Rev. Paul Purpose and his wife, Denise, stared wide-eyed in amazement. Luther, the former mute, continued coughing. But Chucky, the confessed church vandal, laughed uproariously. Soap bubbles continued flowing from the Purpose’s kitchen faucet, filling the sink with a mountain of suds.
“What on earth is happening?” Denise Purpose demanded to no one in particular.
Chucky sat back in the stiff kitchen chair, crossing his arms and smiling smugly with satisfaction. Quite a diversion, he mused. He felt the air of tension disappearing, replaced instead with growing concern for the obvious emergency developing with the water lines.
Meanwhile, over at Purity Soap Factory, horrified Lillian Sparks cursed under her breath. Her narrow green eyes glared at Glen Galloway, while her hands fisted tight. “I told you something like this was going to happen.”
Smirking, controlling Glen waved a dismissive hand. “You worry too much, Lillian.”
“Worry too much?” Lillian shrieked, feeling raging pressure build in her skull. She hadn’t experienced this much pain since her brain tumor surgery, a couple years prior. Of course she worried. Dalton Springs’ water lines were obviously tainted. And when officials started investigating, the trail would lead directly back to the soap factory and her involvement. What would her husband, Sheriff Willis Sparks say? His career could be on the line.
Glen postured, moving to Lillian’s office blinds. He closed them tight.
“I told you this idea of dumping suds into the old abandoned mine was a bad one,” Lillian muttered, her heart racing in her throat.
Striding towards the older woman, Glen responded, “No one can prove we’re behind this bubble problem.”
“What do you mean?” Lillian felt herself losing control with Glen’s absurd words. “The phone has been ringing off the hook with reports of bubbles in the water lines. This is a soap factory. How else could the water become contaminated with bubbles? There’s not another business in the area that could have produced this kind of terrible situation.”
“You leave that to me,” Glen instructed calmly. “You leave that to me.”
“I’m sorry Jack,” frustrated Earle Goode uttered, slamming shut the hood of the white electrical van. Shaking his head slowly, he wiped his greasy hands on a rag Jack had provided from an oversized tool box. “Until we get a hose, your van is grounded.”
Jack sighed, looking towards the horizon while Sophia Jonson contemplated the prospect of spending the night in Hobnar County Landfill.
As if reading her mind, Jack stepped close to Sophia, reassuringly stretching his calloused hand to her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he told her, lifting his hand upward, to stroke her hair.
Blinking hard, Sophia verbalized her concern. “It’s late. Close to midnight. We’re stranded with no real prospect of getting home. Not tonight, anyway. The gas stations in both Dalton Springs and Brightan are closed, so is the repair shop at the implement dealership, which works on vehicles. So, who would we call? The sheriff? Hell, no. His crazy daughter, Angelina, is the one responsible for our predicament. And with Earle having escaped the hospital, we’d find ourselves in a heap of trouble.”
“I say we stay here,” Earle interrupted, feeling safe in the landfill. “You can call for help in the morning.”
“I agree. Let’s crawl in the back of the van and wait out the night,” Jack responded reassuringly. “I’ve got granola bars and beef jerky. What more could you desire?”
Sophia realized Jack flirted with her, though she was in no mood to reciprocate. Looking up at the bright moon, she nodded, sensing it would be a long night. A very long night.
© 2007 by author. All rights reserved.
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