“Temperature?”
“Cold, please.”
“Volume?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. Just get me a glass from the tap!”
Hank nodded, then moved ponderously from the room.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Gracie grunted. “Ruthanne. You said he would self-acclimate. When?”
Ruthanne returned a patient grin. “You would be shocked at what he has already learned.”
“She’s right,” considered Ellen. “Those inflections in his tone and the control of his facial microprocessors—those are all his, Gracie. Ruthanne didn’t program any of that. That is pure emotional output.”
Gracie’s eyebrows knitted slightly, allowing a stolen moment for contemplation. Then she blinked and focused back to the subject at hand. “I’ve sent Jacob to get Tom. And if he won’t come of his own volition, then Three-of-Ten has orders to bring him by force.”
“Yikes!” spoke up Eli, a little more profound than he meant. “That seems a bit forceful doesn’t it?”
Ellen just gulped. She could just visualize how that exchange would play out.
But Ruthanne looked very concerned. “Why would you do that, Gracie?” Ruthanne asked. “Why would you coerce Tom into returning against his will?”
“For his safety, my dear,” Gracie replied in a strange, sensible tone. She shuffled a bit in her seat, then folded her hands.
Hank returned with a glass of water, and carefully handed it to her.
“Thank you, Hank.” Her voice was less harsh this time.
“Let me explain,” she began. “As you all know, Jacob dropped in on Tom the other night for a long overdue visit. He said it was a good visit, but that Tom seemed . . . preoccupied was the word Jacob used, I believe. Jacob indicated more than once, that Tom was not himself.” Gracie paused to sip at her glass, then cleared her throat and eyed her occupants pleasantly before continuing. “Among other things, Tom made an odd request. He asked Jacob to be a courier. Jacob did as requested and delivered a letter to me that same night when he returned. I have it here now. I have perused carefully through each page—multiple times.” She indicated to a clutch of papers in her hand. Every eye now drew anxiously to the pages . . . this was all very odd. “After reading Tom’s letter,” she started up again, “I now understand why he was acting strangely.” Her eyes glistened around wrinkled lines of worry. “But that is not what concerns me. There is something else here; something far deeper than the subject he has shared with me. It is not written in words, but I feel it . . . sense it, as if it were scored boldly in red ink across every page.” Gracie hesitated and shivered noticeably. “This letter reads like a last will and testament. It terrifies me.”
The room fell silent. Gracie’s sudden declaration gashed the surreal fabric which had wrapped around the group in their safe little corner.
“I do not understand. Is Tom seriously ill?” spoke Ruthanne, finally. “But if so, we can help him!” She turned anxiously to Ellen.
“Yes, yes! Of course we can,” replied Ellen, her voice echoing Ruthanne’s own hopeful resolve.
“He is not ill,” Gracie stated poignantly, her eyes expounding. “He is afraid.”
There was a another hush, one even more thick with incomprehension.
“Afraid of what, Gracie?” asked Eli.
“Precisely,” Gracie asserted. “Afraid of what,” she repeated in defined pronunciation. “That is the million-dollar question, and one which I am going to get to the bottom of just as soon as I have Tom here in front of me.”
“You mentioned that you understood why Tom was not himself?” queried Ellen. “Is there something in the letter that led you to this conclusion? Something you can share with us?”
Gracie glanced again at the letter, and her demeanor warmed slightly. “As a matter-of-fact, yes. Yes there is. A great deal more.”
“Well, we seem to have time,” said Ruthanne. She shuffled in her chair then folded her legs in front of her.
Ellen did the same, but in addition, removed her shoes.
Eli just sat there like a bag of potatoes, absorbing the information with little expression—that’s how he usually listened.
“Tom is a grandfather,” Gracie announced rather matter-of-factly.
At this they all straightened up like pins put to a magnet.
“What!” gasped Ellen. She looked from one to the other of them, her bright eyes ablaze with speculation.
Eli’s eyebrows rose intriguingly. He shifted a bit in his seat, then mumbled, “this should be good.”
