Bubbles Ablaze

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Yup. Everything was going to work out fine, like Mickey said. I’d do my due diligence with Pete Zidukis, perhaps write a follow-up and then Jane and I would drive home.

  So what that I never found out who sent us to the Number Nine mine? Maybe that person had learned his lesson and I’d never hear from him again. Maybe it was merely a fluke.

  But in my self absorption, I had neglected to consider my cousin. When we arrived at the Main Mane and found her crying, I realized that my unknown enemy meant business.

  Chapter 13

  “It’s just so weird.” Roxanne was sitting by the cash register, squeezing Visine into her red-rimmed eyes. “I mean, the salon’s untouched and they didn’t break into the cash register.”

  “Am I done yet?” a client under the dryer yelled.

  Roxanne checked her watch. “Two more minutes, Mrs. Foster.” Turning to me she said, “Even so, I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I saw your mother this morning before she left to look for the Nana diary and she promised she’d stay, but I’d feel better if you were here, too. What kind of gun is that, anyway?”

  She nodded toward Genevieve who was on the job, marching through the house and preparing for “lockdown,” as she called it.

  “It’s a musket,” I said. “Don’t ask.” I took out my reporter’s notebook. “You got two minutes to tell me exactly what happened. I need details.”

  Roxanne explained that she had fallen asleep on the living room couch while watching TV the night before. It was shortly after six that morning when she woke. She got dressed and went about her day. Later, when she got a break from the salon, she went into the guest bedroom to change the sheets, in case I wanted to stay the night, and found the top drawer of the dresser open and dumped on the bed.

  “You call Donohue?”

  “To tell him a dresser drawer had been overturned?” Mrs. Foster’s timer went bing! “Even if this is only Slagville, I think the police have more important matters to take care of.”

  I told her about our own burglary back in Lehigh where the dresser drawer had been the one place our snoopers hadn’t touched.

  “Maybe there’s a connection.” Roxanne was running over to turn off Mrs. Foster’s timer.

  “I can’t tell without having a clue as to what they’re searching for.” Then I had an awful thought. “What happened to the box of Stinky’s documents?”

  “Gone, of course.” Roxanne lifted the dryer hood and unrolled one of Mrs. Foster’s curlers. “Stinky’s gonna kill me.”

  So was Mr. Salvo. After the move I pulled, lying to Griffin to get my story in the paper, Mr. Salvo was not going to be pleased to discover that there weren’t any supporting documents available. Oh, no. What if we got sued? Mr. Salvo said that’d be the end of his career. And I’d have no evidence to pull him out of hot water.

  “Premises secure, Roxanne,” Genevieve announced. “In the meantime, I suggest you survey the surroundings. Familiarize yourself with what weapons are at hand for your defense.” She pointed to a green bottle of Sani-Bac, which we beauticians use to delouse combs. “That stuff’ll kill a two-hundred-pound man with one swallow. Know it. Love it. Make it your best friend.”

  Mrs. Foster visibly cringed as Roxanne examined the bottle with new appreciation.

  “We better get a move on, Bubbles. Jane’s been waiting in the car for at least a half hour.”

  Armed with Sani-Bac, Roxanne waved a reluctant farewell. Genevieve, Jane and I drove to the burning town of Limbo to meet Pete Zidukis. We took a right at Slagville’s baseball field located next to the fire department at the top of the hill and passed a closed ice-cream stand. Jane kept an eye out for the Hoagie Ho place where I was supposed to meet Stinky until we jogged left, blatantly disregarding yellow Do Not Enter signs.

  “Stop here,” Genevieve ordered. I parked the car next to a large federal warning outlining the dangers and liabilities of entering the area. We got out, read the U.S. government’s disclaimer and then studied the view in awe.

  Had I not driven through Limbo as a child for Thanksgiving dinner with Roxanne’s family, I would never have known that the deserted grassy valley that lay before us had once been a thriving working-class town famous for its St. Patrick’s Day festivities and Fourth of July fireworks.

