The Shaktra (13 page)

Choking on the dusty air, Ali managed to grab her friends and pull them through the
yellow
door, the only other door that was open. She did not have a clear goal in mind, but she did recall a series of six tunnels farther up the cave. They had been round-shaped, with three on each side. Because each had sloped slightly downward—when they were hustling to climb
out
of the cave—they had not stopped to inspect the tunnels. But now Ali thought they might be a perfect place to disappear into. If she remembered correctly, they were not far away.

Paddy and Farble were too stunned to talk. Ali ordered them to keep moving. The pain in her hand was devastating. She had saved only one flashlight from the cavern, but it was enough to show that Radrine had melted virtually all the flesh off her palm. Through the dripping blood, Ali could actually see her raw muscles and veins. She knew if she did not bandage it soon, or better yet, heal it, she was going to be in serious trouble.

After a half hour of jogging, Ali heard demented shrieks at their backs.

Very faintly, she could see a herd of shifting red dots.

She had saved a flashlight but had lost her fire stones.

“Missy!” Paddy cried.

“Don’t be afraid,” Ali said, although she felt very afraid.

Fortunately, right then, they came to the caves, and Ali chose the second one on the left, for no other reason than it felt right. Into the pitch black, into a place they knew nothing about, they fled.

That same morning, Steve and Cindy arrived in Toule by bus, and headed to the town’s public library. That afternoon they planned to have lunch with Nira and Rose. To thank them for watching Nira, Rose had invited them to Sheri Smith’s house. Of course, when Steve had last spoken to Ali, before she had entered the cave, he had not mentioned any of these facts. There came a time in life, Steve thought, when a man had to act like a man, even if he was still a kid. This, he was confident, was one of those times.

The time was ten-fifteen in the morning. They had three hours to kill before lunch. Because both of them were curious how Toule had been destroyed in the power plant explosion thirteen years earlier, they wanted to spend as much of that time as possible in the local library doing research. But one of the first things they learned when they began to go through the back articles related to the tragedy, was that the word “destroyed” was a slight exaggeration.

Toule had a population of 4,332. Only 114 had died in the explosion, although another 250 had been injured, many of those badly burned. “Only” seemed a pitiful word to apply to
such devastation, but it was a fact that the town had survived the explosion, although most of the main street and over three hundred homes had burned to the ground. For Steve, it was a lot different to scan through the library’s microfilm—which was largely made up of articles taken from the local paper,
Toule Talk
—than to search the Internet for national stories on the tragedy. For one thing, two local reporters had been there the night the power plant had gone up in flames. Indeed, both had been slightly injured in the blast, and they wrote with a passion that brought the night home in a way that was very personal—and painful.

Briefly, the facts of the matter were that while the town was in the middle of celebrating the local high school’s victory at the state basketball championship game two weeks earlier, the power plant had blown up. That was it—thirteen years later no one had a clue why it had happened. The rest was statistics, although there was a slight discrepancy in the number dead. Most of the articles they read said 114 had died—a few said 115.

“Does the number matter?” Cindy asked, sitting across from Steve. Given the size of the town, the library was more than respectable. They had to assume the local citizens were ardent readers, although they pretty much had the place to themselves. The librarian on duty was a Ms. Sarah Treacher, who looked like a kindly old woman until she opened her mouth. She had already snapped at them for mishandling the microfilm—she called it microfiche—yet she continued to be helpful, in a scowling sort of way. Their excuse for being there was far from creative: They were supposedly doing a paper on the big blast for a summer school class. As if they had summer school back in Breakwater.

“Probably not, but I think we should ask the old witch about it,” Steve said.

Cindy nodded toward the front desk. “Not so loud, the old witch might hear and turn you into a troll.”

“Better a troll than a leprechaun,” Steve said.

“You would rather be Farble than Paddy? Farble is dumb, he stinks.”

“There is bliss in ignorance, and Farble can eat over twenty pounds at one sitting.”

“I think Paddy is cute,” Cindy said.

“All females are attracted to dwarf men. It is a scientific fact.”