“Yes,” said Gracie. “It seems that before Tom came to us, he had a girlfriend—”
“That much was forthcoming,” Eli put in, then instantly regretted his remark as Ellen’s glare seared him like bacon over charcoal.
“Please continue, Gracie” Ellen spoke, easing.
Gracie nodded, tossing Eli a pardoning wink. “Tom refers to this girl in the letter as Catherine. In any event, it seems that he did not know she was pregnant at the time they were separated—when she ran away from her own placement family and ended up somewhere in California. Tom wrote that he never heard from her again after that. However, just weeks ago, a woman from the Utah Department of Human Services, a Miss Teresa Henington,” she glanced to confirmed the name, peering up at one of the pages, “contacted Tom. And what a story she claimed to have.” Gracie fumbled through the sheets, clarifying her facts as she spoke. “You better settle in for this one,” she prepped. “It is a rollercoaster-ride of events. I had to hold on for dear life to finally make sense of it myself.”
Again, there was some shuffling in chairs, and an anxious sense of renewed focus.
“Well,” she began. “It seems this Catherine did in fact give birth to a child . . . Tom’s child. Tragically, however, Catherine died shortly afterwards from complications during delivery. But the child survived. A girl. Her name was Julie.”
“Julie is Tom’s daughter then, correct?” clarified Ruthanne.
“Yes. Well, was . . . was his daughter,” Gracie replied, sadly.
“Oh my,” exclaimed Ruthanne, with a hand to her mouth. “Not more bad news!”
“I’m afraid so,” Gracie nodded. “But I’ll get to that. Julie was a troubled child; a runaway—in and out of Juvenile facilities. But it seems that she did finally settle down, got her life in order and found a nice young man to marry. They lived in California for quite some time but moved back to Salt Lake City just recently when Julie’s husband—Tom’s letter never mentions his name—was offered a job at a local business. The couple had two children: a girl, Jessie, now fifteen; and a boy, Sam, ten.” Gracie then paused and shook her head sadly. She exhaled dismally. “I can’t believe the haplessness which seems to follow this family.” Then she drew in a long courageous breath and continued. “Both Julie and her husband were killed in a terrible automobile accident just two months ago . . . somewhere south of Salt Lake City,” she again fumbled through the page. “The accident left Jessie and Sam parentless; and with no known relatives. They are now wards of the state.”
“Indeed. What terrible tragedy follows this family,” interjected Ruthanne, despondently. She buried her head in her hands. “If only we had known they existed.”
“Tom didn’t even know, Ruthy,” replied Gracie, pensively. “Besides, we can help now.”
“How?” Ellen questioned.
“Tom wants custody of his grandchildren, doesn’t he,” Eli said. “He is, after all, their only living relative.”
“You are very perceptive, Eli. As always. But please, let me finish.”
Eli nodded then folded his arms. He leaned back once more in his chair.
“Eli is correct.” Gracie continued. “Tom’s girlfriend, Catherine, was provident enough to list the father of her child before she gave birth. That information was on record, and at the request of the State, Tom has since supplied DNA for confirmation. Jessie and Sam Goodwin are Tom’s grandchildren. There is no doubt.”
“Things certainly happen quickly when you’re isolated from the rest of the world,” noted Eli with a long sigh.
“Yes. Fast, and unexpected,” added Gracie. “Tom has asked that I contact our legal team—more for clout than anything else, I think. With Reitman Enterprises behind him, and with his own financial standing, there is little doubt that he will be awarded the children.”
“This has certainly been enlightening; and so much has already taken place,” stated Ruthanne.
“I would appear so,” said Grace. “Tom has had his own legal representation working with the state now for weeks. The two children, Jessie and Sam, are currently in the state’s foster care program—which, as we must assume, is a tormenting prospect for Tom, given his own history before coming to us. I’m certain that he is extremely anxious to get things settled.”
“But this is extraordinary! ” exclaimed Ellen, suddenly.
The others eyed her curiously.
“Well don’t you see? Gracie is Tom’s only other living benefactor. . . because he was adopted by she and Zen.”
