The Aegis Solution

by John David Krygelski

  With a slight nod toward one of the members of the group, the marshal, in a near whisper, asked, "Why would someone that old be going in? It doesn't make any sense."

  Letting out a sigh, Matt answered, "My wife has been following this pretty closely during the months I've been out here building it. In addition to being on the news, the story has been all over the Internet. I guess some people are opting to move in here because it's a better alternative than what they've got."

  He stared at the face of the woman as she passed. She was clearly in her late seventies or early eighties, using a walker to help her stay upright and stable. As she slowly proceeded up the walkway, he added, "She has probably lost her husband…run out of savings…either doesn't have any kids or at least doesn't have any who are inclined to help her. I'll bet she's thinking this is her best option."

  "Either that," the federal officer began, his voice betraying an emotional secret he was not going to share, "or her kids wanted to take her in and she prefers this to placing that kind of burden on them."

  Clements nodded. His eyes suddenly connected with those of a young girl who was the only one in the group not staring expectantly at the entrance, but glancing all around. She noticed that he was looking at her, and smiled. It was a half-hearted smile.

  She couldn't be any older than my daughter, he thought to himself.

  "Maybe sixteen or seventeen at the most."

  He did not realize he had spoken the last thought aloud until the marshal responded, "What was that?"

  Snapped from his reverie, he answered, "I was just noticing that young girl. She can't be more than seventeen. What the hell is she doing going in there?"

  Following Matt's gaze, the officer found her in the crowd and shrugged. "Do you know how many kids that age kill themselves?" he asked rhetorically. "Too many!"

  As they talked, Matt noticed that the girl's eyes never left his and she was slowing her pace, letting the rest of the group pass her. As she came even with the two of them, she had managed to make it to the back of the crowd.

  As the other new entrants proceeded through the door, she paused near the threshold, looking undecided. For some reason, she was still looking at him. As if drawn by her stare, he stepped toward her, immediately feeling the grip on his arm from the federal officer.

  "I wouldn't do that."

  Clements turned and looked at him, his normal urge to rebel against authority waxing without encouragement. In a motion slightly more violent than he intended, he jerked his arm free from the grip and insisted, "We were told that through the doorway was the point of no return. She hasn't gone in yet."

  The man shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It's a no-win deal for you."

  Matt took a quick look over his shoulder and saw that she was still standing and waiting, apparently for him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Since we've been posted out here, I haven't let any of my men talk to them."

  "Why?"

  The marshal's expression softened, and his eyes shifted to some point off in the desert, as he said, "Think about it. Only two things can happen. If you talk to her and don't change her mind about going in there, you are going to wonder about her for the rest of your life…with absolutely no way of ever finding anything out. She will keep popping into your head when you least expect it, and you'll want to know if she's okay…what her life is like in there…if she's even alive."

  Matt thought about his words for a moment before saying, "I understand. I can deal with that. But what if I talk her into not going in? That'd be a good thing."

  Shifting his eyes back, the marshal persisted, "Would it? You have no idea why she's doing it. You don't know what a mess she's made of things. And if you throw her a lifeline, you might as well adopt her because she is going to attach herself to you like a tick on a hound dog."

  He started to respond again, but was cut off. "And what if you do talk her out of going in there and a month from now, or six, or a year, she decides to take the other way out? You're going to feel as if that's your fault. You are going to have to deal with the guilt of knowing that if you'd let her walk through those doors today, she'd still be alive."

  The two men stared at each other for almost a full minute before Matt shrugged and said, "I hear you. But it won't hurt to just talk to her."

  Before the man could respond, Clements turned and walked over to the young girl. As he crossed the fifteen feet between them, he noticed that she was painfully thin, almost anorexic. Her red hair was shaggy; either it was the result of the latest in youth hairstyles or she had hacked at it herself in front of a mirror. As he came closer to her, he saw that her eyes were a deep green, almost aquamarine color and her face was covered with freckles.

  "Hi," she greeted him as he arrived.

  "How's it going? My name's Matt." With that, he reached out to shake her hand.

  Tentatively, she took his hand. "I'm Tillie."

  Smiling at her, he asked, "Short for Mathilda?"

  Grinning back, dimples tucking themselves deeply into her freckled cheeks, she replied, "Yeah! Not too many people get that. That's cool."

  He released her hand, and she reluctantly lowered it back to her side, as she said, "It's an old-fashioned name. I happen to like old-fashioned."

  "I do, too. Matt is short for Matthias."

  She smiled, and they both fell into a brief silence until he began, "I walked over because it looked as though you wanted to talk."

  Tillie dipped her chin closer to her chest and looked at him through her top eyelashes. The move was too coquettish to be natural in his mind. He waited for her to speak.

  "I did. I mean, I do."

  Letting one side of his mouth curl up in a half smile, he remarked, "Here I am. But why me?"

  "You…I guess you remind me of my dad."

  It was Matt's turn to grin. "As I watched you approaching, I thought to myself that you were about the same age as my daughter. How old are you?"

  "How old do you think?"

  "Sixteen, seventeen maybe."

