. We don’t want to remember it.”
For the first time, it occurred to Camm that “it” might mean a person or thing, not an event.
Sarah looked at them intently, tears rimming her eyes. “He died. He was so young, so kind. He shouldn’t have died, but it killed him—he died. Oh, I don’t remember, it was too long ago.” The woman looked down, tears dripping into her lap.
Agent Allen leaned toward her and gently put her hand on Sarah’s folded arms. “You can tell us. Who died?”
When the woman looked up—her eyes met Agent Allen’s—she was weeping softly. “He died. I loved him, but he died. He wasn’t supposed to, but he died that night. It was evil. That place is evil. I never go there. You should never go there.”
Her gaze shifted toward Camm, imploring, “Never go there. You must never go there, to that place. Evil lives there. So many died. He died too. Leave it alone—you must leave it alone. Never go there. Never go there.” The last words were whispered.
Agent Allen spoke gently, but firmly. “Who did you love? Who died there?”
The old woman continued to weep, repeating, “Oh, no, oh, no, never go there, never go there.”
Agent Allen opened her mouth to ask another question when the kitchen door burst open. Sunlight came crashing in, blinding Camm and the agent where they sat. At first, Camm could see nothing, but slowly she recognized the silhouette filling the doorway. The form stepped in, demanding, “What are you doing here?”
It was Mr. Samuel.
Agent Allen stood. “I am conducting an investigation.”
“Why are you harassing this poor woman? She doesn’t know anything. She is not well.” Mr. Samuel approached Sarah and gently helped her stand.
“Sir!” Agent Allen was firm. “I am conducting an investigation for the FBI. You are interfering with that investigation, which is a federal offense. For your own good, I am asking you to leave immediately.”
“This woman is not competent to testify. She doesn’t know anything. You both must go!” Holding onto the tiny woman’s elbow, he supported her as he carefully guided her toward an inner doorway. Agent Allen moved to block their way. “I will judge if she is competent or not. She is a potential witness in a federal investigation. I will arrest you if you don’t leave.”
Mr. Samuel glared at her, but she wasn’t intimidated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded papers. “She is legally incompetent. I have been appointed her legal guardian. You cannot talk to her without a subpoena. Now, get out!”
He handed the papers to Agent Allen, who studied them briefly as he guided the old woman around her and out of the kitchen. Camm angled herself to peek into the adjoining room, a small bedroom. Mr. Samuel carefully settled the fragile form on the bed. As he reentered the kitchen, shutting the door behind him, he grabbed the papers from Agent Allen’s hand and shouted, “I said, get out!”
“I will get a subpoena then, or maybe a warrant.” With that, Agent Allen motioned to Camm and walked stiffly out of house.
Mr. Samuel followed closely on their heels. After closing the door, he took a key from his pocket and locked it. “You won’t get a subpoena. We will fight it. Her only connection to your investigation is the mansion, and you already searched the mansion and found nothing. Right? You have no evidence, or else you would have taken it with you from the mansion. You have no probable cause, nothing. Just leave.” He pointed down the road.
Agent Allen walked right up to him until she was only inches from his face, staring into his eyes. He was red, trembling with anger, but she stayed composed. Slowly and deliberately, she put on her sunglasses. She stared him down for a few more seconds, and said, “What is scaring you, Mr. Samuel?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer, but turned and strode toward her car. Camm hurried behind and noticed Mr. Samuel’s dust-covered Cadillac parked next to the Mustang.
On the way back to town, Camm asked, “Will you be able to get a subpoena? That old lady is hiding something.”
“Probably not,” the agent admitted. “He’s right. Her only connection to the case is the mansion. And we found nothing there. If they fight the subpoena, they will win.”
“But that stuff she said, about people dying and something evil. What was that all about?”
Agent Allen drew a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. She has been declared legally incompetent. Their paperwork was all in order. Mr. Samuel is her legal guardian, and we can’t talk to her without his permission or the court’s approval.” She looked over at Camm. “The funny thing is, those papers were signed just two days ago. I didn’t tell him I was going to interview her, but he guessed I would and went to court to stop me. He is hiding something—Sarah knows something.” A brief pause. “There was another funny thing.”
“What?”
“He probably didn’t want me to see it, but just before he yanked the papers from my hand, I read he was her closest living relative. That might be important.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Camm sat still for a few minutes trying to put everything together, but without success. “What are you going to do?”
“Go back to L.A.” Agent Allen saw Camm’s disappointed look. “Oh, I’m not giving up. We may have found a new lead. I will find her birth certificate, determine when she was fifteen, and then see what I can find in old police reports or news articles about any deaths in Trona during that year.
“Somebody is trying to hide something here—somebody besides Mr. Samuel. The paperwork on that protective order was too clean, too quick, too perfect. It’s like something the FBI would have done. There is someone behind Mr. Samuel, take my word for it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so brazen. Someone else is calling the shots here, someone who has something to hide. I’m not done here yet. Not by a long shot.”
V
Camm almost regretted bringing Cal with her to the mansion. The place was so massive and ornate that she was still in awe of it, feeling a strange kind of reverence for its grandeur—not so much a sacred reverence, but more of a scary one. It seemed like one should only walk quietly and carefully through the rooms.
Cal, on the other hand, raced from room to room, laughing loudly, checking out everything. He was as impressed as Camm was, but with a totally opposite reaction. As he hurried to explore every room, Ginger padded quietly after him, her head swinging from side to side, exploring with her nose.
They had entered the mansion a little after eleven p.m., armed only with flashlights and a dog. Camm was afraid they might get caught and didn’t want anything incriminating, like guns, on them if they were. She insisted they mask their flashlights and only use them sparingly, worried that someone might gl
impse a light through one of the windows and call the sheriff’s department.
After Cal had seen most of the mansion, they finally settled in front of the grandfather clock. “This is amazing,” Cal gushed, his eyes fixed on the hanging man pendulum. “This is so awesome! I wonder if we could start it running again.”
“No!” Camm snapped sharply. She didn’t want Cal messing around with the old clock, pointing to the carved image of the backward S with the teardrop design on it. “This is everywhere. It looks familiar to me. Where have we seen this before?”
Cal studied the symbol for a moment before looking up. “I know—it looks like something from the petroglyphs out by Coso Hot Springs. You know, one of the ancient designs the Indians left behind on the rocks in the desert.”
Camm considered this, then shrugged it off. “Come on. What I really wanted to show you is downstairs.” She took Cal by the hand and led him toward the stairs to the wine cellar. Ginger’s nose was to the ground as she followed behind, growling softly and catching all the smells as they descended to search the basement.
At first, they didn’t discover anything different from what Camm had already seen with Agent Allen. Cal flashed his light everywhere now that he didn’t have to worry about windows. Camm stayed close to Cal, mostly because Ginger was near. Cal was immediately fascinated with the wine racks.
“Do you think there is still wine down here?” He grinned.
“No, of course not!” Camm said, shaking her head, looking uneasily over her shoulder. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about this cellar that isn’t right. I have a feeling something is down here, something important, but I’m not sure what it is. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
Cal flashed his light around the room before walking over to a corner where some barrels stood. “What’s under this sheet?” He grabbed the cloth covering the barrels and tried to pull it off. The sheet slid down the side of the barrels, but a far corner was stuck between two of the stones in the wall.
Cal jerked it a couple of times, but it wouldn’t come loose.
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