“Oh my word! You are a great-grandmother!” gulped Ruthanne, finally making the connection. “This legally ties you to the children as well.”
“Correct. Hence the long letter from Tom. And when Jacob gets back with him, we’ll get the full story.” Gracie carefully gathered the pages on her lap and meticulously put them in order and back into the envelop.
“I can’t wait!” exclaimed Ellen. Then with a sigh, she fell back against the cushion. “What an evening. We haven’t had this much excitement for some time. How long before Jacob and Tom arrive?”
“Actually,” Gracie eyed her watch. “I expected them back by now. I hope Three-of-Ten didn’t have to get,” she paused, smiling, “too persuasive.”
They all laughed, knowing that soon Tom would be returning back where he belonged. First they would hug him, then sit the man down for a long overdue talk. Yes, that is exactly what they would do.
Chapter 23:
Jacob couldn’t stop sobbing. “Tom! Tom! Tom!” he cried out in a wail so unnatural that the very echo silenced all life within the great chasm. Even without the smoke pouring into his face and lungs, the tears would have come, come in fierce torrents down his flushed cheeks. The heat from the smoldering glob of metal, charred wood, plastic, rubber and insulation—all that had been Tom’s trailer—now burned his face, his arms and hands. Yet the boy would not move . . . could not move, as he leaned over Tom’s broken and distorted body.
Three-of-Ten drew himself up in full height over Jacob, now in sentry mode, his large metal arms coiled at the ready; his EMR defense module fully powered. The metal bodyguard watched and monitored, scanning the area for any sign of a threat, anything out of place in this once quiet canyon hideaway. But there was nothing, nothing but the searing heat from the burning debris scattered all around them.
Jacob had known when rounding the first dogleg of the canyon that something was amiss in Tom’s secluded sanctuary. In the distance, an eerie glow had crept outward from around the darkened bend, crawling up the towering cliff walls, over boulders and onto the tips of protruding foliage, bathing every surface in an alien incandescence.
When the Sandray had finally made the last leg into Tom’s alcove camp, an unimaginable scene of destruction beset them. Tom’s trailer had exploded. The blast must have been horrific, as the trailer had been blown into thousands of tiny, burning fragments. All that remained was the twisted metal base and the attached rubber tires, still ablaze. Whether or not Tom had been inside the trailer when it exploded was unclear, but now as Jacob stooped helplessly over his friend’s body, it was abysmally clear that Tom was dead, and there was nothing Jacob nor anyone else could do for him.
As Jacob finally coaxed his shaking legs, he rose and wiped the dampness from his face and the smoke from his eyes with his sleeve. Then, as the boy looked around in utter despair, a horrible realization came to him with nauseating ferocity: he had to leave Tom; leave him lying there in the dirt—burned, broken and lifeless, just as he had found him. Since there was a body, there would be an investigation by local authorities; an investigation which absolutely must preclude any evidence that Jacob was ever there. He, along with the rest of the group—Ruthanne, Eli and Ellen—were deceased after all; their lives having tragically ended in an underground accident many years prior while working at the Los Alamos Laboratories in New Mexico. The secret of their feigned deaths—a cover-up which had understandably never produced bodies—had to be protected at all costs; and Jacob knew this. The agony of conscience as he turned his back to Tom’s shattered body, was indescribable. But the boy simply had no choice. Jacob would now have to defer his torment and his instinctual responsibility to the charge of others—trained emergency personal functioning in their roles like repetitious drones, with no idea or care of what this man—a nameless desert hermit—had meant to a group of unique individuals; a group who were no more than unknown desert shadows themselves.
The Sandray slipped into stealth, rose on a quiet cushion of air—the last time she ever would from that once peaceful, friendly camp—and left. From inside the craft, Jacob watched as the last few segments of burning debris washed across the motionless figure of his friend, one whom he had called brother. Jacob turned his face away, knowing by the ache in his stomach and the throb in his heart, that this secluded spot would now exist only in his memory—he would never return. This event, like so many others, would pour itself into the boy’s brimming cup of the past, already plagued with the horrific and distressed.
