Chapter 6
The next morning, I storm into the health department, marching straight for Victor’s office as Queen’s “We Will Rock You (Live)” blasts in my ears like I’m stomping into a wrestling match.
I need answers.
One hallucination is easy to dismiss. But two? That’s harder to chalk up to coincidence.
Victor wasn’t lying when he said this pool was like the Ardor Tree. Unlucky for me, because most adults in Penango are usually full of it.
I knock on his door, but more so as a warning, and enter before he gives me permission. He’s reclined in his chair, watching a video of a man filleting a fish. His broad back muscles press into the chair’s armrests.
“Oh, good morning, Stetson,” he says, pausing the video.
“Morning,” I say, crossing my arms. “So, I went to Rainbow Valley yesterday.” I scratch my head.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, stretching. “How’d it look?”
“Not great. That’s why I’m here. The water was dark green. And there were snakes. I’m pretty sure someone would get really sick if they swam in it. What do we do when a pool looks that bad?”
He laughs.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Is that all?”
“Um.” I narrow my eyes.
He rubs his chin before clasping his hands behind his head.
“Listen, kid. One time, I went to a pool and found a dead deer floating in the deep end. Can you believe that? Its guts were spilled everywhere like little fishing bobs.” He waves his arm across the desk.
“The poor thing must’ve been shot by a hunter and ran into the water.
Sad way to go.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then holds up a finger.
“Another time, I was inspecting a locker-room shower and guess what I found?”
“What?”
“Guess.”
“Poop?” I cringe.
“A hoard of leeches.” His eyes bug out of their sockets. “They were covering the walls. Anyone who showered in there would’ve been sucked near dry.”
“Oh.” I swallow, stepping back. “What did you do?”
“I called my buddy over at animal control. He took care of it pretty quick.”
I shake off the mental image. “Well, is there anything we should do about the green pool?”
“Did you tell them to close it?”
“No one was there,” I lie, trying not to think of Xander.
Victor throws up his hands with a laugh. “There’s no point in stressing, then, kid. It’s probably some coloring from mildew. A hefty dose of chlorine will do the trick.”
I doubt that.
“I was thinking of going back today.”
He huffs. “Dang, Stetson, do you actually care about this stuff? Most guys your age just want cash for booze and girls.”
My face twitches. “Um, no. Not booze or girls,” I say, my cheeks burning. Not boys anymore either, I’d like to think. “Honestly, I need the money for college. What happened at the pool that makes it so legendary?”
His shoulders tighten. “It’s better if we don’t discuss that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, is there anywhere I can check the old inspection forms for this pool? I want to see why it closed in the first place.”
If my financial aid would just come through already, I wouldn’t have to care so much about this job—or keep bothering Victor, which I’m sure he’d prefer.
“There’s a file cabinet beside your desk with last year’s records. The older stuff is in the archives department in the basement.”
“Is there anything on the computer?”
Victor shakes his head. “Oh, yeah . . . no. We don’t have that.”
Of course not. Penango County Health Department: proudly stuck in the past since 1801.
“Hey, kid,” he continues. “Don’t go digging too deep.”
With no other way to learn more about Rainbow Valley, I press the B button and descend to the basement.
The elevator shudders to a stop after a few beeps.
The doors slide open and reveal a stark hallway—white walls, linoleum floors, and air so cold it feels like I’ve cracked open the garage after a January blizzard.
I step out, shivering.
At the first intersection, a pair of gray double doors stand propped open. Inside, an old man in a beige cardigan hunches over a book nearly the size of his desk, peering through a magnifying glass. Behind him, endless rows of metal shelves packed with cardboard boxes stretch to the ceiling.
I clear my throat. “Is this the archives department?” I ask. He looks up, bones cracking.
He’s apparently from 1801 too.
“It is,” he says, wincing. “What can I help you with?” Every word he mutters seems like it brings him pain.
“I’m from the health department. I’m looking for some old files for a pool site we inspect.”
“This way.” He waves me toward the shelves.
He taps his hearing aid as we walk. “You should lower the volume.”
I lean forward. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“Your music. I can hear it. You don’t want to end up like me.” He laughs.
My cheeks warm. “Oh. Thanks. I’ll try.” I remove my earbud and tuck it in my pocket.
After a few more steps, he stops. “These are the environmental health department files.” He points to a shelf. “Sorted by year.”
“By year?” My eyes go wide. “How can I find information on a certain pool?”
He coughs. “You’ll have to look through each year’s files for the specific pool information. What year would you like?” He claps his lips like he hasn’t had a drink of water all day.
“I’m actually not sure.” I grab one of the boxes and lift the dusty lid to peek inside. It’s full of manila folders. “Are these in the computer?”
The man shakes his head. “No. We don’t have that.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I sigh. “No, thanks. I’ll start looking.”
The man returns to his desk while I sift through folders, unsure when the Pinehurst pool closed. With no clear starting point, I begin with the most recent records and work backward.
By the time I reach the 2020 box, my forearms ache from hauling dense files.
Half an hour in and all I’ve discovered is that Pinehurst hasn’t been open for over five years.
I heave the next box, 2015, from the shelf.
I’m determined to go back no further than 2010.
If the pool wasn’t around then, I’ll inspect it without any background and make do.
Running my finger along the folder labels, I hit the P section.
Pinehurst.
“Aha!” I blurt, immediately clamping a hand over my mouth. The sound echoes through the cavernous room. As I pull the folder free, the box’s lid crashes to the floor. My pulse spikes.
There are multiple Pinehurst folders.
I pry open the first one. It contains an old newspaper, but I quickly toss it aside, assuming it’s irrelevant. The next folder stops me cold. Inside, there’s a long, handwritten note. I lick my lips. Before I even start reading, a single word catches my eye.
Xander.
My heart slams against my ribs.
On site with police and fire departments.
The pool is closed indefinitely due to the investigation of missing person, Xander Pomers.
Pool patrons arrived this morning and found his car parked in the driveway.
They discovered his keys on a chair, which prompted them to call authorities.
I will follow up next week to assist with permanent closure.
My jaw drops. Hands shaking, I snatch up the newspaper I tossed aside seconds ago and scan the front page: Authorities are asking for help in locating Penango teen, missing for nearly forty-eight hours.
Below the headline, a smiling photo of Xander Pomers stares back at me—the same boy I saw at Rainbow Valley Swim Club.
My stomach lurches like I’ve just slammed on my truck brakes. Either Xander was a hallucination . . . or I spoke to a real boy who went missing ten years ago.