Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“No,” I said. “I have the impression that the drug center would have to be a fairly large facility, large enough to house and feed many youngsters.”

Cathy interrupted. “What makes you think there’s a place like that in Barstow? I’m sure we’d know if it existed.”

“A certain old lady told me, and the teenage girl-”

“The girl is obviously an imposter,” Cathy snapped. “For crying out loud! I identified her body at the morgue. Not only that, but Burt Krause, the chief of police, told me he ran her fingerprints through the FBI. It was definitely Jane on that steel table.”

“What’s this about an old woman who told you that a drug center exists out here?” Tom asked. “Is she credible?”

Tom was an oasis of calm in the eye of Cathy’s storm. She was becoming increasingly annoyed with my questions. I really couldn’t blame her. After all, my story-how I’d talked to a dead teenager and how an old woman told me about a phantom drug center-must have sounded utterly bizarre. At that point, I didn’t want to mention that my source, the old woman, was a drunk being chased by goblins. It certainly would not have helped my credibility.

“Fellas,” Tom said, “we’d like to help, but we just don’t know what to believe.”

Sol stood. “C’mon, Jimmy. I think we’ve imposed on these nice people long enough.”

I could tell by the tone in his voice that Sol was on to something. Besides, if he wanted more information he wouldn’t give a damn about imposing on these people, nice or not. But I had an idea of what was going through his mind. “Yeah, Sol, you’re right,” I said. “Maybe I was mistaken about the girl. I guess she just looked like Jane.”

“Sorry, Cathy, Tom,” Sol said. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be leaving now.”

Tom climbed out of his chair and glanced at Cathy. “Honey, wait here. I’ll walk these gentlemen to their car.”

Cathy eyed him. “What’s going on?” When he said nothing, she turned to Sol and me. Distress was evident in her face. “What is it with you two?” She slowly stood; her distress turned to anger. “Who are you people? You come marching in here with some wild tale about Jane…”

“Honey, calm down. They didn’t mean any harm.”

“Sorry, Cathy,” Sol said. “We sincerely apologize for opening old wounds. Let’s go, Jimmy.”

“I said I’ll walk you to your car.” Tom’s irritation was beginning to show. It was evident that he wanted a minute alone with us without his wife overhearing.

“Bullshit!” Cathy’s eyes flashed. “You’ve got something to say, you say it right here in front of me.” She jabbed her finger repeatedly atop the work table.

Sol held his arms out. “Look folks, we didn’t come here to dig up old bones, or get you involved in this nasty business, but something stinks in this town. I can smell it. And what I smell is murder.”

A chilly silence filled the room, almost as if a dark cloud had settled in above our heads. Sol had a knack, at times, for being blunt and maybe a bit dramatic, but he always said what he thought-and what he just said was certainly in the back of my mind. If Cathy and Tom became involved in this affair and started snooping around, they just might end up like Hazel Farris and Robbie’s professor, not to mention the man and woman in the newspaper. Someone was killing people, and if the murders were related to the drug center, then Sol and I may have jeopardized these innocent people by the very fact that we brought it to their attention.

Cathy and Tom stared at each other for several moments. Suddenly, Cathy started moving about the room. First she swept up the old newspaper and put it away, then-while forcefully banging the chairs back under the table-she said, “C’mon, Tom, we have things to do.”

She turned her lovely face toward Sol and me. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we have a newspaper to get out.”

Sol and I stepped outinto the blazing heat with the sun reflecting brightly off the glossy-white exterior wall of the newspaper office we had just left. The glare was intense. Sol whipped out his Ray-Ban sunglasses, the ones with fancy gold frames. I squinted.

Sometimes it was uncanny the way Sol and I clicked, our minds hitting on the same idea at the same time. In the office, as soon as Cathy had mentioned it, we both knew where the teen center could possibly be located. The only logical location, a place sufficiently equipped to house scores of teens, would be the old military base where Jane’s father was stationed, Rattlesnake Lake. An obsolete military base, out of the way of prying eyes with built-in security and high fences surrounding it, would be perfect.

The limousine pulled up alongside us. We jumped in, and Sol immediately grabbed the radiophone receiver. We waited with the engine idling while Sol made his call. After he hung up, he gave detailed driving instructions. Cubby slammed the limo in gear, roared away from the building in a cloud of dust, and now we were racing along old Route 66 heading to Daggett, a town ten miles east of Barstow.

Sol had phoned a friend in Washington, DC to find out if Rattlesnake Lake Base had been sold or leased to a private entity. Yes, the base had been sold almost immediately after the military had abandoned it. The government had sold it in a sealed bid to an outfit called the Jerobeam Corporation.

The base at Rattlesnake Lake, Sol’s friend explained, had been established in the early fifties as an auxiliary emergency landing field when the Air Force started testing the X-series rocket planes at Edwards. The dry, flat alkaline lake bed made for a perfect runway.

Several other small bases, scattered along the experimental aircrafts’ flight path, identical in purpose, were built. Most of the bases had been closed at the termination of the X-plane program in the early sixties, but Rattlesnake Lake, the closest emergency base to Barstow, fifty-six miles northeast, was the only one sold.

We raced along the highway going like the wind-and the wind blew about a hundred miles an hour out here. When Sol was on a case, he became impatient and darted here and there like a hummingbird on speed. Cubby, his driver, knew to keep the pedal against the firewall. Someone had asked me once how Sol, when roaring around in his beefed-up limousine, never seemed to get a speeding ticket. Very simple, I’d answered. He has special license plates on his limo, and he also carries an honorary highway patrolman’s badge. Both the plates and the badge, along with a plaque were given to him by the commissioner of the California Highway Patrol in recognition of his community service: he planted a tree somewhere alongside a new freeway. I didn’t mention that I suspected he was given special consideration and the perquisites because of his anonymous contribution to the Highway Patrol’s widows and orphans fund: ten big ones, I’d heard.

We sped straight through the tiny community of Daggett and about four miles east of the main shopping area-a gas station and a Chinese restaurant-we turned off the highway, drove along a gravel road for a half-mile, then pulled up in front of a large Quonset hut originally built in the 1930s. Above the arched opening a sign read, ‘Welcome to Daggett Airport, Elev. 2000 ft., Unicom 123.0’.

On the eight-minute drive to Daggett, Sol had managed to get in two more phone calls. The first was to Joyce asking her to dig out all the information available on Ben Moran. He also told her that he needed everything she could find out about the Jerobeam Corporation.

After Sol hung up, he told me that Joyce would have the Silverman team of crack investigators working on it right away. A complete write-up of both Moran and the corporation would be on his desk when he arrived at his office tomorrow morning, right after mid-morning brunch.