  She jerked her head in a rapid shake, making even the shortened hair twirl back and forth. "I'm almost twenty."

  "You don't look it."

  "I get that. All the time."

  He drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before asking, "What did you want to talk about?"

  The lightness on her face disappeared. She looked down at the edge of the walkway and motioned. "Can we sit down?"

  "Sure." He dropped onto the curb next to her and waited.

  His patience was quickly rewarded as she began to speak. "It's not like I'm not sure about this whole thing. I am. I really am. It's such a major thing, you know, and I saw you there and realized that you reminded me of my father. I thought, I don't know, maybe we could just talk it through."

  "Okay."

  "Plus, I don't have my dad anymore."

  "What happened?"

  "He died when I was thirteen."

  "How?"

  "Heart attack. At the time…to a thirteen-year-old, he seemed so old. But, you know, I realize now that he was really young for that kind of thing to happen."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thanks. I think, no, I know that if he hadn't died young, I wouldn't be here today. I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in today, that made me come here."

  Matt chose his words carefully, still thinking about the marshal's warning. "Want to tell me about the mess? Is it really bad enough to warrant this?" With his last comment he gestured vaguely in the direction of the interior of the complex next to them.

  She twisted around on the curb to face him. "I don't know if I want to talk about all of that."

  "Then what?"

  Tillie hesitated for a moment before blurting, "I want to know what you think of this place."

  Surprised, he rocked back on the curb and stared at the bright-blue desert sky, trying to gather his thoughts. "I assume you aren't asking me about the construction but, if you are, I built a damn good c
omplex here."

  "You built this?" Tillie asked excitedly.

  "Well, I'm the general contractor. All of my crews built it."

  "Wow! I knew there was something about you. My dad was a contractor." Tillie's eyes sparkled briefly with excitement.

  Matt suddenly felt uncomfortable. The Fed's words about a possible attachment came back to him clearly. Trying to shift the subject, he said, "I guess you want to know what I think about this place…about the concept."

  Her face still flushed with residual emotion, Tillie nodded.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "I've had almost two years to think about it. My wife and I have talked about it a lot. But I still don't know."

  He paused, hoping she would speak, but she remained silent, waiting.

  "I understand why Walker did it. That's for sure. If I lost my daughter, I don't know how I'd react, especially if I were the President. But when I start thinking beyond the day a person shows up at the front door…when I focus on what it is that he or she is actually committing to…it just seems beyond the pale."

  Tillie's eyebrows arched with curiosity. "Beyond the pale? I've read that phrase before, but I've never known what it means."

  Matt Clements smiled, glad the conversation had assumed a more mundane course. "It's an Old English phrase."

  "Yeah, I guessed that."

  Continuing, he explained, "The king would send out his men to delineate the boundary of the kingdom…the outer edge of his domain and influence. They carried casks of water with them, and as they used up the water, they broke down the wooden casks and used the stakes from each one to mark the line. The stakes were also called pales. So if someone was venturing outside the boundary of what was considered to be the civilized world, it was said that the person was going beyond the pale."

  "Cool!" she exclaimed. "That is awesome."

  As they were speaking, the four marshals passed them, and Matt could not help but notice the meaningful stare from the lead man. Ignoring it, he said to Tillie, "So I guess this whole thing, checking in at this place, feels like that to me."

  Her enjoyment from a moment ago was gone. Her face, as well as her entire body language, reverted back to a mode he could only describe as resignation. Picking up a pebble, Tillie tossed it across the concrete walkway and stared into the distance. He kept quiet, allowing her the time to think, hoping she would come to the right decision for her, whatever that might be.

  As they sat in silence, Matt observed one of the men turn the key that actuated the hydraulic pump, closing the massive steel entrance. The symbolism evoked of a vault or tomb being sealed, as the portal thumped into its frame, did not escape him. He could only speculate about the psychological effect it had on Tillie, as her face remained impassive.

  The officer he had spoken with earlier then opened the access to what would be the permanent entrance, the one that would be used from today forward. Considering what went into the rest of the facility, the entrance was amazingly low-tech. It was basically a series of modified subway turnstiles which allowed entrance but not exit, altered only to strengthen and fortify the components to deter tampering. One of those modifications was adding a redundant system to ensure that each turnstile could only rotate in one direction. In addition to the usual clutch mechanism, a heavy-toothed rachet module was attached to the bottom of the shaft, buried under the concrete of the floor. This served to create a loud clack-clack-clack as the person walked through, adding, in Matt's opinion, an additional sinister feel to the process.

  Tillie suddenly sighed, and Matt snapped his attention back to her, eager to hear her decision and dreading it at the same time.

  She wiped her hands on her jeans and stood. He stood also and continued to wait for her to break the silence.

  She stepped closer to him. It was too close, he thought, feeling a twinge of nervousness. It was the kind of proximity between him and a female that would bring an instant reaction from Lisa, if she were here. Despite his tenseness he did not take a step back, but continued to wait.

  Her aqua eyes stared intently into his and, in the bright sunlight, he could see an additional shimmer on their surface. She blinked rapidly several times, and the shimmer went away.

