The Mabel Who Knew Too Much

Chapter 7: Sabotaged

As afternoon shaded into evening, Blubs and Durland first shooed the gawkers away, and when the street was clear, the two of them strung the yellow "CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS" tape just as Dipper rode up on his bike. He hopped off. "Hi," he said.

Blubs turned around, his gray mustache drooping. "Hi, Dipper. Sad, ain't it."

"Yes," Dipper said. "So—can I cross the tape and go up and look at the tower?"

Blubs chuckled. "Well, you helped us with that bat and all, so I don't see why not!" He lifted up the center of the tape and Dipper ducked under it.

Dipper nodded at him. "Thanks, man. I won't take anything, but I'm gonna make some pictures."

"Photographs!" Blubs said. "Now, that is a good idea! That's something we probably should've thought about. Hey, Dipper, would you do me a favor and email copies of those pictures to us at the station?"

"Sure thing," Dipper promised.

Durland perked up. "Whoo-wee! At last I kin download email with none of them words to read! I like pictures!"

Blubs smiled and patted his deputy's shoulder. "Then you can kno/ ck yourself out when they come in." He turned back to Dipper. "Well, Durland and I have things to do, so we'll leave you to your photography. Be careful, now!"

As the two climbed in their squad car and drove away, Dipper climbed the ladder, noticing the new rung halfway up. He emerged on the windy walkway. Unlike his sister, he didn't find heights much of a problem. He stopped at the base of the second ladder, the metal one affixed to the side of the tank that led up to the maintenance hatch in the tower roof. "Interesting." He took out his phone and made several shots of the access ladder base—and then he tucked his phone away and climbed up to the roof and the hatch.

The hatchway was heavy, but he opened it and swung it outward, then climbed up the last few rungs and leaned over, shining his flashlight into the tank. Weird rippling greeny-gold reflections squirmed over the walls and ceiling, and he heard constant echoing drips.

The tank looked to be about three-quarters full. The access ladder continued on the inside, leading down into the water and probably to the submerged floor. Dipper took a deep breath, crossed over, and moved down the ladder—a little slippery!—to within a foot of the water surface.

Before being pumped into the tank, the water was filtered and strained and disinfected—there was a strong smell of chlorine, like a recently-treated swimming pool would have—and in the flashlight beam, the liquid looked crystal clear. Hanging on with a hooked elbow, Dipper shone his light straight down.

The whole tankful of water took on a kind of green glow. Dipper saw only water, nothing else. He could make out the outlet valve at the bottom center of the tank, which fed the town's water-supply lines, and the emergency valve across from him, which would relieve pressure if an emergency occurred.

Nothing floated in the water or on the surface, no leaves, no debris, no . . . body.

Grunting, Dipper climbed back up. Leaning over the lip of the hatch and gazing down, he noticed something he hadn't before, and something he had. A sizable puddle of watering had formed around the base of the access ladder—that was what he'd photographed already—but from this vantage point, he saw other wet marks, now fading fast. Halfway down the ladder, in fact with his foot resting on the repaired rung, he took out his camera and, hanging on with his left hand, used his right to snap several more photos of the platform below.

Down on the walkway, he walked all the way around the tower. Nothing. He looked down, but couldn't see any trace of where Pacifica must have hit if she had leaped or fallen over the rail. There should be something. But there's not.

He paused when he reached the foot of the access ladder again. He put his sneaker-shod foot down and studied the marks on the wood. "Hmm."

Frowning, he slowly climbed down the main ladder, looking down all the time—the heights really were no big deal, he thought—and spotted something. "Careless," he muttered.

He hopped off the ladder and stooped to pick up the round cylinder of wood. The broken rung, still lying where it had fallen when Mabel stepped on it.

Except—he stared hard at the ends—it wasn't broken. Not exactly.

It had been sabotaged.

Clean cuts showed at each end, where the rung had been pinned into the uprights. Someone must have sawed nearly all the way through the rung on both sides. It had been strong enough to remain in place until someone put weight on it, and then it became a death trap waiting for—someone. Not Mabel, surely—who would have guessed that she'd show up and climb the ladder? But someone.

I told them I wouldn't take anything.

Dipper carefully put the rung down where he had found it and took a photo that included the foot of the tower ladder—so its position could be determined—and then made close-up shots of both ends, showing the bright wood where a fine saw had bitten through the rung. I'll tell them about it. That's all I can do.