  Thirty years before, children had dragged their sleds to the top of Troutwine Hill on winter days, played softball in the overgrown park and roller skated over leaves in St. Ignatius’s yard on fall afternoons. There had been dances at the American Legion Hall on Friday nights and lines at the post office on Saturday mornings where neighbors caught up on gossip.

  Now there was nothing but a grid of cracked and barren streets that went nowhere. Sidewalks bordered vacant lots and driveways led to homes that long ago had been reduced to rubble and carted off. Every school, store and gas station had vanished, as though they had been sucked up by space ships. It was eerily quiet. Not even a bird chirped.

  “I don’t see any smoke,” Jane said.

  “Yeah? Put your hand on the ground.” Genevieve bent over and touched the sidewalk.

  “I can’t believe it,” Jane said, her eyes wide. “It’s actually hot. From the sun maybe?”

  “Not from above, Sally,” Genevieve said, “from below. Underneath where we’re standing right now is a fire with temperatures that reach seven hundred degrees Fahrenheit. On the surface.”

  “Get out,” said Jane.

  “How come this fire was never put out?” I asked.

  “Local municipalities couldn’t figure out who had the responsibility for putting it out. They bickered and bickered. They bickered so much that the fire spread so far it was out of control.”

  “That’s it?” Jane asked. “Bureaucratic squabbling led to one of the worst environmental disasters in American history?”

  “There’s more,” Genevieve said. “But I’ll let Pete tell you about that.”

  We got back in the Camaro and drove through deserted streets to one of the few houses left standing in Limbo. It was situated on a lovely tree-lined lot and was an impeccably maintained half of a double. As with every other home in Limbo, the other half had been razed and supports had been constructed to keep its twin from falling over. The outline of the former half’s stairway remained like a shadow on the external wall of the standing home.

  We found Pete in the backyard raking leaves. He was more ancient than Mama and Genevieve, dressed in the kind of dull green shirt and pants that school janitors wear. His posture was stooped, his hair was thinning and snow white, but the vigor with which he raked proved he hadn’t given in to old age yet.

  Genevieve was so starstruck she was speechless. She could only stand a few feet away, clutching her purse and gaping like a teenybopper meeting ’N Sync.

  I introduced myself as Bubbles Yablonsky, a reporter from a newspaper in Lehigh.

  “Lehigh.” Pete scratched his head. “I haven’t been there in a century.”

  “You can’t be over a hundred years old,” I said. “You don’t look a day over eighty.”

  Pete chuckled. “You’re somewhat literal, I gather.”

  “Thank you. I do read a lot.” Nice, finally, to be complimented for something besides my excellent makeup choices and spandex selection.

  Jane stepped in, employing her new boldness. “My mother wrote a story today revealing that McMullen Coal had violated its permits by digging under the Dead Zone. Carl Koolball stopped by our house this morning and suggested that my mother speak to you.”

  “He told Jane you would know what was missing from my story,” I added.

  “Did he now.” Pete placed the rake against the house. “I ain’t seen your story, but Stinky’s been by the house a lot recently. Measuring and asking about the Mammoth Basin.”

  “Mammoth Basin?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “A gigantic deposit of anthracite worth close to one hundred billion dollars,” Genevieve said, breaking her trance. “It’s located right under our feet.�
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  “My, my, my,” Pete said. “And where did you pick up this information, lovely lady?”

  “The Daily Conspiracy Newsletter. ‘On Why I Stay in Limbo,’ by one Peter Zidukis.” Genevieve blushed and modestly bowed her head. “I read it five times.”

  Pete smiled and his watery blue eyes twinkled slightly. “Impressive. Seems to me we may have met before.”

  “Y2K conference in Schnecksville,” Genevieve gushed. “Dried foods and generators seminar. You gave a speech on surviving underground in broiling temperatures.”

  “You live eighty years in Limbo, you know about broiling temperatures.”

  “Yeah?” piped up Jane. “Where is this so-called underground fire? I thought this place was supposed to be ablaze.”

  “Oh, it is,” Pete said, hobbling past her. “Follow me.”

  “Isn’t he fantastic?” Genevieve whispered in my ear as we marched up the street to St. Ignatius Church and cemetery, my tiny heels taking a pounding on the pavement. “What a hunk, say?”