  "I guess…. I guess I'd better get in there. I bet you want to get home."

  Matt did not know if he was relieved or saddened by her choice. He was startled when his voice broke as he said, "Are you sure?"

  Not trusting her own voice, she simply nodded.

  Finally, drawing a ragged breath, Tillie asked, "Can I ask a favor?"

  Uncertain what to expect, he tentatively replied, "Sure."

  Her facial muscles tightened as if she was holding back a sob. "Before I step in, before I leave this…world, I guess, I feel like I need to say good-bye. To somebody. You know, like I have someone seeing me off."

  As she said this, her eyes widened, conveying the urgency of her request.

  "I…," he began.

  Before he could continue, she interrupted, the words rushing out of her. "My mother doesn't give a damn about me. Hasn't for years. I don't even have a father. No one."

  The pathos of the picture she painted struck him more powerfully than he anticipated, and he was speechless. Unable to find words, he only nodded.

  No sooner had Matt indicated his assent than she stepped toward him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, her frail body shuddering with the release of the pent-up emotions. Instinctively, he put his arms around her and let her cry. Over Tillie's shoulder he saw the lead officer, who had warned him earlier, watching.

  They stood locked together like this for minutes until the racking sobs subsided. He loosened his embrace, normally a signal to the other to do the same, but she held him tightly, even pulling him harder against her. He found he was unable to refuse her the solace she was seeking, and reciprocated.

  Neither knew how much more time had passed before Tillie finally relaxed, her arms dropping from around his neck. They stepped apart, and as Matt looked at her, he saw something that was not there before, although he was unsure what it was.

  "Thanks," she murmured, a feeble attempt at a smile causing the deep dimples to reappear on her cheeks.

  He smiled back and said, "Thank you."

  With a faint look of surprise, she asked, "For what?"

  His smile broadening, he answered, "For picking me, I guess."

  "I don't understand. All I did was lay my trip on you."

  Chuckling, he reacted, "Lay a trip! I haven't heard that phrase in a long time."

  She joined him in the laugh. "I like old sayings."

  "Well, you didn't lay any trip on me. You picked me to connect with. I am glad to meet you, Mathilda."

  She took his hand and shook it, the simple motion conveying her sense of the irony of his words. "Yeah, glad to meet you too, Matthias. Wish we had met a long time ago."

  The implication of her comment clear to him, he chose not to acknowledge the message and only said, "Same here."

  Tillie looked as if she would say something more. Instead, she shrugged her thin shoulders and tilted her head toward the entrance.

  "Well," she began in a voice with a forced tone of normalcy, "I'd better get in there."

  "I'll walk you to the door."

  They turned together, when suddenly he exclaimed, "Dammit!"

  Tillie stopped. "What's wrong?"

  He started to answer but, before he spoke, noticed that the marshal was still hovering nearby. He leaned closer to her and whispered something in her ear.

  Hearing his words, she instantly remarked, "Cool! Okay!"

  They finished covering the short distance to the turnstile, and Matt turned to Tillie and softly said, "You take care of yourself in there."

  Her eyes swept across the panorama of the desert which surrounded them, as she answered, "You take care of yourself out here."

  He leaned forward and they again hugged, this time with much less intensity, and parted after only a few moment
s.

  Tillie turned and stepped into the opening, gripping the horizontal bars of the gate. She looked back over her shoulder and smiled at him. As she walked through, pushing on the bar, he heard, over the clacking of the ratchet mechanism, her final comment to him. "Be seeing you."

  Feeling saddened and a little empty, he turned and walked over to the officer, who simply stated, "Told you."

  Clements studied the man's face for a moment before swinging his gaze back to the now empty turnstile and answering, "No. You were wrong. I'm glad I did it."

  By the time they turned and began walking to Matt's truck, the other marshals were already walking to their guard posts.

  "What did you whisper to her at the last minute before she went inside?"

  Shrugging, Matt replied, "Nothing. I just told her where I hid some candy bars."

  The man's stare showed his doubt regarding the veracity of the answer, but he said nothing. They arrived at Matt's truck and shook hands.

  Then the officer, sensing something in the contractor, assured, "You did a good thing…building this, I mean."

  With a sigh, Clements responded, "If it hadn't been me, it would have been somebody else."

  Realizing he had not touched the right nerve, the marshal opened the door to Matt's truck and said, "Take it easy."

  "You, too," he answered, and the man walked away. Before climbing into his vehicle, Matt turned and took one last look at the huge complex he had built, his mind visualizing all of the nooks and crannies, all of the dorm rooms, kitchens, gyms, and the myriad other components within the confines of the walls. He also conjured, in his mind, the image of Tillie wandering through the cavernous public areas, and he wondered how she felt.

  As he stood next to his truck, he suddenly felt a fresh gust of wind coming out of the west, seeming to push him away from the turnstile entrance. Although it was a hot day, he felt a chill in his spine. Shaking it off, he gave one last look at the complex and climbed into the truck. The engine roared to life, and as he drove away from what had been his project and his home for almost two years, his mind focused on his wife, Lisa, and he pressed down harder on the gas pedal.