He climbed on his bike and rode back to the Mystery Shack. He was not surprised to find his Grunkle Stan's car in the lot, but parked in a different place. He would have gone back to pick up Ford.

Stanford Pines was just getting back into driving again. He had spent thirty years in dimensions where there were no cars, and his skills had become—not rusted, exactly. More like corroded to nothing. He had already totaled his black Lincoln, having forgotten momentarily that the brake was to the left, the accelerator to the right. Fortunately, he wasn't hurt, although his rough trip along a roadside ditch left the tailpipe, muffler, and a good part of the drive train behind, and the engine wound up ingesting more dirt and grass than it could survive. Pity, because though it was thirty-five years old, it had only two thousand miles on the odometer.

Now Stan was reluctantly letting him practice in his El Diablo, but recently he'd begun making strong suggestions that Stanford buy a used car, preferably one already battered and beaten up, before being confident enough to apply for a new driver's license. Wendy had overheard heard one such suggestion and had chipped in one of her own: "Get a tank, man. They're fun to drive!"

Anyway, though seeing Stan's car didn't faze Dipper, the "CLOSED-COME AGAIN" sign on the Shack door did surprise him. It was too early for closing time.

But when he went inside and heard sobbing, he understood. It was coming from Soos's and Melody's bedroom. A miserable-looking Stan and Ford sat on the sofa in the parlor. They looked up as Dipper came in.

Stan said, "Uh—Dipper—"

He trailed off, evidently unable to finish.

Gently, Stanford said, "I just heard, Dipper. Pacifica didn't make it."

Dipper took a deep breath. "Where's Mabel?"

"Up in the attic. She said she needed to be there."

"Don't move. I'll be back."

Dipper trotted up the stairs. Mabel was sitting on the floor, her back against her old bed, her sweater—the old shooting-star one—pulled up over her head. She was rocking from side to side, moaning a little.

"Hey, Sis," Dipper said softly, sitting beside her.

"She's dead, Dipper," Mabel said. "Grunkle Ford called about her."

"Mabel, come downstairs. There's something real important."

"No. I don't want to be around people."

Dipper got up and took his laptop from the table. "Mabel, if you care about Pacifica, come with me. You'll understand." When she didn't respond, he said, "Trust me," and held out his hand.

She turtle-peeped from the sweater, her eyes swollen and red. She reached out her hand, and when Dipper took it, it was cold. "Come on," he said softly. "I think you'll feel better."

So they went downstairs. "I gotta show you something," Dipper said, using a USB cable to attach his phone. "Takes a minute to download these. Just hang on."

Mabel looked as miserable as he could ever recall. Stan moved to sit beside her and put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him. "I should have been faster," she whispered.

"OK," Dipper said. "Now, let me find the right ones—these. Take a look."

"What is it?" Stan asked. "Abstract art?"

Dipper shook his head. "This is the side of the water tower, see? We're looking straight down from the hatch under the roof overhang. This is the access ladder. But look at that puddle of water there. It goes all the way across the catwalk, from the tower to the outer edge. Now I'm gonna enlarge this to look at these dark marks."

"Footprints?" Ford asked.

"Yep," Dipper said. "The Forestry Service guys walked through the puddle, and they left wet tracks on the wood. They're drying fast, but you can make out prints of at least four different people—different sizes and sole-tread patterns, see?"

"Why'd water spill outa the tower?" Stan asked. "Spring a leak or somethin'?"

"No. I'll tell you what I think happened," Dipper said, "but first, look at this footprint—wait a second—" he manipulated the enlarged image to put it in the center of the screen—"this one here."

"What about it?" Ford asked.

"It's smaller than mine," Dipper said. "And look at the tread pattern. It's brand-new. It's a shoe that was just bought."

"Oh!" Mabel said with a gasp. "Dipper! I just realized something! Those shoes that Pacifica bought—one of them was a black pair—the same pair she wore to the puppet funeral!"

"And that was before she went shopping," Dipper said. "She took off her old shoes and put them in one of the boxes, and—"

"She wore one of the new pairs!"

"Bingo!" Dipper said.

Ford winced. "Bingo? Do kids still say that?"

"Dorks do," Mabel said, preoccupied. "Wait, the Forestry guys only showed up after the ambulance left, so—"

"So Pacifica was alive and on her feet," Dipper said.

"This—makes no sense," Ford objected.