“But Paddy hates dwarves.”

Steve suddenly chuckled. “You know what I just thought?”

“What?”

“How weird this conversation is.”

Cindy smiled. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Steve gestured to the stacks of microfilm. “Anyway, Ms. Treacher said she was there that night. We should talk to her about the discrepancy in the number. She might be more helpful than all these articles put together.”

“What would help me is if I knew what we were looking for.”

“An excellent point. When we were riding here on the bus, I had the brilliant idea that we would pore through all these records and come across early warning signs of an elemental invasion. Well, maybe I wasn’t being that lame, but I thought we might at least find something that related to Ali’s problem.”

“It isn’t Ali’s problem, it’s all our problem,” Cindy said.

“Slip of the tongue. Anyway, what we’re looking for in the explosion is anything that cannot be logically explained. And we have that; it’s staring us right in the face. No one has a clue why the plant exploded. But I don’t know what to do with that. To solve a mystery you need at least a few clues.”

“Nothing struck you as odd? Besides the question over the number of dead?”

Steve considered. “There is one thing that might be a clue. This plant generated electrical energy by burning gas. Most of the plants in the U.S. do the same. It’s cheaper than using nuclear power. Until solar or wind technology get more sophisticated, it will continue to be the way electrical plants are fueled.”

“So?” Cindy asked.

“So this was the only electrical plant in the state that did not import its gas. It got it from right here, pumped it directly out of the ground.”

“Would that explain why it blew up?”

“No. I bring it up only because it’s unusual. I mean, in Texas it’s not, but the West Coast doesn’t have many large natural gas reserves.”

“Where are you going with this?” Cindy asked.

“Beats me. The underground reserves did not explode. Toule was lucky. If that had happened, they would have had Hiroshima on their hands. Everyone in town would have died.”

Cindy was thinking. “But say the explosion was intentional, and someone set the plant to blow. Is it possible they were hoping the underground reserves would ignite?”

“Sure. It would explain why of all the plants in the country, this was the one that blew up. The people behind it might have been after the biggest bang that money could buy.”

“If
there were people behind it,” Cindy said.

Steve nodded. “That’s our problem. We don’t even know if a crime has been committed. No, I take that back. Our problem is that none of this appears to relate to elves, fairies, dwarves, trolls, and leprechauns. For some reason, I seriously doubt that Lord Vak plotted to blow up this city.”

“What about the Shaktra?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah, what about it? What is it? Who is it?”

The questions only emphasized how feeble their research efforts were.

They went over to talk to Ms. Treacher, and to return the microfilm. She snapped it from Steve’s hands. He could only assume she did not like the way he held the metal containers. Her face was not merely old; her wrinkles were arranged like hard lines of opinion. Yet her gray eyes had a twinkle in them, they seemed to shine when she was being particularly nasty. She was a grouch, he thought, but she knew it and thought it was funny. She was probably too old to care one way or the other.

“Well, did you two figure out why it blew up?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Steve said. “But we’re confused how many people died in the blast. Some articles say a hundred and fourteen, others, a hundred and fifteen. Did someone die later or what?”

“A dozen people died later, mostly from burns, but they’re included in the total. What you’re asking about is Lucy Pillar. She was a high school student. She was listed as missing right after the explosion, but the police couldn’t locate her body. However, in the end, they recovered enough remains to make an identification.”

“Did that happen to anyone else?” Cindy asked.

“Lots of people were blown to bits. There were body parts everywhere.”

“Did they have DNA testing back then?” Steve asked.

“It was primitive. They didn’t try to use it on Lucy. After a few days, they knew for sure it was her.”

“Did you know her?” Cindy asked.

“Yes.”

“What was she like?” Cindy asked.

Ms. Treacher scowled. “Why do you want to know?”

Cindy shrugged. “I was just curious is all.”

The question seemed to shake Ms. Treacher. She softened her tone. “Lucy was a lovely girl, before the accident.”

The way she said “accident,” Steve knew she was not referring to the explosion. He asked if that was the case and the librarian nodded reluctantly.