It seemed a heavy burden, really, to be borne on the shoulders of a boy. One whose eyes were red from tears, and whose heart was weary from the beleaguer brought on by his reclusive life. Yet, his small frame housed the soul of a giant and the resiliency of a sapling grown in the gale. Jacob had proved above all else, that he was a seasoned survivor, having had more than his share of life’s tribulations . . . and there would be more to come. He and his Sandcastle family would come to know that indeed there are limits to what a person can bear—even those of the Four.
Chapter 24:
Tom’s death hit Sandcastle like a sledgehammer to the stomach, especially for Gracie, who cried for days and truly felt the loss of a son. Her only consolation came in the bequeath of Tom’s body to the care of the Reitman Estate. His interment in Sandcastle’s private mausoleum was a fulfillment which meant the world, not only to Gracie, but to Jacob and the others. There, he would rest alongside Zen, the only father the man ever knew.
The local investigators had determined that Tom’s death was the result of a tragic accident—an aged and worn-out old trailer coupled with lack of maintenance and the constant assault from the heat and elements of the desert. Either way, it spelled disaster, or at least that’s what the lead investigator had said. A propane leak had built-up underneath Tom’s trailer until a spark ignited the gaseous cloud. It seemed to fit the circumstances, the evidence was quite clear, and pretty much everyone had accepted the ruling—everyone but Jacob. He struggled with the findings, stating that something was not right.
Jacob claimed that the night he visited Tom’s camp, Tom’s trailer had been uncomfortably warm, and that Tom had mentioned that he had run out of both diesel fuel and propane, which was why he couldn’t run the air-conditioning. I’m going into town next week and I’ll take both tanks and fill them up then, Tom had said.
Jacob had perfect recollection and could recount Tom’s words with precision. The fact that this conversation took place was never in question. It had. But if Tom had changed his mind, and gone into town sooner than planned? Now that was the question which drew itself like slow poison deep into Jacob’s stomach every time he mused upon the enigma. The whole thing had a bad taste to it, that much was for certain. But the rest of the team, including Gracie, hurt more for closure than for answers. Besides, who on earth would want to hurt Tom? Gracie had stated, the question already answered in her pained face.
No one. Besides, how would the group open such an investigation? Jacob—the last one to see Tom alive and the strongest proponent for digging deeper into the facts—did not exist. It was a frustrating conundrum.
They held their own private service for Tom, a lovely, quiet hour near the back garden by the stream, under a sparkling night sky. There was a short, tearful eulogy given: a few fond memories which brought some tender laughs and plaintive reminiscing, then it was over. The closure was complete, and all felt the peace that comes to those touched by one of good-soul . . . at least nearly everyone.
Jimmy, the prodigal son, was a no show. Reitman Enterprises owned a fleet of private jets. Jimmy could fly them all. He could have flown in on a whim, but he simply chose to be preoccupied. Oh, he went through the good son checklist: sent flowers, called his mother to express his deepest commiseration, and had all the stateside offices lower their flags to half-mask. But as brilliant and clever as Jimmy Reitman was, he was not entirely opaque, especially to his mother. His contrived excuse had come in a flat empty statement:
The HOPE liftoff deadline is simply too critical. I couldn’t possibly leave the base at this crucial time. I’m sure you understand . . .
But Gracie did not understand, and in fact, had seen through this emotional smokescreen, accrediting Jimmy’s apathetic disposition to blatant jealously. For her, this obvious lack of respect was as hurtful as it was inexcusable. The Four’s underground control center had absolute control on the HOPE satellites. The twin system’s secret delivery to Jimmy wasn’t scheduled for days. He could have flown to Utah and been back in Florida well ahead of the guarded shipment. But that would have inconvenienced him.
For days Gracie seethed over the ordeal. She tried repeatedly to contact Jimmy, but was unsuccessful. Then, quite out of the blue, the old girl up and did something so completely unexpected that even capricious Jacob was dumbfounded beyond words.
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