"Something weird is going on," Dipper said. "And I don't necessarily mean something supernatural. Pacifica didn't fall off the tower. I suspect she tossed a—a life-sized doll, a what-do-you-call-it—"

"Mannequin," Ford offered.

"Yeah, OK, tossed it over to shock Mabel. Then when Mabel was hanging frozen on the ladder, not even able to open her eyes, Pacifica climbed up into the tank and went inside the hatch. I think she probably slipped and fell into the water. She's a good swimmer, so she just went back to the ladder and hung on. Then after the sirens and all, the Forestry people came up to the catwalk, she heard them, and she climbed up after they made sure Mabel couldn't see. She came down, they put one of their jumpsuits on her—but she sloshed a lot of water climbing down first—and then she went down in the crowd. In the yellow jumpsuit and hood, she'd look like a short member of the team."

"That means the Forestry Service men were in on some kind of deception," Ford said, frowning.

"And also the ambulance guys," Dipper said. "And look at these pictures—the ladder was sabotaged. See? The rung that broke had already been sawn nearly all the way through. That must have happened after Pacifica climbed up to the tower—otherwise she would've broken it. I guess whoever talked her into going up there must've done it."

Thoughtfully, Ford said, "Maybe even the EMTs. Odd that they're based fifty miles away but just happened to be in the area, or so the 911 operator told Blubs."

"I'll bet they weren't real EMTs," Stan growled. "And I'll bet the Forestry Service guys were phonies, too. Hah! I lived in this burg for thirty years! The tower's not on any Forest Service land. It's municipal land."

"But—why?" Ford asked.

"I—don't know," Dipper confessed. "But for some reason—probably under the control of the guys who were masquerading—Pacifica was gonna fake her own death."

"She did a pretty good job," Stan said.

"Dipper," Mabel whispered, "are you sure? Are you sure she's not dead? 'Cause Grunkle Ford—"

"I called the trauma center," Ford explained. "I said I was representing the family. They put me on hold for several minutes, then transferred me to a Dr. MacGuffin, who told me the patient had succumbed to her injuries. He said he had already notified Mr. Northwest. He told me that the body couldn't be released until after an autopsy."

"Huh. Don't sound professional to me. Just a sec," Stan said. He took his phone out and said, "Gimme the number of the nearest trauma center."

The female voice on his phone chirpily told him the number. Ford shook his head. "Computer telephones," he murmured, sounding completely geeked out. "When I went away, that was the stuff of Star Trek!"

"Shh." Stan punched the number in. After a moment, he said in a surprisingly smooth and educated—and faintly Hindi-accented—voice, "Yes, you may help me indeed. This is Doctor Agotcha. I wish to consult urgently, please, with your Doctor MacGuffin. Will you kindly connect me, please?" A pause, and then he said, "You are certain of that? I am so sorry, I must have been misinformed. Yes, I will check the number. Thank you, sucker." He hung up. "Ford, there ain't any Doc MacGuffin associated with the center. They never heard of him. We been had."

Ford's face was scrunched in thought. "You know, I sort of thought at the time that MacGuffin's voice was somehow familiar. I'm not sure even now, but it sounded a lot like. . . oh, yes, that government man whose memory we wiped last year—the guy with the widow's peak and the heavy mustache?"

"Oh, my God," Stan groaned. "Agent Powers? Gah, I spent like a whole day being questioned by him. He's got, like, no sense of humor, no sense of style, and he's so darned literal about everything!"

"Those two guys who investigate supernatural stuff?" Mabel asked. "Yuck! That Agent Trigger was gonna turn me and Dipper over to Child Services! Lucky I managed to force him to run the car off the road, roll it down the hill, and smash it into a tree."

"Yeah, that was lucky—wait, what?" Stan asked.

"Long story," Dipper said. "This has to have something to do with that weird bird behavior as well as Pacifica's disappearance. Maybe even with that invisible trout!"

"But if Pacifica's alive, where is she?" Stan asked.

"That," Dipper said, jumping out of his chair, "is just what we're gonna find out!"

But—

The crash of the back door stopped him in his tracks. A man in black SWAT armor charged into the Shack, his weapon already leveled.

Four more spilled in through the front door.

And as two of them went into the Ramirez bedroom, Agent Powers himself came stalking in, a grim expression on his face. "Mabel Pines," he said. "You'll have to come with us. You know too much."

And at his shoulder stood Agent Trigger, who pointed, scowling, at Mabel. He repeated, "Too. Much!"