  “He could be crazy from the underground gasses,” Jane said to me when Genevieve caught up with Pete. “He’s like exhibit A, why no one should still be living here.”

  Twenty minutes later Pete, Jane and I were staring at an expanse of charcoal-gray, scorched earth framed by leafless white trees, bleached from the underground fires. Behind us was St. Ignatius Church. Above us on the hill was the cemetery, precariously close to the smoldering wasteland before us.

  The scene reminded me of movie battlefields after the battles. Wisps of white smoke rose from the charred ground, which was so hot in places that it had melted pieces of smashed beer bottles into brown lumps. The inside of my nose stung and the air was heavy with a biting stench similar to oven cleaner.

  “Stand here any longer and pretty soon I’ll be spouting conspiracies,” Jane said, covering her nose with her hand.

  “This is as bad as it gets, ladies,” Pete said, waving his arms. “As you may have noticed, the rest of Limbo is untouched, except for a few potholes here and there. So why did the government spend forty-two million of your taxpaying dollars to move everyone out?”

  “Logically, because living on top of a fire is unsafe,” Jane said. “But, again, that would be the logical explanation so I’m not sure it’d play in Limbo.”

  “That’s because it’d be wrong,” Pete said. “The U.S. government doesn’t give a pig’s snout about our safety. All it cares about is acquiring the rights to the Mammoth Basin—the rights that are currently held by the town of Limbo. Once they accomplish that, they’ll sell the rights off to some American coal company that donated heavily to the president’s reelection campaign.”

  “Where exactly is the Mammoth Basin?” Jane asked.

  Pete spread his arms. “It runs under all of Limbo straight through to the Dead Zone. That’s why the government banned mining in the Dead Zone, because it connects to Limbo through the Mammoth Basin. Too much of a risk with the fire burning there.”

  That put the Mammoth Basin directly below where Bud wanted to build the casino.

  “The coal from the Mammoth Basin would be worth billions if it could be removed efficiently,” Pete said. “But ‘efficiently’ means literally ripping off the town and dumping it in a valley like coal companies do in West Virginia.

  “Can’t strip here, that’s the thing,” he went on. “If you did, you’d expose that smoldering anthracite to oxygen and this whole county would explode in flames. It’s driving the collieries nuts to have this incredible deposit of coal and no way to get at it.”

  “So why pay to move everyone out?” I asked.

  “Think, Bubbles. You’re not thinking.” Pete hitched his pants. “Let’s say the fire is put out. All my neighbors and relatives and nieces and nephews can move back to the town where they were born. Can the coal company come in, rip the top off and mine then?”

  “It’d be difficult, I suppose.”

  “But with the fire burning, the government has an excuse to force everyone out because of our reported safety. Let me tell you, no one ever died in Limbo from the gasses or the fire. Not one person. It’s a scam. The government’s been pressured by the coal industry to evacuate the town. Once Limbo ceases to exist, the mining rights are up for grabs. So, when—and I think it is when, not if—a method of extinguishing this fire comes along, that company with the rights will have carte blanche to rip up this town and make billions.”

  “Do you think McMullen Coal is that company?” I asked.

  Pete frowned. “Unlikely. Too small an operation. Besides, why would they have sold the mining rights to the Dead Zone, at a loss, to Price if they had been planning with the government to tear up Limbo and mine under there, too?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t been offered millions to move out,” Jane said.

  “Oh, I have. And I’ve turned them all down. There was a time there when a lawyer a day representing some party or another came knocking at my door with a big fat check. That stopped, though. My hunch is that the coal companies have given up on trying to find ways to extinguish the fire. And as long as that fire burns, that coal can’t be touched.”

  “Aren’t you afraid for your life?” Genevieve asked. “If they kill you, that’s one less obstacle to getting the mining rights.”

  “If they kill me, ma’am, they’re gonna have to answer to a trained militia of my buddies. We’re prepared for that event. Believe you me.”

  “I think I’m in love,” Genevieve moaned.

