The Blue Trap

Marcus Hale set an amber plastic jug on the limestone coping. He tapped the side with a scarred thumbnail.

“EPA-registered tracer salt,” Marcus said, unscrewing the cap. “Clear as tap water.”

Robert watched from two paces back, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And the filter won’t catch it?”

“Runs right through.” Marcus knelt by the edge and pulled off the plastic skimmer lid. He tipped the jug forward. A thick, clear syrup poured into the swirling suction, vanishing straight into the intake pipe. “Eighteen thousand gallons won’t dilute it enough to matter. It won’t stain the plaster, either.”

“What happens when she gets in?”

“Nothing, while she’s under the water,” Marcus said. He set the empty jug down with a hollow plastic thump. “It binds to skin and hair oil on contact. But the second direct sunlight hits it, the salt oxidizes. Turns everything it touched bright cobalt blue.”

“Will soap take it off?”

“Not for three days,” Marcus said. He snapped the skimmer lid back into its groove. “She’ll look like she got dipped in marine paint. You ready for the fallout on this?”

“I’m ready,” Robert said.

Marcus picked up the empty jug and walked down the side path. “Pump will have it spread edge-to-edge in twenty minutes.”

Robert followed him to the cedar fence. He swung the heavy gate shut behind the technician, slid the steel bolt home, and clicked his brass Master Lock shut through the upper hasp. He tested the shackle with two hard jerks. It held fast.

He turned back toward the house. Through the double-pane patio door, the kitchen was dark and quiet.

The front deadbolt rattled.