“A year before the power plant blew, Lucy was in a car accident. Her boyfriend at the time—Hector Wells, he was on the basketball team—was driving. He was drunk, and he crashed into a tree and was thrown from the car. But Lucy had her seat belt on. She got trapped inside, and the car exploded, and she was burned over most of her body.” Ms. Treacher’s voice was sad. “I’ll never forget those days. I was a teacher at the high school then—I saw Lucy every day. She was a cheerleader, happy as a lark. Smart as a whip, too. We had her IQ tested and the psychologist went away shaking his head. She had a photographic memory. She could write, sing, play the flute. Then, just like that, it was all over for her . . . or it should have been. God forgive me, but I used to pray that she had died that night. She should have died, every doctor I spoke to said so. She was left with only twenty percent of her skin. The next year, she was in and out of the hospital constantly, having skin graft operations. If she hadn’t died when the plant exploded, she would have had surgeries for another five years. That’s no life for a young woman. That’s no life for anyone.”

“Are Lucy’s parents still alive?” Steve asked.

“Her mother is. Her father died the same night as Lucy, in the explosion.”

“Where does her mother live?”

“I don’t know. She moved away some years ago.”

“How about Hector?” Cindy asked.

“He was hurt in the blast, but he recovered.” The librarian added, “He’s a local contractor, he lives here in town.”

“Do you think we could interview him for our paper?” Cindy asked.

“Doubt he would talk to you.” She did not add, “you two snotassed kids,” but it was there in her voice. At the same time, it was obvious she liked sharing the local gossip. They hardly had to prod her to keep talking. She was probably bored.

“Do you know Nira Smith?” Steve asked.

“Everyone in town knows Nira. Poor child, her mind is not right. Why do you ask?”

“We took care of her yesterday for a few hours.” Steve added, “We’re going to have lunch with her and Rose this afternoon.”

“Rose?”

“Her nanny. She takes care of Nira for Ms. Smith,” Cindy said.

“I don’t know her. I only knew Patricia Hassel. She watched Nira for years.”

“When did she quit?” Steve asked.

“She didn’t quit. She was killed last year, in a car accident.”

Ms. Treacher added, “It was a shame, she was a lovely woman.”

“You have your share of car accidents around here,” Cindy said.

“We saw Freddy Degear killed yesterday, right in front of us.”

“I heard about that. That was the name of the boy?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know him?” Steve asked.

“No. I don’t think he was from around here.”

“Really? We were told he was,” Cindy said.

“I never said I knew everyone in town. But what is it with all these fool questions? Are you trying to build a conspiracy theory around the plant explosion? Trying to blame poor Lucy because she was already burned? I tell you, that girl was a saint. Never had a mean word to say about anyone.”

“Even after she got burned?” Cindy asked.

“That remark isn’t fair. Of course, she changed after that.
Who wouldn’t? But I never heard her place a word of blame on Hector.” Ms. Treacher added, “Hector hasn’t had much luck in his love life. Patricia was also his girlfriend.”

Steve felt an odd sensation in his gut, and wondered if he was catching a glimpse of what Ali felt when her intuition was on fire. Contrary to what Ms. Treacher had just said, he did not see any major conspiracy in what the librarian was telling them. But he did feel that a heck of a lot of these people seemed to know each other, and intimately. Maybe it was just because of the town’s size . . .

“So Hector must know Nira?” Steve asked. “If Patricia was her nanny?”

“The three of them were always together. Used to see them around town all the time.”

“Does Hector still see Nira?” Steve asked.

“How would I know what he does with his time? And what does that have to do with that silly paper you’re writing? What is it called anyway?”

“ ‘The Ghosts of Toule,’ ” Steve said.

Ms. Treacher quieted. “We have too many ghosts around here. Only a few rest easy. Have you been to our cemetery?”

“No,” Cindy said.

“Don’t go. It’s a terrible thing to see so many headstones all in the same place with the same year on them.”

“Ms. Treacher, why do you think the plant blew up?” Steve asked.