  “I think I need to leave,” said Jane, who was turning green. “These gasses are making me sick.”

  Jane and Genevieve returned to Pete’s house while I poked around the burning landscape. It fascinated me, the way the earth was literally on fire. I tried to relate what Pete had just said to Stinky’s claim that my story had missed the crucial point. Had McMullen violated its permits so it could dip into the Mammoth Basin? Perhaps. I was more intrigued by the location of Price’s casino over this humongous coal deposit, the fact that Price had bought the land and its mining rights from McMullen at a discount and that Price was now dead, murdered in one of McMullen’s own mines.

  I strolled up to St. Ignatius Church for a better view. The church must have been abandoned years ago. The stained glass in the front windows had been smashed by rocks. Faded red, blue and green pieces lay on the burnt grass, also melted into lumps like the beer bottle shards a few feet away. In happier days, Limbo couples had been married here; they’d baptized their children in this church and memorialized their dead. And now . . . now it was such a waste. All because bureaucrats were too petty to take responsibility.

  A car door slammed behind me. I turned to see a man locking his blue Saab and walking in my direction, almost stumbling. His tie was askew, his beautiful tan Burberry coat was seriously creased and his eyes were wild.

  Hugh McMullen on a bender.

  Chapter 14

  “Not here,” he said, stepping into the church. “In here. Sanctuary.”

  I hesitated, not sure what to do, and then I found myself trailing behind him. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I distinguished the crucifix over the altar and a blue and pink statue of Mary weeping by its side.

  What I did not see was Hugh McMullen.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “Use the stairs,” he replied. He must have entered the door by the altar. I took a few steps and tripped on a deep crevice that ran straight down the middle aisle between the worn pews, as though the church had been ripped in two by an earthquake.

  “Jesus Christ,” I exclaimed, grabbing a pew to stop myself from falling. The disheartened figure on the crucifix hung forlornly, severely disappointed by my language.

  “Whoops!” I covered my mouth. “Sorry.”

  I traced the fissure to where it opened widest in the middle. Kneeling down, I carefully extended my hand, only to pull it out quickly in pain. The crack was steaming. A very faint stream of white smoke rose from its interior,
sending up a foul incense of fuming sulfur and wood. It was a miracle that the entire church wasn’t ablaze.

  The saints who had remained intact smiled benevolently from the stained glass windows, their fingers held up in signs of peace and patience—attributes of which I suddenly felt in mighty short supply.

  Keeping a lookout for more cracks and potholes, I tiptoed toward the door by the altar and descended the carpeted stairs. It was even darker down here. Warmer, too.

  At the bottom I could make out several closed doors off a short hallway. There was the smell of chalk and crayons, poster paint, paste and paper. Sunday school rooms. At last I arrived at a door with a faint golden glow underneath.

  Gently pushing the door open, I was surprised to find Hugh praying in a tiny chapel, his back turned toward me. Two candles were lit. It was stifling hot in there. And it reeked of cigarettes.

  “Mr. McMullen?” I asked softly.

  Hugh McMullen pivoted mechanically. The candlelight had done nothing to soften his appearance. His hair was ragged and his face unshaven. He had tossed his rain coat carelessly over the pew and thrown the tie there with it. My eyes dropped to his preppy loafers.

  “What happened to you?”

  Hugh McMullen pushed back a lock of wavy hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I’ve been through the ringer, that’s what’s happened to me.” He fumbled in his khakis and brought out a maroon box of Dunhill cigarettes. Give me a break. Dunhills?

  “Did anyone come with you?” he asked. His hand shook as he tried to light the cigarette with a silver lighter.

  “Why?” I said. “And why are your clothes a mess and why did you want me to follow you here?”

  “I had to talk to you. In private. Without the other reporters finding out.”

  “You had your chance last night when I left a message at The Inn in Glen Ellen asking for a comment.” I stepped back to get some air. Ugh. I waved the smoke away. “If you have a problem with my story today, call my editors at the News-Times.”

  Wait. What was I saying? Bad idea. The editors were probably drafting my pink slip right now. Drafting it with glee and permanent ink.